TIME _VERSUS_ ETERNITY
Henceforth Maseden concentrated all his faculties on the successful
performance of the trick which might win him clear of the castle of San
Juan. Nothing in the wide world mattered less to him than that the
newly-made bride should stoop to sign the register after he had done so,
or that by turning to address Steinbaum he was deliberately throwing
away the opportunity thus afforded of learning her surname.
When an avowed enemy first broached the subject of this extraordinary
marriage, he had made a bitter jest on the use in real life of a
well-worn histrionic situation. And now, perforce, he had become an
actor of rare merit. Each look, each word must lead up to the grand
climax. The penalty of failure was not the boredom of an audience, but
death; such a "curtain" would sharpen the dullest wits, and Maseden, if
wholly innocent of stage experience hitherto, was not dull.
He scored his first point while the bride was signing her name. Beaming
on Steinbaum, he said cheerfully:
"I bargained for money, Shylock. You've had your pound of flesh. Where
are my ducats?"
Steinbaum produced a ten-dollar bill. He even forced a smile. Seemingly
he was anxious to keep the prisoner in this devil-may-care mood.
"Not half enough!" cried Maseden, and he broke into Spanish.
"Hi, my gallant _caballeros_, isn't there another squad in the _patio_?"
"_Si, senor!_" cried several voices.
Even these crude, half-caste soldiers revealed the Latin sense of the
dramatic and picturesque. They appreciated the American's cavalier air.
That morning's doings would lose naught in the telling when the story
spread through the cafes of Cartagena.
And what a story they would have to tell! Little could they guess its
scope, its sensations yet to come.
"Very well, then! At least another ten-spot, Steinbaum.... But, mind
you, sergeant, not a drop till the volley is fired! You might miss, you
know!"
The man whom he addressed as sergeant eyed the two notes with an amiable
grin.
"You will feel nothing, senor--we promise you that," he said wondering,
perhaps, why the prisoner did not bestow the largesse at once.
"Excellent! Lead on, friend! I want my last few minutes to myself."
"There are some documents to complete," put in Steinbaum hastily, with a
quick hand-flourish to the notary.
Senor Porilla spread two legal-looking parchments on the table.
"These are conveyances of your property to your wife," he explained. "I
am instructed to see that everything is done in accordance with the laws
of the Republic. By these deeds you--"
"Hand over everything to the lady. Is _that_ it? I understand. Where do
I sign? Here? Thank you. And here? Nothing else ... Mrs. Maseden, I have
given you my name and all my worldly goods. Pray make good use of both
endowments.... Now, I demand to be left alone."
Without so much as a farewell glance at his wife, who, to keep herself
from falling, was leaning on the table, he strode off in the direction
of the corridor into which his cell opened. It was a vital part of his
scheme that he should enter first.
The jailer would have left the door open. Maseden was determined that it
should be closed.
Captain Gomez's tight boots pinched his toes cruelly as he walked, but
he recked little of that minor inconvenience at the moment. In four or
five rapid paces he reached the doorway and passed through it. There he
turned with his right hand on the door itself, and his left hand,
carrying the helmet, raised in a parting salute. He smiled most affably,
and, of set purpose, spoke in Spanish.
"Good-by, senora!" he said. "Farewell, gentlemen! I shall remember this
pleasant gathering as long as I live!"
The half-caste was at his prisoner's side, and enjoying the episode
thoroughly. He would swill his share of the wine, of course, and the
hour of the _siesta_ should find him comfortably drunk.
Maseden flourished his left hand again, and the plumed helmet
temporarily obscured the jailer's vision. The door swung on its hinges.
The lock clashed. In the same instant the American's clenched right fist
landed on the half-caste's jaw, finding with scientific accuracy the
cluster of nerves which the world of pugilism terms "the point."
It was a perfect blow, clean and hard, delivered by an athlete. Out of
the tail of his eye, Maseden had seen _where_ to hit. He knew _how_ to
hit already, and put every ounce of his weight, each shred of his boxing
knowledge, into that one punch.
It had to be a complete "knock-out," or his plan miscarried. A cry, a
struggle, a revolver shot, would have brought a score of assailants
thundering on each door.
As it happened, however, the hapless Spaniard collapsed as though he
were struck dead by heart-failure or apoplexy. Maseden caught the inert
body before it reached the stone floor, and carried it swiftly into the
cell. Improvising a gag out of his discarded pajamas, he bound the
half-caste's hands and feet together behind his back, utilizing the
man's own leather belt for the purpose.
These things were done swiftly but without nervous haste. The very
essence of the plan was the conviction that no forward step should be
taken without making sure that the prior moves were complete and
thorough.
He had detached from the jailer's belt a chain carrying a bunch of
keys and the revolver in its leather holster. Before slipping this
latter over the belt he was wearing, he examined it. Though somewhat
old-fashioned, it seemed to be thoroughly serviceable, and held six
cartridges with bull-nose bullets of heavy caliber.
Then he searched the unconscious man's pockets for cigarettes and
matches. Here he encountered an unforeseen delay. Every Spaniard carries
either cigarettes or the materials for rolling them, but this fellow
seemed to be an exception.
Now, a cigarette formed an almost indispensable item in Maseden's
scheme; but time was even more precious, and he was about to abandon the
search when he noticed that one button-hole of the jailer's tunic was
far more frayed than any other. He tore open the coat, and found both
cigarettes and matches in an inside breast pocket.
Not one man in a million, in similar conditions, would have been
cool-headed enough to observe such a trivial detail as a frayed
button-hole.
Next he examined the bunch of keys, and came to the conclusion, rightly
as it transpired, that the same large key fitted the locks of both
doors; which, however, were heavily barred by external draw-bolts.
Jamming on the helmet--like the glittering boots, it was a size too
small--he lowered the chin-strap, lighted a cigarette, and limped
quickly along the corridor towards the _patio_, which filled a square
equal in size to the area of the great hall.
As he left the cell he heard the half-caste's breathing become more
regular. The man would soon recover his senses. Would the gag prove
effective? Maseden dared not wait to make sure.
He could have induced a more lasting silence, but even life itself might
be purchased too dearly; he took the risk of a speedy uproar.
Unlocking the door, with a confident rattling of keys and chain, he
shouted:
"Hi, guards! Draw the bolts!"
The soldiers in the _patio_ were ready for some such summons, though the
hour was slightly in advance of the time fixed for the American's
execution, so the order was obeyed with alacrity. Maseden appeared in
the doorway, taking care that the door did not swing far back. He blew a
great cloud of smoke; growled over his shoulder: "I'll return in five
minutes," pulled the door to, and swaggered past the waiting troops, not
forgetting to salute as they shouldered their rifles.
A long time afterwards he learned that he actually owed his escape to
Captain Ferdinando Gomez's tight boots. One of the men was observant,
and inclined to be skeptical.
"Who's that?" he said. "Not el Capitan Ferdinando, I'll swear!"
"Idiot!" grinned another. "Look at his limp! He pinches his toes till he
can hardly walk."
At the gateway, or porch, leading to the _patio_, stood a sentry, who,
luckily, was gazing seaward. Maseden conserved the cigarette for another
volume of smoke, and pulled down the chin-strap determinedly.
He got beyond this dragon without any difficulty. Indeed, the man was
taken by surprise, and only noticed him when he had gone by.
Maseden was now in a graveled square. Behind him, and to the left, stood
the time-darkened walls of the old Spanish fortress. In front, broken
only by a line of trees and the squat humps of six antiquated cannons,
sparkled the blue expanse of the Pacific. To the right lay the port, the
new town, and such measure of freedom as he might win.
He had yet to pass the main entrance to the castle, where, in addition
to a sentry, would surely be stationed some sharp-eyed servants, each
and all on the _qui vive_ at that early hour, and stirred to unusual
activity by the morning's news, because Cartagena regarded a change of
president by means of a revolution as a sort of movable holiday.
At this crisis, luck befriended him. In the shade of the trees opposite
the main gate was an orderly holding a horse. The animal's trappings
showed that it did not belong to a private soldier, and the fact that
the man stood to attention as Maseden approached seemed to indicate that
which was actually the fact--the charger belonged to none other than the
president's _aide-de-camp_.
Fortune seldom bestows her favors in what the casino-jargon of Monte
Carlo describes as "intermittent sequences," or, in plain language,
alternate _coups_ of red and black, successive strokes of good and bad
luck. The fickle goddess rather inclines to runs on a color. Having
brought Maseden to the very brink of the grave, she had decided to help
him now.
As it turned out, Gomez's soldier servant had been injured during the
overnight disturbance, and the deputy was a newcomer.
He saluted, held bridle and stirrup while Maseden mounted, and strolled
casually across the square to inquire whether he ought to wait or go
back to his quarters. He succeeded in puzzling the very sergeant who was
mentally contriving the best means of securing the lion's, or
sergeant's, share of twenty dollars' worth of wine.
"Captain Gomez has not gone out," snapped the calculator. "Get out of
the way! Don't stand there like the ears of a donkey! I have occupation.
The Senor Steinbaum is putting a lady into his car, and she is very
ill."
So the trooper was unceremoniously brushed aside. A little later he
might have reminded the sergeant of the folly of counting chickens
before the eggs are hatched.
Maseden was a first-rate horseman, but, owing to the discomfort of
excruciatingly tight boots and a wobbly helmet, he did not enjoy the
first half mile of a fast gallop down the winding road which he was
obliged to follow before he could strike into the country. Beneath, to
the left, and on a plateau in front, were respectively the ancient and
modern sections of Cartagena. But, having succeeded thus far, he had
made up his mind inflexibly as to the course he would pursue.
He meant to reach his own ranch, twelve miles inland, within the hour.
He reckoned that, in the easy-going South American way, it would not be
occupied as yet by an armed guard. An officer had rummaged among his
papers that morning, but came away with the others.
In any event, in that direction, and there only, lay any real chance of
ultimate safety.
On his estate there were two men at least in whom he might place trust;
and even if he could not enter the house, one of them might obtain for
him the clothes and money without which he had not the remotest prospect
of getting away alive from the Republic of San Juan.
He had pocketed Steinbaum's twenty dollars in order to hire a horse, but
the unwitting hospitality of Captain Gomez had provided him with a
better animal than was to be picked up at the nearest _posada_. Indeed,
with the exception of an automobile, a luxury that was few and far
between in Cartagena, he could not have secured a swifter or more
reliable conveyance than this very steed, which would cover the twelve
miles in less than an hour, and had also saved him a quarter of an
hour's running walk, an experience savoring of Chinese torture when
undertaken in tight boots.
The notion of possible pursuit by a party of soldiers in a car had
barely occurred to him when he heard the rapid panting of an automobile
in the rear.
He slackened pace, took a shorter grip of the reins, and loosened the
revolver in its case. Flight was ridiculous, unless he made across
country; a last resource, involving a fatal loss of time.
He took nothing for granted. Steinbaum was one of the half-dozen
car-owners in Cartagena, and this was surely he, escorting Senor Porilla
and the lady back to the town.
They might pass him without recognition. If they didn't, he would shoot
Steinbaum and put a bullet into a tire. There would be no half measures.
Suarez and his ally had declared war on him to the death, and war they
would have without stint or quarter.
It was a ticklish moment when the fast-running car drew near. Maseden
affected to bend over and examine the horse's fore action, as though he
suspected lameness or a loose shoe. He gave one swift underlook into the
limousine as it sped by and fancied he saw Porilla, seated with his
back to the engine, bending forward.
That was all. The car raced on and was speedily lost in a dust-cloud.
So far, so good. He was dodging peril in the hairbreadth fashion
popularly ascribed to warriors on a stricken field. Yet his mount was
hardly in a canter again before he was plunged without warning into the
most ticklish dilemma of all.
Steinbaum's car had just turned to the left, where the road bifurcated a
few hundred yards ahead, when another car came flying down the other
road--that which the fugitive himself must take for nearly half a mile;
and this second menace harbored no less a personage than Don Enrico
Suarez, president of the Republic of San Juan!
It was an open car, too, and the president was seated alone in the
tonneau.
Maseden jumped to the instant conclusion that his enemy was hurrying to
witness his execution, probably to jeer at him for having ventured to
cross the predestined path of a conqueror. But, even though he passed,
Suarez would know that the gaily bedizened horseman was not his
glittering _aide-de-camp_.
To permit the president to reach the Castle meant the beginning of an
irresistible pursuit within five minutes. However, that consideration
did not bother the Vermonter if for no better reason than that he was
determined it should not come into play.
He smiled thoughtfully, adjusted the helmet once more, and voiced his
sentiments aloud.
"Good!" he said. "This time, Enrico, you and I square accounts!"
Pulling up, he took the middle of the road, wheeling the horse "half
left," and holding up his right hand. The chauffeur saw him, slackened
speed, and finally halted within a distance of a few feet. From first to
last, the man regarded the newcomer as being Captain Gomez. The
wind-screen was up, and the roads were dust-laden, so he could not see
with absolute accuracy. Moreover, events followed each other so rapidly
that he was given no chance to correct an erroneous first impression.
The car being stopped, Maseden moved on, passing by the left. Drawing
the revolver, he fired at the front right-hand tire at such close range
that it was impossible to miss. The reports of the weapon and the
bursting tube were simultaneous.
The next shot would have lodged in the president's heart if the startled
horse had not swerved. As it was, quite a nasty hole was torn in the
presidential anatomy; Suarez, himself fumbling for an automatic pistol,
sank back in the tonneau a severely if not mortally wounded man.
For one fateful instant, the eyes of the two had met and clashed, and
recognition was mutual.
A third bullet plowed through the back right-hand tire, and Maseden
galloped off, the horse being only too eager to get away from the
racket.
The American did not look behind to ascertain what the chauffeur was
doing. It really did not matter a great deal. Speed and direction were
the paramount conditions during the next fifty minutes. The die was cast
now beyond all hope of revocation. He was at war with the Republic, and,
although he had rendered its citizens a valuable service in shooting
their rascally president, they might not regard the incident in its
proper light until a period far too late to benefit the philanthropist.
As a matter of fact, interesting historically and otherwise, the
chauffeur was convinced that Captain Ferdinando Gomez had assassinated
his master, and said so, with many oaths, when he summoned assistance
from a neighboring house. It may also be placed on record here that
about the same time the gallant _aide-de-camp_ had come to suspect that
his beautiful uniform, if not returned promptly, might be sadly smirched
by a score of bullets, with accessories; and was kicking up a fearful
row because no one could get at the jailer and rescue that gala costume
before the prisoner was led forth to execution.
In a word, the Republic's presidential affairs were greatly mixed, and
remained in inextricable confusion until long after Maseden drew rein on
a blown horse at the gate of his own _estancia_.
The ranch, known as Los Andes, and one of the finest estates in San
Juan, provided the original bone of contention between Maseden and
Suarez. It had been built up, during thirty lazy years, by a distant
cousin of Suarez, an elderly bachelor, who grew coffee and maize, and
reared stock in a haphazard way.
Seven years earlier he had met the young American in New York, took a
liking to him, and offered to employ him as overseer while teaching him
the business. The pupil soon became the instructor. Scientific methods
were introduced, direct markets were tapped, and the produce of the
estate was quadrupled within a few seasons.
Then the older man died, and left the ranch and its contents to his
assistant. There was not much money--the capital was sunk in stock and
improvement--so a number of free and independent burghers of Cartagena
received smaller amounts than they expected.
Suarez was one of the beneficiaries, seven in all. Six took the
situation calmly. He alone was irreconcilable, and blustered about legal
proceedings, only desisting when persuaded that he had no case, even for
the venal courts of San Juan.
And now, on that sultry January morning, the lawful owner of the Los
Andes ranch, while awaiting the appearance of a peon, who, he knew, was
tending some cattle in a byre behind the lodge, was wondering whether or
not he might urge a tired charger into a final canter to the door of his
own house without bringing about a pitched battle when he arrived there.
At last came Pedro--every second man in South America is named after the
chief of the Apostles--a brown, lithe, Indian-looking person. But he was
Spanish enough in the expression of his emotions.
"By the eleven thousand virgins!" he cried joyously, after a first stare
of incredulity, for the eyes rolled in his head at sight of Maseden's
garb, "it is not true, then, master, that you are a prisoner!"
"Who says that I am?" inquired Maseden.
"They say it up there at the _estancia_, senor," and Pedro jerked a
thumb towards an avenue of mahogany trees.
"They say? Who say?"
Pedro was scared, but Maseden had taught his helpers to answer
truthfully.
"Old Lopez said it, senor. He told me the president's men had charged
him to touch nothing till they returned."
Maseden's heart throbbed more furiously at that reply than at aught
which had befallen him during the few pregnant hours since dawn.
"Those rascals have gone, then?" he said, so placidly that the peon was
bewildered.
"_Si, senor._ Did they not go with you?"
"Yes. I was not sure of all.... Close and lock the gate, Pedro. Leave
other things. Saddle your mustang and mount guard at the bend in the
avenue, from which you can watch the Cartagena road. If you see horses,
or an automobile, coming this way, ride to the house and tell me."
"_Si, senor._"
Pedro hurried off. Maseden rode on at the best pace the spent horse was
capable of. He might lose a potential fortune--though the shooting of
Suarez should remove the worst of the hostile influences arrayed against
him--but surely he could now save his life.
He had never realized how dear life was at twenty-eight until that
morning. Hitherto he had given no thought to it. Now he wanted to live
till he was eighty!