CHAPTER XL.
WON AT LAST.
Of course, they pursued us—it was destined that our escape from Bolivar should be marked by one more dramatic scene, as though to round out the whole tragic business.
Daylight was just beginning to break when we clattered past the last scattering adobe huts, and struck out upon the winding road that led in the direction of Jalapa, climbing mountains, crossing wild valleys and presenting many dangerous features to a company without a guide.
Once free from the town and its noises, we experienced a remarkable sense of relief; and could we have been assured that no pursuit would be inaugurated, we might have enjoyed the journey very much.
That sunrise as seen from the side of the mountain was equal to any I ever witnessed even in Italy.
Robbins had even thought of food; he apologized because he had been unable to secure a pack horse on such short notice and load him down with all the paraphernalia of a camping outfit, but we united in declaring what he had done was really astonishing; given time, I think he would have bagged all the dainties in Bolivar.
We ate as we rode, for our enemies were too near at hand and our horses too fresh to think of making so early a halt.
The invigorating air gave us high spirits, and we could even converse about the wreck and the probable fate ofGustavus and Diana, as well as the men, without shuddering.
Still, I feared it was a theme that would cast more or less of a shadow athwart our happiness in the future, for it was a bitter thing to think of that bright society woman, one of the most charming of her sex, thus taken away so suddenly and cruelly.
Long before noon, Robbins secretly informed me we were being pursued.
Somehow, I was not much surprised—nothing appeared to strike me as singular nowadays. I understood that fate meant to make one more grand bluff at snatching happiness from my arms, and, if defeated this time, would be apt to give up in disgust.
All I did was to grimly set my teeth together and look down the wild mountain in the quarter whence we had come.
Robbins presently pointed out our pursuers.
They were a grand squad, and unless my eyesight deceived me old Gen. Toreado was at the head.
Strange, how vindictive the old chap was; instead of hunting Salvador, who had been president before thecoup, and must be chasing hot-footed for the border at this hour, here he was, speeding after me, the man who laid down the reins of government only too willingly when news came that Toreado the Magnificent had not been killed after all, only stunned.
“How many?” asked Robbins.
“Not far from a dozen, all told.”
“Pretty big odds, if they catch us. We’ve got a good start—let ’em come,” said he.
We joined the others, who were ahead.
The trail had reached its highest point, and now a descent lay before us.
Of course, we could make quicker time, but it was oftendangerous to hasten, for the narrow mule path led along the face of precipices where, hundreds of feet below, large trees looked for all the world like bushes, and a brawling stream seemed no larger than a silver ribbon.
Here we moved slowly and sedately; I confess my heart was almost in my throat when I reflected that a single stumble would precipitate horse and rider over the brink into eternity.
Robbins was berating himself for a fool; he wanted to know what was the use in being secretary of war unless one could command all the military supplies in the republic.
At first, I could not understand what ailed the fellow, until he pointed out a place where, as he said, a little dynamite cartridge would bring the narrow path into chaotic ruin after we had passed in safety, and thus effectually cut off pursuit.
Yes, it was a great pity he had not thought to requisition the whole outfit of the army.
Still, we managed to get on.
The trouble was, those fellows in our rear, from some cause or other, got on better; perhaps it came from their not having any women folks along, or because they were more accustomed to such mountain travel, for a chase after a fleeing ex-president is an event of frequent occurrence.
At any rate, our lead was slowly, but surely, being cut down, and it became an open question whether we would gain a safe refuge over the border at Jalapa or be forced to turn at bay.
I sincerely hoped the former might come to pass, though grimly determined that, should it be war, we would give a good account of ourselves as American citizens.
Hildegarde bore the rough ride admirably—not awhimper did I hear, though it must have been a cruel experience, especially toward the end, when our pace was fast and furious.
Something of this was due to her natural grit; but the fact that she had always been a lover of horseback exercise counted for considerable. As for the girl, nothing could tire her; her big black eyes glowed with excitement, and she sat her reeking horse like a little centaur.
None of us was positive how much farther we had to go—it might be leagues to the border. So much for not having a guide; but, truth to tell, Robbins had not been able to discover a single chap in all Bolivar whom he thought he could trust.
We only knew that the fellows in our rear were getting too close for comfort, and that the chances for a ruction seemed good.
I saw there were but nine now—the rest had dropped out, and with them, the white-headed old reprobate who claimed the ties of kindred with my Hildegarde.
I am not naturally a bloodthirsty man, but I fervently hoped on this occasion that his horse had carried him over where the gulch was deepest, so that he would never trouble us more.
Subsequent events have led me to believe that such a doleful tragedy actually occurred, for the old sinner disappeared from the face of the earth, and never again sought to acquire a claim to any of my wealth. I am sure that this could only have been brought about by his sudden demise; for, as Hildegarde declared, he was a man who would never give up a cherished object while breath remained.
As I rode beside Robbins I ventured to ask my ex-secretary of war how best we could defeat our pursuers, who seemed bent on bringing matters to a crisis.
Robbins was quick to answer; he had been looking ahead, it seemed.
“Look below—what d’ye see, governor?”
“Well, there’s a river of some sort in the valley—yes, and a bridge over it.”
“We’ll get there, all right.”
“That’s true, but beyond is a level stretch where they can overhaul us.”
“Wait. Once we cross, the ladies will ride on.”
“Ah! then we stop.”
“Thermopylæ again, Morgan. We’ll hold the bridge, as Leonidas and his Spartans held the pass. I reckon this tumultuous nation will have the novelty of four presidents in twenty-four hours.”
“Four?”
“I’ve made up my mind to shoot Toreado the first thing. He deserves it, the old fool! Some men never know which side of their bread is buttered. Well, here we are.”
The bridge was before us, and as we wearily galloped over, I hastily called to Hildegarde, telling her to keep straight on for a mile or so, and that we would surely come up.
She gave me one look over her shoulder, so full of love and misery that it brought a lump into my throat; but she knew what obedience meant, and rode straight on.
“Now,” cried Robbins, suddenly, as our horses cleared the planking.
So we drew the beasts upon their very haunches and sprang to the ground, and, sheltered behind their weary carcasses, faced about.
It was indeed time, for the squad of rough riders had just started to cross—indeed, the crash of horses’ hoofs upon the bridge marked our turning at bay.
We opened fire instantly—the old battle spirit surgedover me, and human life was held in cheap account. Why should I care when these men hunted us like wild beasts, determined to slay us, or, worse still, imprison us in their filthy dungeons on a diet of atrocities?
The rattle of firearms was merry enough, and as both of us were extraordinarily good shots, we created quite a little havoc among them.
Horses leaped and burst over the rail, carrying their riders in some cases with them—men shrieked and swore and plunged about, as though crazed with fear; taken in all, it was a dreadful affair, which I sincerely trust I may never see the like of again.
Robbins had potted the old general the first thing, just as he promised—at least, he shot his horse, and that beast promptly tumbled over the rail, so that the last I saw of Toreado he was floating down stream, screaming for help.
It seems he did not drown, but lived to rule the little republic just seven months, when he was shot from ambush, and a new president took up the reins where he dropped them; but, of course, he found an empty treasury—they always do.
When we saw that the pursuit had been effectually brought to a sudden stop, we once more flung ourselves in the saddle, gave a cowboy whoop, and were off down the road.
So far as I can remember, I do not think we actually killed any of the Toreadopossé, granting that those in the river got out safe and sound, but their ardor was effectually cooled, and they hunted ex-presidents no more that day.
A mile on we overtook our companions, and Hildegarde’s eyes sparkled with tears of joy when I drew alongside.
Jalapa proved to be near at hand; indeed, although wehad not suspected it at the time, the river was really the border of the territory.
At Jalapa we lost all our fears.
Here even ex-presidents could breathe in peace.
We engaged passage on the first steamer soon to start for New York.
I would not feel entirely easy until I had shaken the republican dust of these Central American countries from my feet—they were much too hot for me.
At Jalapa we had some good news.
A party of shipwrecked persons had been brought in by the coast guard, hungry and nearly exhausted—among others a woman.
It was Diana—the sea had not claimed her, as I feared; and a year later at a London hotel I met Gustavus and his wife, so that, being together some days, we were able to compare notes of that fearful experience; and the ladies actually became friends.
Poor Cummings was drowned, also the cook and two of the men. I made it a point of honor to hunt up their relatives and liberally settle all that was due the poor fellows three times over.
We took the Nile trip on our own boat, and it was a glorious time; yet how often would my mind go back to old Bolivar and those exciting scenes that marked the finding of that lost, though loved, one—my Hildegarde.
THE END.