Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: THE GOBERNADOR RIDES]
THE MOTOR SCOUT
_A STORY OF ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AMERICA_
BY
HERBERT STRANG
_ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO_
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
1913
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER THE FIRST
BOMBASTES FURIOSO
CHAPTER THE SECOND
COMINGS AND GOINGS
CHAPTER THE THIRD
BENEVOLENCES
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
GAS
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
PARDO DISMISSES HIMSELF
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
TIM IS HELD TO RANSOM
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
THE PREFECT MOVES
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
SUSPENSE
CHAPTER THE NINTH
FLIGHT TO THE HILLS
CHAPTER THE TENTH
CINCINNATUS O'HAGAN
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
THE MOTOR-CYCLE
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
FREE WHEEL
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
A COMMISSION
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
HIS FATHER'S HOUSE
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
THE RAID ON SAN ROSARIO
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
A SIEGE AND A SORTIE
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
IN POSSESSION
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
THE ORDER OF THE NASTURTIUM
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
PARDO SCORES A TRICK
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
PARDO LOSES A TRICK
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
RUN TO EARTH
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
A PUNCTURE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
A LEAP FOR LIFE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
THE RAVINE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH
HANDSOME ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE GOBERNADOR RIDES (_see page_ 10) . . . _Frontispiece_
CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS
HORSEMEN ON THE TRACK
TIM LEADS A CHARGE
THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR
A CHECK AT THE CAVE
MAP
CHAPTER I
BOMBASTES FURIOSO
One hot sultry afternoon in June, the population of the little town of
San Rosario in the Peruvian Andes was struck with sudden amazement at
the sight of a motor-bicycle clattering its way through the main street
with some risk to the dogs, poultry, and small boys who had been lazily
disporting themselves there. It was not the bicycle itself that evoked
their wonder: that was an object familiar enough. Nor was it the youth
seated in the saddle, and steering it deftly past all obstacles. It was
a second figure, mounted uneasily on the carrier behind: a rotund and
portly figure, which shook and quivered with the vibration of the
machine as it jolted over the ill-paved road, maintaining its
equilibrium with obvious difficulty. Children and women shrieked; the
men leaning against the walls took their cigars from their lips and
gasped; and the noise of the engine was almost smothered by the mingled
din of barking dogs and screaming fowls. It was the figure of the
gobernador himself: land-owner, chief magistrate, and father of a
family.
The wondering populace might have supposed that the gentleman had taken
leave of his senses--for surely no one of his mature years and serious
responsibilities would have risked so much if he had been sane--had it
not been plain to them that he was in desperate distress. His head was
bare; his swarthy cheeks were shining with perspiration; his eyes rolled
with fright; and his fat hands were clasped about the waist of the boy
in the saddle with the convulsive grip of a man clinging for dear life.
The face of the boy was, on the contrary, beaming with delight. His
lips were parted in a wide smile; his blue eyes were dancing; and his
mop of tow-coloured hair waved joyously in the breeze that the motion of
the vehicle created.
The street filled, and soon there was a mingled crowd pouring in full
cry behind the bicycle. There were young fellows in black coats and
spotless collars--the well-to-do Peruvian is something of a dandy; men
in white ducks and Panama hats; ladies in mantillas; Indians in
bright-coloured ponchos; rough-clad muleteers; bare-legged Indian
children. The rider waved his hand and grinned at a stripling who ran,
pen in hand, from an office, to see the cause of the uproar, and
smilingly watched the bicycle as it bowled along over the cobbles of the
plaza, with much clamorous outcry from the hooter, finally coming to
rest before a large house there. The perspiring passenger having
descended from his uneasy perch, the rider dismounted and offered his
arm as a support to the magistrate, whose legs, cramped by their
unwonted strain, moved very stiffly as he approached his door.
Young Tim O'Hagan and his motor-bicycle had been for some time the talk
of San Rosario. Tim was sixteen, but he was called "Young Tim" to
distinguish him from his father, and also, perhaps, in the spirit of
kindly tolerance with which elders sometimes regard their high-spirited
juniors. Young Tim had always been what his father's English friends
called a "pickle," and old Biddy Flanagan, the family maidservant, a
"broth of a boy." As a small boy he had been in frequent scrapes, and a
cause of bewilderment and trouble to the grave householders of the town.
More than once they had politely complained to Mr. O'Hagan of his
escapades: scrambling over their roofs, hunting for lost balls in their
gardens without much regard for their carefully tended flower-beds, and
engaging in many other nimble exercises which are natural enough to an
English--or Irish--boy, but are rare with the less active Latins.
Thrashings and admonitions were equally ineffective; he would promise
not to repeat a certain offence, and keep his word, but only to break
out in a new direction. Mr. O'Hagan at last despaired of further
correction, and yielded to his wife's advice, to leave Tim to the
sobering hand of time.
As he grew older Tim became less mischievous, without losing his wild
spirits and love of frolic. To see him coast down the hills on his
free-wheel bicycle with no hold upon the handle-bar filled the Peruvian
boys with fear and amazement. And when, on his sixteenth birthday, his
father surrendered to his importunities, and presented him with a
motor-bicycle, there were not wanting many who foretold that young Tim
would sooner or later break his neck. Tim laughed at them. He had come
through his most daring exploits without any hurt more serious than
scratches and bruises; and being very clear-headed and possessed of iron
nerves he was accustomed to scoff at the warnings of timid people.
In spite of his prankishness, there was no more popular person in San
Rosario. Nobody could dislike the boy with his fair Irish face, his
honest eyes twinkling with fun, and the shaggy head that scorned hats
and defied sunstroke. The Peruvian ladies would have made a pet of him
if he would have allowed them; and their husbands, in a country where
everybody, man, woman, and child, smokes, often made him presents of
cigars, which he accepted gratefully, and dutifully handed over to his
father.
His was the only motor-bicycle in the province, an object of a fearful
awe to the young Peruvians. A crowd of these would surround him as he
prepared to mount, and scatter with shrieks when they heard the clatter
of the engine. Elderly ladies crossed themselves and drew their
mantillas closer as they saw him flashing by, and the authorities of San
Rosario were thinking of framing a bye-law for the protection of the
inhabitants from furious driving. But they were slow to move; to-morrow
would do; and Biddy Flanagan declared that no action would be taken
until the gossoon had killed somebody dead.
On this June day, Tim had left home early in the afternoon for a
twenty-mile trip into the hills. He was returning, and had just run
down a steep and winding declivity which joined the highroad to San
Juan, the provincial capital, when he caught sight of the gobernador,
Senor Jose Fagasta, ambling ahead on his mule in the homeward direction.
In half a minute he overtook the magistrate, and being always very
sociably inclined, and having a certain liking for the large
good-tempered gentleman, he stopped his machine, dismounted, and after a
salutation in Spanish stepped on beside the rider, not finding it easy
to keep pace with the mule's rapid march.
The gobernador was returning from the capital to his own little
township, and it was not long before he confided to the boy the object
and result of his visit.
"Brigands, my young friend," he said amiably.
"Are they caught, senor?" asked Tim.
"No, no; but they soon will be, the rascals!"
Tim pricked up his ears. Of late the so-called brigands had been very
troublesome. They swept down from their unknown lairs in the mountains,
falling unawares on some remote hacienda, and waylaying the trains of
pack-mules on the roads. Tim, like many another honest boy, felt a
sneaking admiration for these lawless adventurers, and was not wholly
displeased that they had hitherto defied all attempts to track them and
bring them to book. Besides, they were "against the government"; and
there were many good Peruvians who had reason to abhor the officials
under whose exactions they were then suffering.
"What is going to be done, senor?" he asked.
"What am _I_ going to do, you should have said," replied the magistrate.
"You will see, my boy. They sent for me to-day at San Juan, and I have
had a long consultation with his excellency the Prefect. 'Senor
Doctor,' said he, 'you are the man to catch these ruffians. I leave it
to you.'"
There was an accent of pride in the gobernador's tone, and he looked at
Tim with the air of a man demanding admiration.
"Why do they call you doctor, senor?" asked Tim. "You don't attend us."
"No, my son. I am a Doctor of Laws of San Marcos University. Yes, they
have confidence in me," he continued. "And the brigands will soon have
me to reckon with." He touched significantly the butt of his revolver.
"I will hunt them down; I will catch them; I shall have no mercy on
them, and they will find that such villainy is not to be allowed to go
unpunished within twenty miles of Senor Doctor Jose Fagasta. I am a man
of peace; nobody could be more mild and humane; but when I see the
beneficent laws of our republic transgressed and defied, then I remember
that I am chief magistrate; I become severe; I may even be called
terrible."
"What will you do with them?" asked Tim, impressed by the gobernador's
vigorous words, and fascinated by the shining weapon that peeped out of
his pocket, and the long sword that dangled from his belt.
"They shall be shot, my boy. Not without trial, no; we shall be just
even to the most villainous desperado. We shall catch them, and bring
them in irons to the town. We shall give them a fair trial, and condemn
them: that goes without saying; then we shall place them blindfolded in
the plaza, and----"
"Shoot them!" added Tim, as the magistrate paused mysteriously.
Senor Jose nodded with official gravity, and for a little there was
silence between the two, Tim conjuring up the anticipated scene, and
wondering what the sensations of a man about to be shot must be.
[Illustration: CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS]
Suddenly, from behind a cluster of rocks at their left hand, there
sprang into the road four men, who without a moment's warning flung
themselves on the travellers. Two seized Tim, the other two dragged the
gobernador from his mule, and in a trice had him on the ground at their
feet. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that there had not been
time even to cry out; but now the gobernador raised his voice in
horrified protest, and Tim regained his wits and took stock of the
situation. The men were attired in ragged tunics and breeches, with
sashes about their waists, and feathered hats of varied hue. They were
swarthy wild-eyed fellows; mestizos--men of mixed Spanish and Indian
blood; and Tim knew at a glance that they must be members of the very
gang of outlaws whom the magistrate had so valorously undertaken to
extirpate. They began to talk to one another rapidly in a jargon which
Tim, familiar as he was with Spanish, could not understand. But the
upshot of their consultation was seen in a minute. One of the men who
held the lad brought his face close to his, and said:
"You go home! We have nothing to do with you. Take your machine and
go."
Tim glanced at the gobernador, who lay motionless in the hands of his
captors, mingling protests, threats, and offers of money. The brigand
cursed, and declared that the boy had better take his chance of escaping
before they changed their mind. It was clear that nothing could be done
for the gobernador; the brigands had him at their mercy; and Tim
considered that there was nothing to be gained by remaining. Indeed, it
must be confessed that he was a good deal afraid of these
ferocious-looking fellows, and desired nothing better than to escape
from their clutches. So he caught the handle-bar, ran a few feet with
his bicycle, then sprang to the saddle, and in a few seconds was riding
at full speed along the road.
At first he was conscious of nothing but relief and joy at his own lucky
escape. But he had not ridden far before he began to think of the
gobernador. His conscience pricked him. He felt like a deserter. He
owed nothing, it was true, to Senor Fagasta, who, while genial enough in
private life, had always struck Tim as a ridiculous, pompous kind of
person in his public capacity. But it seemed rather mean to ride away
and leave the magistrate to his fate. There was not time to reach the
town and bring back help; he could not himself do anything for the
gobernador; and he began to wonder what the brigands would do with him.
Perhaps they would rob him of what valuables he had, and let him go.
Surely they would not hurt him! But when Tim remembered stories of the
lengths to which these outlaws sometimes went he grew more and more
uneasy.
After a few minutes he slowed down, considered for a little, then
dismounted and pushed his bicycle into a thick clump of bushes, where it
was well hidden. He durst not ride back, for though his machine was
furnished with a silencer, it did not run so quietly as not to be heard.
He had made up his mind to retrace his path on foot, and see for himself
what had happened. It was a long tramp uphill in the heat, and it took
him nearly an hour to walk the distance which on the cycle he had
covered in six or seven minutes. Fortunately the track wound so
frequently that he ran no risk of being seen by the brigands.
As he approached the spot, he moved slowly and warily, peeping from
behind bushes along straight stretches of the track, and glancing up
into the hills to right and left. On reaching the scene of the capture
he found that it was deserted. Nobody was in sight. He looked this way
and that, and stooped to the ground to see if he could discover by their
footmarks the direction in which the brigands had gone. But the ground
was hard; he could scarcely discern the tracks of his own tyres. A
trained scout might perhaps have noticed some slight indication, but Tim
had had no such training.
"They've hauled him away," he thought, and there flashed into his mind
recollections of fairy stories, in which ogres had carried human beings
to their dens to make a meal of them. Tim had a vivid imagination.
He was on the point of returning when a sudden loud buzzing struck his
ear. He listened: it was like the sound made by swarms of insects in
the forest. And yet it was different--hoarser, less musical. Somehow it
reminded Tim of the gobernador's speeches on great occasions in the
plaza, He left the path, still on his guard, and scouted to the right
among the trees, from which the humming seemed to come. And guiding
himself by the sound, he presently started back when he saw Senor
Fagasta himself, bound upright to a trunk, bare-headed, his mouth
gagged.
The humming became very violent when Tim appeared. He noticed that the
gobernador had managed to shift the gag a little. None of the brigands
being in sight, he ran to the tree, removed the gag altogether, slit the
cords about the senor's limbs, and was immediately embarrassed by two
stout arms flung around him, and two hot lips pressing kisses on one
cheek after the other.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, wriggling. "Steady on, senor."
"Ah, my dear friend! My preserver! my deliverer!" Here there was
another hug, but Tim evaded the kiss. "Tell me!" whispered the
gobernador, "have those wretches gone away?"
"Indeed they have," said Tim. "You had better come away too."
"But they have taken my mule! I am not accustomed to walking. I shall
faint: I shall be seized with apoplexy."
"I have left my cycle two or three miles away, senor. If you can manage
to walk to that you can mount behind me, and we'll be home in no time."
"Yes, I will do so. Assist me with your arm. I am on thorns until I am
on the machine; till then I am not safe. Hasten, my son. I have not
walked a mile for twenty years, though in my youth--but no matter: I
will do my best."
They set off, Tim linking arms with the gobernador, who marched down the
track with the rolling gait of a sailor. Every now and then he stopped
to rest and recover breath, and as at these moments he showed signs of
repeating his embraces, Tim edged away until he was ready to start
again.
"Ah, my preserver!" said the gobernador once, "you have laid a debt upon
me which a lifetime of gratitude will not liquidate."
"Indeed it's nothing at all," said Tim. "You would have done the same
for me."
"That is true; I certainly would; the blood of a long line of hidalgos
runs in my veins. In Spain I might call myself Don Jose de Fagasta; in
republics, alas! there is no aristocracy. But hasten, my son; I am not
safe until I reach the machine."
Tim thought from the gobernador's manner that the current of noble blood
must by this time have become a pretty thin trickle. But he kept that
reflection to himself.
Senor Fagasta mounted behind Tim, proclaiming himself safe. But the
rapid motion of the cycle down the steep and rugged track filled him
with alarms of another kind. In vain he implored Tim to drive more
slowly the boy replied that he would not be secure until he reached the
town, and terrified him with apprehension of sunstroke. It must be
confessed that the spirit of mischief was now fully awake in Tim. Every
sigh, every ejaculation of the stout gentleman behind him gave him a
thrill of joy. As they approached the town the gobernador, mindful of
his dignity, begged Tim to stop and let him finish the journey on foot.
But Tim could not resist the temptation to career through the street and
set the magistrate down at his own door; he relished the idea of the
wonder and excitement he would create.
"It's hardly worth while to set you down now, senor," he said. "You'll
be home in less than a minute. Hold tight!"
As Senor Fagasta entered his house, he turned to Tim.
"My son," he said in a confidential tone, "no doubt you will be asked to
explain this strange occurrence. Do not reveal the cause. I do not
command you as gobernador of this town; I ask as one gentleman of
another."
"I must tell my father, senor," said Tim.
"Certainly; your father's discretion is perfect. Not a word to any one
else, then?"
"Very well, senor. But won't people ask you too?"
"Undoubtedly. The doings of their magistrate are intensely interesting
to the citizens of San Rosario. I shall explain to them that I felt an
urgent need, a positive passion, to try for myself the qualities and
speed--yes, I may say speed--of your motor-bicycle."
"And your hat blew off in the wind. I see, senor," said Tim with
twinkling eyes. "And now, of course, you will send the police after the
brigands."
"I shall never forget that I am gobernador of San Rosario. Good-bye, my
son."