IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN
Evelyn instinctively drew back a few paces. Through her brain was
beating insistently the admonition that had helped her much in the past
few days:
"_Keep calm! Don't let him think you are afraid!_"
Her first thought had been flight, to the village; but reason told her
that was impossible. Here alone on the silent hillside, in the early
night, a white woman with this strange Indian, there came over her again
a pride in her American blood. She felt that she was a match for him, in
wits if not in strength. And with the thought came courage.
She pointed to the mule, then to herself, then to the village; and
explained in Spanish.
The Indian shook his head, and stood stolidly beside his mount. After
his first exclamations he had remained silent, watching Evelyn intently;
but she felt reassured when he made no move to approach her. As a matter
of fact, his mind at that moment was a chaos of conjectures and
possibilities; and while he hesitated Evelyn gasped with relief. Down
the road, carrying distinctly over the night air, came the sound of
furious riding--faint at first and then growing nearer, quickly nearer.
Even if it were not the peon, at least two strangers would be safer than
one.
With a guttural grunt that might have meant anything, the Indian jumped
upon his mule and started off toward the village, urging the animal
along; and Evelyn stepped farther back into the shadow of the cacti. She
felt that she had reached the breaking-point. Yet she must nerve herself
this once more, for without her guide she could not go on.
The hoof-beats drew near; in a minute they would pass and the rider be
swallowed up in the gloom beyond. Evelyn opened her mouth and tried to
call to him; but her voice failed her. Her worn-out body and her
overtaxed nerves were holding her powerless to move or cry. She could
only stand, helpless, and watch him sweep past.
But the peon's keen eyes had caught sight of the white dress fluttering
against the dark outline of the cacti, and even as he passed he reined
in his mule. A few moments later he was beside her, holding his battered
hat in his hand.
"Your servant, senorita," he said courteously.
Evelyn never could remember distinctly what happened after that. She had
only a hazy recollection of climbing upon the mule and trying to cling
there, while the man trotted beside her carrying a long, iron-pointed
staff. Somewhere near the village they had turned off the main road and
followed a rough path that led up into the hills. And there they had
stopped at a small _hacienda_, where Evelyn was hospitably received.
When she woke the next morning, in a clean little adobe room, and found
a neat-looking Spanish woman smiling upon her, Evelyn smiled in return.
Every muscle in her body ached, and the soles of her feet were
blistered, but, for the first time in many days, she felt a sense of
perfect security. Still smiling, she murmured the password of the
revolutionaries. It meant much to her now.
"_Confianza!_"
* * * * *
They had a hasty breakfast and started again, but rested for some time
in a belt of forest during the heat of the day. In the early evening
they approached a white _aldea_ perched high upon the edge of a ravine.
Evelyn's guide made her understand that they might not be allowed to
pass. He implied that she was in no danger, but it was with some anxiety
that she rode toward the village.
They skirted the side of the ravine, which was fretted with tumbling
cataracts. Steep rocks ran up from the edge of the trail and were lost
in climbing forest a hundred feet above, but after a time the chasm
began to widen, and small, square houses straggled about its slopes. A
barricade of logs, however, closed the road, and as Evelyn approached
two men stepped out from behind it. They were ragged and unkempt, but
they carried good modern rifles.
"Halt!" ordered one of them.
"_Confianza!_" the guide answered, smiling, and they let him pass.
Beyond the barricade, the guide stopped in front of an adobe building
that seemed to be an inn, for a number of saddled mules were tied around
it. Men were entering and leaving and a hum of voices came from the
shadowy interior, but the peon motioned to Evelyn that she must get down
and wait. Finding a stone bench where she was left undisturbed, she sat
there for half an hour while it grew dark, and then a man came up and
beckoned her to enter. She went with some misgivings, and was shown into
a room with rough mud walls, where a man sat under a smoky lamp at a
table upon which a map and a number of papers were spread. He wore
plain, white clothes, with a wide red sash; and two others, dressed in
the same way, stood near, as if awaiting his orders. Evelyn knew the
man, for she had seen him at the International.
"_Confianza!_" she said. "I believe you are Don Martin Sarmiento."
He gave her a quick glance, and answered in good English:
"It is a surprise to receive a visit from Miss Cliffe. But I must ask
who gave you the password?"
"Senora Garcia at Rio Frio."
"That sounds strange. But sit down. There is something we must talk
about."
He waited until one of the men brought her a chair.
"I understand you were going to Villa Paz," he then said.
"Yes; I am anxious to join my father."
"I am not sure that will be possible; but we will speak of it again.
First of all, I must know why you left Valverde." Sarmiento indicated
the others. "These are officers of mine, but they do not speak English,
and it is not necessary that you should know their names. You have
nothing to fear from us, but I must urge you to be frank."
Evelyn tried to think calmly. She was in the man's power, and he wore
the stamp of command, but she liked his look and did not feel afraid of
him. It might be wiser to be candid; but she had an embarrassing story
to tell and she began with some hesitation. Sarmiento helped her, now
with a nod of comprehension as she slurred over an awkward passage, and
now with a look of sympathy, while the others stood silent with
expressionless faces.
"Gomez is, of course, a scoundrel, and you were wise to run away," he
commented when she stopped. "There are, however, matters I do not quite
understand. For example, it would not be to the President's interest
that he should quarrel with your father; nor do I think Altiera would
approve of an alliance between his secretary and you."
Evelyn blushed and tried to meet the man's searching look.
"I cannot explain these things. I have told you what happened, and I
came to you with--confidence."
Sarmiento bowed.
"We respect our password. You are safe with us; but you cannot continue
your journey. The roads will be closed before you get through, and there
will be fighting in the next few days. When it seems less dangerous, we
must try to send you on, but in the meantime I must put you into my
daughter's hands."
He gave one of the officers some instructions, and the man beckoned
Evelyn, but she hesitated.
"I must pay my guide and send him back."
"We will give him the money, but he will not go back. We shall, no
doubt, find a use for him." Sarmiento smiled meaningly as he added: "It
looks as if he could be trusted."
Evelyn followed the officer to the back of the house where creepers
trailed about a rude pergola. A sheet of cotton had been stretched among
the poles, making a tent in which a light burned. Her companion, saying
a few words in Castilian, motioned to Evelyn to go in. She did so, and
then stopped abruptly.
The lamp was small and the light was dim; loops of vines falling about
it cast puzzling shadows, but Evelyn knew the girl who rose to meet her.
She had seen her talking confidentially to Grahame at the International,
and was seized by jealous suspicion. A stout, elderly lady in a black
dress, who was apparently the girl's duenna, sat farther back in the
shadow. Blanca gave Evelyn a friendly smile of recognition, but it cost
her an effort to respond. The Spanish girl seemed to understand that
something was wrong, and there was an awkward silence while they stood
with their eyes fixed on each other. Then Blanca said with a touch of
haughtiness:
"I have been told to make you as comfortable as possible, but I am sorry
there is not much comfort here. One cannot expect it in a camp."
She presented Evelyn to her duenna, and the senora Morales indicated a
folding chair.
"You come at a bad time," she remarked in awkward French, languidly
opening a fan. "It seems we are to have more fighting; it is the way of
men."
"They must fight," said Blanca. "The cause is good."
The senora Morales waved her fan. She wore a black silk mantilla
fastened tightly round her head like a cowl, and her dark, fleshy face
was thickly smeared with powder. Her eyes were lazily contemptuous.
"There are two causes, _nina_, and it is hard to see how both can be
right. But, since men quarrel about them, it is not impossible that both
may be wrong."
Evelyn smiled. The duenna's remarks saved the situation from becoming
strained; the woman was obviously shrewd in spite of her heavy face.
"They are always quarreling in this country," the senora continued.
"Those who will not pay their taxes call themselves Liberators; those
who expect favors from the President are Patriots. If he does not give
them enough, they conspire with the others to turn him out. Since
everybody cannot be satisfied, there is always trouble."
"But our friends are not fighting for rewards!" Blanca objected
indignantly.
"A few are disinterested," the senora conceded. She paused, and turned
to Evelyn with an authoritative air. "You must tell me why you ran away
from Rio Frio. I can guess something, but want to know the rest."
After a moment's hesitation, Evelyn thought it prudent to comply, and
the senora seemed to listen with sympathy.
"To run away was the simplest plan, but sometimes the simplest plan is
not the best," she said. "Did you think of nothing else?"
"I sent a message to Mr. Grahame of the _Enchantress_, telling him I was
in difficulties," Evelyn replied, watching Blanca.
The girl looked up with quick interest, but there was no hint of
jealousy in her expression.
"You thought he would come to help you?"
"I knew he would come if it was possible," Evelyn answered.
Blanca looked her in the face with a smile of understanding, and Evelyn
saw that her suspicions had been unfounded. Grahame was nothing to the
girl.
"My father must know this at once!" she said, and hurried away.
Don Martin came back with her and questioned Evelyn, and then he stood
thoughtfully silent for some moments.
"It is fortunate I heard this news," he said. "Your message may be
intercepted, and we must try to warn Grahame that you are in our hands."
He gave Evelyn a steady look. "I believe he will be satisfied with
that."
"You can tell him that I feel safe," Evelyn answered.
Don Martin left her with a bow, and shortly afterward they heard
somebody riding hard along the edge of the ravine. When the beat of
hoofs died away Blanca touched Evelyn's arm.
"There will be some supper after a while, but let us walk a little way
up the path."
They went out into the dark, passing slowly between shadowy rows of
bushes which Evelyn thought were young coffee plants. She waited,
believing that her companion meant to take her into her confidence.
"You were rash in sending for Mr. Grahame," Blanca began. "We must hope
our messenger arrives in time to stop him, but for all that----"
"Do you wish him to come?" Evelyn asked.
Blanca smiled.
"In a sense, it does not matter to me whether he comes or not, though I
would not wish him to run into danger. But he would not come alone."
Evelyn started. It was not Grahame, but Walthew, in whom Blanca was
interested. Somehow she had not thought of that.
"Of course, you met Mr. Walthew in Havana," she said.
"And at Rio Frio!" There was a hint of triumphant coquetry and something
deeper in Blanca's voice. "Indeed, Mr. Grahame should be grateful to me,
because it was I who kept him his companion. Mr. Walthew had been
dangerously ill, and was thinking of going home--though of course he did
not tell me this----"
"But if he did not tell you!"
"How did I know?" Blanca laughed. "_Carina mia_, how do we know such
things? Is a man's face a mask? Have we no guide except what he says?"
Evelyn thought of Carmen, for Blanca had something of the great
coquette's allurement and power. It was not an unconscious attraction
she exercised, but the skill with which it was directed was primitive
and instinctive rather than intelligent.
"And you persuaded Mr. Walthew to stay!" she said. "Did you find it
hard?"
"Hard? Oh, no! It is not hard to persuade a young man, unless one is a
fool. A word or two is enough, and I told him he might become a great
_libertador_ like Bolivar and Garibaldi."
Evelyn laughed. She liked Walthew, but he was a very modern American,
and the thought of his emulating Garibaldi tickled her. Then, although
it was dark, she was aware of a change in her companion's mood. Blanca's
pose was different, it had somehow hardened, and her head was lifted
high.
"You find this amusing?" she asked in a haughty tone.
"I suppose I do, in a way," Evelyn admitted deprecatingly. "You see, I
know my countrymen, and we're not romantic, as a rule."
"Then it is clear you do not know Mr. Walthew. He is young, but he has
the spirit of these others, the great _libertadores_."
"I've no doubt that's true," Evelyn agreed, putting her hand on Blanca's
arm. "Indeed, I like and admire him very much."
They turned back to the house presently, on friendly terms, for the
Spaniard's anger flares up quickly but soon burns down. Evelyn, however,
saw that matters had gone farther than she thought, and she imagined
that Walthew would have some trouble with his relatives when he went
home.
"But how did you and your father come to meet Mr. Walthew, and what is
the _Enchantress_ doing on the coast?" she asked.
"You do not know?" There was a hint of gratified superiority in the
girl's tone. "She is bringing us the rifles that we need."
Evelyn asked no more questions, because her talk with Blanca had given
her much to think about, and when supper was over she sat outside the
tent alone. The moon was rising above the tall sierra that ran in a
rugged line across the sky. The air was warm and still, and she could
hear water splashing down in the bottom of the ravine. Now and then
there was a clatter of hoofs as a messenger rode up, and sometimes an
order was followed by a patter of feet. Then for a time everything was
silent except for a murmur of voices in the inn.
The girl noticed this vacantly, for her mind was busy, and she was
filled with a strange excitement. For the last week or two she had borne
a heavy strain, and her thoughts had been concentrated on finding a
means of escape. Now they were free to dwell upon a greater matter. The
struggle that began when she boarded the _Enchantress_ was ended, and
she could rejoice in her own defeat, as she had not been quite able to
do when, on first surrendering, she had written her note at Rio Frio.
Prudence, ambition, and self-interest were driven from the field; love
had utterly routed them. She loved Grahame, and she knew that he loved
her, though he had not avowed it yet. Blanca had spoken truly: words
were not needed: it was easy to read a man's heart.
Evelyn knew what he thought. He was a poor adventurer, and she was rich.
She blushed with shame, remembering how this had once weighed with her.
Now it did not matter at all. Nothing mattered except that he belonged
to her; but while this had never been so plain, it had not dawned on her
with a sudden flash. The light had been steadily creeping in for a long
time, while she stubbornly tried to shut it out, until she abandoned her
futile efforts and let the warming brightness flood her.
Then she thought of Grahame's danger. Don Martin had not received the
note. Suppose it had fallen into Gomez's hands. What use might not that
half-breed make of it!
Evelyn shuddered, and breathed a half-conscious prayer that Don Martin's
messenger might reach her lover in time.