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THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
ALTON OF SOMASCO
LORIMER OF THE NORTHWEST
THURSTON OF ORCHARD VALLEY
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE
THE GOLD TRAIL
SYDNEY CARTERET, RANCHER
A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP
VANE OF THE TIMBERLANDS
THE LONG PORTAGE
RANCHING FOR SYLVIA
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
THE DUST OF CONFLICT
THE GREATER POWER
MASTERS OF THE WHEATLANDS
DELILAH OF THE SNOWS
BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE
THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER
THRICE ARMED
FOR JACINTA
THE INTRIGUERS
THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD
FOR THE ALLINSON HONOR
THE SECRET OF THE REEF
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
[Illustration: "Dropping his chin upon the stock, he stiffened his arms
and held his breath as he squeezed the trigger"--Page 327.]
The COAST OF
ADVENTURE
BY HAROLD BINDLOSS
Author of "PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,"
"RANCHING FOR SYLVIA," "FOR THE ALLINSON
HONOR," "THE SECRET OR THE REEF," ETC.
_WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR_
[Illustration]
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "A RISKY GAME"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP 1
II. THE ADVENTURES BEGIN 12
III. HIGH STAKES 23
IV. THE "ENCHANTRESS" 32
V. THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN 43
VI. ON THE SPANISH MAIN 52
VII. MANGROVE CREEK 64
VIII. THE TRAITOR 73
IX. STRANDED 80
X. THE PEON PILOT 89
XI. A MODERN DON QUIXOTE 99
XII. BAITING THE SMUGGLERS 105
XIII. THE EMERALD RING 117
XIV. SMOOTH WATER 126
XV. THE TORNADO 136
XVI. THE RUSE 145
XVII. ELUDING THE GUNBOAT 157
XVIII. THE TEST OF LOVE 167
XIX. THE CUBAN SPY 178
XX. THE ARREST OF CASTILLO 189
XXI. A HALF-BREED'S TRICK 198
XXII. HELD FOR RANSOM 209
XXIII. THE INTERCEPTED NOTE 219
XXIV. IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN 229
XXV. A TRIAL OF SPEED 240
XXVI. TRAPPED 250
XXVII. HANDS DOWN 259
XXVIII. THE PRESIDENT'S DESPATCHES 271
XXIX. THE PRESIDIO 283
XXX. THE ESCAPE 294
XXXI. THE AMERICAN TRADER 305
XXXII. LOVE'S VISION 315
XXXIII. THE HERO OF RIO FRIO 322
XXXIV. THE COMING DAWN 335
THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
CHAPTER I
FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP
High on the sun-scorched hillside above the steamy littoral of the
Caribbean Sea the Spanish-Indian town of Rio Frio lay sweltering in the
heat of afternoon. The flat-topped, white houses surrounding the plaza
reflected a dazzling glare, and the heat shimmered mercilessly upon the
rough paving-stones. Flakes of plaster had fallen from the buildings; a
few of them were mere ruins, relics of a past age; for the town had been
built when _conquistadores_ from Spain first plunged into the tropic
forest to search for El Dorado. Here and there dilapidated green
lattices shaded upper windows, and nearer the ground narrow openings
were guarded by rusty iron bars; but some of the houses showed blank
outer walls, and the plaza had rather an Eastern than an American look.
Spain has set upon the New World the stamp the Moors impressed on her.
At one end of the plaza stood the Cafe Four Nations, a low, open-sided
room, with a row of decaying pillars dividing it from the pavement. It
was filled with flies, which stuck in black clusters to the papers
hanging from the tarnished lamps and crawled about the dusty tables. The
hot air was tainted with aniseed, picadura tobacco, and the curious
musky smell which is a characteristic of ancient Spanish towns. On the
right-hand side of the square rose the twin towers of the church of San
Sebastian. Wide steps led up to the patch of shadow where a leather
curtain left uncovered part of the door, and a niche above sheltered an
image of the martyr with an arrow in his breast. The figure was well
modeled and grimly realistic.
Opposite the cafe, the _calle Mercedes_ cut a cool, dark gap through the
dazzling town. On its outskirts, the hillside fell sharply to a wide,
green level. Beyond this a silver gleam indicated the sea.
The cafe was in shadow, and at its inner end a number of citizens
lounged, half asleep, in low cane chairs. The hour of the siesta had
slipped away, but it was not yet time for dinner, and, having read the
newspaper and guardedly discussed politics, the leading inhabitants of
Rio Frio had nothing else to do. They were men with formal manners, a
few dressed in rusty black, and some in white cotton, but all were not
of pure European blood. One or two, indeed, plainly showed their Negro
descent; others the melancholy of the Indian aboriginal.
Near the front pillars, a priest and two men of lighter color were
seated at a table. Father Agustin wore a threadbare cassock and clumsy
rawhide shoes, but he had an air of quiet dignity, and his sharply cut
features were of the Gothic type, which is not uncommon in Spain. His
accent was also clean Peninsular. James Grahame, who sat opposite
across the chessboard, wore the same vague but recognizable stamp of
breeding, though his duck suit was getting ragged and his red silk sash
was obviously cheap. He had steady gray eyes, and light hair, a rather
prominent nose and a firm mouth. He looked older than his thirty years.
The lines on his forehead hinted at stern experience, and his alertness
was partly masked by an easy self-control. Walthew was younger, and
dressed with scrupulous neatness in duck, with smart tan shoes. His face
was mobile, his glance quick but open, and his mouth sensitive; he had
the look of an aristocratic American.
Father Agustin made a deprecatory gesture as his thin, long-nailed hand
moved across the board, and Grahame smiled.
"Yes," he said, filling the tiny glass before the priest, "it is mate
this time, _padre_. When you had made a few moves I foresaw defeat, but
while the candle burns one plays out the game."
"It is so, but not with all," Father Agustin replied in his fine
Castilian. "The losing game needs courage."
"Experience helps. Getting beaten does not hurt so much when one grows
used to it."
"Ah!" said the priest, "that is the way to the greatest victory man can
win. But I am your guest, and will not moralize. I must compliment you
on the game you play. It is bold and well thought out, but perhaps
somewhat lacking in finesse."
"I am afraid finesse is not a virtue of mine," Grahame smiled.
Father Agustin studied him quietly. When the Briton spoke he lost
something of his reserve. His glance got keen, and his eyes had a
curious hawk-like look. The priest could imagine him as swift and
determined in action; quick to seize an advantage, but not a good
plotter.
"For all that, it is a quality that is useful when one deals with the
Latins, at Rio Frio, or elsewhere," the priest said.
"With apologies, _padre_, that is certainly true," Walthew agreed.
"So you have some business here? Perhaps, like the others, you seek a
mineral concession."
"No. Our host, Don Martin, is of course out of office and doesn't deal
in them."
"He never will," the priest said quietly. "The natural wealth of this
country belongs to its people, but it is stolen from them, piece by
piece, and given to foreigners."
"The foreigners pay for what they get."
"Yes," said the priest; "but where does the money go? If it were spent
on the development of the country, one would not complain; but it is
gamblers and courtezans who benefit. Those who hold office here fill
their pockets from the public purse, and what is left when they are
satisfied is needed to keep the Government in power."
"Then, why do you not reform your administration and put in straight
men?"
Father Agustin indicated the drowsy group at the back of the cafe.
"These are our politicians! They meet every day and ruminate over the
affairs of the nation. Think of it!"
"Well," said Walthew, "they do not look busy; but things do happen here
now and then."
"It is true. A clique breaks up, there is a new coalition, and those who
plotted each other's downfall are united again. We Latins have seldom a
continuous policy. Sometimes there is a tumult in the streets and
disaffection among the troops; then the man who rules us uses the whip.
One hears of no trial, but a malcontent is missing, an officer's duty
takes him to the fever jungles, where he cannot live. Sometimes, before
the morning mist has lifted, one is wakened by a volley in the ditch
behind the citadel."
"You are a patient race," Grahame remarked.
"Not so," said Father Agustin. "We often dream when we should act, but
sometimes we act too soon. It is our misfortune that we do not know how
to wait for the right moment." He paused and indicated the thinned-out
ranks of pawns on the chessboard. "It is like that in the game of
politics! The fight is between the greater pieces, but these others
fall."
Grahame lighted a cigarette and glanced about the square, for Rio Frio
was waking up. Here and there a woman of mixed blood crouched beside a
cast-iron pot, fanning the handful of charcoal in it, ready for cooking
the evening meal. A team of mules hauled a heavy load across the hot
paving stones, a gaunt, dark-faced man in ragged cotton walking at the
leaders' heads. Then came a pack train, with jingling bells, a cloud of
flies following the burdened animals, and dusty, barefooted peasants
plodding by their side. A group of women appeared from the mouth of a
narrow street, their faces wet with perspiration and straps across their
foreheads supporting the big cane baskets on their backs. After them
came a negro with a great tray of fruit upon his head. Next, three or
four lean, barefooted fellows with ragged palm-leaf hats seated
themselves on the pavement in a strip of shadow. They sat there, silent
and motionless, contemplating the scene with listless eyes. The crowd
looked dully apathetic, there was languor in the air they breathed; but,
after all, they claimed descent from Spanish stock and Grahame thought
they could be roused. It does not need much fanning to wake the
smoldering fire in the Iberian's veins.
"My sheep!" said Father Agustin. "But they have other shepherds, who do
not always lead them well."
"Shear the flock instead of guarding it? One would imagine that there is
not much wool."
"None is so poor that he has nothing to give; if not goods, his voice,
his sullen clamor and savage rage. The unthinking passion of the mob is
terrible, but it is used by those who must answer for the deed some day.
My people have their wrongs, but one cannot build the State on
foundations of revenge and cruelty."
"But you have some honest men who hate the present Government."
"It is possible that their honesty lessens their influence. At Rio Frio
one does not follow the ideal. It is remote and elusive; the feet get
weary, and many things that please the eye lie nearer to hand." Father
Agustin rose and bowed with grave courtesy. "And now I have talked
enough and have some duties. I thank you and take my leave."
They watched him cross the plaza in his rusty cassock.
"Guess we've struck the wrong place," Walthew said. "We're more likely
to find trouble than money here. Well, there's a prospect of new
experiences and a little excitement; and, anyway, we can't go back on
our bargain with Don Martin."
"I never quite understood what led you to join me," Grahame remarked.
"You know the risk we run. If the Government catches us, we'll be hanged
or shot--whichever suits their fancy."
Walthew laughed.
"That's the attraction. But we won't be caught. I guess my Yankee
ingenuity will count for something. If these sleepy-looking dagoes
should trap us, we can find a way to give 'em the slip."
"Optimism is a great asset," Grahame smiled; "but in this country it
must have a handmaiden--a convenient revolver."
Walthew leaned forward on the table.
"We've gone into a risky business together. I know nothing about you
except that you seem to understand these dagoes and are a handy man to
have around when they pull their knives. You know almost nothing about
me."
He paused and smiled, and Grahame stirred uneasily. Walthew looked so
boyish when he smiled like that. Would he have that carefree look in,
say, two months? At times, Grahame regretted letting the boy join him in
a venture that might try the heart of even a very strong man.
"I say, old chap, you aren't listening!" Walthew expostulated. "I'm
telling you that the pater's a money-making machine. When I left Harvard
he was for working me up into a partnership in the Walthew factory. But
I couldn't stand it--too monotonous. I took ten thousand dollars,
instead, on condition that if I hadn't made good in my own way when two
years were up, I'd go back and start as clerk."
"Well," Grahame returned with a smile, "I haven't much to tell. I have
no family business to fall back on. As my means were not large enough to
let me live as I liked at home, I went abroad to increase them. So far I
haven't succeeded; but, on the whole, I've had a pretty good time, and I
don't see much reason for grumbling about my luck."
This was correct, so far as it went, for Grahame did not think it worth
while to explain that the fiery blood of the Borderers ran in his veins
and his people had been soldiers and explorers until economic changes
impoverished the family. Nor could he add that, because his name still
counted for something in the North, he had left home to avoid being
skilfully led into a marriage his friends thought suitable. He had,
indeed, run away from a well-born girl with money, who, he suspected,
was relieved to see him go. Since then he had known trouble, and it had
hardened him. Yet he was honest and was marked by some polish.
At first sight, and by contrast with his comrade, Walthew looked callow,
but he improved on acquaintance. It was not for nothing that he was the
son of a shrewd manufacturer, who had built up a great business from a
humble beginning. Walthew was cool in a crisis, and though outwardly
careless, he was capable of looking ahead. So far, his talents were
undeveloped, but Grahame suspected them.
While they sat talking, the scene in the square gained animation. Groups
of men, moving quickly, emerged from the side streets; there was a
murmur of voices; and a crowd began to gather. Women called from the
flat housetops; doors were opened and naked, dark-skinned children
dragged in from the pavement. The concourse thickened about the steps of
the church; gesticulating men chattered in the native patois.
Grahame's eyes grew keen.
"Something's going to happen," he said quietly.
Then he pressed his comrade's arm as a man appeared on the highest step
of the church, and the murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar:
"_Viva Castillo! Viva el libertador!_"
The tall figure bowed and held up a hand, and for a moment there was
silence; then a clear voice rang out, and Grahame tried to catch the
sonorous Castilian words. He was too far off, and some escaped him, but
he heard enough to gather that it was a grim indictment of the rulers of
the country. The man spoke with fire and passion, using lavish gestures,
and the cries that answered showed that he could work upon the feelings
of the crowd.
The cafe had emptied, and its stout proprietor lounged, napkin in hand,
near Grahame's table.
"Sounds pretty drastic, if I heard him right," Walthew remarked. "It's
obvious that the authorities don't use half-measures. Did he say they
had the deputation arrested and its leader shot?"
"So I understood," said Grahame. "How did you come to learn Castilian?"
"A notion of the old man's; he made me study languages. It's his
ambition to ship the Walthew manufactures all over the world, and he got
a footing in Cuba some time ago."
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Grahame turned to the
landlord.
"Are these things true?"
"It is possible," the other answered cautiously.
"Then are you not afraid of a revolution?"
"No, senor; why should I fear? When there is a revolution the wine trade
is good."
"But suppose your customers get killed?"
The landlord smiled.
"They are philosophic politicians, senor. It is the untaught rabble that
fights. These others drink their wine and argue over the newspapers.
Besides, there will be no revolution yet. Some talk, perhaps; possibly a
supporter of the Government stabbed in the dark."
"And that will be all?" Grahame asked with a keen glance.
"There will be nothing more. The President waits and watches until he
knows his enemies. Then he gives an order and there is an end of them."
The man turned away, and when, shortly afterward, the plaza rang with
fierce applause, a voice was raised in alarm. Others joined in, the
crowd began to stream back from the steps, and the orator disappeared.
Then the mass broke into running groups, and through the patter of their
feet there came a steady, measured tread. It drew nearer; short, swarthy
men in dirty white uniforms marched into the plaza, the strong light
gleaming on their rifles. They wheeled and stopped in ranks extended
across the square, and the rifles went up to their shoulders. Warning
shouts fell from the roofs, the patter of feet grew faster, the shadowy
streets were choked with fugitives, and the place was empty except for
the line of quiet men. Then an officer laughed and called out, and the
rifles came down with a clang.
"I suspect that we're up against a big man in the President," Walthew
remarked. "Perhaps we'd better light out before these fellows ask us
questions."