Below, in the narrow confines of the cabin, Saxon paced back and forth
excitedly as he talked. For five minutes, he did not pause, and the
other man, sitting on the camp-stool in a corner of the place,
followed him with eyes much as a lion-tamer, shut in a cage with his
uncertain charge, keeps his gaze bent on the animal. As he listened,
Rodman's expression ran a gamut from astonishment, through sympathy,
and into final distrust. At last, Saxon ended with:
"And, so, I've got to get them away from there. I've got to get back
to that town, and you must manage it. For God's sake, don't delay!"
The painter had not touched on the irrelevant point of his own
mystery, or why the girl had followed him. That would have been a
story the other would not have believed, and there was no time for
argument and futile personalities. The slow northward fifteen knots
had all at once become a fevered racing in the wrong direction, and
each throb of the shafts in the engine-room seemed to hurl him madly
through space away from his goal.
When he halted in his narrative, the other man looked sternly up, and
his sharp features were decisively set.
"Suppose I should get you there," he began swiftly. "Suppose it were
possible to get back in time, what reason have I to trust you? Suppose
I were willing to trust you absolutely, what right have I--a mere
agent of a cause that's bigger than single lives--to send you back
there, where a word from you would spoil everything? My God, man,
there are thousands of people there who are risking their lives to
change this government. Hundreds of them must die to do it. For
months, we have worked and planned, covering and secreting every
detail of our plotting. We have all taken our lives in our hands. Now,
a word of warning, an indiscreet act, the changing of the garrison on
San Francisco, and where would we be? Every platoon that follows Vegas
and Miraflores marches straight into a death-trap! The signal is
given, and every man goes to destruction as swift as a bat out of
hell. That's what you are asking me to do--to play traitor to my
cause. And you calmly tell me I must do it simply because you've got
friends in town."
The man came to his feet with an excited gesture of anger.
"You know that in this business no man can trust his twin brother, and
you ask me to trust you to the extent of laying in your hands
everything I've worked for--the lives of an army!" His tones rose to a
climax of vehemence: "And that's what you ask!"
"You know you can trust me," began Saxon, conscious of the feeble
nature of his argument. "You didn't have to tell me. I didn't ask your
confidence. I warned you not to tell me."
"Maybe I was a damned fool, and maybe you were pretty slick, playing
me along with your bait of indifference," retorted Rodman, hotly. "How
am I to know whom you really mean to warn? You insist that I shall
harbor a childlike faith in you, yet you won't trust me enough to quit
your damned play-acting. You call on me to believe in you, yet you lie
to me, and cling to your smug alias. You won't confess who you are,
though you know I know it. No, Mr. Carter, I must decline."
Saxon stood white and rigid. Every moment wasted in argument imperiled
more deeply the girl and the friends he must save, for whose hazarded
lives he was unwittingly responsible. Yet, he could do nothing except
with Rodman's assistance. The only chance lay in convincing him, and
that must be done at any cost. This was no time for selecting methods.
"I don't have to tell a syllable of your plans," he contended,
desperately. "They will go with me without asking the reason. I have
only to see them. You have my life in your hands: you can go with me.
You can disarm me, and keep me in view every moment of the time. You
can kill me at the first false move. You can----"
"Cut out the tommy-rot," interrupted Rodman, with fierce bluntness. "I
can do better than that, and you know it. My word on this ship goes
the same as if I were an admiral. I can say to the captain that you
assaulted me, and it will be my testimony against yours. I can have
you put in irons, and thrown down in the hold, and, by God, I'm going
to do it!" The man moved toward the cabin bell, and halted with his
finger near the button. "Now, damn you! my platform is _Vegas y
Libertad_, and I'm not the sucker I may have seemed. If this is a
trick of yours, you aren't going to have the chance to turn it."
"Give me a moment," pleaded Saxon. He realized with desperation that
every word the other spoke was true, that he was helpless unless he
could be convincing.
"Listen, Rodman," he hurried on, ready to surrender everything else if
he could carry his own point. "For God's sake, listen to me! You
trusted me in the first place. I could have left the boat at any
point, and wired back!" He looked into the face of the other man so
steadily and with such hypnotic intensity that his own eyes were the
strongest argument of truth he could have put forward.
"You say I have distrusted you, that I have not admitted my identity
as Carter. I don't care a rap for my life. I'm not fighting for that
now. I have no designs on you or your designs. Let me put a
hypothetical question: Suppose you had come to a point where your
past life was nothing more to you than the life of another man--a man
you hated as your deadliest enemy; suppose you lived in a world that
was as different from the old one as though it had never existed;
suppose a woman had guided you into that new world, would you, or
would you not, turn your back on the old? Suppose you learned as
suddenly as I learned, from you, on deck, that that woman was in
danger, would you, or would you not, go to her?"
Men rarely find the most eloquent or convincing words when they stand
at sudden crises, but usually men's voices and manners at such times
can have a force of convincing veracity that means more. Possibly, it
may have been the hypnotic quality of Saxon's eyes, but, whatever it
was, Rodman found it impossible to disbelieve him when he spoke in
this fashion. In the plaza, he had suddenly turned the scales and held
power of life and death over Rodman, and his only emotion had been
that of heart-broken misery. Carter had been, like Rodman himself, the
intriguer, but he had always been trustworthy with his friends. He had
been violent, bitter, avenging, but never mean in small ways. That
had been one of the reasons why Rodman, once convinced that the danger
of vengeance was ended, had remained almost passionately anxious to
prove to the other that he himself had not been a traitor. Carter had
been the Napoleonic adventurer, and Rodman only the pettier type. For
Carter, he held a sort of hero-worship. Rodman's methods were those of
chicane, but rightly or wrongly he believed that he could read the
human document.
If this other man were telling the truth, and if love of a woman were
his real motive, he could be stung into fury with a slur. If that were
only a pretext, the other would not allow his resentment to imperil
his plans--he would repress it, or simulate it awkwardly.
"So," he commented satirically, "it's the good-looking young female
that's got you buffaloed, is it? The warrior has been taken into camp
by the squaw." The tone held deliberate intent to insult.
Saxon's lips compressed themselves into a dangerously straight line,
and his face whitened to the temples. As he took a step forward, the
slighter man stepped quickly back, and raised a hand with a gesture of
explanation. Saxon had evidently told the truth. The revolutionist had
satisfied himself, and his somewhat erratic method of judging results
had been to his own mind convincing. And, at the same moment, Saxon
halted. He realized that he stood in a position where questions of
life and death, not his own, were involved. His anger was driving him
dangerously close to action that would send crashing to ruin the one
chance of winning an effective ally. He half-turned with something
like a groan.
He was called out of his stupor of anxiety by the voice of the other.
Rodman had been thinking fast. He would take a chance, though not such
a great chance as it would seem. Indeed, in effect, he would be taking
the other prisoner. He would in part yield to the request, but in the
method that occurred to him he would have an ample opportunity of
studying the other man under conditions which the other man would not
suspect. He would have Saxon at all times in his power and under his
observation while he set traps for him. If his surmise of sincerity
proved false, he could act at once as he chose, before Saxon would
have the opportunity to make a dangerous move. He would seem to do a
tremendously hazardous thing in the name of friendship, but all the
while he would have the cards stacked. If at the proper moment he
still believed in the other, he would permit the man, under
supervision, to save these friends. If not, Rodman would still be
master of the situation. Besides, he had been seriously disappointed
in not meeting Miraflores. He had felt that there might yet be
advantages in coming closer to the theater of the drama than this
vessel going north, though he must still remain under the protection
of a foreign flag.
"So, you are willing to admit that your proper name is Mr. Carter?" he
demanded, coolly.
"I am willing to admit anything, if I can get to Puerto Frio and
through the lines," responded Saxon, readily.
"If I take you back, you will go unarmed, under constant supervision,"
stipulated Rodman. "You will have to obey my orders, and devise some
pretext for enticing your friends away, without telling them the true
reason. I shall be running my neck into a noose perhaps. I have no
right to run that of _Vegas y Libertad_ into a noose as well. Are
those terms satisfactory?"
"Absolutely!" Saxon let more eagerness burst from his lips than he had
intended.
"Then, come with me to the captain." Suddenly, Rodman wheeled, and
looked at the other man with a strange expression. "Do you know why
I'm doing this? It's a fool reason, but I want to prove to you that
I'm not the sort that would be apt to turn an ally over to his
executioners. That's why."
Five minutes later, the two stood in the captain's cabin, and Saxon
noted that the officer treated Rodman with a manner of marked
deference.
"Is Cartwright's steam yacht still at Mollera?" demanded the soldier
of fortune, incisively.
"It's held there for emergencies," replied the officer.
"It's our one chance! Mr. Saxon and myself must get to Puerto Frio at
once. When do we strike Mollera?" Rodman consulted his watch.
"In an hour."
"Have us put off there. Send a wireless to the yacht to have steam up,
and arrange for clearance. Put on all steam ahead for Mollera."
It was something, reflected Saxon, to have such toys to play with as
this thin ally of his could, for the moment at least, command.
"Now, I fully realize," said Rodman, as they left the captain's cabin
together, "that I'm embarking on the silliest enterprise of a
singularly silly career. But I'm no quitter. Cartwright," he
explained, "is one of the owners of the line. He's letting his yacht
be used for a few things where it comes in handy."
There was time to discuss details on the way down the coast in the
_Phyllis_. The yacht had outwardly all the idle ease of a craft
designed merely for luxurious loafing over smooth seas, but Cartwright
had built it with one or two other requisite qualities in mind. The
_Phyllis_ could show heels, if ever matters came to a chase, to
anything less swift than a torpedo-boat destroyer. Her mastheads were
strung with the parallel wires that gave her voice in the Marconi
tongue, and Saxon had no sooner stepped over the side than he realized
that the crew recognized in Mr. Rodman a person to be implicitly
obeyed.
If Rodman had seemed to be won over with remarkable suddenness to
Saxon's request that he undertake a dangerous rescue, it was now
evident to the painter that the appearance had been in part deceiving.
Here, he was more at Rodman's mercy than he had been on the steamer.
If Rodman's word had indeed been as he boasted, that of an admiral on
the _City of Rio_, it was, on the _Phyllis_, that of an admiral on his
own flagship. By a thousand little, artful snares thrown into their
discussions of ways and means, Rodman sought to betray the other into
any utterance or action that might show underlying treachery, and,
before the yacht had eaten up the route back to the strip of coast
where the frontier stretched its invisible line, he had corroborated
his belief that the artist was telling the truth. Had he not been
convinced, Rodman had only to speak, and every man from the skipper
to the Japanese cabin boy would have been obedient to his orders.
"We will not try to get to Puerto Frio harbor," explained Rodman. "It
would hardly be safe. We shall steam past the city, and anchor at
Bellavista, five miles beyond. Bellavista is a seaside resort, and
there a boat like this will attract less attention. Also, the
consulate is better suited to our needs as to the formalities of
entering and leaving port. There, we will take horses, and ride to
town. I'll read the signs, and, if things look safe, we can get in,
collect your people, and get out again at once. They can go with us to
the yacht, and, if you like fireworks, we can view them from a safe
distance."
La Punta, as they passed, lay sleepy by her beach, her tattered palms
scarcely stirring their fronds in the breathless air. Later, Puerto
Frio went alongside, as quiet and untouched with any sense of
impending disturbance as the smaller town. Behind the scattered
outlying houses, the incline went up to the base of San Francisco,
basking in the sun. The hill was a huge, inert barrier between the
green and drab of the earth and the blue of the sky. Saxon drew a
long breath as he watched it in the early morning when they passed. It
was difficult to think of even an artificial volcano awakening from
such profound slumber and indolence.
"You'd better go below, and get ready for the ride. We go horseback.
Got any riding togs?" Rodman spoke rapidly, in crisp brevities. "No?
Well, I guess we can rig you out. Cartwright has all sorts of things
on board. Change into them quick. You won't need anything else. This
is to be a quick dash."
When the anchor dropped off Bellavista, Saxon stood in a fever of
haste on deck, garbed in riding-clothes that almost fitted him, though
they belonged to Cartwright or some of the guests who had formerly
been pleasuring on the yacht.
As their motor-boat was making its way shoreward over peacefully
glinting water, the painter ran his hand into his coat-pocket for a
handkerchief. He found that he had failed to provide himself. The
other pockets were equally empty, save for what money had been loose
in his trousers-pocket when he changed, and the old key he always
carried there. These things he had unconsciously transferred by mere
force of habit. Everything else he had left behind. He felt a mild
sense of annoyance. He had wanted, on meeting her, to hand Duska the
letter he had written on the night that their ships passed, but haste
was the watchword, and one could not turn back for such trifles as
pocket furnishings.
Rodman proved the best of guides. He knew a liveryman from whom
Argentine ponies could be obtained, and led the way at a brisk canter
out the smooth road toward the capital.
For a time, the men rode in silence between the _haciendas_, between
scarlet clustered vines, clinging with heavy fragrance to adobe walls,
and the fringed spears of palms along the cactus-lined roadsides.
Hitherto, the man's painting sense had lain dormant. Now, despite his
anxiety and the nervous prodding of his heels into the flanks of his
vicious little mount, he felt that he was going toward Duska, and with
the realization came satisfaction. For a time, his eyes ceased to be
those of the man hurled into new surroundings and circumstances, and
became again those of Frederick Marston's first disciple.
They rode before long into the country that borders the town. Rodman's
eyes were fixed with a fascinated gaze on the quiet summit of San
Francisco. He had himself no definite knowledge when the craters might
open, and as yet he had seen no sign of war. The initial note must of
course come drifting with the first wisp of smoke and the first
detonation from the mouths of those guns.
At the outskirts of the town, they turned a sharp angle hidden behind
high monastery walls, and found themselves confronted by a squad of
native soldiery with fixed bayonets.
With an exclamation of surprise, Rodman drew his pony back on its
flanks. For a moment, he leaned in his saddle, scrutinizing the men
who had halted him. There was, of course, no distinction of uniforms,
but he reasoned that no government troops would be guarding that road,
because, as far as the government knew, there was no war. He leaned
over and whispered:
"_Vegas y Libertad._"
The sergeant in command saluted with a grave smile, and drew his men
aside, as the two horsemen rode on.
"Looks like it's getting close," commented Rodman shortly. "We'd
better hurry."
Where the old market-place stands at the junction of the _Calle
Bolivar_ with a lesser street, Rodman again drew down his pony, and
his cheeks paled to the temples. From the center of the city came the
sudden staccato rattle of musketry. The plotter threw his eyes up to
the top of San Francisco, visible above the roofs, but the summit of
San Francisco still slept the sleep of quiet centuries. Then, again,
came the clatter from the center of the town, and again the sharp
rattle of rifle fire ripped the air. There was heavy fighting
somewhere on ahead.
"Good God!" breathed the thin man. "What does it mean?"
The two ponies stood in the narrow street, and the air began to grow
heavier with the noise of volleys, yet the hill was silent.
Rodman rattled his reins on the pony's neck, and rode apathetically
forward. Something had gone amiss! His dreams were crumbling. At the
next corner, they drew to one side. A company of troops swept by on
the double-quick. They had been in action. Their faces streamed with
sweat, and many were bleeding. A few wounded men were being carried by
their comrades. Rodman recognized _Capitan_ Morino, and shouted
desperately; but the officer shook his head wildly, and went on.
Then, they saw a group of officers at the door of a crude cafe. Among
them, Rodman recognized Colonel Martinez, of Vegas' staff, and Colonel
Murphy of the Foreign Legion, yet they stood here idle, and their
faces told the story of defeat. The filibuster hurled himself from the
saddle, and pushed his way to the group, followed by Saxon.
"What does it mean, Murphy?" he demanded, breathlessly. "What in all
hell can it mean?"
Murphy looked up. He was wrapping his wrist with a handkerchief, one
end of which he held between his teeth. Red spots were slowly
spreading on the white of the bandage.
"Sure, it means hell's broke loose," replied the soldier of fortune,
with promptness. Then, seeing Saxon, he shot him a quick glance of
recognition. The eyes were weary, and showed out of a face pasted with
sweat and dust.
"Hello, Carter," he found time to say. "Glad you're with us--but it's
all up with our outfit."
This time, Saxon did not deny the title.
"What happened?" urged Rodman, in a frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of
rifles did not seem to come nearer, except for detached sounds of
sporadic skirmishing. The central plaza and its environs were holding
the interest of the combatants.
"Sure, it means there was a leak. When the boys marched up to San
Francisco, they were met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off,
and the government had changed the garrison." The Irish adventurer,
who had led men under half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled
sarcastically. "Sure, it was quite simple!"
"And where is the fighting?" shouted Rodman, as though he would hold
these men responsible for his shattered scheme of empire.
"Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to pull out. The government
couldn't shell its own capital, and so it's street to street
scrappin' now. But we're licked unless--" He halted suddenly, with the
gleam of an inspired idea in his eyes. The leader of the Foreign
Legion was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first time that,
besides the punctured wrist, he was disabled with a broken leg.
"Unless what?" questioned Colonel Martinez. That officer was pallid
under his dark skin from loss of blood. One arm was bandaged tightly
against his side.
"Unless we can hold them for a time, and get word to the diplomatic
corps to arbitrate. A delay would give us a bit of time to pull
ourselves together."
Martinez, shrugged his shoulders.
"Impossible," he said, drearily.
"Wait. Pendleton, the American minister, is dean of the corps. Carter
here is practically a stranger in town these days, and he's got nerve.
I know him. As an American, he might possibly make it to the legation.
Carter, will you try to get through the streets to the American
Legation? Will you?"
Saxon had leaped forward. He liked the direct manner of this man, and
the legation was his destination.
"It's a hundred to one shot, Carter, that ye can't do it." Murphy's
voice, in its excitement, dropped into brogue. "Will ye try? Will ye
tell him to git th' diplomats togither, and ask an armistice? Ye know
our countersign, '_Vegas y Libertad_.'"
But Saxon had already started off in the general direction of the main
plaza. For two squares, he met no interference. For two more, he
needed no other passport than the countersign, then, as he turned a
corner, it seemed to him that he plunged at a step into a reek of
burnt powder and burning houses. There was a confused vista of men in
retreat, a roar that deafened him, and a sudden numbness. He dropped
to his knees, attempted to rise to his feet, then seemed to sink into
a welcome sleep, as he stretched comfortably at length on the pavement
close to a wall, a detachment of routed _insurrectos_ sweeping by him
in full flight.