DARRY’S WILD RIDE
Promptly at four o’clock Enrique Morano returned from the University.
He found our friends taking it easy in the patio, in hammocks which
Juan Greva had had strung there, under the giant palm.
“That is right, take it comfortably,” he said, with a smile. “I am glad
to see it. It is so hard to get the Yankees to rest a little. They want
constantly to be on the go--to do something--to keep their brain at
work. Here, in this warm climate, it would kill a man to keep at such a
pace.”
“It does make one lazy,” returned Darry, as he sat up. “But you won’t
find me lazy when I get in the saddle.”
“Then you love to ride?”
“He’s crazy for a horse,” put in Mark. “You see, his father is a big
cattle dealer from Chicago, and Darry has been out on the ranches more
than once. I believe you once helped to break a bronco, didn’t you,
Darry?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will have to provide you with an animal of spirit,” said
Enrique Morano, with another smile. “Very well, you shall have such a
one.”
“No, no, don’t give him a fiery, untamed steed, Morano,” interrupted
Professor Strong. “Remember I am responsible for his well-being while
we are in Venezuela.”
“But I don’t want an old--plug,” said Darry, with a crestfallen look.
“If the horse is broken I’d like to ride him even if he has some ginger
in him. Father lets me ride what I please at home.”
“Well, I’ll take a look at the horse first,” answered Professor Strong,
slowly. “As to ‘plugs,’ as you term them, I don’t think our host keeps
any such.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to insinuate that he did,” said Darry, hastily.
They walked down to the long, low stable and the head hostler brought
forth a number of the horses. Enrique Morano pointed out a big bay.
“That is the fellow,” he said. “I can ride him, but he may prove too
much for you.”
“Let me try him,” pleaded Darry.
The bay was saddled, and the youth leaped up, whip in hand. The horse
pranced about a bit but soon set off at an easy gait. The step is
called the _trote de paseo_, and is natural to the steeds in all upper
South America.
“Why he’s easy,” sang out the boy, after riding up and down the horse
yard and out to the highway and back. “I am sure I won’t have a bit of
trouble with him.”
“He rides with confidence and well,” observed Enrique Morano. “He ought
to have no trouble on the road.”
The matter was talked over, and finally Darry was allowed to ride the
bay horse, which rejoiced in the name of _El Montero_--The Huntsman.
The others were quickly provided with steeds, and a little later they
left the plantation, Enrique Morano leading the way on a favorite black.
For a long distance the road was level and they moved off in a close
bunch. Every one of the party had learned to ride years before, so
there was no delay on that score. Mark and Frank wanted to race, but
the professor would not hear of it.
Presently they crossed a heavy stone bridge, bearing this inscription:
THE ILLUSTRIOUS AMERICAN,
GENERAL ANTONIO GUZMAN BLANCO,
PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC,
HAD THIS BRIDGE ERECTED FOR
THE PUBLIC GOOD.
“What a funny inscription,” observed Sam, as he stopped to read it
aloud.
“General Antonio Guzman Blanco doesn’t want himself forgotten,” laughed
Mark. “I have seen a dozen monuments with his name on them, and at
least two dozen of his portraits.”
“He was a great man in his day,” said Enrique Morano, gravely. “A very
great man. He made many improvements, such as building schools and
libraries, making highways and waterworks, and bringing order out of
disorder. But it would have been better had he not advertised himself
quite so extensively.”
“That’s just it,” said Frank, and added, under his breath to Darry:
“You’d think he was trying to advertise some special brand of Stomach
Bitters, wouldn’t you?” And Darry had to bite his lip to keep from
laughing outright.
“There isn’t half left of President Guzman Blanco’s monuments that
there once was,” said Professor Strong. “After his downfall, and after
the people became convinced that he was negotiating with foreign powers
against their good, they took revenge by pulling down many of his
statues, destroying his portraits and renaming many of the streets and
parks christened in his honor. His fine plantation was ruined, and even
the State that bore his name was re-named Miranda.”
Across the bridge the road ascended a slight hill and then passed
through an avenue of tropical trees beautiful beyond description. Birds
were numerous and their music added to the delight of the riders.
“It’s like a bit of paradise!” said Sam, as he drew rein, with Mark
beside him. “Just look at that scenery. Did you ever behold anything so
beautiful? See yonder waterfall, how it glistens in the sunshine and
how gracefully the vines fall over the rocks beside it! What a spot for
a painter!”
The others had also halted, all but Darry, who was secretly itching to
“let the bay out,” as he told himself. Now he saw his chance and away
he went, before either Professor Strong or Enrique Morano noticed him.
There was a turn a hundred yards ahead, and this gained, Darry whipped
up the bay and away they went up the hill and down the opposite side
at a break-neck speed, the boy urging the horse on at every step.
“This is what I call riding! Whoop!” he called out. “Get up there,
Huntsman, get up, I say!”
Soon he was out of sight and hearing of the others and still tearing
along at a gait which was truly astonishing. But the bay acted well and
he had small difficulty in keeping his seat. Indeed, he thought the
riding even easier than some he had experienced while in our own west.
The downward slope of the hill left behind, Darry found himself
confronted by a fork of the road. There was small time to decide and
he took the branch to the south, as that looked more traveled than the
other. But he had hardly gone a hundred yards before he noticed that
the highway was somewhat cut up, as if some improvements were underway.
A short distance further on he came across a gang of native workmen,
armed with picks, spades and shovels. They were digging a trench beside
the road and some of them shouted to him as he rode past, but he did
not understand a word they said.
“Can’t stop me to-day, thank you!” he shouted back pleasantly, and
urged on his steed as before.
The road now made another turn, among a mass of rocks and brushwood.
Here it crossed a narrow rocky stream, where the water ran swiftly. The
bridge was out of repair and the workmen were engaged in putting up a
permanent stone structure to take its place.
“Go back! Go back!” shouted a foreman of the laborers, in Spanish.
“Go back!” And he rushed forward to stop Darry’s horse. But before he
could do so, the youth was past him and riding on the old bridge, which
sagged and trembled beneath the sudden weight.
“Gracious, this won’t do,” thought the boy, and tried to get the horse
over the bridge with all possible speed.
He had just reached the end when there came a loud explosion, as
terrifying as it was unexpected. The workmen were engaged in blasting
rocks which stood in the way of the new bridge and had just set off a
charge of dynamite. They had tried to warn him to go back, but he had
not understood them.
As the explosion came horse and rider were lifted into the air for
several feet and before they landed again, each was struck by the
shattered stone, which flew in all directions. The bay came down on his
knees, throwing Darry over his head into the stream beneath the bridge.
Then with a wild plunge the frightened steed went on, leaving the boy
to his fate.