Mariano Vercara e Hijos, Jefe Politico of San Antonio, leaned back in
his chair in the courtroom and with a quiet smile of satisfaction
proceeded to roll a cigarette. The case had gone through as prearranged.
He had kept the little old judge away from his _mescal_ all day, and had
been rewarded by having the judge try the case and give judgment
according to program. He had not made a slip. The six peons, fined
heavily, were ordered back to the plantation at Santos. The working out
of the fines was added to the time of their contract slavery. And the
Jefe was two hundred dollars good American gold richer for the
transaction. Those Gringos at Santos, he smiled to himself, were men to
tie to. True, they were developing the country with their _henequen_
plantation. But, better than that, they possessed money in untold
quantity and paid well for such little services as he might be able to
render.
His smile was even broader as he greeted Alvarez Torres.
“Listen,” said the latter, whispering low in his ear. “We can get both
these devils of Morgans. The Henry pig hangs to-morrow. There is no
reason that the Francis pig should not go out to-day.”
The Jefe remained silent, questioning with a lift of his eyebrows.
“I have advised him to storm the jail. The Solanos have listened to his
lies and are with him. They will surely attempt to do it this evening.
They could not do it sooner. It is for you to be ready for the event,
and to see to it that Francis Morgan is especially shot and killed in
the fight.”
“For what and for why?” the Jefe temporised. “It is Henry I want to see
out of the way. Let the Francis one go back to his beloved New York.”
“He must go out to-day, and for reasons you will appreciate. As you
know, from reading my telegrams through the government wireless——”
“Which was our agreement for my getting you your permission to use the
government station,” the Jefe reminded.
“And of which I do not complain,” Torres assured him. “But as I was
saying, you know my relations with the New York Regan are confidential
and important.” He touched his hand to his breast pocket. “I have just
received another wire. It is imperative that the Francis pig be kept
away from New York for a month—if forever, and I do not misunderstand
Senor Regan, so much the better. In so far as I succeed in this, will
you fare well.”
“But you have not told me how much you have received, nor how much you
will receive,” the Jefe probed.
“It is a private agreement, and it is not so much as you may fancy. He
is a hard man, this Senor Regan, a hard man. Yet will I divide fairly
with you out of the success of our venture.”
The Jefe nodded acquiescence, then said:
“Will it be as much as a thousand gold you will get?”
“I think so. Surely the pig of an Irish stock-gambler could pay me no
less a sum, and five hundred is yours if pig Francis leaves his bones in
San Antonio.”
“Will it be as much as a hundred thousand gold?” was the Jefe’s next
query.
Torres laughed as if at a joke.
“It must be more than a thousand,” the other persisted.
“And he may be generous,” Torres responded. “He may even give me five
hundred over the thousand, half of which, naturally, as I have said,
will be yours as well.”
“I shall go from here immediately to the jail,” the Jefe announced. “You
may trust me, Senor Torres, as I trust you. Come. We will go at once,
now, you and I, and you may see for yourself the preparation I shall
make for this Francis Morgan’s reception. I have not yet lost my cunning
with a rifle. And, as well, I shall tell off three of the gendarmes to
fire only at him. So this Gringo dog would storm our jail, eh? Come. We
will depart at once.”
He stood up, tossing his cigarette away with a show of determined
energy. But, half way across the room, a ragged boy, panting and
sweating, plucked his sleeve and whined:
“I have information. You will pay me for it, most high Senor? I have run
all the way.”
“I’ll have you sent to San Juan for the buzzards to peck your carcass
for the worthless carrion that you are,” was the reply.
The boy quailed at the threat, then summoned courage from his emptiness
of belly and meagerness of living and from his desire for the price of a
ticket to the next bull-fight.
“You will remember I brought you the information, Senor. I ran all the
way until I am almost dead, as you can behold, Senor. I will tell you,
but you will remember it was I who ran all the way and told you first.”
“Yes, yes, animal, I will remember. But woe to you if I remember too
well. What is the trifling information? It may not be worth a centavo.
And if it isn’t I’ll make you sorry the sun ever shone on you. And
buzzard-picking of you at San Juan will be paradise compared with what I
shall visit on you.”
“The jail,” the boy quavered. “The strange Gringo, the one who was to be
hanged yesterday, has blown down the side of the jail. Merciful Saints!
The hole is as big as the steeple of the cathedral! And the other
Gringo, the one who looks like him, the one who was to hang to-morrow,
has escaped with him out of the hole. He dragged him out of the hole
himself. This I saw, myself, with my two eyes, and then I ran here to
you all the way, and you will remember....”
But the Jefe Politico had already turned on Torres witheringly.
“And if this Senor Regan be princely generous, he may give you and me
the munificent sum that was mentioned, eh? Five times the sum, or ten
times, with this Gringo tiger blowing down law and order and our good
jail-walls, would be nearer the mark.”
“At any rate, the thing must be a false alarm, merely the straw that
shows which way blows the wind of this Francis Morgan’s intention,”
Torres murmured with a sickly smile. “Remember, the suggestion was mine
to him to storm the jail.”
“In which case you and Senor Regan will pay for the good jail wall?” the
Jefe demanded, then, with a pause, added: “Not that I believe it has
been accomplished. It is not possible. Even a fool Gringo would not
dare.”
Rafael, the gendarme, rifle in hand, the blood still oozing down his
face from a scalp-wound, came through the courtroom door and shouldered
aside the curious ones who had begun to cluster around Torres and the
Jefe.
“We are devastated,” were Rafael’s first words. “The jail is ‘most
destroyed. Dynamite! A hundred pounds of it! A thousand! We came bravely
to save the jail. But it exploded—the thousand pounds of dynamite. I
fell unconscious, rifle in hand. When sense came back to me, I looked
about. All others, the brave Pedro, the brave Ignacio, the brave
Augustino—all, all, lay around me dead!” Almost could he have added,
“drunk”; but, his Latin-American nature so compounded, he sincerely
stated the catastrophe as it most valiantly and tragically presented
itself to his imagination. “They lay dead. They may not be dead, but
merely stunned. I crawled. The cell of the Gringo Morgan was empty.
There was a huge and monstrous hole in the wall. I crawled through the
hole into the street. There was a great crowd. But the Gringo Morgan was
gone. I talked with a moso who had seen and who knew. They had horses
waiting. They rode toward the beach. There is a schooner that is not
anchored. It sails back and forth waiting for them. The Francis Morgan
rides with a sack of gold on his saddle. The moso saw it. It is a large
sack.”
“And the hole?” the Jefe demanded. “The hole in the wall?”
“Is larger than the sack, much larger,” was Rafael’s reply. “But the
sack is large. So the moso said. And he rides with it on his saddle.”
“My jail!” the Jefe cried. He slipped a dagger from inside his coat
under the left arm-pit and held it aloft by the blade so that the hilt
showed as a true cross on which a finely modeled Christ hung crucified.
“I swear by all the Saints the vengeance I shall have. My jail! Our
justice! Our law!——Horses! Horses! Gendarme, horses!” He whirled about
upon Torres as if the latter had spoken, shouting: “To hell with Senor
Regan! I am after my own! I have been defied! My jail is desolated! My
law—our law, good friends—has been mocked. Horses! Horses! Commandeer
them on the streets. Haste! Haste!”
* * * * *
Captain Trefethen, owner of the _Angelique_, son of a Maya Indian mother
and a Jamaica negro father, paced the narrow after-deck of his schooner,
stared shoreward toward San Antonio, where he could make out his crowded
long-boat returning, and meditated flight from his mad American
charterer. At the same time he meditated remaining in order to break his
charter and give a new one at three times the price; for he was
strangely torn by his conflicting bloods. The negro portion counseled
prudence and observance of Panamanian law. The Indian portion was urgent
to unlawfulness and the promise of conflict.
It was the Indian mother who decided the issue and made him draw his
jib, ease his mainsheet, and begin to reach in-shore the quicker to pick
up the oncoming boat. When he made out the rifles carried by the Solanos
and the Morgans, almost he put up his helm to run for it and leave them.
When he made out a woman in the boat’s sternsheets, romance and thrift
whispered in him to hang on and take the boat on board. For he knew
wherever women entered into the transactions of men that peril and pelf
as well entered hand in hand.
And aboard came the woman, the peril and the pelf—Leoncia, the rifles,
and a sack of money—all in a scramble; for, the wind being light, the
captain had not bothered to stop way on the schooner.
“Glad to welcome you on board, sir,” Captain Trefethen greeted Francis
with a white slash of teeth between his smiling lips. “But who is this
man?” He nodded his head to indicate Henry.
“A friend, captain, a guest of mine, in fact, a kinsman.”
“And who, sir, may I make bold to ask, are those gentlemen riding along
the beach in fashion so lively?”
Henry looked quickly at the group of horsemen galloping along the sand,
unceremoniously took the binoculars from the skipper’s hand, and gazed
through them.
“It’s the Jefe himself in the lead,” he reported to Leoncia and her
menfolk, “with a bunch of gendarmes.” He uttered a sharp exclamation,
stared through the glasses intently, then shook his head. “Almost I
thought I made out our friend Torres.”
“With our enemies!” Leoncia cried incredulously, remembering Torres’
proposal of marriage and proffer of service and honor that very day on
the hacienda piazza.
“I must have been mistaken,” Francis acknowledged. “They are riding so
bunched together. But it’s the Jefe all right, two jumps ahead of the
outfit.”
“Who is this Torres duck?” Henry asked harshly. “I’ve never liked his
looks from the first, yet he seems always welcome under your roof,
Leoncia.”
“I beg your parson, sir, most gratifiedly, and with my humilius
respects,” Captain Trefethen interrupted suavely. “But I must call your
attention to the previous question, sir, which is: who and what is that
cavalcade disporting itself with such earnestness along the sand?”
“They tried to hang me yesterday,” Francis laughed. “And to-morrow they
were going to hang my kinsman there. Only we beat them to it. And here
we are. Now, Mr. Skipper, I call your attention to your head-sheets
flapping in the wind. You are standing still. How much longer do you
expect to stick around here?”
“Mr. Morgan, sir,” came the answer, “it is with dumbfounded respect that
I serve you as the charterer of my vessel. Nevertheless, I must inform
you that I am a British subject. King George is my king, sir, and I owe
obedience first of all to him and to his laws of maritime between all
nations, sir. It is lucid to my comprehension that you have broken laws
ashore, or else the officers ashore would not be so assiduously in quest
of you, sir. And it is also lucid to clarification that it is now your
wish to have me break the laws of maritime by enabling you to escape.
So, in honor bound, I must stick around here until this little
difficulty that you may have appertained ashore is adjusted to the
satisfaction of all parties concerned, sir, and to the satisfaction of
my lawful sovereign.”
“Fill away and get out of this, skipper!” Henry broke in angrily.
“Sir, assuring you of your gratification of pardon, it is my unpleasant
task to inform you of two things. Neither are you my charterer; nor are
you the noble King George to whom I give ambitious allegiance.”
“Well, I’m your charterer, skipper,” Francis said pleasantly, for he had
learned to humor the man of mixed words and parentage. “So just kindly
put up your helm and sail us out of this Chiriqui Lagoon as fast as God
and this failing wind will let you.”
“It is not in the charter, sir, that my _Angelique_ shall break the laws
of Panama and King George.”
“I’ll pay you well,” Francis retorted, beginning to lose his temper.
“Get busy.”
“You will then recharter, sir, at three times the present charter?”
Francis nodded shortly.
“Then wait, sir, I entreat. I must procure pen and paper from the cabin
and make out the document.”
“Oh, Lord,” Francis groaned. “Square away and get a move on first. We
can make out the paper just as easily while we are running as standing
still. Look! They are beginning to fire.”
The half-breed captain heard the report, and, searching his spread
canvas, discovered the hole of the bullet high up near the peak of the
mainsail.
“Very well, sir,” he conceded. “You are a gentleman and an honorable
man. I trust you to affix your signature to the document at your early
convenience——Hey, you nigger! Put up your wheel! Hard up! Jump, you
black rascals, and slack away mainsheet! Take a hand there, you,
Percival, on the boom-tackle!”
All obeyed, as did Percival, a grinning shambling Kingston negro who was
as black as his name was white, and as did another, addressed more
respectfully as Juan, who was more Spanish and Indian than negro, as his
light yellow skin attested, and whose fingers, slacking the foresheet,
were as slim and delicate as a girl’s.
“Knock the nigger on the head if he keeps up this freshness,” Henry
growled in an undertone to Francis. “For two cents I’ll do it right
now.”
But Francis shook his head.
“He’s all right, but he’s a Jamaica nigger, and you know what they are.
And he’s Indian as well. We might as well humor him, since it’s the
nature of the beast. He means all right, but he wants the money, he’s
risking his schooner against confiscation, and he’s afflicted with
_vocabularitis_. He just must get those long words out of his system or
else bust.”
Here Enrico Solano, with quivering nostrils and fingers restless on his
rifle as with half an eye he kept track of the wild shots being fired
from the beach, approached Henry and held out his hand.
“I have been guilty of a grave mistake, Senor Morgan,” he said. “In the
first hurt of my affliction at the death of my beloved brother, Alfaro,
I was guilty of thinking you guilty of his murder.” Here old Enrico’s
eyes flashed with anger consuming but unconsumable. “For murder it was,
dastardly and cowardly, a thrust in the dark in the back. I should have
known better. But I was overwhelmed, and the evidence was all against
you. I did not take pause of thought to consider that my dearly beloved
and only daughter was betrothed to you; to remember that all I had known
of you was straightness and man-likeness and courage such as never stabs
from behind the shield of the dark. I regret. I am sorry. And I am proud
once again to welcome you into my family as the husband-to-be of my
Leoncia.”
And while this whole-hearted restoration of Henry Morgan into the Solano
family went on, Leoncia was irritated because her father, in
Latin-American fashion, must use so many fine words and phrases, when a
single phrase, a handgrip, and a square look in the eyes were all that
was called for and was certainly all that either Henry or Francis would
have vouchsafed had the situation been reversed. Why, why, she asked of
herself, must her Spanish stock, in such extravagance of diction, seem
to emulate the similar extravagance of the Jamaica negro?
While this reiteration of the betrothal of Henry and Leoncia was taking
place, Francis, striving to appear uninterested, could not help taking
note of the pale-yellow sailor called Juan, conferring for’ard with
others of the crew, shrugging his shoulders significantly, gesticulating
passionately with his hands.