Saxon felt that, until he had learned the full story, he must remain the actor. Accordingly, he allowed himself a skeptical laugh. Rodman, stung by the implied disbelief, took up his argument again:
“You think I’m lying. It sounds too fishy! Of course, it was my enterprise. It was a revolution of my making. You were called in as the small lawyer calls in the great one. I concede all that. For me to have sacrificed you would have been infamous, but I didn’t do it. I had been little seen in Puerto Frio. I wasnot well known. I had arranged it all from the outside while you had been in the city. You were less responsible, but more suspected. You remember how carefully we planned—how we kept apart. You know that even you and I met only twice, and that I never even saw your man, Williams.”
Through the bitterness of conviction, a part of Saxon’s brain seemed to be looking on impersonally and marveling, almost with amusement, at the remarkable position in which he found himself. Here stood a man before him with a pistol pressed close to his chest, threatening execution, denouncing, cursing, yet all the while giving evidence of terror, almost pleading with his victim to believe his story! It was the armed man who was frightened, who dreaded the act he declared he was about to commit. And, as Saxon stood listening, it dawned upon him, in the despair of the moment, that it was a matter of small concern to himself whether or not the other fired. The story he had heard had already done the injury. The bullet would be less cruel.... Rodman went on:
“I bent every effort to saving you, but Williams had confessed. He was frightened. It was his first experience. He didn’t know of my connection with the thing. So help me God, that is the true version.”
The story sickened Saxon, coming to him as it did in a form he could no longer disbelieve. He raised his hands despairingly. At last, he heard the other’s voice again.
“When the scrap ended, and you were in power, I had gone. I was afraid to come back. I knew what you would think, and then, after you left the country, I couldn’t find where you had gone.”
“You may believe me or not,” the painter said apathetically, “but I have forgotten all that. I have no resentment, no wish for vengeance. I had not even suspected you. I give you my word on that.”
“Of course,” retorted Rodman excitedly, “you’d say that. You’re looking down a gun-barrel. You’re talking for your life. Of course, you’d lie.”
Then, the revolutionist did a foolish and unguarded thing. He came a step nearer, andpressed the muzzle closer against Saxon’s chest, his own eyes glaring into those of his captive. The movement threw Saxon’s hands out of his diminished field of sight. In an instant, the painter had caught the wrist of the slighter man in a grip that paralyzed the hand, and forced it aside. The pistol fell from the nerveless fingers, and dropped clattering to the flagstones. As it struck, Saxon swept it backward with his foot.
Rodman leaped frantically backward, and stood for a moment rearranging his crumpled cuff with the dazed manner of a man who hopes for no quarter. His lower jaw dropped, and he remained trembling, almost idiotic of mien. Then, as Saxon picked up the weapon and stood fingering its trigger, the filibuster drew himself up really with dignity. He stretched out both empty hands, and shrugged his shoulders.
The fear of an enemy silently stalking him had filled his days with terror. Now that he regarded death as certain, his cowardice dropped away like a discarded cloak.
“I don’t ask much,” he said simply; “only, for God’s sake kill me here! Don’t surrenderme to the government! At least, let the other fellows know that I was dead before their plans were betrayed.”
“I told you,” said Saxon in a dull voice, “that I had no designs on you. I meant it! I told you I had forgotten. I meant it!”
As he spoke, Saxon’s head dropped forward on his chest, and he stood breathing heavily. The moonlight, falling full on his face, showed such heart-broken misery as might have belonged to the visage of some unresting ghost in an Inferno. His eyes were the eyes of utter despair, and the hand that held the pistol hung limp at his side, the weapon lying loose in its palm. Rodman stood wide-eyed before him. Had he already been killed and returned to life, he could hardly have been more astonished, and, when Saxon at last raised his face and spoke again, the astonishment was greater than ever.
“Take your gun,” said the painter, raising his hand slowly, and presenting the weapon stock first. “If you want to kill me—go ahead.”
Rodman, for an instant, suspected some subterfuge; then, looking into the eyes before him,he realized that they were too surcharged with sadness to harbor either vengeance or treachery. He could not fathom the meaning, but he realized that from this man he had nothing to fear. He slowly reached out his hand, and, when he had taken the pistol, he put it away in his pocket.
Saxon laughed bitterly.
“So, that’s the answer!” he muttered.
Without a word, the painter turned, and walked toward the front of the cathedral; without a word, Rodman fell in by his side, and walked with him. When they had gone a square, Saxon was again himself except for a stonily set face. Rodman was wondering how to apologize. Carter had never been a liar. If Carter said he had no thought of vengeance, it was true, and Rodman had insulted him with the surmise.
Finally, the thin man inquired in a different and much softer voice:
“What are you doing in Puerto Frio?”
“It has nothing to do with revenge or punishment,” replied Saxon, “and I don’t want to hear intrigues.”
A quarter of an hour later, they reached the main plaza, Rodman still mystified and Saxon walking on aimlessly at his side. He had no definite destination. Nothing mattered. After a long silence, Rodman demanded:
“Aren’t you taking a chance—risking it in Puerto Frio?”
“I don’t know.”
There was another pause, broken at last by Rodman:
“Take this from me. Get at once in touch with the American legation, and keep in touch! Stand on your good behavior. You may get away with it.” He interrupted himself abruptly with the question: “Have you been keeping posted on South American affairs of late?”
“I don’t know who is President,” replied Saxon.
“Well, I’ll tip you off. The only men who held any direct proof about—about the $200,000 in gold that left about the same time you did”—Saxon winced—“went into oblivion with the last revolution. Time is a great restorer, and so many similar affairs have intervened that you are probably forgotten. But, if I wereyou, I would get through my affairs early and—beat it. It’s a wise boy that is not where he is, when he’s wanted by some one he doesn’t want.”
Saxon made no reply.
“Say,” commented the irrepressible revolutionist, as they strolled into the arcade at the side of the main plaza, “you’ve changed a bit in appearance. You’re a bit heavier, aren’t you?”
Saxon did not seem to hear.
The plaza was gay with the life of the miniature capital. Officers strolled about in their brightest uniforms, blowing cigarette smoke and ogling the señoritas, who looked shyly back from under their mantillas.
From the band-stand blared the national air. Natives and foreigners sauntered idly, taking their pleasure with languid ease. But Rodman kept to the less conspicuous sides and the shadows of the arcade, and Saxon walked with him, unseeing and deeply miserable.
Between the electric glare of the plaza and the first arc-light of theCalle Bolivaris a corner comparatively dark. Here, the men met two army officers in conversation. Near themwaited a handful of soldiers. As the Americans came abreast, an officer fell in on either side of them.
“Pardon, señors,” said one, speaking in Spanish with extreme politeness, “but it is necessary that we ask you to accompany us to the Palace.”
The soldiers had fallen in behind, following. Now, they separated, and some of them came to the front, so that the two men found themselves walking in a hollow square. Rodman halted.
“What does this signify?” he demanded in a voice of truculent indignation. “We are citizens of the United States!”
“I exceedingly deplore the inconvenience,” declared the officer. “At the Palace, I have no doubt, it will be explained.”
“I demand that we be taken first to the United States Legation,” insisted Rodman.
The officer regretfully shook his head. “Doubtless, señors,” he assured them, “your legation will be immediately communicated with. I have no authority to deviate from my orders.”
At the Palace, the Americans were separated. Saxon was ushered into a small room, barely furnished. Its one window was barred, and the one door that penetrated its thick wall was locked from the outside. It seemed incredible that under such stimulus his memory should remain torpid. This must be an absolute echo from the past—yet, he could not remember. But Rodman remembered—and evidently the government remembered.
About the same hour, Mr. Partridge called at the “Frances y Ingles,” where he learned that Señor Saxon had gone out. He called again late in the evening. Saxon had not returned.
The following morning, the Hon. Charles Pendleton, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States of America, read Saxon’s letters of introduction. The letters sufficiently established the standing of the artist to assure him his minister’s interest.Partridge was dispatched to the hotel to bring the traveler to the legation. Partridge came back within the hour, greatly perturbed. Having found that Saxon had not returned during the night, and knowing the customs of the country, he had spent a half-hour in investigating by channels known to himself. He learned, at the end of much questioning and cross-questioning, that the señor, together with another gentleman evidently also anAmericano del Nordo, had passed the street-door late in the evening, with military escort.
Mr. Partridge hastened to his legation at a rate of speed subversive of all Puerto Frio traditions. In Puerto Frio, haste is held to be an affront to dignity, and dignity is esteemed.
The Hon. Charles Pendleton listened to his subordinate’s report with rising choler.
His diplomacy was of the aggressive type, and his first duty was that of making the protecting pinions of the spread eagle stretch wide enough to reach every one of those entitled to its guardianship.
Saxon and Rodman had the night before entered the frowning walls of the Palacethrough a narrow door at the side. The American minister now passed hastily between files of presented arms. Inside, he learned that his excellency,el Presidente, had not yet finished his breakfast, but earnestly desired his excellency,el ministro, to share with him an alligator pear and cup of coffee.
In the suave presence of the dictator, the minister’s choler did not cease. Rather, it smoldered while he listened perfunctorily to flattering banalities. He had struck through intermediary stages; had passed over the heads of departments and holders of portfolios, to issue his ultimatum to the chief executive. Yet, in approaching his subject, he matched the other’s suavity with a pleasantness that the dictator distrusted. The dark face of the autocrat became grave until, when Mr. Pendleton reached the issue, it was deeply sympathetic, surprised and attentive.
“I am informed that some one—I can not yet say who—wearing your excellency’s uniform, seized an American citizen of prominence on the streets of Puerto Frio last evening.”
The President was shocked and incredulous.
“Impossible!” he exclaimed with deep distress; then, again: “Impossible!”
From the diplomat’s eloquent sketching of the situation, it might have been gathered that the United States war department stood anxiously watching for such affronts, and that the United States war department would be very petulant when notification of the incident reached it. Mr. Pendleton further assured his excellency,el Presidente, that it would be his immediate care to see that such notification had the right of way over the Panama cable.
“I have information,” began the dictator slowly, “that two men suspected of connection with an insurgentjuntahave been arrested. As to their nationality, I have received no details. Certainly, no American citizen has been seized with my consent. The affair appears grave, and shall be investigated. Your excellency realizes the necessity of vigilance. The revolutionist forfeits his nationality.” He spread his hands in a vague gesture.
“Mr. Robert Saxon,” retorted the minister, “should hardly be a suspect. The fact that he was not a guest at my legation, and for thetime a member of my family, was due only to the accident of my absence from the city on his arrival yesterday.”
With sudden bustle, the machinery of the Palace was set in motion. Of a surety, some one had blundered, and “some one” should be condignly punished!
It was a very irate gentleman, flushed from unwonted exertion in the tropics, who was ushered at last into Saxon’s room. It was a very much puzzled and interested gentleman who stood contemplatively studying the direct eyes of the prisoner a half-hour later.
Saxon had told Mr. Pendleton the entire narrative of his quest of himself, and, as he told it, the older man listened without a question or interruption, standing with his eyes fixed on the teller, twisting an unlighted cigar in his fingers.
“Mr. Saxon, I am here to safeguard the interests of Americans. Our government does not, however, undertake to chaperon filibustering expeditions. It becomes necessary to question you.”
There followed a brief catechism in which the replies seemed to satisfy the questioner.When he came to the incident of his meeting with Rodman, Saxon paused.
“As to Rodman,” he said, “who was arrested with me, I have no knowledge that would be evidence. I know nothing except from the hearsay of his recital.”
Mr. Pendleton raised his hand.
“I am only questioning you as to yourself. This other man, Rodman, will have to prove his innocence. I’m afraid I can’t help him. According to their own admissions, they know nothing against you beyond the fact that you were seen with him last night.”
Saxon came to his feet, bewildered.
“But the previous matter—the embezzlement?” he demanded. “Of course, I had nothing to do with this affair. It was that other for which I was arrested.”
The envoy laughed.
“You punched cows six years ago. You cartooned five years ago, and you have painted landscapes ever since. I presume, if it became necessary, you could prove an alibi for almost seven years?”
Saxon nodded. He fancied he saw the driftof the argument. It was to culminate in the same counsel that Steele had given. He would be advised to allow the time to reach the period when his other self should be legally dead.
Mr. Pendleton paced the floor for a space, then came back and halted before the cot, on the edge of which the prisoner sat.
“I have been at this post only two years, but I am, of course, familiar with the facts of that case.” He paused, then added with irrelevance: “It may be that you bear a somewhat striking resemblance to this particularly disreputable conspirator. Of course, that’s possible, but—”
“But highly improbable,” admitted Saxon.
“Oh, you are not that man! That can be mathematically demonstrated,” asserted Mr. Pendleton suddenly. “I was only reflecting on the fallibility of circumstantial evidence. I am a lawyer, and once, as district attorney, I convicted a man on such evidence. He’s in the penitentiary now, and it set me wondering if—”
But Saxon stood dumfounded, vainly trying to speak. His face was white, and he hadseized the envoy by the arm with a grip too emphatic for diplomatic etiquette.
“Do you know what you are saying?” he shouted. “I am not that man! How do you know that?”
“I know it,” responded Mr. Pendleton calmly, “because the incident of the firing-squad occurred five years ago—and the embezzlement only four years back.”
Saxon remained staring in wide-eyed amazement. He felt his knees grow suddenly weak, and the blood cascaded through the arteries of his temples. Then, he turned, and, dropping again to the edge of the cot, covered his face with his hands.
“You see,” explained Mr. Pendleton, “there is only one ground upon which any charge against you can be reinstated—an impeachment of your evidence as to how you have put in the past five years. And,” he smilingly summarized, “since the case comes before this court solely on your self-accusation, since you have journeyed some thousands of miles merely to prosecute yourself, I regard your evidence on that point as conclusive.”
Later, the envoy, with his arm through that of the liberated prisoner, walked out past deferential sentries into the Plaza.
“And, now, the blockade being run,” he amiably inquired, “what are your plans?”
“Plans!” exclaimed Saxon scornfully; “plans, sir, is plural. I have only one: to catch the next boat that’s headed north. Why,” he explained, “there is soon going to be an autumn in the Kentucky hills with all the woods a blaze of color.”
The minister’s eyes took on a touch of nostalgia.
“I guess there’s nothing much the matter with the autumn in Indiana, either,” he affirmed.
They walked on together at a slow gait, for the morning sun was already beginning to beat down as if it were focused through a burning-glass.
“And say,” suggested Mr. Pendleton at last, “if you ever get to a certain town in Indiana called Vevay, which is on some of the more complete maps, walk around for me and look at the Davis building. You won’t see much—onlya hideous two-story brick, with a metal roof and dusty windows, but my shingle used to hang out there—and it’s in God’s country!”
Before they had reached the legation, Saxon remembered that his plans involved another detail, and with some secrecy he sought the cable office, and wrote a message to Duska. Its composition consumed a half-hour, yet he felt it was not quite the masterpiece the occasion demanded. It read:
“Arrived yesterday. Slept in jail. Out to-day. Am not he.”
The operator, counting off the length with his pencil, glanced up thoughtfully.
“It costs a dollar a word, sir,” he vouchsafed.
But Saxon nodded affluently, for he knew that theCity of Riosailed north that afternoon, and he did not know that her sister ship, theAmazon, with Duska on board, was at this moment nosing its way south through the tepid water—only twenty-four hours away.
As theCity of Riowound up her rusty anchor chains that afternoon, Saxon was jubilantly smoking his pipe by the rail.
In the launch just putting off from the steamer’s side stood the Hon. Mr. Pendleton, waving his hat, and Jimmy Partridge wildly shouting, “Give my regards to Broadway!” The minister’s flag, which had floated over the steamer while the great personage was on board, was just dipping, and Saxon’s hand was still cramped under the homesick pressure of the farewell grips.
Suddenly, the traveler had a feeling of a presence at his elbow, and, turning, was profoundly astonished to behold again the complacent visage of Mr. Rodman.
“You see, I still appear to be among those present,” announced the filibuster, with some breeziness of manner. “It’s true that I stand before you, ‘my sweet young face still haggard with the anguish it has worn,’ but I’m here, which is, after all, the salient feature of the situation. Say, what did you do to them?”
“I?” questioned Saxon. “I did nothing. The minister came and took me out of their Bastile.”
“Well, say, he must have thrown an awful scare into them.” Mr. Rodman thoughtfullystroked his chin with a thin forefinger. “He must have intimidated them unmercifully and brutally. They stampeded into my wing of the Palace, and set me free as though they were afraid I had the yellow-fever. ‘Wide they flung the massive portals’—all that sort of thing. Now, what puzzles me is, why did they do it? They had the goods on me—almost. However, I’m entirely pleased.” Rodman laughed as he lighted a cigar, and waved his hand with mock sentiment toward the shore. “And I had put the rifles through, too,” he declared, jubilantly. “I’d turned them over to theinsurrectogentleman in good order. Did they clamor for your blood about the $200,000?”
“Rodman,” said Saxon slowly, “I hardly expect you to believe it, but that was a case of mistaken identity. I’m not the man you think. I was never in Puerto Frio before.”
Rodman let the cigar drop from his astonished lips, and caught wildly after it as it fell overboard.
“What?” he demanded, at last. “How’s that?”
“It was a man who looked like me,” elucidated Saxon.
“You are damned right—he looked like you!” Rodman halted, amazed into silence. At last, he said: “Well, you have got the clear nerve! What’s the idea, anyhow. Don’t you trust me?”
The artist laughed.
“I hardly thought you would credit it,” he said. “After all, that doesn’t make much difference. The point is, my dear boy,Iknow it.”
But Rodman’s debonair smile soon returned. He held up his hand with a gesture of acceptance.
“What difference does it make? A gentleman likes to change his linen—why not his personality? I dare say it’s a very decent impulse.”
For a moment, Saxon looked up with an instinctive resentment for the politely phrased skepticism of the other. Then, his displeasure changed to a smile. He had, for a moment, felt the same doubt when Mr. Pendleton brought his verdict. Rodman had none of the facts, and a glance at the satirical features showed that itwould be impossible for this unimaginative adventurer to construe premises to a seemingly impossible conclusion. He was the materialist, and dealt in palpable appearances. After all, what did it matter? He had made his effort, and would, as he had promised Duska, vex his Sphinx with no more questioning. He would go on as Robert Saxon, feeling that he had done his best with conscientious thoroughness. It was, after all, only cutting the Gordian knot in his life. After a moment, he looked up.
“Which way do you go?” he inquired.
The other man shrugged his shoulders.
“I go back to Puerto Frio—after the blow-off.”
“After the blow-off?” Saxon repeated, in interrogation.
“Sure!” Rodman stretched his thin hand shoreward, and dropped his voice. “Take a good look at yon fair city,” he laughed, “for, before you happen back here again, it may have fallen under fire and sword.”
The soldier of fortune spoke with some of the pride that comes to the man who feels he is playing a large game, whether it be a gameof construction or destruction, or whether, as is oftener the case, it be both destruction and construction.
The painter obediently looked back at the adobe walls and cross-tipped towers.
“Puerto Frio has been very good to me,” he said, in an enigmatical voice.
But Rodman was thinking too much of his own plans to notice the comment.
“Do you see the mountain at the back of the city?” he suddenly demanded. “That’s San Francisco. Do you see anything queer about it?”
The artist looked at the peak rearing its summit against the hot blue overhead, and saw only a sleeping tropical background for the indolent tropical panorama stretching at its base.
“Well—” Rodman dropped his voice yet lower—“if you had a pair of field glasses and studied the heights, you could see a few black specks that are just now disused guns. By day after to-morrow, or, at the latest, one day more, each of those specks will be a crater, and the town will be under a shower of solid shot.There’s some class to work that can turn as mild a mannered hill as that into a volcano—no?”
Saxon stood gazing with fascination.
“Meanwhile,” he heard the other comment, “shipboard is good enough for yours truly—because, as you know, shipboard is neutral ground for political offenders—and the next gentleman who occupies the Palace will be a friend who owes me something.”
Saxon denied himself the lure of the deck that evening. Though he would probably be close behind his messages in arriving, he was devoting himself to a full narration embodied in a love-letter.
He bent over the task in the closeness of the dining saloon, with such absorption that he did not rise to investigate even when, with a protracted shrieking of whistles, there came sudden cessation from the jarring throb of screw-shaft and engines. Then, theCity of Riocame to a full stop. He vaguely presumed that another important port had been reached, and did not suspect that the vessel lay out of sight of land, and that a second steamer, southbound, had halted on signal, and lay likewise motionless, her lights glittering just off the starboard bow.
When, almost two hours later, he had folded the last of many pages, and gone on deck fora breath before turning in, the engines were once more noisily throbbing, and he saw only the bulk and lights of another vessel pointed down-world under steam.
But, as usual, Rodman, gentleman of multifarious devices, was not letting facts escape him. Indeed, it was at Rodman’s instance that two mail ships, theCity of Rioand theAmazon, had marked time for an hour and a half. In the brewing of affairs, Rodman was just now an important personage, and the commanders of these lines were under instructions from their offices to regard his requests as orders, and to obey them with due respect and profound secrecy. The shifting of administrations at Puerto Frio meant certain advantages in the way of concessions to gentlemen in Wall Street whose word, with these steamers, was something more than influential.
Mr. Rodman had been rowed across from theRioto theAmazon, and he had taken with him the hand-luggage that made his only impedimenta. In Mr. Rodman’s business, it was important to travel light. If he found Señor Miraflores among the passengers of theAmazon, it was his intention to right-about-face, and return south again.
Señor Miraflores had been in the States as the secret and efficient head of thatjuntawhich Rodman served. He had very capably directed the shipping of rifles and manysub-rosadetails that must be handled beyond the frontier, when it is intended to change governments without the knowledge or consent of armed and intrenched incumbents. The home-coming of Señor Miraflores must of necessity be unostentatious, since his arrival would be the signal for the conversion of the quiet steeps of San Francisco into craters.
Rodman knew that, if the señor were on board theAmazon, his name would not be on the sailing-list, and his august personality would be cloaked in disguise. His point of debarkation would be some secluded coast village where fellow conspirators could hide him. His advent into the capital itself would not be made at all unless made at the head of an invading army, and, if so made, he would remain as minister of foreign affairs in the cabinet ofGeneral Vegas, to whom just now, as to himself, the city gates were closed.
But Señor Miraflores had selected a more cautious means of entry than the ship, which might bear travelers who knew him. Rodman spent an hour on the downward steamer. He managed to see the face of every passenger, and even investigated the swarthy visages in the steerage. He asked of some tourists casual questions as to destination, and chatted artlessly, then went over the side again, and was rowed back across the intervening strip of sea. Immediately upon his departure overside, theAmazonproceeded on her course, and five minutes later theCity of Riowas also under way.
The next morning, after a late breakfast, Saxon was lounging at the rail amidship. He had ceased looking backward, and all his gaze was for the front. Ahead of him, the white superstructure, the white-duck uniform of the officer pacing the bridge, the whiteness of the holystoned deck, all stood boldly out against the deep cobalt of the gently swelling sea. Saxon was satisfied with life, and, when he sawRodman sauntering toward him, he looked up with a welcoming nod.
“Hello, Carter—I mean Saxon.” The gun-smuggler corrected his form of address with a laugh.
The breezy American was a changed and improved man. The wrinkled gray flannels had given way to natty white duck. His Panama hat was new and of such quality that it could be rolled and drawn through a ring as large as a half-dollar. He was shaven to an extreme pinkness of face. As Saxon glanced up, his eyes wearing tell-tale recognition of the transformation, the thin man laughed afresh.
“Notice the difference, don’t you?” he genially inquired, rolling a cigarette. “The gray grub is splendidly changed into the snow-white butterfly. I’m a very flossy bug, eh, Saxon?”
The painter admitted the soft self-impeachment with a qualification.
“I begin to think you are a very destructive one.”
“I am,” announced Rodman, calmly. “I could spin you many a yarn of intrigue, but for the fact that, since you began wearing a haloinstead of a hat, you have become too sanctified to listen.”
“Inasmuch,” smilingly suggested the painter, “as we might yet be languishing in thecuartelexcept for the fact that I was able to give so good an account of myself, I don’t see that you have any reasonable quarrel with my halo.”
Rodman raised his brows.
“Oh, I never lost sight of the fact that you had some reason for the saint rôle, and, as you say, I was in on the good results. But, now that you are flitting northward, what’s the idea of keeping your ears stopped?”
“They are open,” declared Mr. Saxon graciously; “you are at liberty to tell me anything you like, but only what you like. I’m not thirsting for criminal confessions.”
“That’s all right, but you—” Rodman broke off, and his lips twisted into ironical good humor—“no, I apologize—I mean, a fellow who looked remarkably like you used to be so deeply versed in international politics that I think this new adventure would appeal to you. Ever remember hearing of one Señor Miraflores?”
Saxon shook his head, whereupon Rodman laughed with great sophistication. Carter had known Señor Miraflores quite well, and Rodman knew that Carter had known him.
“Very consistent acting,” he approved. “You’re a good comedian. In the Chinese theaters, they put flour on the comedian’s nose to show that he’s not a tragedian, but you don’t need the badge. You’re all right. You know how to get a laugh. But this isn’t dramatic criticism. It’s wars and rumors of wars.”
The adventurer drew a long puff from his cigarette, inhaled it deeply, and stood idly watching the curls of outward-blown smoke hanging in the hot air, before he went on.
“Well, Miraflores has once more been at the helm. Of course, in the lower commissions of theinsurrectoorganization, we have the usual assortment of foreign officers, odds and ends, but the chief difference between this enterprise and the other one—the one Carter knew about—is the fact that we have some artillery, and that, when we start things going, we can come pretty near battering down the old town.”
Rodman proceeded to sketch the outlines ofthe conspiracy. It was much the stereotyped arrangement with a few variations. Two regiments in the city barracks, suspected of disloyalty, had been practically disarmed by the President, but these troops had been secretly rearmed with a part of the guns brought in by Rodman, and would be ready to rise at the signal, together with several other disaffected commands—not for the government, but against it.
The mountain of San Francisco is really not a mountain at all, but a foot hill of the mountains. Yet, it looks down on the city of Puerto Frio as Marathon on the sea, and here are guns trained inward as well as outward. These guns can shell the capital into ruins in the space of a few hours; then, they can hurl their projectiles further, and play havoc with the environs. Also, they can guard the city from the approach that lies along the roads from the interior. A commander who holds San Francisco stands at the door of Puerto Frio with a latch-key in his hand. The revolutionists under Vegas had arranged their attack on the basis of unwarned assault. The Dictator had indeed some apprehensions, but they were fears for thefuture—not for the immediate present. The troops garrisoned on San Francisco, ostensibly the loyal legion of the Dictator’s forces, were in reality watching the outward approaches only as doors through which they were to welcome friends. The guns that were trained and ready to belch fire on signal from Vegas, were the guns trained inward on the city, and, when they opened, the main plaza would resemble nothing so much as the far end of a bowling alley when an expert stands on the foul-line, and the palace of the President would be the kingpin for their gunnery. Theinsurrectoforces were to enter San Francisco without resistance, and the opening of its crater was to be the signal for hurling through the streets of the city itself those troops that had been secretly armed with the smuggled weapons, completing the confusion and throwing into stampeding panic the demoralized remnants upon which the government depended.
Unless there were a traitor in very exclusive and carefully guarded councils, there would hardly be a miscarriage of the plans.
Saxon stood idly listening to theseconfidences. Nothing seemed strange to him, and least of all the entire willingness of the conspirator to tell him things that involved life and death for men and governments. He knew that, in spite of all he had said, or could say, to the other man, he was the former ally in crime. He had thought at first that Rodman would ultimately discover some discrepancy in appearance which would undeceive him, but now he realized that the secret of the continued mistake was an almost miraculous resemblance, and the fact that the other man had, in the former affair, met him in person only twice, and that five years ago.
“And so,” went on Rodman in conclusion, “I’m here adrift, waiting for the last act. I thought Miraflores might possibly be on theAmazonlast night, and so, while you sat dawdling over letter-paper and pen, little Howard Stanley was up and doing. I went across to the other boat, and made search, but it was another case of nothing transpiring. Miraflores was too foxy to go touring so openly.”
Saxon felt that some comment was expected from him, yet his mind was wandering farafield from the doings ofjuntas. All these seemed as unreal as scenes from an extravagantly staged musical comedy. What appeared to him most real at that moment was the picture of a slim girl walking, dryad-like, through the hills of her Kentucky homeland, and the thought that he would soon be walking with her.
“It looks gloomy for the city,” he said, abstractedly.
“Say,” went on Rodman, “do you know that the only people on that boat booked for Puerto Frio were three fool American tourists, and that, of the three, two were women? Now, what chance have those folks got to enjoy themselves? Do you think Puerto Frio, say day after to-morrow, will make a hit with them?” The informant laughed softly to himself, but Saxon was still deep in his own thoughts. It suddenly struck him with surprised discovery that the view from the deck was beautiful. And Rodman, also, felt the languid invitation of the sea air, and it made him wish to talk. So, unmindful of a self-absorbed listener, he went on garrulously.
“You know, I felt like quoting to them, ‘Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, sailed the three tourists,’ but that would have been to tip off state secrets. If people will fare forth for adventure, I guess they’ve got to have it.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Saxon perfunctorily, “they’ll be in actual danger?”
“Danger!” repeated the filibuster with sarcasm. “Danger, did you say? Oh, no, of course not. It will be a pink tea! You know that town as well as I do. You know there are two places in it where American visitors can stop—theFrances y Ingles, where you were, and the American Legation. By day after to-morrow, that plaza will be the bull’s-eye for General Vegas’s target-practice. General Vegas has a mountain to rest his target-gun on, and it’s loaded with shell. Oh, no, there won’t be any danger!”
“Wasn’t there some pretext on which you could warn them off?” inquired the painter.
Rodman shook his head.
“You see, I have to be careful in my talk. I might say too much. As it was, I knockedthe town to the fellow all I could. But he seemed hell-bent on getting there, and getting there quick. He was a fool Kentuckian, and you can’t head off a bull-headed Kentuckian with subtleties or hints. I’ve met one or two of them before. And there was a girl along who seemed as anxious to get there as he was. That girl was all to the good!”
Saxon leaned suddenly forward.
“A Kentuckian?” he demanded. “Did you hear his name?”
“Sure,” announced Mr. Rodman. “Little Howard Stanley picks up information all along the way. The chap was named George Steele, and——”
But the speaker broke off in his story, to stand astounded at the conduct of his auditor.
“And the girl!” shouted Saxon. “Her name?”
“Her name,” replied the intriguer, “was Miss Filson.”
Suddenly, the inattention of the other had fallen away, and he had wheeled, his jaw dropping. For an instant, he stood in an attitude of bewildered shock, gripping the support ofthe rail like a prize-fighter struggling against the groggy blackness of the knock-out blow.
Saxon stood such a length of time as it might have required for the referee to count nine over him, had the support he gripped been that of the prize-ring instead of the steamer’s rail. Then, he stepped forward, and gripped Rodman’s arm with fingers that bit into the flesh.
“Rodman,” he said in a low voice that was almost a whisper, between his labored breathings, “I’ve got to talk to you—alone. There’s not a minute to lose. Come to my stateroom.”
Below, in the narrow confines of the cabin, Saxon paced back and forth excitedly as he talked. For five minutes, he did not pause, and the other man, sitting on the camp-stool in a corner of the place, followed him with eyes much as a lion-tamer, shut in a cage with his uncertain charge, keeps his gaze bent on the animal. As he listened, Rodman’s expression ran a gamut from astonishment, through sympathy, and into final distrust. At last, Saxon ended with:
“And, so, I’ve got to get them away from there. I’ve got to get back to that town, and you must manage it. For God’s sake, don’t delay!” The painter had not touched on the irrelevant point of his own mystery, or why the girl had followed him. That would have been a story the other would not have believed, and there was no time for argument and futile personalities. The slow northward fifteen knots had all at once become a fevered racing in thewrong direction, and each throb of the shafts in the engine-room seemed to hurl him madly through space away from his goal.
When he halted in his narrative, the other man looked sternly up, and his sharp features were decisively set.
“Suppose I should get you there,” he began swiftly. “Suppose it were possible to get back in time, what reason have I to trust you? Suppose I were willing to trust you absolutely, what right have I—a mere agent of a cause that’s bigger than single lives—to send you back there, where a word from you would spoil everything? My God, man, there are thousands of people there who are risking their lives to change this government. Hundreds of them must die to do it. For months, we have worked and planned, covering and secreting every detail of our plotting. We have all taken our lives in our hands. Now, a word of warning, an indiscreet act, the changing of the garrison on San Francisco, and where would we be? Every platoon that follows Vegas and Miraflores marches straight into a death-trap! The signal is given, and every man goes to destructionas swift as a bat out of hell. That’s what you are asking me to do—to play traitor to my cause. And you calmly tell me I must do it simply because you’ve got friends in town.”
The man came to his feet with an excited gesture of anger.
“You know that in this business no man can trust his twin brother, and you ask me to trust you to the extent of laying in your hands everything I’ve worked for—the lives of an army!” His tones rose to a climax of vehemence: “And that’s what you ask!”
“You know you can trust me,” began Saxon, conscious of the feeble nature of his argument. “You didn’t have to tell me. I didn’t ask your confidence. I warned you not to tell me.”
“Maybe I was a damned fool, and maybe you were pretty slick, playing me along with your bait of indifference,” retorted Rodman, hotly. “How am I to know whom you really mean to warn? You insist that I shall harbor a childlike faith in you, yet you won’t trust me enough to quit your damned play-acting. You call on me to believe in you, yet you lie to me, and cling to your smug alias. You won’tconfess who you are, though you know I know it. No, Mr. Carter, I must decline.”
Saxon stood white and rigid. Every moment wasted in argument imperiled more deeply the girl and the friends he must save, for whose hazarded lives he was unwittingly responsible. Yet, he could do nothing except with Rodman’s assistance. The only chance lay in convincing him, and that must be done at any cost. This was no time for selecting methods.
“I don’t have to tell a syllable of your plans,” he contended, desperately. “They will go with me without asking the reason. I have only to see them. You have my life in your hands: you can go with me. You can disarm me, and keep me in view every moment of the time. You can kill me at the first false move. You can——”
“Cut out the tommy-rot,” interrupted Rodman, with fierce bluntness. “I can do better than that, and you know it. My word on this ship goes the same as if I were an admiral. I can say to the captain that you assaulted me, and it will be my testimony against yours. I can have you put in irons, and thrown down inthe hold, and, by God, I’m going to do it!” The man moved toward the cabin bell, and halted with his finger near the button. “Now, damn you! my platform isVegas y Libertad, and I’m not the sucker I may have seemed. If this is a trick of yours, you aren’t going to have the chance to turn it.”
“Give me a moment,” pleaded Saxon. He realized with desperation that every word the other spoke was true, that he was helpless unless he could be convincing.
“Listen, Rodman,” he hurried on, ready to surrender everything else if he could carry his own point. “For God’s sake, listen to me! You trusted me in the first place. I could have left the boat at any point, and wired back!” He looked into the face of the other man so steadily and with such hypnotic intensity that his own eyes were the strongest argument of truth he could have put forward.
“You say I have distrusted you, that I have not admitted my identity as Carter. I don’t care a rap for my life. I’m not fighting for that now. I have no designs on you or your designs. Let me put a hypothetical question:Suppose you had come to a point where your past life was nothing more to you than the life of another man—a man you hated as your deadliest enemy; suppose you lived in a world that was as different from the old one as though it had never existed; suppose a woman had guided you into that new world, would you, or would you not, turn your back on the old? Suppose you learned as suddenly as I learned, from you, on deck, that that woman was in danger, would you, or would you not, go to her?”
Men rarely find the most eloquent or convincing words when they stand at sudden crises, but usually men’s voices and manners at such times can have a force of convincing veracity that means more. Possibly, it may have been the hypnotic quality of Saxon’s eyes, but, whatever it was, Rodman found it impossible to disbelieve him when he spoke in this fashion. In the plaza, he had suddenly turned the scales and held power of life and death over Rodman, and his only emotion had been that of heart-broken misery. Carter had been, like Rodman himself, the intriguer, but he had always been trustworthy with his friends. He had beenviolent, bitter, avenging, but never mean in small ways. That had been one of the reasons why Rodman, once convinced that the danger of vengeance was ended, had remained almost passionately anxious to prove to the other that he himself had not been a traitor. Carter had been the Napoleonic adventurer, and Rodman only the pettier type. For Carter, he held a sort of hero-worship. Rodman’s methods were those of chicane, but rightly or wrongly he believed that he could read the human document.
If this other man were telling the truth, and if love of a woman were his real motive, he could be stung into fury with a slur. If that were only a pretext, the other would not allow his resentment to imperil his plans—he would repress it, or simulate it awkwardly.
“So,” he commented satirically, “it’s the good-looking young female that’s got you buffaloed, is it? The warrior has been taken into camp by the squaw.” The tone held deliberate intent to insult.
Saxon’s lips compressed themselves into a dangerously straight line, and his face whitened to the temples. As he took a stepforward, the slighter man stepped quickly back, and raised a hand with a gesture of explanation. Saxon had evidently told the truth. The revolutionist had satisfied himself, and his somewhat erratic method of judging results had been to his own mind convincing. And, at the same moment, Saxon halted. He realized that he stood in a position where questions of life and death, not his own, were involved. His anger was driving him dangerously close to action that would send crashing to ruin the one chance of winning an effective ally. He half-turned with something like a groan.
He was called out of his stupor of anxiety by the voice of the other. Rodman had been thinking fast. He would take a chance, though not such a great chance as it would seem. Indeed, in effect, he would be taking the other prisoner. He would in part yield to the request, but in the method that occurred to him he would have an ample opportunity of studying the other man under conditions which the other man would not suspect. He would have Saxon at all times in his power and under his observation while he set traps for him. If hissurmise of sincerity proved false, he could act at once as he chose, before Saxon would have the opportunity to make a dangerous move. He would seem to do a tremendously hazardous thing in the name of friendship, but all the while he would have the cards stacked. If at the proper moment he still believed in the other, he would permit the man, under supervision, to save these friends. If not, Rodman would still be master of the situation. Besides, he had been seriously disappointed in not meeting Miraflores. He had felt that there might yet be advantages in coming closer to the theater of the drama than this vessel going north, though he must still remain under the protection of a foreign flag.
“So, you are willing to admit that your proper name is Mr. Carter?” he demanded, coolly.
“I am willing to admit anything, if I can get to Puerto Frio and through the lines,” responded Saxon, readily.
“If I take you back, you will go unarmed, under constant supervision,” stipulated Rodman. “You will have to obey my orders, and devise some pretext for enticing your friendsaway, without telling them the true reason. I shall be running my neck into a noose perhaps. I have no right to run that ofVegas y Libertadinto a noose as well. Are those terms satisfactory?”
“Absolutely!” Saxon let more eagerness burst from his lips than he had intended.
“Then, come with me to the captain.” Suddenly, Rodman wheeled, and looked at the other man with a strange expression. “Do you know why I’m doing this? It’s a fool reason, but I want to prove to you that I’m not the sort that would be apt to turn an ally over to his executioners. That’s why.”
Five minutes later, the two stood in the captain’s cabin, and Saxon noted that the officer treated Rodman with a manner of marked deference.
“Is Cartwright’s steam yacht still at Mollera?” demanded the soldier of fortune, incisively.
“It’s held there for emergencies,” replied the officer.
“It’s our one chance! Mr. Saxon and myself must get to Puerto Frio at once. Whendo we strike Mollera?” Rodman consulted his watch.
“In an hour.”
“Have us put off there. Send a wireless to the yacht to have steam up, and arrange for clearance. Put on all steam ahead for Mollera.”
It was something, reflected Saxon, to have such toys to play with as this thin ally of his could, for the moment at least, command.
“Now, I fully realize,” said Rodman, as they left the captain’s cabin together, “that I’m embarking on the silliest enterprise of a singularly silly career. But I’m no quitter. Cartwright,” he explained, “is one of the owners of the line. He’s letting his yacht be used for a few things where it comes in handy.”
There was time to discuss details on the way down the coast in thePhyllis. The yacht had outwardly all the idle ease of a craft designed merely for luxurious loafing over smooth seas, but Cartwright had built it with one or two other requisite qualities in mind. ThePhylliscould show heels, if ever matters came to a chase, to anything less swift than atorpedo-boat destroyer. Her mastheads were strung with the parallel wires that gave her voice in the Marconi tongue, and Saxon had no sooner stepped over the side than he realized that the crew recognized in Mr. Rodman a person to be implicitly obeyed.
If Rodman had seemed to be won over with remarkable suddenness to Saxon’s request that he undertake a dangerous rescue, it was now evident to the painter that the appearance had been in part deceiving. Here, he was more at Rodman’s mercy than he had been on the steamer. If Rodman’s word had indeed been as he boasted, that of an admiral on theCity of Rio, it was, on thePhyllis, that of an admiral on his own flagship. By a thousand little, artful snares thrown into their discussions of ways and means, Rodman sought to betray the other into any utterance or action that might show underlying treachery, and, before the yacht had eaten up the route back to the strip of coast where the frontier stretched its invisible line, he had corroborated his belief that the artist was telling the truth. Had he not been convinced, Rodman had only to speak,and every man from the skipper to the Japanese cabin boy would have been obedient to his orders.
“We will not try to get to Puerto Frio harbor,” explained Rodman. “It would hardly be safe. We shall steam past the city, and anchor at Bellavista, five miles beyond. Bellavista is a seaside resort, and there a boat like this will attract less attention. Also, the consulate is better suited to our needs as to the formalities of entering and leaving port. There, we will take horses, and ride to town. I’ll read the signs, and, if things look safe, we can get in, collect your people, and get out again at once. They can go with us to the yacht, and, if you like fireworks, we can view them from a safe distance.”
La Punta, as they passed, lay sleepy by her beach, her tattered palms scarcely stirring their fronds in the breathless air. Later, Puerto Frio went alongside, as quiet and untouched with any sense of impending disturbance as the smaller town. Behind the scattered outlying houses, the incline went up to the base of San Francisco, basking in the sun. The hill was a huge, inert barrier between the green and drab of the earthand the blue of the sky. Saxon drew a long breath as he watched it in the early morning when they passed. It was difficult to think of even an artificial volcano awakening from such profound slumber and indolence.
“You’d better go below, and get ready for the ride. We go horseback. Got any riding togs?” Rodman spoke rapidly, in crisp brevities. “No? Well, I guess we can rig you out. Cartwright has all sorts of things on board. Change into them quick. You won’t need anything else. This is to be a quick dash.”
When the anchor dropped off Bellavista, Saxon stood in a fever of haste on deck, garbed in riding-clothes that almost fitted him, though they belonged to Cartwright or some of the guests who had formerly been pleasuring on the yacht.
As their motor-boat was making its way shoreward over peacefully glinting water, the painter ran his hand into his coat-pocket for a handkerchief. He found that he had failed to provide himself. The other pockets were equally empty, save for what money had been loose in his trousers-pocket when he changed, and theold key he always carried there. These things he had unconsciously transferred by mere force of habit. Everything else he had left behind. He felt a mild sense of annoyance. He had wanted, on meeting her, to hand Duska the letter he had written on the night that their ships passed, but haste was the watchword, and one could not turn back for such trifles as pocket furnishings.
Rodman proved the best of guides. He knew a liveryman from whom Argentine ponies could be obtained, and led the way at a brisk canter out the smooth road toward the capital.
For a time, the men rode in silence between thehaciendas, between scarlet clustered vines, clinging with heavy fragrance to adobe walls, and the fringed spears of palms along the cactus-lined roadsides.
Hitherto, the man’s painting sense had lain dormant. Now, despite his anxiety and the nervous prodding of his heels into the flanks of his vicious little mount, he felt that he was going toward Duska, and with the realization came satisfaction. For a time, his eyes ceased to be those of the man hurled into new surroundingsand circumstances, and became again those of Frederick Marston’s first disciple.
They rode before long into the country that borders the town. Rodman’s eyes were fixed with a fascinated gaze on the quiet summit of San Francisco. He had himself no definite knowledge when the craters might open, and as yet he had seen no sign of war. The initial note must of course come drifting with the first wisp of smoke and the first detonation from the mouths of those guns.
At the outskirts of the town, they turned a sharp angle hidden behind high monastery walls, and found themselves confronted by a squad of native soldiery with fixed bayonets.
With an exclamation of surprise, Rodman drew his pony back on its flanks. For a moment, he leaned in his saddle, scrutinizing the men who had halted him. There was, of course, no distinction of uniforms, but he reasoned that no government troops would be guarding that road, because, as far as the government knew, there was no war. He leaned over and whispered:
“Vegas y Libertad.”
The sergeant in command saluted with a grave smile, and drew his men aside, as the two horsemen rode on.
“Looks like it’s getting close,” commented Rodman shortly. “We’d better hurry.”
Where the old market-place stands at the junction of theCalle Bolivarwith a lesser street, Rodman again drew down his pony, and his cheeks paled to the temples. From the center of the city came the sudden staccato rattle of musketry. The plotter threw his eyes up to the top of San Francisco, visible above the roofs, but the summit of San Francisco still slept the sleep of quiet centuries. Then, again, came the clatter from the center of the town, and again the sharp rattle of rifle fire ripped the air. There was heavy fighting somewhere on ahead.
“Good God!” breathed the thin man. “What does it mean?”
The two ponies stood in the narrow street, and the air began to grow heavier with the noise of volleys, yet the hill was silent.
Rodman rattled his reins on the pony’s neck, and rode apathetically forward. Something had gone amiss! His dreams were crumbling.At the next corner, they drew to one side. A company of troops swept by on the double-quick. They had been in action. Their faces streamed with sweat, and many were bleeding. A few wounded men were being carried by their comrades. Rodman recognizedCapitanMorino, and shouted desperately; but the officer shook his head wildly, and went on.
Then, they saw a group of officers at the door of a crude café. Among them, Rodman recognized Colonel Martiñez, of Vegas’ staff, and Colonel Murphy of the Foreign Legion, yet they stood here idle, and their faces told the story of defeat. The filibuster hurled himself from the saddle, and pushed his way to the group, followed by Saxon.
“What does it mean, Murphy?” he demanded, breathlessly. “What in all hell can it mean?”
Murphy looked up. He was wrapping his wrist with a handkerchief, one end of which he held between his teeth. Red spots were slowly spreading on the white of the bandage.
“Sure, it means hell’s broke loose,” replied the soldier of fortune, with promptness. Then,seeing Saxon, he shot him a quick glance of recognition. The eyes were weary, and showed out of a face pasted with sweat and dust.
“Hello, Carter,” he found time to say. “Glad you’re with us—but it’s all up with our outfit.”
This time, Saxon did not deny the title.
“What happened?” urged Rodman, in a frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of rifles did not seem to come nearer, except for detached sounds of sporadic skirmishing. The central plaza and its environs were holding the interest of the combatants.
“Sure, it means there was a leak. When the boys marched up to San Francisco, they were met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off, and the government had changed the garrison.” The Irish adventurer, who had led men under half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled sarcastically. “Sure, it was quite simple!”
“And where is the fighting?” shouted Rodman, as though he would hold these men responsible for his shattered scheme of empire.
“Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to pull out. The government couldn’t shell itsown capital, and so it’s street to street scrappin’ now. But we’re licked unless—” He halted suddenly, with the gleam of an inspired idea in his eyes. The leader of the Foreign Legion was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first time that, besides the punctured wrist, he was disabled with a broken leg.
“Unless what?” questioned Colonel Martiñez. That officer was pallid under his dark skin from loss of blood. One arm was bandaged tightly against his side.
“Unless we can hold them for a time, and get word to the diplomatic corps to arbitrate. A delay would give us a bit of time to pull ourselves together.”
Martiñez, shrugged his shoulders.
“Impossible,” he said, drearily.
“Wait. Pendleton, the American minister, is dean of the corps. Carter here is practically a stranger in town these days, and he’s got nerve. I know him. As an American, he might possibly make it to the legation. Carter, will you try to get through the streets to the American Legation? Will you?”
Saxon had leaped forward. He liked thedirect manner of this man, and the legation was his destination.
“It’s a hundred to one shot, Carter, that ye can’t do it.” Murphy’s voice, in its excitement, dropped into brogue. “Will ye try? Will ye tell him to git th’ diplomats togither, and ask an armistice? Ye know our countersign, ‘Vegas y Libertad.’”
But Saxon had already started off in the general direction of the main plaza. For two squares, he met no interference. For two more, he needed no other passport than the countersign, then, as he turned a corner, it seemed to him that he plunged at a step into a reek of burnt powder and burning houses. There was a confused vista of men in retreat, a roar that deafened him, and a sudden numbness. He dropped to his knees, attempted to rise to his feet, then seemed to sink into a welcome sleep, as he stretched comfortably at length on the pavement close to a wall, a detachment of routedinsurrectossweeping by him in full flight.