BILLY BARNES IS TRAPPED.
Billy Barnes, impulsive as the dash he had made seemed, had not taken
the step without duly balancing the dangers and difficulties that would
attend it. True, he had come to his decision with what appeared to be
careless haste, but the truth was that he was a young man who was by
training quick to arrive at conclusions and just as speedy to execute
them. He knew perfectly well that if he had talked over his meditated
course with the boys, that they would have vetoed his undertaking, and
since the adventure of the jaguar, in which he felt he had not shown up
to very good advantage, he was eager to distinguish himself in some way.
Moreover, he was urged forward by his newspaper pride, which counseled
him to attempt, at any rate, to accomplish what would be the biggest
“scoop” of years and make a story that would be talked about for many
days, even by the short memoried denizens of Park Row. So Billy plunged
forward into the jungle with a light heart. He knew nothing whatever of
woodcraft, but that fact did not daunt him in the least. He was well
provided with money, and so felt no particular apprehension that he
would starve, or suffer any serious discomforts. He figured on reaching
Rogero’s camp in at least two days’ time. What action he would take
after he arrived there he had decided to leave according to the way
things shaped themselves.
The first day of his journey nothing of note occurred. At Amagana, a
village on the San Juan river, he had hired a horse, a decrepit,
antiquated animal with plenty of “fine points,” its owner averred,—“you
could hang your hat on some of them,” remarked Billy to himself. The
steed, however, came up to his simple requirements and his owner assured
him that there wasn’t a kick in the beast. The young reporter also
stocked up his food bags with such portable provender as he could obtain
and struck out in the direction in which the last reports had placed
Rogero’s forces.
He made camp the first night out with a number of wild-looking
Nicaraguans from the interior on their way to the coast with a shaggy
herd of small cattle. They were in a big hurry, as either Rogero or
Estrada would undoubtedly have levied on their cattle if they had
encountered them. From them Billy learned that they had heard heavy
firing the day before at a place about twenty-five miles from where they
were then encamped, and by signs and such English as he could command
the leader of the herders indicated to Billy that by following up the
river he would undoubtedly get within the line of the government troops
which were following its course on their way to Greytown.
Bright and early the next morning Billy saddled his disreputable-looking
steed, amid much merriment from the graziers, and jogged off along a
trail that led through the jungle along the river bank. He rode hard all
that day and at nightfall was rewarded for his progress by a number of
uniformed men suddenly appearing from the jungle at his horse’s head and
pointing their rifles at him.
“Americano—me Americano!” shouted Billy in all the Spanish he knew,
“take me to General Rogero.”
All that the soldiers of Zelaya could make of this speech was Billy’s
explanation of his nationality and the name of their General. One man,
who seemed to be their leader, motioned to Billy to dismount, and then
briefly ordered one of the privates to take charge of the reporter’s
horse. This done, the man who had given the order signed to Billy to
follow him and struck off into a path that wound in a direction away
from the river bank.
Now, Billy had as stout a heart as most of his craft, and he had been in
tight places before,—most reporters have,—but to say that it did not
beat a little faster as he stepped out after his guide, would not be
true. It was a bold bit of bluff that he had decided on—a plan that if
it made good, would result in the complete discomfiture of Rogero—but,
on the other hand, there was more than a chance that it might fail, in
which case, as Billy fully realized, he would find himself in a mighty
tight place.
He had an unpleasant consciousness also that the soldiers, one of whom
was leading his horse, had closed in about him so that even if he had
changed his mind at the eleventh hour and decided not to risk putting
his head in the lion’s mouth, escape was now impossible.
“You’re in this thing for fair now,” he remarked to himself, “so go
through with it with a good front.”
After about half-an-hour of threading the winding path they emerged
suddenly on a sloping hillside bare of trees, and here was camped
Rogero’s army. Billy had seen the Greytown contingent on the day that
they marched away from the coast, and the men that he saw scattered
about the camp now engaged in cooking the evening meal, gambling or
strumming guitars differed in nowise, except in degrees of raggedness,
from the soldiers he and the boys had been so amused at.
His arrival in camp seemed to create a lot of curiosity and excitement,
but his guide paid no attention to the men who thronged about, pouring
in questions upon him, but marched Billy up to a tent over which floated
the blue and white standard of Nicaragua. There were angry voices inside
the tent as he approached; one of which he recognized as that of Rogero.
A ragged orderly paced up and down in front of the tent-flap, which was
open to admit the cool air of the evening, and after Billy’s guide had
rapidly jabbered a few words to him, he abruptly marched into the tent
and in a moment emerged and beckoned to them to enter. A second later
Billy Barnes stood face to face with Rogero and a little dark-skinned
Nicaraguan officer. Outwardly he was calm enough and bowed to the
commander of the Zelayan forces with all the Chesterfieldian grace at
his command. Inwardly, however, his heart beat fast and thick for he
realized that the time to make good his bluff had at last arrived.
Rogero’s face, as his eyes fell on Billy, was a study. He had been
rolling a cigarette when the reporter was ushered in, but he set down
his tobacco and papers while he palpably allowed the situation slowly to
dawn on him, and stared at Billy as if he had been some strange wild
beast or natural curiosity.
“You seem to have a strange liking for putting yourself in dangerous
places, Mr. Barnes,” he said at last, then turning to the little
officer:
“Leave us alone,” he continued sharply in Spanish, “and,” he added, “if
the thing is seen anywhere near the camp, fire on it with the
machine-guns.”
Naturally Billy didn’t understand this, but the reader may be informed
that the general’s remark referred to “a strange thing” that some of the
scouts reported having seen in the distant sky the preceding day. Of
course it was the _Golden Eagle_ on her way to the mountains. This
Rogero had been shrewd enough to guess, but that of the ship’s
destination he had no knowledge, goes without saying. The failure of the
spy that he had sent to La Merced to disable the craft, had, however,
been reported to him and had not tended to put him in an amiable frame
of mind. He realized fully that if he attempted to damage Mr. Chester’s
property or that of any of his friends, that the _Golden Eagle_ would be
able, in the hands of her young navigators, to work terrible reprisals
upon his army.
“How did you come here and what do you want?” demanded Rogero the next
minute. “If you are anxious to be shot, I shall be glad to accommodate
you,” he went on with an amiable smile.
“No, I don’t think I’m quite ready to follow your pleasant suggestion
yet,” retorted the reporter, “and I think that my country would make it
pretty hot for you if you carried it out. I came here to talk business,”
he went on.
“What business can you have to discuss with me?” demanded Rogero
sharply.
“Just this,” answered Billy, whose nerve was fast returning. “As you
know I have a picture of yours which I don’t think you would like to see
put to the use for which I snapped it. Now, it’s not a professional
thing of me to do, but I want to help out my friends as much as
possible. I will destroy the negative, and refrain from notifying the
New York police of my suspicions of you, on one condition.”
“And what is that?” demanded the Nicaraguan general, his face growing
black as thunder and tapping impatiently with his riding-boot on the
dirt floor of the tent.
“Well, you might call it a double-barreled condition, as a matter of
fact,” replied Billy easily; “it’s simply this,—I want you to give a
written pledge not to injure, or permit any of your army to injure, any
portion of Mr. Chester’s or Don Pachecho’s estates or to destroy any
property owned by Americans——”
“In time of war more or less injury is unavoidable,” parried Rogero.
“Not in your case,” replied Billy; “you see you have been advertised by
your loving friends—as the wash-powder folks say—and your views on
American property-holders are pretty well known. I don’t think you’d
have a chance to wreak your spite on them.”
“Well, get on to your other condition—what is it?” growled Rogero.
“Just this,” responded Billy sweetly, “Frank and Harry Chester are good
friends of mine. I haven’t known them very long, but Frank saved my life
the other night.”
“Another grudge I owe him,” intercepted Rogero.
“Quite likely,” went on the unruffled Billy, “but I’d like to do
something for them. Now, if I give you this picture will you agree to
take a fourth share with the Chester boys and myself in certain mines
that you know of—you see I am on to a good many of your secrets.”
“What mines?” demanded Rogero evasively, “I know of no mines.”
“Well, they haven’t been worked very much recently, and that’s a fact,”
rejoined Billy; “but I rather think that you have a bit of parchment in
your possession which contains the clue to them, and if they are as rich
as the legend has it, then you should be quite willing to take a fourth
share, particularly as you are getting back a picture and saving
yourself a trip to the States that might have an unpleasant
termination.”
Rogero sat silent, as if in deep thought, for a few minutes and then,
suddenly throwing off his disagreeable manner, he said quite amiably:
“There is a good deal of reason in what you say.”
“Ah,” cried the delighted Billy, “I thought that you’d see the good
sense of it.”
The general gave a peculiar smile. It was almost dark in the tent, but
Billy could see his companion’s teeth gleam in their setting of black
beard and mustache.
“If you will excuse me while I order some lights we will talk more of
this,” he said slowly, like a man who has come to a sudden decision.
“Certainly,” politely replied the reporter, who was feeling so elated
over his success that the danger of his situation had completely slipped
his mind. Rogero stepped briskly out of the tent into the darkness. He
had only been gone a few minutes, when from the darkness, which falls
rapidly after sundown in the tropics, the startled reporter heard the
loud scream of an animal in pain. He sprang to his feet and made for the
tent door.
He ran almost into Rogero’s arms as he reached the entrance.
“What was that awful cry?” he asked anxiously.
“I rather think it was some of my men cutting your horse’s throat,” was
the calm response. “You see they haven’t had much fresh meat lately.”
A hot flame of anger swept over Billy. The wanton cruelty of the deed
enraged him. He raised his voice in an indignant protest when Rogero
held up his hand.
“You are exciting yourself unnecessarily, Señor,” he protested; “you
will not need the horse any more.”
“What—what do you mean——?” demanded Billy angrily.
“Because I like your company so much that I am going to keep you with me
for a time;” replied Rogero with a laugh.
Hardly realizing what he did, Billy made a dash for the sneering figure
that stood mocking him. Rogero stepped nimbly to one side before the
reporter’s furious onslaught and the next minute Billy felt a crashing
blow descend on the back of his head. The sky seemed to be filled
suddenly with shooting stars that roared and crackled. There was a
bright flash of light before the young reporter’s eyes and everything
grew black.