HANDS DOWN
Cliffe had spent some time at Villa Paz when President Altiera sent for
him one morning. It was with mixed feelings that Cliffe obeyed the
summons, for his business had proved longer and more difficult than he
expected, and he was anxious about Evelyn. Indeed, he wondered whether
he should let the concessions go and return to the coast; but he
determined to be guided by what took place during the interview.
It was getting hot when Altiera received him, and a glare of reflected
light shone through the unshuttered window. Cliffe, looking out over the
little town, thought there was an ominous quiet. An hour earlier he had
watched a company of slouching, dusty soldiers, equipped as if for
service, march through the narrow streets; but there was now no one
about. It struck him as significant that all the green shutters were
closed and the entrances to the _patios_ barred. This might have some
bearing on his business, but it was not of the first importance, and he
turned to the President and studied him closely.
There was a subtle change in Altiera since their last meeting. His
manner was somehow less cordial, and suspicion seemed to lurk in his
dark eyes. When he had indicated a chair he looked at Cliffe steadily.
"You have, no doubt, thought over the matter we talked about not long
ago," he began. "It is necessary that I should know when we may expect
the loan."
"That, as I think you understand, depends on when I may expect the
concessions."
"I cannot sign the papers yet. It would provoke a storm of indignation
that I cannot risk. My enemies have taught the people that I am robbing
them when I make a grant to foreigners."
"In short, you mean to put down the rebels before you conclude the deal
with me."
"You have guessed right. There will be no complaints when I have shown
that I have the upper hand."
"If I had known your plans at the beginning, I'd have acted
differently," Cliffe said.
Altiera gave him a piercing glance.
"Senor, I do not think you are justified in charging us with a want of
candor, because there is evidence that you have not been quite honest
with us. Our most dangerous enemy is Martin Sarmiento, and we find him
staying at your hotel in Havana, where the senorita Cliffe helps him in
an attempt to escape observation."
"I do not know the man," Cliffe protested with a puzzled air.
"Then it is strange that we should have caught a messenger bringing you
a note from him," Altiera answered. "I think we shall gain nothing by
fencing, senor."
Cliffe frowned.
"I've just got to say that I've never, to my knowledge, met Don Martin.
What was the note about?"
"We will talk of that later. In the meanwhile, I understand you have
decided not to let me have the money that we need?"
"Not without a written promise that the papers will be signed and handed
to me in a fortnight. Unless you consent, I must start for Valverde at
once."
Altiera pondered for a few moments, knitting his brows.
"You are, no doubt, anxious to rejoin your daughter," he said slowly.
"Perhaps I had better tell you that she is not at Valverde."
"Not at Valverde!" Cliffe exclaimed. "Then where has she gone?"
"I cannot tell you."
Cliffe clenched his hand, but would not let his alarm master him. He
suspected treachery and knew that he must be cool.
"Your secretary assured me that Miss Cliffe would be safe with the
_alcalde's_ wife; I shall hold him responsible. Why did she leave
Valverde?"
"It seems the senorita got tired of waiting, and set off to rejoin you.
This is most likely, but it is said in the cafes that she ran away with
the senor Gomez."
Cliffe looked up with his face set and an ominous sparkle in his eyes.
"That is a lie!"
"Personally, I think so; but having some knowledge of the sex, I would
not care to predict what a romantic young woman might do."
"Get on with your tale!"
Altiera regarded Cliffe calmly.
"The senorita had my secretary's escort, but, finding the road
dangerous, he made for Rio Frio, where he put her in safe hands. Her
liberty was not interfered with and one morning she left the house and
did not come back."
Cliffe got up and advanced a yard or two across the floor.
"You mean she ran away? Why did she do so?"
"Your pardon, senor!" Altiera spread out his hands with a mocking smile.
"There is no reason to believe she had any cause to run away; but, not
knowing your daughter's character, I cannot tell you why she went."
"Very well," said Cliffe, restraining himself with an effort. "I must
ask you for an armed escort to Rio Frio, where I will make inquiries. I
want the men at once!"
"I am afraid that is impossible. We have news that there are rebels in
the mountains. If I gave you a guard, the peons might be incited to
attack you, and the trouble would spread before we are ready to deal
with it. As President of this country, it is my business to think of its
welfare first."
"I understand," Cliffe said very dryly. "If I promised to let you have
the money you want, you might see your duty differently."
Altiera looked at him with thoughtful eyes. The American was shrewd, but
did not seem as eager as he had expected.
"Senor, the need of funds that would ensure the maintenance of order and
firm government justifies a risk one would not take without such a
reason. I will give you a guard and send soldiers to make a thorough
search for the senorita if we can agree about the loan."
"This means you really do not know where my daughter is. I was not sure
of it until now."
Altiera saw he had blundered in admitting that the girl was no longer
in his hands; but while he considered how his mistake could be covered
Cliffe resumed:
"It was a cunning plot, but you put it through clumsily, and you're
going to find that kidnapping an American woman is a dangerous game for
the President of a third-rate republic."
"One must make allowances for the excited imagination of an anxious
father," Altiera answered with an indulgent smile. "I deny the plot.
There is no need for one. We have a charming young lady left alone in a
foreign town who finds waiting tedious and determines to join her
relative. This is a simple and satisfactory explanation, without the
other that she forms a romantic attachment for an officer of rank. We
provide an escort because the country is disturbed, and part of the
journey is accomplished. It is not safe for her to go farther, but she
is rash, and, disregarding our advice, ventures too far from the house.
Then she loses her way and is perhaps seized by the rebels, with the
object of embarrassing the Government. We cannot be held responsible,
but we are willing to attempt her rescue when we see an opportunity."
The explanation was plausible, and could not be disproved until Cliffe
heard his daughter's account. But what he wanted was to find her.
"The opportunity is now, before the rebels begin to move," he said. "You
refuse to seize it?"
"You understand why it is impossible. I cannot do anything that might
plunge my country into a conflict, unless you show me some reason that
would justify the risk."
"I cannot give you such a reason."
Altiera shrugged.
"It is for you to decide! We come to a deadlock; our negotiations break
off."
"Very well," said Cliffe. "I leave Villa Paz in an hour, and it wouldn't
be wise of you to interfere with my movements. My business with you is
known to people who have some political influence in the United States,
and if I don't turn up in good time, inquiries will be made."
He turned abruptly and went out. It seemed safer to move quickly, though
he imagined the hint he had given Altiera would prevent any attempt to
stop him. The President had found a plausible excuse for Evelyn's
disappearance, but he would hesitate about detaining an American citizen
whose friends could bring pressure to bear at Washington. This
supposition was borne out when Cliffe found no trouble in hiring a guide
and mules; but while he made the arrangements his brain was working.
He would willingly have met the demand for money, only that Altiera had
incautiously admitted that he did not know where Evelyn was. Cliffe had
acted on impulse in refusing to submit to further exaction, but calm
reflection justified the course. Having a deep distrust of the man, he
thought he might take the money and then not undertake the search for
the girl. Cliffe determined to set about it himself and make a bid for
the help of the revolutionaries. This would involve him in a serious
loss, but that did not count. He must rescue his daughter, whatever it
cost.
Then he remembered that the President had admitted having intercepted a
message to him from the rebel leader. He had meant to insist on learning
what it was about, but had somehow omitted to do so, and it was now too
late to reopen the matter. There was, however, a ray of hope in the
thought that Sarmiento had tried to communicate with him.
When his baggage had been strapped on a pack-mule, he mounted and rode
out of Villa Paz as if making for Valverde, but as soon as they had left
the last of the houses behind he pulled up and quietly studied his
guide. He was a sturdy, brown-faced peon, dressed in ragged white
cotton, with raw-hide sandals and a colored blanket strapped round his
shoulders, but he looked trustworthy. Moreover, Cliffe thought his
willingness to assist a foreigner who was leaving the President's house
without an escort, which must have shown that he had lost the autocrat's
favor, had some significance. It was unfortunate that he could not speak
much Castilian, but he knew that money talks in a language that is
generally understood.
"I have changed my mind; we will not go to the coast," he said,
stumbling over the words and helping out his meaning by pointing to the
mountains.
The peon nodded.
"To me it is equal where the senor goes, so long as I am paid for the
days we spend upon the road."
"Very well," said Cliffe, taking out a handful of silver. "Do you know
Don Martin Sarmiento?"
The peon looked doubtful, and Cliffe saw that, as he had suspected, the
fellow had some dealings with the President's enemies.
"Don Martin is known to many," he replied cautiously.
Cliffe jingled the silver and awkwardly explained that he was no longer
a friend of the President's and wished to see Sarmiento as soon as he
could.
For a time the muleteer did not speak; then he looked up with an air of
decision.
"It may be difficult, senor, but we will try," he said, and jerking the
pack-mule's bridle abruptly left the road.
They passed through a coffee plantation and a field of sugar-cane, and
then as they reached thick forest the muleteer stopped and indicated the
road that wound in loops down the hillside.
"It is well the President should think we have gone that way," he
remarked with a smile. "He has, no doubt, been told how we left the
town."
Cliffe looked back across the wide sweep of sun-scorched country to the
shining streak on the horizon. His path led into the mountains and he
longed for the sea. Then he thought of Grahame and wondered where he
was. Cliffe felt sure the man would help him if he knew his need. He was
beginning to suspect what business Grahame had on the coast. He asked
his guide about the _Enchantress_, but the fellow did not seem to
understand, and it was obvious that he had not heard of Grahame. Then
Cliffe urged his mule on and plunged into the steamy shade.
Two days later they rode into a deep gorge filled with giant,
creeper-festooned trees, and the guide moved forward slowly, glancing
into the shadow that shut in the winding track. It appeared that his
caution was justified, for presently a hoarse voice bade them halt, and
as they pulled up two men with rifles stepped out into the sunlight.
For some time the muleteer disputed with them, using emphatic gestures
and pointing to Cliffe; and then he went on with one while the other sat
down watching the American, with his rifle across his knees. It was very
hot, for the sun struck down through an opening in the branches, but
although the perspiration dripped from him Cliffe did not think it wise
to move. Indeed, he was glad that his mule stood quiet, whisking off the
flies.
At last some one called in the forest and Cliffe's guard told him to
ride on, though the man followed at a short distance, as if to prevent
his escape. A few hundred yards farther on, the gorge widened into a
level hollow, and Cliffe saw that he was in a camp.
It was not marked by military order. Men of various shades of color lay
about, smoking cigarettes. Some were barefooted, and most were poorly
dressed, but all wore red sashes, and good rifles lay ready to their
hands. They looked more like brigands than soldiers, and it was hard to
imagine they had been drilled, but while their attitudes were slackly
negligent, their faces were resolute. In the background, climbing
forest, choked with fallen trees and trailing vines, rolled up the steep
hillside. It was very hot, and the hum of insects mingled with the sound
of drowsy voices.
Two men, better dressed than the others, came forward, and Cliffe
dismounted and followed them to a seat in the shadow, where they gave
him some cigarettes.
"Now, senor, you will tell us why you came here," said one.
Cliffe had not expected to be addressed in good English, and he looked
at the man with surprise.
The Spaniard smiled.
"With us, the consequences of trying to serve one's country is that one
finds it safer to live somewhere else. But we will keep to the point."
"I am looking for Don Martin Sarmiento," Cliffe said. "I expect you know
where he is."
"That is so, but it would be difficult to reach him, and we leave this
place to-night. In fact, it is hard to see what we ought to do with you,
but it might help if you told us what your business is with Don Martin."
"I guess you're surprised I should want to see him," Cliffe remarked
with some dryness.
"It is natural," said the other. "We know you are a friend of the
President's, and we suspect that you have been financing him. The money
you gave him would be used to put us down."
Cliffe thought for a few moments. The man seemed a person of some
consequence, and apparently commanded the band of rebels. His permission
must be obtained before Cliffe could proceed, and since he meant to ask
Don Martin's help there was, perhaps, no cause for reticence.
"Very well," he said. "I will tell you why I am going to your leader."
He related what had led to his quarrel with the President, and when he
had finished, the man translated the narrative to his comrade.
"It is fortunate, senor, you refused the loan, because you will never
get the concessions; Altiera's rule will be over in a day or two. But
you believed him when he said he did not know where your daughter is?"
"Yes. He seemed to speak without thinking, and was sorry afterward."
"Then, as the senorita is not in his hands, she is probably in ours, but
our forces are scattered, and at present we cannot make inquiries.
However, I imagine you will find her quickest by remaining with us--and
you will excuse my saying that it would not suit us to let you go. If
you were seized by the President's soldiers, he might make some use of
you. Have I your promise that you will not try to escape?"
Although the man was courteous, Cliffe thought an attempt to run away
would lead to trouble, but this was not what decided him to stay. He had
been bred to business, but now deep-rooted impulses were stirring. The
President and Gomez had cheated him, and he felt very sore about it, but
they had, moreover, carried off and, no doubt, terrorized Evelyn. The
thought of this filled him with a fierce desire to get even with them.
"Senores," he said grimly, "you not only have my word not to attempt to
escape but you have my pledge to help you in every way I can."
"We start for Rio Frio to-night," the rebel answered in a significant
tone.
"Good!" Cliffe said, and glanced about at the little groups of
determined looking men. "I'll confess I'm curious to know how you got
such good rifles," he added.
The rebel studied him keenly for a moment; and seemed satisfied.
"A countryman of yours bought and landed them for us in small
quantities."
"Grahame!" Cliffe exclaimed, and laughed, for he found the situation
ironically humorous. He liked Grahame, and suspected that Evelyn was
interested in him; and now it was obvious that the man had helped the
revolutionaries to ruin his plans.
"I know him," he said. "As a matter of fact, he's an Englishman."
"At present he is Gomez's prisoner. That is one reason we strike the
first blow at Rio Frio."
"Ah! Well, if you mean to rescue him, you can rely on my doing the best
I can."
The rebel changed the subject, but Cliffe imagined he had gained his
confidence. He was invited to the officers' frugal four o'clock dinner,
and afterward sat talking with them while the shadows filled the hollow.
Although still anxious about Evelyn, he felt less disturbed, and was
sensible of a strange but pleasant thrill. Feelings he thought he had
long grown out of were reawakening; there would be no more trucking with
the rogues who had cheated him and carried off his daughter. When they
next met, he would demand satisfaction with a rifle in his hands. Cliffe
admitted that there was something rather absurd and barbarous in the
pleasure the thought of the meeting afforded him, but, for all that, the
adventure he was embarking on had a strong attraction.