CHAPTER XVII
THEY were seated at the tiny tea table when the sound of feet crunching the little shell-paved path through the patio caused Webster and Dolores to turn their heads simultaneously. Coming toward them was an individual who wore upon a head of flaming red a disreputable, conical-crowned straw sombrero; a soiled cotton camisa with the tails flowing free of his equally soiled khaki trousers, and sandals of the kind known as alpargates—made from the tough fibre of a plant of the cactus family and worn only by the very lowliest peons—completed his singular attire.
“Hello!” Webster murmured whimsically. “Look who's here!”
“One of Billy's friends and another reason why he has no social standing,” Dolores whispered. “I believe he's going to speak to us.”
Such evidently appeared to be the man's intention. He came to the edge of the veranda, swept his ruin of a hat from his red head and bowed with Castilian expansiveness.
“Yer pardon, Miss, for appearin' before you.” She smiled her forgiveness to what Webster how perceived to be an alcoholic wreck. He was about to dismiss the fellow with scant ceremony, when Dolores, with that rich sense of almost masculine humour—a humour that was distinctly American—said sweetly:
“Mr. Webster, shake hands with Don Juan Cafetéro, bon vivant and man about town. Don Juan, permit me to present Mr. Webster, from somewhere in the United States. Mr. Webster is a mining partner of our mutual friend Mr. William Geary.”
A long, sad descent into the Pit had, however, imbued Don Juan with a sense of his degradation; he was in the presence of a superior, and he acknowledged the introduction with a respectful inclination of his head.
“'Tis you I've called to see, Misther Webster, sor,” he explained.
“Very well, old-timer. In what way can I be of service to you?”
“'Tis the other way around, sor, if ye plaze, an' for that same there's no charrge, seein' ye're the partner, av that fine, kind gintleman, Misther Geary Sure 'tis he that's the free-handed lad wit' his money whin he has it, God bless him, an' may the heavens be his bed, although be the same token I can see wit' the half av an eye that 'tis yerself thinks nothin' av a dollar, or five, for that matther. However, sor, that's neither here nor there. Did ye, whilst in New Orleans, have d'alings wit' a short, shtout spiggoty wit' a puckered scar undher his right eye?”
John Stuart Webster suddenly sat up straight and gazed upon the lost son of Erin with grave interest. “Yes,” he replied, “I seem to recall such a man.”
“Only another proof of my ability as a palmist,” Dolores struck in. “Remember, Mr. Webster, I warned you to beware of a dark man that had crossed your path.”
“An' well he may, Miss—well he may,” Don Juan agreed gloomily. “'Tis none av me business, sor, but would ye mind tellin' me just what ye did to that spiggoty?”
“Why, to begin, last Sunday morning I interrupted this pucker-eyed fellow and a pop-eyed friend of his while engaged in an attempt to assassinate a white, inoffensive stranger. The following day, at the gangplank of the steamer, we met again; he poked his nose into my business, so I squeezed his nose until he cried; right before everybody I did it, Don Juan, and to add insult to injury, I plucked a few hairs from his rat's moustache—one hair per each pluck.”
“I'd a notion ye did somethin' to him, sor. Now, thin, listen to me: I'm not much to look at, but I'm white. I'm an attashay, as ye might say, av Ignatz Leber—him that do have the import an' export house at the ind av the Calle San Rosario, forninst the bay. Also he do have charrge av the cable office, an' whin I'm sober enough, I deliver cable-grains for Leber. Now, thin, ye'll recall we had a bit av a shower to-day at noon?”
Dolores and Webster nodded. Don Juan, after glancing cautiously around, lowered his voice and continued: “I was deliverin' a cablegram for Leber, an' me course took me past the palace gate—which, be the same token, has sinthry-boxes both inside an' out, wan on each side av the gate. The sinthry was not visible as I came along, an' what wit' the shower comin' as suddint as that, an' me wit' a wardrobe that's not so extinsive I can afford to get it wet, I shtepped into wan av the outside sintry-boxes till the rain should be over, an' what wit' a dhrink av aguardiente I'd took to brace me for the thrip, an' the mimory av auld times, I fell asleep.
“Dear knows how long I sat there napping; all I know is that I was awakened by the sound av three men talkin' at the gate, an' divil a worrd did they say but what I heard. They were talkin' in Spanish, but I undhershtood thim well enough. 'He's at the Hotel Mateo,' says wan voice, 'an' his name is Webster—Jawn Webster. He's an American, an' a big, savage-lookin' lad at that, so take, me advice an' be careful. Do ye two keep an eye on him wherever he goes, an' if he should shtep out at night an' wandher t'rough a dark shtreet, do ye two see to it that he's put where he'll not interfere again in Don Felipe's affairs. No damn' gringo'—beggin' yer pardon, Miss—'can intherfere in the wurrk av the Intilligince Bureau at a time like this, in addition to insultin' our honoured chief, wit'out the necessity av bein' measured for a coffin.' 'Si, mi general.' says another lad, an 'To be sure, mi general,' says a thirrd; an' wit' that the gineral, bad cess to him, wint back to the palace an' the other two walked on up the calle an' away from the sinthry-box.”
“Did you come out and follow them?” Webster demanded briskly.
“Faith, I did. Wan av them is Francisco Arredondo, a young cavalry lootinint, an' the other wan is Captain José Benevides, him that do be the best pistol-shot an' swordsman in the spiggoty army. 'Twas him that kilt auld Gineral Gonzales in a djuel a month ago.”
“What kind of looking man is this Benevides, my friend?”
“A tall, thin young man, wit' a dude's moustache an' a diamond ring on his right hand. He do be whiter nor most. Have a care would ye meet him around the city an' let him pick a fight wit' ye. An' have a care, sor, would ye go out av a night.”
“Thank you, Don Juan. You're the soul of kindness. What else do you know?”
“Well,” Don Juan replied with a naïve grin, “I did know somethin' else, but shure, Misther Geary advised me to forget it. I was wit' him in the launch last night.”
Webster stepped out of the veranda and laid a friendly hand on Don Juan Cafetéro's shoulder. “Don Juan,” he said gently, “I'm going back to the United States very soon. Would you like to come with me?”
Don Juan's watery eyes grew a shade mistier, if possible. He shook his head. “Whin I'm dhrunk here, sor,” he replied, “no wan pays any attintion to me, but in America they'd give me ten days in the hoosgow wanst a week. Thank you, sor, but I'll shtay here till the finish.”
“There axe institutions in America where hopeless inebriates, self-committed, may be sent for a couple of years. I believe 6 per cent, are permanently cured. You could be one of the six—and I'd cheerfully pay for it and give you a good job when you come out.”
Don Juan Cafetéro shook his red head hopelessly. He knew the strength of the Demon and had long since ceased to fight even a rear-guard action. Webster put a hand under the stubbly chin and tilted Don Juan's head sharply. “Hold up your head,” he commanded. “You're the first of your breed I ever saw who would admit he was whipped. Here's five dollars for you—five dollars gold. Take it and return with the piece intact to-morrow morning, Don Juan Cafetéro.”
Don Juan Cafetéro's wondering glance met Webster's directly, wavered, sought the ground, but at a jerk on his chin came back and—stayed. Thus for at least ten seconds they gazed at each other; then Webster spoke. “Thank you,” he said.
“Me name is John J. Cafferty,” the lost one quavered.
“Round one for Cafferty,” Webster laughed. “Good-bye now, until nine tomorrow. I'll expect you here, John, without fail.” And he took the derelict's hand and wrung it heartily.
“Well,” Webster remarked to Dolores as he held out his cup for more tea, “if I'm not the original Tumble Tom, I hope I may never see the back of my neck.”
“Do you attach any importance to Don Juan's story?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, but not so much as Don Juan does. However, to be forewarned is to be forearmed.” He sighed. “I am the innocent bystander,” he explained, “and I greatly fear I have managed to snarl myself up in a Sobrantean political intrigue, when I haven't the slightest interest either way. However, that's only one more reason why I should finish my work here and get back to Denver.”
“But how did all this happen, Mr. Webster?”
“Like shooting fish in a dry lake, Miss Ruey,” Webster replied, and related to her in detail the story of his adventure with the Sobrantean assassins in Jackson Square and his subsequent meeting with Andrew Bowers aboard La Estrellita.
Dolores laughed long and heartily as Webster finished his humorous recital. “Oh, you're such a very funny man,” she declared. “Billy told me God only made one Jack Webster and then destroyed the mold; I believe Billy is right. But do tell me what became of this extraordinary and unbidden guest.”
“The night the steamer arrived in port, Billy and Don Juan came out in a launch to say 'Hello,' so I seized upon the opportunity to tell Andrew to jump overboard and swim to the launch. Gave him a little note to Billy—carried it in his mouth—instructing Billy to do the right thing by him—and Billy did it. I don't know what Andrew is up to and I don't care. Where I was raised we let every man roll his own hoop. All I hope is that they don't shoot Andrew. If they do, I fear I'll weep. He's certainly a skookum lad. Do you know, Miss Ruey, I love anybody that can impose on me—make a monkey out of me, in fact—and make me like it?”
“That's so comforting,” she remarked dryly. Webster looked at her sharply, suspiciously; her words were susceptible of a dual interpretation. Her next sentence, however, dissipated this impression. “Because it confirms what I told you this afternoon when I read your palm,” she added.
“You didn't know how truly you spoke when you referred to the dark man that had crossed my path. He's uncomfortably real—drat him!”
“Then you are really concerned?”
“Not at all, but I purpose sleeping with one eye open. I shan't permit myself to feel concerned until they send more than two men after me—say eight or ten. A husky American ought to be willing to give these spiggoties a pull in the weights.”
His indifference appalled her; she leaned forward impulsively and laid a hand on his forearm. “But you must heed Don Juan's warning,” she declared seriously. “You must not go out alone at night.”
He grinned boyishly. “Of course not, Miss Ruey. You're going to ride out with me this evening.”
“I'm not. Don Juan's report has spoiled all that. I'll not subject you to risk.”
“Very well; then I shall drive out alone.”
“You're a despot, Mr. Webster—a regular despot.”
“Likewise a free agent.”
“I'll go with you.”
“I thought so.”
“You're—you're——”
He rose while she was searching for the right word. “Will you excuse me until after dinner, Miss Ruey? I'd love to stay and chat with you, even though it does appear that presently we shall be calling each other names, but the fact of the matter is—well, I am in a very serious predicament, and I might as well start right now to prepare to meet any emergency. For what hour shall I order the carriage?”
“Seven-thirty. After all, they'll not dare to murder you on the Malecon.”
“I agree with you. It will have to be done very quietly, if at all. You've been mighty nice to me this afternoon, seeress; I shall be grateful right up to the moment of dissolution.”
“Speak softly but carry a big stick,” she warned him.
“A big gun,” he corrected here, “—two of them, in fact.”
“Sensible man! I'm not going to worry about you, Mr. Webster.” She nodded her permission for him to retire, and as he walked down the veranda and into the hotel, her glance followed him with pardonable feminine curiosity, marking the breadth of his shoulders, the quick, springy stride, the alert, erect poise of his head on the powerful neck.
“A doer of deeds are you, John Stuart Webster,” she almost whispered. “As Kipling would say: 'Wallah! But you are a man!'” ^
A stealthy footstep sounded below the veranda she turned and beheld Don Juan Cafetéro, his hat in his left hand, in his right a gold-piece which he held toward her.
“Take it, allanah,” he wheezed in his hoarse, drunkard's whisper. “Keep it f'r me till to-morrow, for sorra wan av me can I trust to do that same—an' be the same token I can't face that big man wit'out it.”
“Why not, Don Juan?”
He hung his red head. “I dunno, Miss,” he replied miserably. “Maybe 'tis on account av him—the eye av him—the way av him—divil such a man did I ever meet—God bless him! Shure, Misther Geary do be the fine lad, but he—he——”
“Mr. Geary never put a big forefinger under your chin and bade you hold up your head. Is that it?”
“'Tis not what he did, Miss, but the way he did it. All the fiends av hell 'll be at me this night to shpend what he give me—and I—I'm afraid——”
He broke off, mumbling and chattering like a man in the grip of a great terror. In his agony of body and spirit, Dolores could have wept for Don Juan Cafetéro, for in that supreme moment the derelict's soul was bare, revealing something pure and sweet and human, for all his degradation. How did Jack Webster know? wondered Dolores. And why did he so confidently give an order to this human flotsam and expect it to be obeyed? And why did Don Juan Cafetéro come whining to her for strength to help him obey it? Through the murk of her girlish unsophstication and scant knowledge of human nature these and other questions obtruded themselves, the while she gazed down at Don Juan's dirty, quivering hand that held the coin toward her. And presently the answer came—a quotation long since learned and forgotten:
Be noble—and the nobleness that lies in other men,
Sleeping but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.
“I will not spoil his handiwork,” she told herself, and she stepped down off the veranda to a position directly in front of Don Juan. “That wouldn't be playing the game,” she told him. “I can't help you deceive him. You are the first of your breed——”
“Don't say it,” he cried. “Didn't he tell me wanst?”
“Then make the fight, Don—Mr. Cafferty.” She lowered her voice. “I am depending on you to stay sober and guard him. He needs a faithful friend so badly, now that Mr. Geary is away.” She patted the grimy hand and left him staring at the ground. Presently he sighed, quivered horribly, and shambled out of the patio on to the firing-line. And when he reported to Jack Webster at nine o'clock next morning, he was sober, shaking horribly and on the verge of delirium tremens, but tightly clasped in his right hand he held that five-dollar piece. Dolores, who had made it her business to be present at the interview, heard John Stuart Webster say heartily:
“The finest thing about a terrible fight, friend Cafferty, is that if it is a worth-while battle, the spoils of victory are exceedingly sweet. You are how about to enjoy one fourth of the said spoils—a large jolt of aguardiente! You must have it to steady your nerves. Go to the nearest cantina and buy one drink; then come back with the change. By that time I shall have breakfasted and you and I will then go shopping. At noon you shall have another drink; at four o'clock another; and just before retiring you shall have the fourth and last for this day. Remember, Cafferty: one jolt—no more—and then back here with the exact change.”
As Don Juan scurried for salvation, Webster turned to Dolores. “He'll fail me now, but that will not be his fault but mine. I've set him too great a task in his present weakened condition. In the process of exchanging American gold for the local shin-plasters, he'll skin me to death and emerge from the transaction with a full quart bottle in excess of his drink. Nevertheless, to use a colloquial expression, I have the Cafferty goat—and I'm going to keep it.”
Webster went immediately to his room, called for pen and paper, and proceeded at once to do that which he had never done before—to wit, prepare his last will and testament. For the first time in his career death threatened while he had money in his possession, and while he had before him for performance a task requiring the expenditure of money, his manifest duty, therefore, was to guarantee the performance of that task, win, lose, or draw in the game of life; so in a few brief paragraphs John Stuart Webster made a holographic will and split his bankroll equally between the two human beings he cared for most—Billy Geary and Dolores Huey. “Bill's a gambler like me,” he ruminated; “so I'll play safe. The girl is a conservative, and after Bill's wad is gone, he'd be boiled in oil before he'd prejudice hers.”
Having made his will, Webster made a copy of it. The original he placed in an envelope, sealed, and marked: “Last Will and Testament of John S. Webster, of Denver, Colorado, U. S. A. To be delivered to William H. Geary upon the death of the testator.” The copy he also placed in an envelope marked: “From Jack. Not to be opened until after my death.” This envelope he then enclosed in a larger one and mailed to Billy at Calle de Concordia No. 19.
Having made his few simple preparations for death, Mr. Webster next burrowed in his trunk, brought forth his big army-type automatic pistol and secured it in a holster under his arm, for he deemed it unwise and provocative of curiosity to appear in immaculate ducks that bulged at the right hip. Next he filled two spare clips with cartridges and slipped them into his pocket, thus completing his few simple preparations for life.
He glanced out the window at the sun. There would still be an hour of daylight; so he descended to the lobby, called a carriage and drove to the residence of the American consulate.
Lemuel Tolliver, formerly proprietor of a small retail wood and coal yard in Hastings, Nebraska, was the consul. He talked through his nose, employed double negatives, chewed tobacco, wore celluloid cuffs and collar, and received Mr. Webster in his shirt sleeves. He was the type of small-town peanut politician who never forgets for an instant that to be an American is greater than to be a king, and who strives assiduously to exhibit his horrible idea of American democracy to all and sundry, to his own profound satisfaction and the shame of his visiting countrymen.
He glanced at the card which Webster had sent in by his clerk. “Well, sir!” he began briskly. “Delighted to know you, Mr. Webster. Ain't there nothin' I can do for you?”
“Thank you. There is. This is my will. Please put it in your safe until I or my executor shall call for it.”
“What!” boomed the Honourable Tolliver. “You ain't thinkin' o' dyin', are yuh?” he laughed.
“Listen,” Webster urged him, and Mr. Tolliver helped himself to a fresh bite of chewing-tobacco and inclined his head. Briefly, but without omitting a single important detail, Webster told the consul of his adventure in New Orleans with the secret service representative of the Republic of Sobrante. “And not an hour since,” he concluded, “I was informed, through a source I consider reliable, that I am in momentary danger of assassination at the hands of two men whose names I know.”
“Well, don't tell me nothin' about it,” Mr. Tolliver interrupted. “I'm here on Government affairs, not to straighten out private quarrels. If you're figurin' on gittin' killed, my advice to you is to git out o' the country P. D. Q.”
“You overlook the fact that I didn't come here for advice, my dear Mr. Consul,” Webster reminded him with some asperity. “I'm not at all afraid of getting killed. What is worrying me is the certainty that I'll get there first with the most guns, and if I should, in self-defense, be forced to eliminate two Sobrantean army officers, I want to know what you're going to do to protect me. I want to make an affidavit that my life is in danger; I want my witness to make a similar affidavit, and I want to file those affidavits with you, to be adduced as evidence to support my plea of selfdefense. In other words, I want to have these affidavits, with the power of the United States back of them, to spring in case the Sobrantean government tries to railroad me for murder—and I want you to spring them for me.”
“I won't do nothin' o' the kind,” Mr. Tolliver declared bluntly. “You got plenty o' chance to get out o' this country an' save international complications. La Estrellita pulls out to-morrow mornin', an' you pull with her, or stay an' take your own chances. I ain't prejudicin' my job by makin' myself nux vomica to the Sobrantean government—an' that's just what will happen if I mix up in this private quarrel.”
“But, my dear Mr. Consul, I am going into business here—the mining business. I have every right in this country, and it is your duty to protect my rights while here. I can't side-step a fight just to hold you in your job.”
“It's a matter outside my jurisdiction,” Mr. Tolliver declared with such a note of finality in his voice that Webster saw the uselessness of further argument.
“All right,” he replied, holding his temper as best he could. “I'm glad to know you think so much of your job. I may live long enough to find an opportunity to kick you out of it and run this consulate myself. I'll send my affidavits direct to the State department at Washington; you take orders from Washington, I dare say.”
“When I get them. Good day.”
John Stuart Webster left the American consulate in a frenzy of inarticulate rage in the knowledge that he was an American and represented in Sobrante by such an invertebrate as the Honourable Lemuel Tolliver. At the Hotel Mateo he dismissed the carriage, climbed the three short steps to the entrance and was passing through the revolving portal, when from his rear some one gave the door a violent shove, with the result that the turnstile partition behind him collided with his back with sufficient force to throw him against the partition in front. Instantly the door ceased to pivot, with Webster locked neatly in the triangular space between the two sections of the revolving door and the jamb.
He turned and beheld in the section behind him an officer of the Sobrantean army. This individual, observing he was under Webster's scrutiny, scowled and peremptorily motioned to Webster to proceed—which the latter did, with such violence that the door, continuing to revolve, caught up with the Sobrantean and subjected him to the same indignity to which he had subjected Webster.
Once free of the door, Webster waited just inside the lobby for the Sobrantean to conclude his precipitate entrance. When he did, Webster looked him over with mild curiosity and bowed with great condescension. “Did any gentleman ever tell the senor that he is an ill-mannered monkey?” he queried coolly in excellent Spanish. “If not, I desire to give the senor that information, and to tell him that his size alone prevents me from giving him a nice little spanking.”
“Pig!” the rude one answered hotly. His olive features paled with anger, he trembled with emotion and seemed undecided what to do—seeing which Webster grinned at him tantalizingly. That decided him. No Latin-American, with the exaggerated ego of his race, can bear even a suspicion of ridicule. The officer walked fiercely toward Webster and swung his arm toward the latter's face in an effort to land a slap that was “meant.”
Webster merely threw back his head and avoided the blow; his long left arm shot out and beat down the Sobrantean's guard; then Webster's right hand closed around the officer's collar. “Come to me, thou insolent little one,” he crooned, and jerked his assailant toward him, gathered him up in his arms, carried him, kicking and screaming with futile rage, out into the patio and soused him in the fountain.
“Now, then, spitfire, that will cool your hot head, I trust,” he admonished his unhappy victim, and returned to the hotel. At the desk he paused.
“Who was that person I just bathed?” he inquired of the excited clerk.
“Ah, senor, you shall not long be kept in ignorance,” that functionary informed him. “That is the terrible Captain Benavides——”
“Do you know, I had a notion it was he?” Webster replied ruminatively. “Well, I suppose I'm in for a duel now,” he added to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room. “I think that will be most interesting.”
John Stuart Webster changed into dry clothing and descended to the dining room. Miss Ruey was already seated at her table and motioned him to the seat opposite her, and as he sat down with a contented little sigh, she gazed at him with a newer and more alert interest.
“I hear you've been having adventures again,” she challenged. “The news is all over the hotel. I heard it from the head waiter.”
“Coffee and pistols for two at daylight,” he answered cheerily. “Whenever I see trouble coming and realize that I cannot possibly avoid it, I generally take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and go forth to meet it. I have discovered from experience that the surprise of the attack generally disorganizes the other fellow, for few people care to fight an eager enemy. I see you have sampled the soup. Is it good?”
“Excellent. I marvel that your appetite is so keen, considering the gloomy outlook.”
“Oh, there won't be any trouble,” he assured her. “Duelling is silly, and I wouldn't engage in it on a bet. By the way, I have made my will, just to be on the safe side. Will you be good enough to take charge of it until after the funeral? You can turn it over to Billy then.”
She fell readily into the bantering spirit with which he treated this serious subject. Indeed, it was quite impossible to do otherwise, for John Stuart Webster's personality radiated such a feeling of security, of absolute, unbounded confidence in the future and disdain for whatever of good fortune or ill the future might entail, that Dolores, found it impossible not to assimilate his mood.
At seven-thirty, after a delightful dinner, the memory of which Mr. Webster was certain would linger under his foretop long after every other memory had departed, he escorted her to the open carriage he had ordered, and for two hours they circled the Malecon with the élite of Buenaventura, listening to the music of the band, and during the brief intermissions, to the sound of the waves lapping the beach at the foot of the broad driveway.
“This,” said John Stuart Webster, as he said goodnight to Dolores in the lobby, “is the end of a perfect day.”
It wasn't, for at that precise moment a servant handed him a card, and indicated a young man seated in an adjacent lounging-chair, at the same time volunteering the information that the visitor had been awaiting Senor Webster's return for the past hour.
Webster glanced at the card and strode over to the young man. “I am Mr. Webster, sir,” he announced civilly in Spanish. “And you are Lieutenant Arredondo?”
The visitor rose, bowed low and indicated he was that gentleman. “I have called, Mr. Webster,” he stated in most excellent English, “in the interest of my friend and comrade, Captain Benavides.”
“Ah, yes! The fresh little rooster I ducked in the fountain this evening. Well, what does the little squirt want now? Another ducking?”
Arredondo flushed angrily but remembered the dignity of his mission and controlled his temper. “Captain Benavides has asked me to express to you the hope that you, being doubtless a man of honour——”
“Stop right there, Lieutenant. There is no doubt about it. I am a man of honour, and unless you are anxious to be ducked in the fountain, you will be more careful in your choice of words. Now, then: You are about to say that, being a man of honour——”
“You would accord my friend the satisfaction which one gentleman never fails to accord another.”
“That lets me out, amigo.” Webster laughed. “Benavides isn't a gentleman. He's a cutthroat, a murdering little black-and-tan hound. Do I understand he wants me to fight a duel with him?”
Lieutenant Arredondo could not trust himself to speak, and so he bowed profoundly.
“Very well, then, Lieutenant,” Webster agreed. “I'll fight him.”
“To-morrow morning at five o'clock.”
“Five minutes from now if you say so.”
“Captain Benavides will be grateful for your willing spirit, at least,” the second replied bitterly. “You realize, of course, Mr. Webster, that as the challenged party, the choice of weapons rests with you.”
“Certainly. I wouldn't have risked a duel if the choice lay with the other fellow. With your permission, my dear sir, we'll fight with Mauser rifles at a thousand yards, for the reason that I never knew a greaser that could hit the broad side of a brewery at any range over two hundred and fifty yards.” Webster chuckled fiendishly.
Lieutenant Arredondo bit his lips in anger and vexation. “I cannot agree to such an extraordinary duel,” he complained. “Have you no other choice?”
“Well, since a fight at long range doesn't suit you, suppose we have one at close range. I propose that our seconds handcuff us together by our left wrists, give each of us a knife and leave us alone in a room for a couple of minutes.”
“My friend, Captain Benavides, sir, is not a butcher,” Arredondo reminded Mr. Webster acidly. “In such a fight as you describe, he would be at a great disadvantage.”
“You're whistling—he would. I'd swing him around my head with my left hand and dash his fool brains out.”
“It is the custom in Sobrante for gentlemen to fight with rapiers.”
“Oh, dry up, you sneaking murderer,” Webster exploded. “There isn't going to be any duel except on my terms—so you might as well take a straight tip from headquarters and stick to plain assassination. You and Benavides have been sent out by your superior to kill me—you got your orders this very afternoon at the entrance to the government palace—and I'm just not going to be killed. I don't like the way you part your hair, and I despise a man who uses cologne and wears his handkerchief up his sleeve; so beat it, boy, while the going is good.” He pointed toward the hotel door. “Out, you blackguard!” he roared. “Vaya!”
Lieutenant Arredondo rose and with dignified mien started for the door. Webster followed, and as his visitor reached the portal, a tremendous kick, well placed, lifted him down to the sidewalk. Shrieking curses, he fled into the night; and John Stuart Webster, with a satisfied feeling that something accomplished had earned a night's repose, retired to his room and his mauve silk pyjamas, and slept the sleep of a healthy, conscience-free man. It did occur to him that the morrow would almost certainly bring forth something unpleasant, but that prospect did not worry him. John Stuart Webster had a religion all his own, and one of the principal tenets of this faith of his was an experience-born conviction that to-morrow is always another day.
At about the same hour Neddy Jerome, playing solitaire in the Engineers' Club in Denver, was the recipient of a cablegram which read:
If W. cables accepting reply rejecting account job filled otherwise beans spilled. Implicit obedience spells victory.
Henrietta.
Neddy Jerome wiped his spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and read this amazing message once more. “Jumped-up Jehosophat!” he murmured. “If she hasn't followed that madcap Webster clear to Buenaventura! If she isn't out in earnest to earn her fee, I'm an orang-outang! By thunder, that's a smart woman. Evidently she has Jack winging; he is willing to return and go to work for me, but for reasons of her own she doesn't want him to win too easy a victory. Well, I guess she knows her own game better than I do; so I should worry how she plays it. 'Implicit obedience spells victory.' Victory means that crazy Webster takes the job I offered him. All right! I'll be implicitly obedient.”
Two hours later Neddy Jerome received another cablegram. It was from John Stuart Webster and read as follows:
Hold job ninety days at latest may be back before. If satisfactory cable.
Again Mr. Jerome had recourse to the most powerful expletive at his command. “Henrietta knew he was going to cable and beat the old sour-dough to it,” he soliloquized. He was wrapped in profound admiration of her cunning for as much as five minutes; then he indicted this reply to his victim:
Time, tide and good jobs wait for no man. Sorry. Job already filled by better man.
When John Stuart Webster received that cablegram the following morning, he cursed bitterly—not because he had lost the best job that had ever been offered him, but because he had lost through playing a good hand poorly. He hated himself for his idiocy.
CHAPTER XVIII
FOR fully an hour after retiring John Stuart Webster slept the deep, untroubled sleep of a healthy, unworried man; then one of the many species of “jigger” which flourish just north and south of the equator crawled into bed with him and promptly proceeded to establish its commissary on the inner flank of the Websterian thigh, where the skin is thin and the blood close to the surface. As a consequence, Mr. Webster awoke suddenly, obliterated the intruder and got out of bed for the purpose of anointing the injured spot with alcohol—which being done, an active search of the bed resulted in the discovery of three more jiggers and the envelopment of John Stuart Webster's soul in the fogs of apprehension. Wide awake, he sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his toes and wondering what he should do about it. From a contemplation of his own case his mind wandered to Dolores Ruey. He wondered if the jiggers were picking on her, too—poor girl! Strange that Billy hadn't warned him against these infernal insects—probably it was because Billy resided at El Buen Amigo, where, for some mysterious reason, the jigger was not.
“'Tis an evil land, filled with trouble,” he mused as he lighted a cigarette. “I wish Bill were here to advise me. He's been long enough in this country to know the lay of the ground and all the government officials. He ought to be able to straighten this deal out and assure the higher-ups that I'm not butting in on their political affairs. But Bill's up-country and here I am under surveillance and unable to leave the hotel to talk it over with Andrew Bowers, the only other white expert I know of in town. And by the way, they're after Andrew, too! I wonder what for.”
He smoked two more cigarettes, the while he pondered the various visible aspects of this dark mess in which he found himself floundering. And finally he arrived at a decision. He was well assured that his every movement was being watched and reported upon; doubtless the fact that he had gone to bed at ten o'clock had already been noted! “These chaps aren't thorough, though,” Webster decided. “They'll see me safely to bed and pick me up again in the morning—so I'll take a chance that the coast is clear, slip out now and talk it over with Andrew.”
He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty. Hurriedly he dressed, strapped on his automatic pistol, dragged his bed noiselessly to the open window and tied to the bed-leg the rope he used to lash his trunk; then he lowered himself out the window. The length of rope permitted him to descend within a few feet of the ground, and he dropped with a light thud on to the soft earth of the patio. The thrifty landlord had already turned out all the electric lights, and the patio was dark.
Webster made his way to the street unnoticed, circled the block, found a policeman seated sound asleep on the curb of the narrow sidewalk, woke him up and inquired for the Calle de Concordia; and ten minutes later he appeared before the entrance of El Buen Amigo just as Mother Jenks was barring it for the night.
“I am Mr. Webster,” he announced, “—Mr. Geary's friend from the United States.”
Mother Jenks, having heard of him, was of course profoundly flustered to meet this toff who so carelessly wired his down-and-out friends pesos oro in lots of a thousand. Cordially she invited him within to stow a peg of her best, which invitation Mr. Webster promptly accepted.
“To your beautiful eyes,” Webster toasted her. “And now would you mind leading me to the quarters of Billy's friend Mr. Bowers?”
Mother Jenks looked at him sharply. “Wot's up, sir?” she asked.
“Blessed if I know, Mrs. Jenks. I've come to find out.”
“Then you've not come a second too soon, sir. 'E's leavin' at daylight. I'd better hannounce you, sir.'E's particular wot company 'e receives.”
She shuffled away, to return presently with the news that Mr. Bowers was in his room and would be delighted to receive Mr. Webster. Mother Jenks led Webster to the door, knocked, announced him and discreetly withdrew.
“My dear Webster!” cried Andrew Bowers enthusiastically, and he drew his late fellow-passenger into the room. Webster observed that Andrew was not alone. “I want to see you privately,” he said. “Didn't know you had company, or I wouldn't have intruded.”
“Well, I knew I had company, didn't I? Come in, you crazy fellow, and meet some good friends of mine who are very anxious to meet you,” He turned to a tall, handsome, scholarly looking man of about forty, whose features, dress, and manner of wearing his whiskers proclaimed him a personage. “Dr. Eliseo Pacheco, I have the honour to present Mr. John S. Webster, the American gentleman of whom you have heard me speak.”
Doctor Pacheco promptly leaped to his feet and bowed with ostentatious reverence; then suddenly, with Latin impulsiveness, he advanced upon Webster, swept aside the latter's outstretched hand, clasped John Stuart Webster in fraternal embrace, and to the old sour-dough's inexpressible horror, kissed him upon the right cheek—after which he backed off, bowed once more, and said in Spanish:
“Sir, my life is yours.”
“It is well he gave it to you before you took it,” Andrew said in English, and he laughed, noting Webster's confusion. “And this gentleman is Colonel Pablo Caraveo.”
“Thunder, I'm in for it again,” Webster thought—and he was, for the amiable colonel embraced Webster and kissed his left cheek before turning to Andrew.
“You will convey to our guest, in English, Don Ricardo, assurances of my profound happiness in meeting him,” he said in Spanish.
“The Colonel says you're all to the mustard,” Andrew at once interpreted merrily.
“Rather a liberal translation,” Webster retorted in Spanish, whereat Colonel Caraveo sprang up and clapped his hands in delight. Evidently he had looked forward with considerable interest to meeting Webster and had had his contentment clouded by the thought that Andrew's gringo friend could not speak Spanish.
“Your happiness, my dear Colonel,” Webster continued, “is extravagant grief compared with my delight in meeting a Sobrantean gentleman who has no desire to skewer me.” He turned to Andrew. “While introductions are in order, old son, suppose you complete the job and introduce yourself. I'm always suspicious of a man with an alias.”
“Then behold the death of that impudent fellow Andrew Bowers, late valet de chambre to this eminent mining engineer and prince of gentlemen, Mr. John Stuart Webster. Doctor Pacheco, will you be good enough to perform the operation?”
“This gentleman,” said the doctor, laying his hand on Andrew's shoulder, “is Don Ricardo Luiz Ruey, a gentleman, a patriot, and the future president of our unhappy country.”
Webster put his hands on the young man's shoulders. “Ricardo my son,” he asked earnestly, “do you think you could give me some little hint of the approximate date on which you will assume office? By the nine gods of war, I never wanted a friend at court so badly as I want one to-night.”
Doctor Pacheco, Colonel Caraveo, and Ricardo Ruey exchanged glances and laughed heartily. “I must introduce him to Captain Benavides and Lieutenant Arredondo,” the Colonel said slyly.
“What!” Webster was amazed. “You know about it already?”
“Better than that, friend Webster. We knew about it before it happened. That is, we knew it was going to happen,” Ricardo informed him. .
Webster sat down and helped himself from a box of cigars he found on Ricardo's bureau. “I feel I am among friends at last,” he announced between preliminary puffs; “so listen while I spin a strange tale. I've been the picture of bad luck ever since I started for this infernal—this wonderful country of yours. After leaving Denver for New Orleans, I came within a whisker of dying of ptomaine poisoning. Then in New Orleans I took a Sunday-morning stroll in Jackson Square and came across two men trying to knife another. In the interest of common decency I interfered and won a sweeping victory, but to my amazement the prospective corpse took to his heels and advised me to do the same.”
Ricardo Ruey sprang for John Stuart Webster. “By George,” he said in English, “I'm going to hug you, too. I really ought to kiss you, because I'm that man you saved from assassination, but—too long in the U.S.A., I suppose; I've lost the customs of my country.”
“Get out,” yelled Webster, fending him off. “Did you lose anything in that fracas?”
“Yes, a Malacca stick.”
“I have it.”
“Holy Moses! Jack—I'm going to call you Jack—why didn't you say something about this while we were on the steamer together?”
“Why, we played crib' and dominoes most of the way down, when I wasn't seasick, and we talked about other things. By the way, Ricardo—I'm going to call you Rick for short—do you happen to have any relatives in this country?”
“Yes, a number of second and third cousins. One lot bears the same family name.”
“No relatives in the United States?”
“No.”
“Coming down on the steamer, I didn't like to appear curious, but all the time I wanted to ask you one question.”
“Ask it now.”
“Are you a Sobrantean?”
“I was born in this country and raised here until I was fourteen.”
“But you're—why, hang it, you're not a Latin?”
“No, I'm a mixture, with Latin predominating. My forbears were pure Castilians from Madrid, and crossed the Western Ocean in caravels. It's been a matter of pride with the house of Ruey to keep the breed pure, but despite all precautions, the family tree has been grafted once with a Scotch thistle, twice with the lily of France, and once with the shamrock of Ireland. My mother was an Irishwoman.”
“You alibi yourself perfectly, Ricardo, and my curiosity is appeased. Permit me to continue my tale,” he added in Spanish; and forthwith he related with humorous detail his adventure at the gangplank of the steamer that had borne him and Ricardo Ruey south. Ricardo interrupted him. “We know all about that, friend Webster, and we knew the two delightful gentlemen had been told off to get you—unofficially.”
“How did you find out?”
“A leak in the Intelligence Bureau, of which our friend Colonel Caraveo is an assistant chief.”
“Explain,” Webster demanded peremptorily. “Why all this intrigue extending to two countries and private individuals?”
“Certainly. The Sobrantean revolutionary junta has headquarters in New Orleans. It is composed of political exiles, for Sarros, the present dictator of Sobrante, rules with an iron hand, and has a cute little habit of railroading his enemies to the cemetery via the treason charge and the firing-squad. Quite a quaint fellow, Sarros! Robs the proletariat and spends it on the army with a lavish hand, and so in sheer gratitude they keep him in office. Besides, it's a sign of bad luck to oppose him at the regular elections. Well, he—he killed my father, who was the best president this benighted country ever had, and I consider it my Christian duty to avenge my father and a patriotic duty to take up the task he left unfinished—the task of making over my country.
“In Sobrante, as in most of the countries in Central America, there are two distinct classes of people—the aristocrats and peons—and the aristocrat fattens on the peon, as he has had a habit of doing since Adam. We haven't any middle class to stand as a buffer between the two—which makes it a sad proposition. My father was an idealist and a dreamer and he dreamed of reform in government and a solution of the agrarian problem which confronts all Latin-America. Moreover, he trusted the common people—and one should not trust this generation of peons. We must have fifty years of education—free and compulsory—first.
“My father headed a revolution that was brief and practically bloodless, and the better to do the task he had set himself, he created a dictatorship with himself as dictator—this because he was shy on good cabinet and legislative material, the kind he could trust to play fair with the people.”
Ricardo paused. “You are interested in all this, my friend?” he asked.
“It has an old, familiar sound, but crack along.”
“My father, being human, erred. He trusted one Pablo Sarros, an educated peon, who had commanded the government forces under the regime my father overthrew. My tender-hearted parent discovered that Sarros was plotting to overthrow him; but instead of having him shot, he merely removed him from command. Sarros gathered a handful of bandits, joined with the old government forces my father had conquered, hired a couple dozen Yankee artillerymen and—he won out. My father was captured and executed; the palace was burned, and my sister perished in the flames. I'm here to pay off the score.”
“A worthy ambition! So you organized the revolutionary junta in New Orleans, eh?”
Ricardo nodded. “Word of it reached Sarros, and he sent his brother Raoul, chief of the Intelligence Bureau, to investigate and report. As fast as he reported, Colonel Caraveo reported to me. Sarros and his gang are just a little bit afraid of me, because he's about as popular with the people as a typhus epidemic, and strange to say, this curiously mercurial people have not forgotten the brief reign of his predecessor. My father's son possesses a name to conjure with. Consequently it was to the interest of the Sarros administration that I be eliminated. They watched every boat; hence my scheme for eluding their vigilance—which, thanks to you, worked like a charm.”
“But,” Webster complained, “I'm not sitting in the game at all, and yet I'm caught between the upper and nether millstones.”
“That is easy to explain. You interfered that morning in Jackson Square; then Raoul Sarros met you going aboard the steamer for Buenaventura and you manhandled him; and naturally, putting two and two together, he has concluded that you are not only his personal enemy but also a friend and protector of mine and consequently an enemy of the state.”
“And as a consequence I'm marked for slaughter?”
“The first plan considered,” said Colonel Càraveo, gravely, “was for Captain Benavides, who is an expert swordsman and a marvellous pistol-shot, to pick a quarrel with you.”
“No hope, Colonel. I manhandled 'em both and declined to fight on their terms. I suppose now I'll just naturally be assassinated.”
“It would be well, my friend,” Doctor Pacheco suggested, “to return to the United States until after Ricardo and his friends have eliminated your Nemesis.”
“How soon will that happy event transpire?”
“In about sixty days we hope to be ready to strike, Mr. Webster.”
“We are recruiting our men secretly,” Ricardo explained. “Our base is back in the hills beyond San Miguel de Padua. I'm going up there to-morrow.”
“I was going up to San Miguel de Padua in a day or two myself, Rick, but I'll be hanged if I know what to do now. I'm beginning to worry—and that's a new experience with me.”
Colonel Caraveo cleared his throat. “I understand from Ricardo that you and another American are interested in a mining concession, Mr. Webster.”
Webster nodded.
Al-*~
“Is this a private landholder, or did your friend secure it from the Sarros government?”
“From the government. We pay ten per cent, royalty, on a ninety-nine-year lease, and that's all I know about it. I have never seen the property, and my object in coming was to examine it and, if satisfied, finance the project.”
“If you will return to your hotel, my dear sir,” Colonel Caraveo suggested, “and remain there until noon to-morrow, I feel confident I can guarantee you immunity from attack thereafter. I have a plan to influence my associates in the Intelligence Office.”
“Bully for you, Colonel. Give me sixty days in which to operate, and I'll have finished my job in Sobrante and gotten out of it before that gang of cutthroats wakes up to the fact that I'm gone. I thank you, sir.”
“The least we can do, since you have saved Ricardo's life and rendered our cause a great service, is to save your life,” Colonel Caraveo replied.
“This is more comfort than I had hoped for when I came here, gentlemen. I am very grateful, I assure you. Of course this little revolution you're cooking up is no affair of mine, and I trust I need not assure you that your confidence is quite safe with me.”
The Doctor and the Colonel immediately rose and bowed like a pair of marionettes. Webster turned to Ricardo.
“Have you had any experience in revolutions, my son?” he asked.
Ricardo nodded. “I realized I had to have experience, and so I went to Mexico. I was with Madero through the first revolution.”
“How are you arming your men?”
“Mannlichers. I've got five thousand of them. Cost me twelve dollars each. I've got twenty million rounds of cartridges, twenty-five machine-guns, and a dozen three-inch field-guns. I have also engaged two hundred American ex-soldiers to handle the machine-guns and the battery. These rascals cost me five dollars a day gold, but they're worth it; they like fighting and will go anywhere to get it—and are faithful.”
“You are secretly mobilizing in the mountains, eh?” Webster rubbed his chin ruminatively. “Then I take it you'll attack Buenaventura when you strike the first blow?”
“Quite right. We must capture a seaport if we are to revolute successfully.”
“I'm glad to know that. I'll make it my business to be up in the mountains at the time. I'm for peace, every rattle out of the box. Gentlemen, you've cheered me wonderfully. I will now go home and leave you to your evil machinations; and, the good Lord and the jiggers willing, I shall yet glean a night's sleep.”
He shook hands all around and took his departure. Mother Jenks was waiting for Webster at the foot of the stairs. He paused on the threshold.
“Mrs. Jenks,” he said, “Billy tells me you have been very kind to him. I want to tell you how much I appreciate it and that I stand willing to reciprocate any time you are in need.”
Mother Jenks fingered her beard and reflected. “'Ave you met Miss Dolores Ruey, sir?” she queried.
“Your ward? Yes.”
“'Ow does the lamb strike you, Mr. Webster?”
“I have never met many women; I have known few intimately; but I should say that Miss Dolores Ruey is the marvel of her sex. She is as beautiful as she is good, as good as she is intelligent, and as intelligent as she can be.”
“She's a lydy, sir,” Mother Jenks affirmed proudly. “An' I done it. You can see with arf a heye wot I am, but for all that, I've done my dooty by her. From the day my sainted 'Enery— 'e was a colonel o' hartillery under President Ruey, Dolores's father—hescaped from the burnin' palace with 'er an' told me to raise 'er a lydy for the syke of her father, as was the finest gentleman this rotten country 'll ever see, she's been my guidin' star. She's self-supportin' now, but still I ain't done my whole dooty by her. I want to see 'er married to a gentleman as 'll maintain 'er like a lydy.”
“Well, Mrs. Jenks, I think you will live to see that worthy ambition, attained. Mr. Geary is head over heels in love with her.”
“Aye. Willie's a nice lad—I could wish no better; but wot 'e's got 'e got from you, an' where'll 'e be if 'is mine doesn't p'y big? Now, with you, sir, it's different. You're a bit oldern' Billy, an' more settled an' serious; you've made yer fortune, so Willie tells me, an', not to go beatin' about the bally bush, I s'y, wot's the matter with you an' her steppin' over the broomstick together? You might go a bloomin' sight farther an' fare wuss.”
“Too old, my dear schemer, too old!” John Stuart replied smilingly. “And she's in love with Billy. Don't worry. If he doesn't make a go of this mining concession, I'll take care of his finances until he can do so himself. I do not mind telling you, in strictest confidence, that I have made my will and divided my money equally between them.”
“Gord bless you, for a sweet, kind gentleman,” Mother Jenks gulped, quite overcome with emotion.
Hastily Webster bade Mother Jenks good-night and hurried away to escape a discussion on such a delicate topic with Billy's blunt and single-minded landlady. His mind was in a tumult. So it was that he paid no attention to a vehicle that jogged by him with the cochero sagging low in his seat, half asleep over the reins, until a quick command from the closed interior brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt, half a block in advance of Webster.
Save for an arc-light at each end of the block, the Calle de Concordia was dim; save for Webster, the carriage and the two men who piled hurriedly out at the rear of the conveyance, the Calle de Concordia was devoid of life. Webster saw one of the men hurriedly toss a coin to the cochero; with a fervent “Gracias, mi capitan,” the driver clucked to his horse, turned the corner into the Calle Elizondo and disappeared, leaving his late passengers facing Webster and calmly awaiting his approach. He was within twenty feet of them when the taller of the two men spoke.
“Good evening, my American friend. This meeting is a pleasure we scarcely hoped to have so soon. For the same we are indebted to Lieutenant Arredondo, who happened to look back as we passed you, and recognized you under the arc-light.”
Webster halted abruptly; the two Sobrantean officers stood smiling and evidently enjoying his discomfort. Each carried a service revolver in a closed holster fastened to his sword-belt, but neither had as yet made a move to draw—seeing which, Webster felt sufficiently reassured to accept the unwelcome situation with a grace equal to that of his enemies.
“What? You two bad little boys up this late! I'm surprised,” he replied in Spanish. He folded his arms, struck an attitude and surveyed them as might an indignant father. “You kids have been up to some mischief,” he added, as his right hand closed over the butt of his automatic, where it lay snuggled in the open bolster under his left arm between his shirt and coat. “Can it be possible you are going to take advantage of superior numbers and the fact that you are both armed, to force me into a duel on your terms, my dear Captain Benavides?”
By a deferential bow, the unwholesome Benavides indicated that such were his intentions. “Then,” said Webster, “as the challenged party I have the choice of weapons. I choose pistols.”
“At what range?” the Lieutenant asked with mock interest.
“As we stand at present. I'm armed. Pull your hardware, you pretty pair of polecats, and see if you can beat me to the draw.”
Captain Benavides's jaw dropped slightly; with a quiet, deliberate motion his hand stole to his holster-flap. Lieutenant Arredondo wet his lips and glanced so apprehensively at his companion that Webster was aware that here was a situation not to his liking.
“You should use an open holster,” Webster taunted. “Come, come—unbutton that holster-flap and get busy.”
Benavides's hand came away from the holster. He was not the least bit frightened, but his sense of proportion in matters of this kind was undergoing a shake-up.
“In disposing of any enemy in a gun fight, so a professional killer once informed me,” Webster continued, “it is a good plan to put your first bullet anywhere in the abdomen; the shock of a bullet there paralyzes your opponent for a few seconds and prevents him from returning the compliment, and in the interim you blow his brains out while he lies looking at you. I have never had any practical experience in matters of this kind, but I don't mind telling you that if I must practise on somebody, the good Lord could not have provided two more delightful subjects.”
He ceased speaking, and for nearly half a minute the three men appraised each other. Benavides was smiling slightly; Arredondo was fidgeting; Webster's glance never faltered from the Captain's nervous hand.
“You would be very foolish to draw,” Webster then assured Benavides. “If I am forced to kill you, it will be with profound regret. Suppose you two dear, sweet children run along home and think this thing over. You may change your mind by to-morrow morn——”
The Captain's hand, with the speed of a juggler's, had flown to his holster; but quick as he was, Webster was a split-second quicker. The sound of his shot roared through the silent calle, and Benavides, with his pistol half drawn, lifted a bloody, shattered hand from the butt as Webster's automatic swept in a swift arc and covered Arredondo, whose arms on the instant went skyward.
“That wasn't a half-bad duel,” Webster remarked coldly. “Are you not obliged to me, Captain, for not blowing your brains out—for disregarding my finer instincts and refraining from shooting you first through the abdomen? Bless you, my boy, I've been stuck for years in places where the only sport consisted in seeing who could take a revolver, shoot at a tin can and roll it farthest in three seconds. Let me see your hand.”
Benavides sullenly held up that dripping member, and Webster inspected it at a respectful distance. “Steel-jacket bullet,” he informed the wounded man. “Small hole—didn't do much damage. You'll be just as well as ever in a month.”
He helped himself to Arredondo's gun, flipped out the cylinder, and slipped all six cartridges into his palm. Similarly he disarmed Benavides, expressed his regret that circumstances had rendered it imperative to use force, and strolled blithely down the calle. In the darkened patio he groped along the wall until he found the swinging rope by which he had descended from his room—whereupon he removed his shoes, tied the laces together, slung them around his neck, dug his toes into the adobe wall and climbed briskly to his room.