III
“YOU snake!”
Low-toned, but vibrant with anger and edged with contempt, the swift words cut like a knife through the chuckling complacency of the jefe civil. The grin vanished from his thick lips, and for a second he stood peering into the blazing eyes of Jean. The next instant he was dodging and ducking to retain his possession of the captured Colt. She had sprung at him like a fury, snatching for the revolver and at the same time beating his astonished face with a small but stinging fist.
Scrambling, stumbling, and awkwardly covering himself with his free hand, he wobbled about the place, managing somehow to keep his grip on the weapon until, by a clumsy stiff-armed shove, he sent her staggering back against the table. Thereupon he jabbed the gun inside his tight waistband at the back and stood ready to clutch her, if she renewed the attack. Seeing the futility of further exertion, however, she held her distance.
“Vâlgame Dios!” he panted. “It rains tiger-cats!”
A snicker ran through the cluster of tradesmen at the door. It roused the dignitary to realization of the fact that his dignity was tottering toward an ignominious fall. Gone was the heroic crown which he had just placed on his own head by the capture of the fearsome Tiger. Now the whole town would bubble with hilarity over the tale that Don Jaime Gordo had cavorted about his office like a dancing bear while a girl in pants punched his nose. Worse yet, the story would travel all along the river, and for years to come he might be known as “Oso” Gordo—Fat Bear.
Wherefore he put down his foot with vindictive force. On all and sundry he bent a baleful glare; on the censorious señorita, on the maliciously grinning merchants, on his own staring retainers and on Pablo Benito, who had made no move to interfere. And on all of them he loosed a savage roar.
“You, young woman, stand where you are! You will attack the Venezuelan government, will you? We shall see! You grinning apes—you braying burros who were so noisy before the coming of El Tigre and so dumb afterward—get back to your miserable shops! Or get home and squawk to your women to protect you! Ramon—Claudio—you offspring of Indian she-dogs, obey my command and dump this carrion into the cârcel! You, Pablo Benito, you traitorous friend of guapos, are under arrest! Move one step without my permission and I will execute you with your master's weapon!”
Pablo quaked. The peons hastily seized the prone American. The tradesmen lost their mirth in a trice. Only the girl dared answer.
“You will go to jail yourself, you blustering coward! This man is my escort, and as soon as General Perez hears of this thing—”
“Silence! General Perez will shoot him and reward me for my bravery. The passport he granted your party was never meant to protect an outlaw, an enemy of the republic. That order was for your crew of Bolívar—honest men—”
A scornful laugh cut him short.
“Honest men—who caused the death of my father and stole my money! Honest men like you, who strike from behind! Treacherous sneaks! If you and they are honest men I prefer the society of outlaws!”
Gordo stuttered with rage. The revolver half rose to an aim. Then it sank again, and he swallowed hard. The taunt had pierced even more deeply than the girl knew, for a reason of which she was unaware. The others in the room, cognizant of matters beyond her ken, looked at the furious chief and the revolver, then began hastily moving outward—all but Benito, who dared not move at all.
Borne by the peons, the long, limp form of Hart was hustled through the doorway and out toward the plaza and the waiting prison. The departing townsmen shuffled along beside him, not to scatter until they had seen the erstwhile terror securely locked behind thick walls and iron bars. One of them, though, halted and called:
“Don Jaime! What shall be done with the other armed man in the lancha?”
The chief blinked. He had temporarily forgotten that other man. A man large and ugly, with revolver and rifle! Most certainly, something must be done about that one. For the moment, however, he evaded the question.
“Let him sit and stew until I issue further orders,” he temporized. “And let no man talk with him. Any man who does so, I promise you, shall rot in jail until his bones fall apart. I shall attend to the stranger when I am ready. First I will eat dinner.”
Several chuckles sounded as the men proceeded. Don Jaime was a cool one, caramba! And he knew what he was about; no question of that. So they would leave matters in his hands, and most assuredly they would keep away from that ugly one in the launch.
The worthy Don Jaime, listening to their departure, felt that he had regained his grip. Once more he was the big man of the town, and he meant to remain so. Wherefore he turned on the young woman a heavy frown and on Pablo Benito a malevolent scowl.
“Now, traitor!” he rumbled. “Tell the truth of this thing, or you shall curse the day of your birth! The country is at war, and you know the fate of rebels.”
“Señor—Don Jaime—I am no traitor, no, no!” protested the scared Pablo. “I knew nothing of war—the news had not come to my rancho—and I only sought to convey this unfortunate señorita in safety back to Bolívar. It is just as she has told you. And that accursed Tigre—ah, how nobly you overcame him, señor!—he forced himself on us and—”
“Oh, what a lie!” flared Jean. “He came only because I urged him—because I felt that you could not be trusted! You are another of those 'honest men'!”
“Silence!” boomed the jefe civil. “I am conducting this examination! And from where did this Tigre come, hombre?”
“From his land above the rapids, señor, where he and his guapos long have ridden and raided. He had a fight with them—sí, with his own men, the bloodthirsty one!—and I myself saw four of them dead by his hand; they fought at Salvajito, above my place. And he came to my house wounded, and I—I had to take him in, because he had his gun and most certainly would have killed me otherwise. The señorita had come but a little time before him. And—yes, señor, she did ask him to come with us—it was not my fault. So then we came down the river; and I said to myself, 'Pablo, you shall see to it that the infamous guapo shall be caught by the government—perhaps at Caicara.' And because you are a bold and resolute man, Don Jaime, he was caught even as I had planned. Do you not see that if I had not brought him to you, señor, you never would have captured him? And—and is there perhaps a reward for him? I am a poor man, and—”
“Humph! If there is a reward you get none of it, you fool! You have just said that you did not bring him willingly. I, Jaime Gordo, captured him! No more words! But now, who is the other one?”
“The man in the lancha? He also is a most infamous brigand, but of Colombia; and his name is Kay-lee, or so these Americanos call him; but here he is called El Toro, the Bull. This Toro and his band of wild ones were at the mouth of the Meta river, and they captured us. But it seems that both El Tigre and El Toro had been in the great war in France and remembered each other well, and after they had talked El Toro deserted his band and came with us. And he is most savage, señor, and one must be very careful toward him.”
The Gordo scowl became a frown of thought. Soon, however, his face lightened.
“The matter of his capture is easily arranged,” he declared, with a self-satisfied smirk. “It is as easy as that of El Tigre; as easy as it was to make sure that no army of revolucionarios followed the launch. I had only to climb to the roof and see that the river was empty of all other boats, and then climb down and give an order to my peon Claudio, who is most clever at throwing a stone; and, presto! the thing was done. And I know how this shall be done as easily. But— You say this Toro is of Colombia, not of Venezuela. That makes it a different matter. The government of Venezuela does not build prisons to accommodate criminals of Colombia.”
Pablo stood mute for a moment, furtively probing the other's expression. Then he ventured:
“I heard it said, señor, while I was in the camp of that Toro, that he and his men had come to join in the revolution for the sake of plunder. And all of them are rascals and men without a country. So—”
He paused. Gordo grinned with satisfaction.
“Ah! That gives the matter still another face. He brought armed men to ravage our country. And he himself comes here with weapons in his hands— Sí, it is an act of war! Bien. Pablo, you are a faithful citizen. I am well pleased with you. Now you shall perform a small service for your country—one which is not dangerous, Pablo—and all shall be well with you hereafter. I shall tell you presently the thing to be done.”
“Anything, señor, anything!” eagerly assented the pilot. “Anything not too risky. I have a family—a wife and little niños—”
“You shall see them again, hombre—if you prove worthy.” The chief's tone had suddenly become affable, and his threatening attitude was gone. Once more sauve, he addressed the girl.
“I regret, señorita, the necessity of being so brusk in this matter; but in time of rebellion one must do one's duty. Be assured that you shall not be inconvenienced by the loss of these two men. Others shall take their places, and the boat shall proceed—”
“I refuse to travel with any other men.” Though her eyes still smoldered, her tone was coldly repressed. “I choose my own crew. And I warn you that this high-handed action of yours will be reported to your President at Caracas and, if necessary, to the American Department of State. Both Señor Hart and Señor Kelly are American citizens and former soldiers. They have made no attack on your town or on you, and you have no right to attack them. Neither have you any right to interfere with my voyage or to put any other men in my boat. You will be—”
“The boat, señorita, is not yours. I recall that you leased it from Guillermo la Torre, of Ciudad Bolívar, who is a citizen of Venezuela. In time of disorder any Venezuelan boats useful to federal authorities can be summarily taken over for government use. I have in mind an exceedingly important use for that launch. But it will not interfere with your journey. The boat will proceed to Ciudad Bolívar very soon, and you shall have ample protection and all courtesy, for I myself shall ride with you. It is necessary to consult with General Perez regarding a question of troops, and— But first there is a more immediate matter. Pablo! Come here!”
He stepped back toward the entrance, Pablo obediently following. A low mumble of words, with an undernote of threat, poured into the pilot's ear. The latter looked uneasy, but gave a comprehending nod. As he accepted his instructions, outside sounded the slither of returning alpargatas.
“Ah, Ramon! The Tigre is safe in his kennel?” asked Gordo. “Bien. Now do this thing at once: Go to Señor Morales and give him my command to send to the launch several cans of gasoline and other things,—it does not matter what they are. Several men must go, and also this man and Claudio. And at the launch—”
Another rapid mumble, followed by a stolid “Sí, señor." The peon once more departed, and with him went the trusty pilot. The stout gentleman chuckled and mopped his brow, turning again to his unwilling guest. Then his jaw dropped. With a heavy lurch he threw himself toward the patio.
The señorita had vanished from the office. Out in the yard, she was drawing herself up into the sarrapia tree which formed an exit over the wall.
At his best speed Gordo pounded to the tree and clutched at an ascending ankle. It evaded him. As he staggered to recover balance the agile girl attained a footing on the first low branch and reached for a new hand-hold. A few seconds more, and she would be on the wall and beyond capture. Gritting his teeth, the chief jumped, seized the branch with both hands, and yanked with his whole weight.
The branch broke. The fugitive fell.
GORDO went down in an obese huddle, the overthrown girl landing on him like a tumbling wildcat. Her fingers fastened in his thick black hair and her booted feet kicked furiously at his shins.
“Ow-wow!” groaned the dignitary of Caicara, hastily squirming aside from the punishing boots. “Santa Maria! Madre de Dios! Maldito! Stop it!”
The response was a wrench at his overlong hair which brought tears drizzling down his cheeks. Then a hand darted to his belt, feeling for the gun jammed under it. Just in time he grabbed that hand, dragging it away. Thereafter he sank his fingers deep into the other girlish forearm, benumbing it and breaking her grip on his disheveled hair. Heaving himself up, he lifted her and held her helpless—although still fiery and unsubdued—in the inescapable grasp of both his arms, and hobbled painfully but purposefully toward a bolted door.
“You—you fathead!” she panted, vainly struggling. “Put me down!”
He plowed ahead without reply. Reaching the door, he managed to draw the bolt. Through the portal he thrust her into a small bare room, lighted only by an iron-grilled window opening on the patio. The door slammed shut and the bolt clattered home. At the window he peered in with a mirthless smile.
“As you say, señorita,” he smirked. “I have put you down as you request. You will find this an excellent place in which to grow cool; it is not wise to become overheated. I regret that you will not join me at the table, but the best food in my poor house shall come to you soon—through this window—and before long you shall be given a more comfortable room. No, oh no, you are not under arrest; you are only detained a short time as a measure of safety. Compose yourself and rest.”
With an ironic bow he moved away. Jean shoved at the door, shook the bars, gazed about at the blank walls—and suddenly sank beside the window and wept; her will exhausted by the strain of the day's excitement.