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 PRAISE FOR COUP
“This books makes a vital contribution to the struggles of the peoples of the
Americas to defend themselves against the coups d’état that anti-democratic
elites of the hemisphere have unleashed again, albeit cloaked in new
garments. Paraguay in 2012, Brazil in 2016 and 2018, Bolivia in 2019 all
suffered coups, with intensifying violence, revealing that slaveholding,
racist, and colonial legacies are still very much alive among the wealthiest
in the region. The victory of Bolivia’s popular movements—courageous,
heroic, and swift—resulting in the extraordinary victory of Lucho Arce and
the return of Evo Morales’s MAS party in 2020, serve as an inspiring
example for neighboring states. Once again the lesson is clear: whenever
the will of the people may be expressed freely through the ballot, proposals
that lead to greater equality, more just distribution of income, and vigorous
efforts to combat hunger and poverty will prevail. But this is possible only
with robust popular participation in the decision-making process.” —LUIZ
INÁCIO LULA DA SILVA, former president of Brazil

“Coup tells the story of Bolivia’s MAS party, the ousting of its popular
Indigenous president Evo Morales, and the following wave of abuses
committed by the authoritarian Áñez regime. The book is a vital
contribution to our understanding of how reactionary forces leveraged a
bogus claim of fraud to overthrow the elected president. It is essential
reading for those committed to democracy and social justice in the
Americas. Coup highlights the need to remain on alert in electoral times and
serves as a warning about the cunning preparation of coups d’état. Today’s
coups are more sophisticated than those of previous decades, but they are
equally ruthless and equally dangerous.” —MADRES DE LA PLAZA DE
MAYO–LINEA FUNDADORA, mothers of Argentina’s disappeared

“Future historians will look back at the reversal of Bolivia’s 2019 coup as
an event equal in importance to Fidel Castro’s defeat of the US-organized
invasion at the Bay of Pigs. Linda Farthing and Thomas Becker have
provided us with an indispensable analysis to the sources of the conflict and
how the forces of hope triumphed.” —GREG GRANDIN, Pulitzer Prize–
winning author of The End of the Myth: From the Frontier to the Border
Wall in the Mind of America

“In the international media discourse that emerged in late 2019 after Evo
Morales was forced into exile and Jeanine Áñez declared herself president
of Bolivia, some voices remained conspicuously absent: those of the
Bolivians living through the turmoil. Farthing and Becker set out to
challenge this trend, crafting a narrative based on the testimony of dozens
of Bolivian activists, political figures, and intellectuals. Stitched together in
a compelling and lucid narrative, the insights of those on the ground—not
only about the brutal right-wing repression under Áñez but also about both
the advances and shortcomings of Morales’s time in power—provide the
clearest picture yet of what happened in Bolivia in 2019.” —DR. CHRISTY
THORNTON, assistant professor, Johns Hopkins University and former
executive director of the North American Congress on Latin America
(NACLA)

“Coup is a comprehensive account of the democratic disruption that Bolivia

suffered in 2019. With remarkable handling of sources, Linda Farthing and
Thomas Becker present a critical vision of Bolivia as well as the political,
social, and democratic challenges the country faces. Captivating read!” —
EDUARDO RODRIGUEZ VELTZÉ, former president of Bolivia

“Measured and methodical, Farthing and Becker’s analysis of the right-

wing coup d’état in Bolivia is mandatory reading for anyone attempting to
come to grips with the country’s recent past. Sharp, expeditious prose
mirrors the often frenetic pace of political developments in recent years.
Rooted in a blend of on-the-ground reportage and a mastery of the best
local sources of journalism and social-scientific inquiry, Coup contex-
tualizes the socio-political gains and contradictions of the era of Evo
Morales, unearths the root causes of his ouster from office, and surveys the
violent regime of Jeanine Áñez installed in the coup’s aftermath. In a period
of recurring crises of global capitalism and an attendant rise in authoritarian
forms of right-wing rule, the significance of this book extends well beyond
the borders of Bolivia.” —JEFFERY R. WEBBER, author of Red October:
Left-Indigenous Struggles in Modern Bolivia
© 2021 Linda Farthing and Thomas Becker

Published in 2021 by
Haymarket Books
P.O. Box 180165
Chicago, IL 60618
773-583-7884
www.haymarketbooks.org
[email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-64259-684-7

Distributed to the trade in the US through Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
(www.cbsd.com) and internationally through Ingram Publisher Services International
(www.ingramcontent.com).

This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and Wallace
Action Fund.

Special discounts are available for bulk purchases by organizations and institutions. Please
email [email protected] for more information.

Cover design by Jamie Kerry. Cover photo by Gaston Brito Miserocchi.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

 For my children and godchildren: Minka, Anamaya,
Gavriel, Luli, Clarita and Karen who support
and inspire me more than you know.
—Linda

For the brave families who lost loved ones during the 2019–2020
Bolivia conflicts and continue to fight for justice. La lucha sigue.
—Thomas
CONTENTS

FOREWORD BY PAULO ABRÃO AND JAMES CAVALLARO

PREFACE
INTRODUCTION: UNPACKING BOLIVIA

Part I: The Coup

1. The “Process of Change” Cut Short
2. Setting the Stage for an Ouster

Part II: Fourteen Years of the MAS

3. Growth and Successes
4. Challenges and Missteps

Part III: The Aftermath

5. “Black November”
6. “Dicta-Suave”: A Soft Dictatorship

Part IV: “La Lucha Sigue”: The Struggle Continues

7. The “Process of Change” Revived?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NOTES
INDEX
 FOREWORD

The volume you have before you, Coup, tells the story of the ousting of
President Evo Morales in rich, nuanced detail. It does so by unravelling the
complex layers of injustice, exploitation, and racism that have cursed
Bolivia since the arrival of Spanish conquistadores in 1524. The narrative
in this book presents the immediate events leading to the coup, as well as
the structural forces at work in the demise of the Morales presidency. The
authors underscore the broader context of a deeply unequal hemisphere and
world. Understanding these structural forces, as well as the proximate
causes of the coup, is essential if one is to move beyond the simplistic and
inaccurate narratives that dominated most English-language explanations of
what happened in Bolivia in the last quarter of 2019. Indeed, the authors’
implicit contention throughout (and the value of their work) is that only by
understanding (at least superficially) five centuries of exploitive, racist rule
by an elite minority of European descent can one begin to appreciate the
intensity of the animosity of the traditional ruling classes towards Evo
Morales’s popular, multicultural, egalitarian project.
This animosity—as Farthing and Becker detail—animated the campaign
to drive Evo Morales, the MAS (Movimiento al Socialismo or Movement
for Socialism) party, and the Indigenous majority out of power. The
campaign, in turn, was facilitated by a well-prepared and disproven
narrative of widespread election fraud, knowingly (or unwittingly) parroted
by Western observers, most media sources, and powerful states. The
combination of ill-intentioned distortion with amplification and legitimation
that led to the seizure of power by an unknown, Evangelical Christian
zealot, Senator Jeanine Áñez, while particular in its details, followed an
increasingly common outline for twenty-first century attacks on democracy.

Whatever may be said of the Evo Morales and MAS period in government,
it must be observed that the nearly fourteen years of their rule stand in stark
contrast to almost five centuries of rule by the non-Indigenous minority. As
Farthing and Becker explain, for 480 years in nearly linear fashion, whether
under the Spanish crown or the post-independence governments, a small
minority of elites of European descent controlled Bolivia’s politics,
economy, and social structure. The election of Evo Morales in 2006
represented a radical departure from the status quo. While imperfect in
practice, Morales sought, at least in discourse, to transform Bolivia into a
popular democracy based on multiculturalism and social equality. When
one appreciates the transformational nature of the promise that Morales
represented, one also understands the intensity of the reaction against him
personally, against the MAS party and against the nation’s indigenous
majority.
The authors of this foreword—the former executive secretary and
former president of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights—
have been close observers of Bolivia over these past two decades. Both of
us have visited Bolivia numerous times to document the human rights
conditions for reports, legal actions, press releases, and the like. We have
been able to observe a good part of what this book’s authors detail, from the
shortcomings of the Morales government to the unprecedented changes the
government brought to the country.
As executive secretary, Paolo Abrão was able to document the
massacres at Senkata and Sacaba, in loco, only days after the two ugliest
incidents of Áñez’s period of abusive rule. As director of both Harvard’s
and Stanford’s human rights clinics, James Cavallaro documented the
slaughter of indigenous protestors during the gas wars in 2003. The book
sets out in clear, concise text the visceral sense of injustice that we were
able to experience in our time in Bolivia.

For too long, human rights organizations have avoided “thorny” political
issues. When is the removal of a head of state “legal?” When does it
conform to international human rights standards? The guidelines and
parameters for answering these questions have not been sufficiently
developed, in part because leading human rights organizations have avoided
these debates. Instead, collectively, human rights organizations have
prioritized questions of procedure, allowing states themselves to decide on
the legitimacy of machinations that lead to changes in leadership. Recent
examples from the Americas abound. Was the reelection of Juan Orlando
Hernandez in Honduras in 2017 legitimate? (The answer from human rights
groups should have been, but was not, a resounding “No.”) And Dilma
Rousseff in Brazil? Was her impeachment and removal from office
legitimate? Did it conform to internal Brazilian standards? Was procedure
followed? If so, then would no further investigation be necessary? And
what about Evo’s demise in 2019? If Evo Morales stepped down and
Jeanine Añez assumed the presidency through procedures apparently
mandated by Bolivian law, would that be sufficient under international
standards? Should it matter that Evo Morales faced threats to himself and
his family, as did many other high-level MAS authorities? Should it matter
that the military—later rewarded with money and promotions by those who
ousted Morales—“invited” him to leave the country? That Evo offered to
hold new elections, faced with the (subsequently debunked) claim of
institutionalized fraud? Should it matter than Jeanine Añez was not the first,
nor the second, nor even the third in line to assume the presidency? Or that
a cabal of international officials and powerful opposition figures met, in
secret, to designate her to be president?
The so-called human rights community divided on these questions.
Those aligned with powerful Western governments went along with the
electoral fraud narrative promoted by the Organization of American States.
They were able to overlook threats to Morales and leading MAS figures,
intervention by the military, and queue-jumping the line of succession. The
greater good—as they viewed it—of removing Evo from power justified the
fictions on which the “legal” ouster narrative was based.
The story of the Bolivian coup is gripping. It is worth reading on its
own. But understanding the deeper narrative is absolutely vital if we are to
maintain democratic rule anywhere on the planet today. The 2019 coup in
Bolivia has become a blueprint for reactionary forces across the Americas
and the world: Authoritarian forces contend there has been or will be fraud
—a “steal” of an election. They mobilize supporters, through mass and
social media, to take matters into their own hands, to take to the streets or
the halls of power. Political, military, judicial, and other forces must choose
on which side to align. Democratic principles suffer terribly; polarization of
society into camps with parallel and utterly divergent realities ensues.
Sound familiar?
 All these reasons gain greater weight in light of the revelations in mid-
2021 of efforts by states in the region to provide material support (weapons,
munitions, and other gear) that the interim Bolivian regime sought to use
against its own citizens. The Bolivian case revives the specter of illicit
cooperation by military and security forces in the Americas in the 1970s
and ’80s to suppress dissent against the authoritarian governments that
dominated the hemisphere. This cooperation, known as Operation Condor,
began in 1975 and led to widespread, systematic and severe violations of
fundamental rights—thousands of forced disappearances, summary
executions, and wholesale use of torture.
The development and strengthening of the institutions that protect
human rights in the Americas are deeply intertwined with the brutal history
of Operation Condor and of the coordinated efforts by security forces to
eliminate the possibility of refuge for those who dared to oppose
authoritarian rule in any of the collaborating countries. Driven by this ugly
history, transitions to democratic rule over the past four decades have
placed human rights—both domestically and in terms of foreign policy—
front and center.
The decision and action by several states in South America (and perhaps
beyond) to coordinate repressive efforts thus represent profound and
existential threats to human rights. These threats interrupted decades of
consistently professed opposition to state terror, authoritarianism, and
politically targeted human rights abuse. In this sense, the Bolivian case
echoes far beyond its borders. Placed before us are renewed challenges to
the core principle of international cooperation based on respect for human
rights.
Coup is essential reading for three reasons. First, because it is the most
thorough, accurate, and succinct narrative of the events leading up to and
following the overthrow of the government of Bolivian president Evo
Morales. Second, because it provides a deep and contextual understanding
of the factors—many spanning over decades and centuries—that led to the
clashes of social forces and social classes culminating in October and
November 2019. And, finally, because the means by which the coup was
effectuated—under the cloak of democratic discourse—provide essential
lessons about the nature of processes seeking to overturn egalitarian
movements in Latin America (and beyond) in the twenty-first century.
Paulo Abrão and James Cavallaro
 PREFACE

When protestors carried the coffins down from El Alto after the November
2019 massacre in Senkata, I was interviewing women in La Paz’s main
square. By that point, the march had moved further along the road, and the
square was largely filled with women and children protestors who were
avoiding an inevitable confrontation with the cops a few blocks away. Local
vendors had gone back to hawking their wares. Without any warning, the
plaza was filled with tear gas: thick, blinding, choking clouds of the stuff,
the like of which I had never seen. We all raced to get away, and, in the
midst of the fleeing crowd, I didn’t spot the big hole in the pavement. Down
I went. Despite the gas and charging cops, the people around me—who
have mostly never experienced anything decent from people of my class
and skin color—pulled me out, dusted me off, made sure I had my camera
and my wits before we all raced off again. That solidarity—in this case,
action that saved me—is what has always made Bolivia feel like a home to
me.
That solidarity came very much to mind when Thomas Becker called
me in April 2020 to propose we write a book on Bolivia’s November 2019
coup. I was stuck in the United States because of COVID, and my plans and
life had turned upside-down like everyone else’s. The May 4th elections I
was returning to Bolivia to report on and to monitor with a delegation from
the National Lawyers Guild were well on their way to being postponed, and
it looked like we’d all be stuck wherever we landed for the foreseeable
future. After book #3, I had sworn I wouldn’t do another one, but rather
dedicate myself to journalism with hopes of leaving the political fray to one
side for a time. Instead I hoped to write about the marvels of Bolivia’s food
and travel possibilities, albeit within a socially and politically conscious
context.
But the trauma of the November 2019 coup—when I had reported
nonstop for six weeks, at times more terrified than I have ever been—was a
story I knew must be told. I had watched while my mostly male neighbors
explained that they were mounting street barricades in my upper-middle-
class La Paz area to keep the “hordes” (code for Indigenous peoples) at bay.
I had frantically packed a suitcase when the new minister of communication
threatened imprisonment for journalists she deemed subversive, a category I
knew I fit into. I was hurt and horrified when middle-class friends overnight
became former friends as they abandoned left politics and instead
prioritized “democratic” transitions above all other values, unable or
unwilling to recognize their historic class and race position in the conflict. I
had barely avoided weeping when I listened to the tragic tales told in a
packed bare brick church about what working-class and Indigenous
protestors had suffered during the massacre in Senkata. I had seen the
desperation when poor people tugged at my sleeve because no other
reporters were in sight. They were frantic to register their fears that the
racism that had eased during Evo Morales’s fourteen years was returning
full force. Usually a person not prone to tears, I had cried repeatedly during
that month and a half as I watched this beloved country torn apart by
racism, hatred, and intolerance.
That call from Thomas led me to realize that, especially with his help, I
was uniquely positioned to write a book in English about the coup and its
aftermath—with thirty-five years of living between the United States and
Bolivia, close to fifteen of those years in Bolivia, as well as three books on
the country under my belt. So with quarantine stretching out before me for
some unspecified amount of time, I took the plunge, working to tease out
the lessons from the MAS experience and Evo Morales’s ouster. They are
lessons that have resonance for those working for progressive social change
wherever you are in the world. I have long felt that in the north, and
particularly in the current world imperial power, the United States, we buy
too readily into tropes of northern superiority and remain shut off to the
lessons we can learn from the efforts and agency of peoples in the Global
South.
That is the story we seek to bring to life here: the ongoing struggles of
Bolivia’s working-class and Indigenous peoples to create a more just
society. It is a story that has deep roots that are both inspiring and hopeful.
Despite the setbacks, such as the one in November 2019, this small country
in the Andes is on a steady arc toward a more equitable society because of
the enormous efforts and sacrifice of much of its population. It is in the
spirit of that positive change that we offer this story in the hopes that it will
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 CHAPTER IX

For a few minutes the men sat in wondering silence. The very
boldness of the scheme was astounding. Here was a canal carefully
and thoroughly prepared for the sole purpose of transporting stolen
logs and not more than a hundred feet from the river where
steamboats plied up and down and the rightful owner of the logs
passed frequently.
“Some nerve!” Murphy finally exclaimed, expressing the thought
which was uppermost in both their minds.
“Well, we’ve found where they go,” Scott remarked with a sigh of
satisfaction, “but what do you suppose they do with them? Is there
any railroad over that way or any other stream to the coast?”
Murphy shook his head. “Not a trace of one unless they have a
secret one like this canal.”
“I suppose there is no telling how far this goes,” Scott mused, “but
I have a hunch that we better tackle it a little carefully. Any man
with the nerve to steal logs the way this fellow is stealing them
probably would not hesitate at anything. I doubt if he would
welcome a visit from a couple of forest service uniforms.”
Murphy felt for his holster and seemed comforted at finding it
where it belonged. His Irish was rising fast at the prospect of a
possible fight.
“Suppose we paddle slowly up the bayou,” Scott suggested, “and
keep our eyes open. They have been undisturbed so long that I
doubt if they keep any kind of guard and we ought to be able to see
them before they see us.”
 That plan suited Murphy perfectly. He laid his automatic on the
bow of the bateau where it would be handy and paddled ahead.
They went very slowly, sneaking cautiously up to every bend and
stopping frequently to listen. They had covered at least a mile in this
way without seeing any signs which looked suspicious or anything to
indicate that they were getting any closer to their destination. Not a
sound broke the afternoon stillness of the forest.
“Must be selling those logs in Mobile,” Murphy grumbled.
As they poked the bow of the bateau slowly around the next bend
there was a tremendous splashing in the water ahead. Murphy
snatched up his pistol and Scott whisked the bateau back under the
protection of the bank with all his strength. They both looked rather
foolish when a bunch of ducks rose noisily honking and finally made
it out over the treetops some distance ahead of them.
“They were pretty nearly as badly scared as we were, anyway,”
Murphy growled as he resumed his paddle.
Scott estimated that they had come at least four miles from the
river and still there was no sign of logs or life. “Think we’ll have
provisions enough to last us on this trip?” he asked.
The canal had cleared the river swamp now and lay in a narrow
strip of baygall between ridges of pine forest which had been neither
logged nor turpentined. They still talked with hushed voices though
they were apparently miles from anywhere.
“I wonder if this neck connects with the big swamp over west?”
Murphy said. “I have heard about that swamp but have never been
there. They say it is a whale of a big one and runs down within a
very few miles of the coast.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” Scott growled as they paddled slowly along.
“Seems as though it might connect with the Pacific Coast. Pity
Columbus didn’t find it.”
It was getting late in the afternoon when they paused at a bend in
the bayou to listen for the hundredth time. They straightened up
suddenly and looked inquiringly at each other. The faint but
unmistakable whine of a sawmill sounded plaintively from
somewhere far ahead of them. The light of triumph was in their eyes
now, but they were too excited to talk. Without a word they both
bent to their work and paddled eagerly forward. The country on
either side was more open now, and there was less chance of their
running into any one unexpectedly. Every time they stopped to listen
the whine of the saw was more distinct. It seemed too good to be
true and they had to listen often to assure themselves that they
were not dreaming.
At last they could see the smoke through the trees and finally
reached a point where they could make out the hazy outlines of the
camp. It was the crudest kind of an outfit. A small portable mill sat
out in the open without the protection of even so much as a shed-
roof, and scattered about it were three miserable cabins—mere
board shacks. Only one little pile of lumber was in sight. They sat for
a few minutes and gazed at it in silence.
“Well,” Scott remarked, “there she is. The next question is, how
are we going to get close enough to identify our lumber without
getting shot?”
Murphy’s Irish blood was boiling. He had been looking for those
timber thieves for two years, and now that they were in sight he was
for stalking in on them and arresting them.
“Rush ’em!” he exclaimed angrily. “Rush right in on them. Take
them by surprise and we can arrest the whole outfit easy.”
“It might be possible, all right,” Scott replied, weighing the
possibilities, “but it seems to me doubtful. We have only one gun.
There are six of those fellows in sight and probably more in the
cabins. If they were all in one bunch we might stand a show, but
while we were covering the ones there at the mill it would be a cinch
for any one in the cabin to pot us.”
Murphy had to admit the truth of that, but he was in favor of
trying it anyway. “What are you going to do then?” he asked
peevishly when Scott shook his head in disapproval of the scheme.
“Not going to run home and let them get away?”
 “No reason why they should run away when they do not know
that we have found them. But I was not thinking of running away.
My plan is to reconnoiter the place as closely as we can, find out
how many men there are here, identify our logs, and possibly close
in on them at night. We haven’t any warrant for them, and probably
they are not the fellows who are stealing the stuff. They are only
hired men and if we arrest them the real thieves who are
engineering the job at a safe distance may get wind of it and get
away. No, I think we better just hang around here and keep out of
sight till we can find out who is running this outfit. Then we can nail
him and we’ll have something worth while.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Murphy admitted, cooling off a little. “It
would be too bad to lose the main guy after all. Best thing we can
do is to take to the brush here and wait till dark. Can’t be over half
an hour now.”
They tore their eyes from the mill and turned to examine the near-
by brush for a good hiding place. “There is a good thick clump over
there,” Scott said, pointing to a clump a little way ahead of them,
“where we can hide the bateau and ourselves, too. It’s——”
The words died on his lips and his eyes almost popped out of his
head. In that very clump of brush there were a pair of big eyes as
round as his own and fixed full upon him. Blue, frightened eyes they
were, and they no sooner found that they were observed than they
disappeared like a flash. Scott shot the bateau forward to have a
close look and was just in time to see a very small boy minus any
clothes at all streaking it through the brush toward the camp as
though his life depended on it—and he probably thought that it did.
He had evidently been swimming in the bayou and had been cut off
from his clothes by their approach.
“Now we are in for it!” Scott exclaimed, as he pointed out the
flying figure to Murphy.
“Where did he come from?” Murphy asked, frowning.
“Out of that clump of brush right there in front of us. I just
happened to see his eyes. It is a good thing we were talking in
whispers or the little rascal would have overheard every word that
we said.”
“Probably heard every word of it anyway,” Murphy growled. “Now
they’ll be down here to investigate. Shall we wait for them or go to
meet them?” The idea of retreating never so much as entered
Murphy’s head.
Scott had other plans. “Maybe if we can get out of here without
being seen or leaving any trace behind us, hide the bateau in one of
these brush piles and hide ourselves they will not find us and will
think that the kid was lying. He was not very large, you know, and
they would not put much faith in his story.”
The plan did not appeal to Murphy. He was getting mad again and
wanted to fight. “What’ll we gain by that? Why not stay here and
scrap it out?”
“Because we are trying to find out a little something about this
thing without being seen ourselves,” Scott retorted a little sharply.
“Stir them up now and the whole gang may get away before we can
do anything with them.”
“I’ll bet I could stop two or three of them,” Murphy growled.
“We’ll land on that clump of grass there on the left where we will
not leave any footprints and get the bateau out of the water,” Scott
said firmly.
Murphy obeyed in silence. It was easy to see that he did not
approve, but he obeyed. Keeping the clump of brush in which the
boy had been hiding between them and the camp, they landed on a
bunch of roots and lifted the bateau bodily from the water. They
made their way carefully to a large brush pile back some fifty feet
from the edge of the bayou. There they carefully hid the boat and
concealed themselves. “It will be dark in about ten minutes,” Scott
whispered. “If they don’t find us pretty quick they will not have
much chance of seeing us.”
“Dark don’t bother one of those infernal hounds much,” Murphy
grumbled. “They’ll find us easy enough and pull us out of here like a
couple of rats.”
 A lump popped up into Scott’s throat so hard that it almost choked
him. The thought of the keen-nosed hounds with which almost every
southern camp is infested had never occurred to him, but he tried to
put a bold face on it. “Well, we’ll have to take a chance on that. We
can fight if we have to, but we won’t unless we do.”
He was conscious that Murphy was eyeing him curiously with a
trace of contempt and he knew that he was being suspected of
cowardice, but his judgment told him that his was the wiser plan and
he stuck to it, hard as it was.
They had not much more than covered up their tracks and settled
down to watch developments when they saw a man riding leisurely
from the direction of the camp. He was trying to look unconcerned,
but he rode directly toward the clump of bushes where the boy had
been hiding. They were both rejoiced to see that the almost
inevitable hound was lacking so far, and they were not a little
relieved that the rider was on the other side of the canal. He wore
the usual overalls, cotton shirt and old felt hat, and was a total
stranger to both of them. An old thirty-thirty Winchester was
balanced carelessly across the horn of his saddle.
He drew rein on the opposite side of the canal, glanced at the
clothes which the boy had left, and ran his eye carefully along the
banks in both directions as far as he could see. Evidently it had not
occurred to him that the bateau might have been taken out of the
water, for his examination was too rapid to take account of anything
as inconspicuous as footprints. Without any apparent suspicion he
turned toward the river and rode rapidly away down the tow path
and out of sight.
“If he keeps that gait up long it will be dark before he gets back,”
Scott chuckled.
Evidently the boy had been keeping pretty close watch on the
man. The horseman had hardly disappeared from view when the boy
came running toward the canal. He moved more cautiously as he
approached the clump of bushes and stopped to examine them
minutely. Satisfied that there was nothing there he pounced on his
clothes and proceeded to change them for the old pair of his father’s
overalls which he had on. His curiosity was not so easily satisfied as
the man’s. He examined the shore foot by foot to see if the boat had
landed, scanned the surrounding country suspiciously every now and
then, and once glanced curiously across at the brush pile which
concealed the spies. Finally he, too, trailed away down the bank of
the canal.
Already the sun had begun to dip below the treetops on the
horizon, but it seemed to Scott as though it must have stuck there.
Instead of the sudden darkness which usually came with the setting
of the sun in that country, the twilight held on and on. They both
heaved a sigh of relief when the rim of the sun finally disappeared
behind the trees and the dusk settled rapidly over the forest.
“What do you suppose they will think when they don’t find
anything?” Murphy grinned.
“Probably lick the kid for ‘seeing things’ and let it go at that,” Scott
chuckled.
“I hope he has a reputation already as a fluent liar. That would
help some. Well, what is the big idea now?”
They were still talking in whispers for they did not know how close
the boy or some of the other searchers might be and voices carry far
in the evening stillness of the forest. They could clearly hear the
voices at the mill an eighth of a mile away. Scott had been thinking
hard of his plan ever since they had crawled into their hiding place
and was ready with his answer to Murphy’s question.
“I think that we better stay here for a while till that fellow comes
back home. Then he will not be so likely to run up on us from
behind. When things have settled down over there we can scout
around and see how they get the lumber out of this place, and, if
possible, where they take it. They would not dare take it back out
and down the river. Possibly we can even get close enough to some
of those logs to see if they have your mark on them. Unless you can
suggest some better plan.”
 Murphy did not have any objections to make. There was nothing
in it which suggested running away, and there was some promise of
excitement in putting it through. They sat for a while in silence
listening for the return of the horseman and the boy. It was almost
an hour before they heard voices on the tow path below. It was the
man on horseback and the boy half walking and half trotting beside
him. They caught enough of the conversation to reassure them. As
the pair reached the place where the boy had been swimming the
man’s voice asked jeeringly, “Don’t see an elephant or a
hippopotamus in them bushes now, do you?”
The boy was protesting vehemently with all the breath his rapid
pace had left him. They were soon gone, but that little scrap of
conversation was as good as a promise that they would go straight
home and to bed.
But they did not wait for them to go to bed. Scott was satisfied
that there was no other searching party out and that no one would
be sneaking up behind them. They heard the people laughing over
at the camp and knew that the boy was being teased about the
horrible apparitions he had seen.
 CHAPTER X

“Well,” Scott whispered to Murphy, “let’s get out of here and see
what we can find.”
Murphy was ready enough to move and perfectly willing to tackle
the whole camp single-handed if necessary, but he was surprised
that Scott did not want to wait till the camp was asleep, since he had
already taken such precautions to avoid detection. “Think they have
settled down yet?” he asked, as they crawled out of the brush.
“No, but I thought we might cut a circle around here and maybe
find out how they get the lumber out of here. We can sneak in and
look over the mill and the logs later on if we get a chance.”
They took a good look at the location of the pile of brush so that
they would be able to locate it again, and started off through the
woods to the southward. They moved cautiously so that they would
not make any noise, and would be able to hear any one else who
might be traveling the woods that night. The sky was clear and they
could see fairly well. Before they had gone very far they sighted a
road a short distance ahead. When they reached it they were very
much surprised to find that it was a railroad. The rails were wooden
“two-by-fours” and the ties were slabs from the mill, but it was a
railroad just the same. They stood and gazed at it a moment in
silent wonder.
“A railroad!” Murphy exclaimed softly. “You’ve got to admire their
nerve whatever you may think of their honesty. Wouldn’t that beat
you?”
“Imagine building a railroad to haul off stolen goods and getting
away with it for over two years right here within a few miles of
town.”
“If they had built a steam railroad and a bigger mill no one would
ever have found it,” Murphy growled sarcastically. “It’s always the
little fellows who get caught. If they had just stolen a loaf of bread
or a yeast cake they would have been caught long ago.”
“Let’s follow it up and see where it goes,” Scott suggested, turning
down the track toward the south.
They walked in silence for some time, pondering over the gigantic
scale on which this fraud was being conducted. There certainly must
be some clever men at the bottom of it. They had covered about
two miles when the moon peeped over the trees and they
discovered a big swamp looming up ahead of them—a great black
mass of dense undergrowth barring their way like a wall.
“Must have been some job to put this railroad through that swamp
if it is anywhere near as big as it looks,” Murphy remarked. “Jesse
James was little more than a piker compared with this bunch.”
The vegetation in the swamp was so dense that it seemed almost
like going into a tunnel. Gradually their eyes became used to the
darkness and they could see a little better. A small opening in the
trees ahead let in the moonlight and Murphy started forward with an
exclamation of astonishment. They were on a solid dirt embankment
built up there three feet at least above the level of the swamp and
ditched deep on either side.
“No half-way measures for them!” Scott exclaimed. “They must
have expected to keep this up for a good many years to make all
this worth while.”
A sudden inspiration had come to Murphy. He was down in the
ditch studying the sides of the old dirt embankment. After a careful
examination he started up with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Now I know where I am!” he exclaimed, “or rather where I am
going.”
Scott looked at him inquiringly. He had not seen anything which
meant anything to him. He waited impatiently for an explanation.
 “These people did not build this embankment,” Murphy explained.
“It’s as old as the hills. It is one of the first railroad embankments
ever built in the United States if it is what I think it is.”
Scott smiled a little incredulously. He had never heard of a railroad
in Florida at a very early date, especially in that part of it, and he
thought that he knew his history pretty well. Murphy was too
interested in what he had found to notice him.
“I have never seen the thing before but I have heard of it often. It
ran from Weewahitchka up on the river to the town of St. Joseph
down on the gulf. It was built with wooden rails just like this and the
cars were pulled by niggers instead of an engine.”
“What was it for?” Scott asked.
“To get the cotton from the back country down to the coast.”
“But why didn’t they take it down through the river instead of
hauling it down through this big swamp on this expensive fill?”
“Because there was no deep water harbor at the mouth of the
river and St. Joseph had one of the best harbors east of Pensacola.”
“Never heard of it,” Scott retorted. It sounded like an improbable
story, and he thought that Murphy must be trying to string him.
“That may be, too. There isn’t any town there now, but at one
time it was the second largest cotton shipping port in the United
States.”
“Seems rather strange that it should have been so very important
and then have disappeared so completely,” Scott protested.
“It was just about wiped out by cholera and yellow fever in 1841.
About that time the real railroads began hauling the cotton to other
ports on the Atlantic coast and they never rebuilt the old town. They
moved most of the frame houses away to other towns on the Gulf
and the brick ones went to pieces.”
“Sounds interesting,” Scott said, finally convinced that Murphy was
at least trying to tell the truth about it. “Now I suppose they are
hauling their lumber down over this same right-of-way and loading it
on boats in that fine harbor.”
 “That’s my guess,” Murphy replied. “This old railroad embankment
probably suggested it to them.”
“Well, let’s follow it up and see for ourselves,” Scott suggested.
They walked rapidly now, for there did not seem to be much
chance of meeting any one out there in the swamp. Every now and
then the cat owls back in the shadows of the moss-covered cypress
trees burst forth into series of weird, unearthly shrieks which made
their blood run cold. It sounded to the boys as though two or three
women were being murdered at once.
“Gee whiz!” Scott exclaimed, as he ducked vigorously at an
unusually explosive screech which seemed to come from directly
overhead, “this would be a fine place for a fellow who believed in
ghosts. I wonder whether they do their hauling at night or in the
daytime?”
“Probably in the daytime if they have nigger labor. They could
never get a nigger into this swamp at night, and besides, there are
not half a dozen people a year who ever come into this country. A
deer hunter now and then; nobody else.”
They had made their way through the swamp for about three
miles when the darkness of the swamp gave way to the moonlight of
an open pine ridge. It was quite a relief to come out of that gloom
and they breathed more freely in the open.
“What’s that?” Murphy exclaimed, suddenly crossing himself and
pointing excitedly off into the forest. He was actually trembling.
The sudden exclamation startled Scott. The cat owls had given
him the jumps. He followed the direction of Murphy’s gesture and
saw a tall white form apparently rising from the palmetto scrub a
short distance to one side of the right-of-way. It was an uncanny
sight and he shivered in spite of himself.
“Let’s go see,” he whispered with a good deal more confidence
than he really felt. They had been whispering again ever since they
had entered the swamp.
Murphy hesitated an instant, but followed him closely. They picked
their way cautiously through the brush, making as little noise as
possible. They were within thirty yards of the hazy white form which
seemed now to be sinking stealthily down into the scrub as they
approached. Scott could not make it out. He heard the faint click of
the safety lock on Murphy’s Luger. His attention was fixed so intently
on the crouching figure that he forgot his feet. The next instant he
stepped in a hole and fell sprawling.
He jumped to his feet half expecting to find the mysterious figure
ready to spring at his throat. It had not moved. He glanced at a stick
he had picked up when he fell and dropped it in dismay. He stared at
it horrified for an instant. It was a human bone. He relaxed with a
nervous laugh. He saw that he had stepped into a grave, the brick
top of which had fallen in and exposed its gruesome treasure. When
he realized what it was he had no difficulty in recognizing the ghost
as a tombstone. Its apparent movement was caused by the shadow
of a palm leaf which was waving gently before it in the breeze. It
was such a relief that he laughed aloud.
He laid his hand on Murphy’s arm and was surprised to find him
trembling violently. Another screech from the cat owls started him
pattering a prayer. Murphy was willing and ready to fight anything
human at any time regardless of size or weight, but he was
superstitious, and the combination of cat owls and graveyard had
upset his nerves completely.
Scott could not help but recall the contemptuous look which
Murphy had given him back in the boat and he was strongly tempted
to remind Murphy now that there was nothing there for a man to be
afraid of, but he needed Murphy’s help and did not risk making him
angry. However, he enjoyed the joke just the same when Murphy
growled, “Let’s get out of here!” and beat an almost precipitous
retreat to the railroad track.
Just as they were about to step out on to the open track they
stopped and stood as rigid as the trees about them—for a voice had
called in impatient tones from no great distance, “Hello, is that you,
Bud?”
 CHAPTER XI

Scott was thinking fast. He had to decide on a course of action

and that quickly. Should they try to hide or should they meet this
man and trust to his being a stranger? The voice was too close to
give them much chance to hide and the owner of it was probably a
good woodsman, thoroughly familiar with the country. On the other
hand, this man could not have received any notice from the mill and
would have no reason to suspect them. He decided to go ahead; he
might learn something from this stranger.
He stepped out into the track and walked slowly forward with
Murphy at his elbow. They had not gone a dozen paces when they
saw two men coming out of the woods on to the track only a short
distance ahead of them.
“Thought I heard you over there in the brush,” one of the men
explained. “You were so late comin’ that we started out to meet
you.”
By this time the man was close enough to recognize his mistake
even in that uncertain light. He stopped short and eyed them
suspiciously.
“Thought you was some one else,” he growled. “Where might you
be from, stranger?”
Scott evaded the question. “We did not know where we were
when we ran on to this track. Where does it go?”
“Where you all trying to get to?” the man countered.
“Old St. Joseph town,” Scott said, remembering what Murphy had
told him about the terminus of the railroad.
 The man still eyed him curiously. “Ain’t no town there now,” he
said.
“I know there isn’t,” Scott replied. “We just wanted to size up the
harbor. Do you live here?”
“Campin’ here,” the man said, “huntin’.”
“This old railroad go there?” Scott asked.
The man hesitated a moment. “Goes to where the town used to
be,” he said reluctantly. “Reckon we’ll walk back with you. Man we
were lookin’ fer don’t seem to be comin’.”
“Where was he coming from? I didn’t know anybody ever came
out this way.” The other fellow was asking so many questions that
Scott felt justified in asking a good many himself.
“Been out huntin’,” the man replied. “Good many deer out this
way.”
They moved forward and the two men moved with them. “What’s
the railroad for in this wilderness?” Scott asked.
Again the man hesitated so long that Scott thought he was not
going to answer at all. He could hardly have helped hearing him.
“Mill cuttin’ up the line haulin’ lumber down to the harbor,” he
finally answered, as though he had weighed all the possibilities and
decided to try the truth.
“Must be a pretty big outfit to afford a railroad like this,” Scott
continued.
“Reckon it is,” the man replied after another pause. He was
evidently giving careful thought to his answers.
“Are they located on the river?” Scott asked.
“No,” the man answered promptly, “they are nowhere near the
river.” He did not seem to notice that he had practically denied any
knowledge of the mill in his previous answer. Scott smiled to himself.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Scott knew they must
recognize their Forest Service uniforms when they came to the camp
fire, even if they had not already done so, and he was trying to think
of some way of accounting for them without arousing suspicion. He
finally hit upon a plan which he thought might work.
“We tried to get a boat over from Pensacola,” he said, “but could
not find any. So we came over on the train and tried to make it cross
country. There did not seem to be any direct way of getting here.”
He thought that he could see the man relax a little as though
relieved by the information.
“Yonder is our camp fire,” the man said, with a shade of cordiality
creeping into his voice. “Better come over and have a cup of coffee.”
Scott knew that they were playing with fire, but he did not see any
way out of it. They had neither tents nor provisions with them and
were counting on getting back to the bateau and out of the country
before morning. He decided to accept the invitation in the hope that
he could think up later an excuse for getting away.
“Thanks,” he said, “we’ll sit down for a minute anyway. Walking
through this sand is pretty tiresome business.”
The camp fire had burned pretty low but the man tossed on a few
pieces of light wood and it immediately flared like a torch. Scott
looked curiously around for the tent but there did not seem to be
any. It did not seem reasonable that they should be camped there
without some means of shelter in a country where rain might be
expected any time. The gentle plashing of small waves told him that
they were close to the beach of the harbor. Murphy and his
companion had observed a complete silence. Each was afraid to talk
for fear he would spoil the fairy tale which he knew his friend was
building up. But Murphy had been using his eyes and he asked a
question now to call Scott’s attention to something which he might
not have seen.
“What’s the light out there on the water?”
Scott looked toward the sound of the lapping water and saw a
light—the dim light of a lantern—bobbing gently up and down some
distance away. He looked inquiringly at the stranger.
“Schooner waiting for lumber, I reckon. She dropped in there this
afternoon,” he answered carelessly.
 This gave Scott a new idea. He thought that it probably accounted
for the men not having any tent. They had come in on the schooner
and were expecting some one from the sawmill to meet them. It
was not a pleasant discovery to make. He had thought that they had
been lucky in meeting these men and getting so much information
from them. Now he knew that it was little short of a calamity. Some
one might drop in from the mill at any minute now with the story of
the scare they had had up there that afternoon and it would not
take them long to add two and two together. Their story about
coming from Pensacola would be immediately discredited and they
would be definitely identified as officers from the National Forest.
Not only that, but these fellows would know that they had seen the
mill, had come up the canal from the river, and had learned of the
source of the logs. It was only a question now of how far these men
would go in their own defense and to protect their future business.
From the looks of the men Scott thought they would stop at nothing.
“Ought to make a pretty cheap operation for them,” he remarked.
He spoke as carelessly as he could, but he kept one ear turned
toward the railroad track and listened with all his might. He accepted
a cup of coffee and racked his brain while he drank for some excuse
to get away from them, and yet he did not want to go till he had
found out who the men were who were running that mill. He wanted
a chance to talk to Murphy to see if he had recognized any one
connected with it. He glanced out toward the light in the harbor and
was surprised to find that it had disappeared. Then he noticed that a
fog had come in off the water while they had been sitting there and
had shut from view everything more than twenty feet away. Scott
was rather pleased to see this, as it might give them a better chance
to get away in case there was any necessity for it.
The two men seemed to be content to leave things as they were.
They seemed to want their guests to think that they were no longer
suspicious of them, but Scott noticed that they watched them very
closely and seemed to be listening as intently as he for the approach
of some one from the direction of the sawmill. Slowly another and
unexpected sound worked its way into his consciousness. It came
from the direction of the light he had seen in the harbor and was
undoubtedly the squeak of some rusty oarlocks. It had never
occurred to him that there might be other men on board the
schooner and that they might come ashore. The odds were piling up
against them. He glanced at Murphy and saw that he, too, had
heard it.
If he could have caught Murphy’s eye just then he would have
made a dash for it and trusted to the fog to get away. Even while he
thought of it the boat grated on the beach. Possibly these men
would go down to meet their friends.
“Ready to go out, Jack?” a voice called from the water’s edge.
Neither of the men answered at once. Then the one who had
been talking to Scott spoke up quietly: “Not yet, come on over to the
fire.”
Scott knew now that they were virtually prisoners. These men
intended to keep them right where they were till the messenger or
whoever it was came from the mill and helped them to decide
whether it was safe to turn them loose after what they had found
out. He knew very well what the decision would be, but there was
no way out of it now. They could fight about as well one time as
another and he decided to stay and see what would happen. It
would at least give them a chance to identify some one from the mill
and possibly learn something more about this mysterious crew.
Murphy evidently thought that the time for action had arrived or
was rapidly approaching. He kept Scott in the corner of his eye all
the time now to catch any possible signal and toyed absent-mindedly
with the flap of his holster. The man beside him was watching his
every motion with his own rifle resting conveniently across his knees
and his fingers toying with the trigger guard. It was evidently a case
of armed truce all around.
They could hear the other men approaching through the wire
grass and they soon stepped out into the firelight. There they
stopped and gazed curiously at the unexpected guests. Then they
looked inquiringly at the man called Jack.
 “Couple of fellows from Pensacola,” he explained, “who have come
over here to inspect the harbor. They was lost up here on the right-
of-way when we found ’em.”
Scott nodded as pleasantly as he could in acknowledgment of the
introduction, but Murphy only stared at them sullenly. The two
newcomers took their places around the fire and they all sat in
silence—waiting. The fog had thickened about them till they could
see nothing outside the immediate circle of the firelight; the call of
the cat owls still came to them faintly from the distant swamp and
the waves lapped on the beach with a melancholy monotony which
was getting on Scott’s nerves. He was beginning to wish that
something would happen just to break the tension.
Then it came. There was a crunching of heavy boots in the sand
and a figure loomed suddenly up out of the fog close on them. He
was evidently somewhat dazzled by the firelight and did not notice
that there were strangers present.
“Couldn’t make it any sooner, boys,” he apologized. “One of the
cars got off the track and we had to unload the lumber to get back
on, but they are started now and will be here before long.”
Scott had recognized him the instant he spoke as the
superintendent of the turpentine camp.
 CHAPTER XII

For a minute which seemed like an hour Scott stared at Roberts

with every nerve on edge and every muscle tense. He had not the
least idea what would happen when they were recognized, but he
felt pretty sure that something would happen and he was prepared
for any emergency. Murphy also was watching him keenly. He had
not liked Scott’s caution in hiding up there at the camp or his failure
to attack these two men when they first met them up on the
railroad. He had recognized that they were virtually prisoners when
these men had started to lead them back to their camp and he had
wanted to fight then, but he had not wanted to cross Scott’s plans.
Now he had decided that he would wait no longer. If he saw a good
opportunity he was going to try to fight his way out. He did not
expect to get very much help in that line from Scott. He recognized
his ability in many things, but he did not consider that fighting was
one of his accomplishments.
In a moment Roberts’ eyes had become accustomed to the light
and the next instant he recognized Scott. His lip curled in a malicious
sneer and his hand stole up toward the holster on his belt. He
glanced from Scott to Murphy.
“So the kid was right,” he snarled. “He said there were a couple of
sneaks in the canal this afternoon and we all thought that he was
dreaming.”
“Seems to me you are quite a ways from home yourself, Mr.
Roberts,” Scott remarked quietly. He saw they were in for it now and
he thought that he might as well anger Roberts to see what he
would say. He also watched him keenly to see what he would do. He
remembered the frog he had seen this man shoot at the turpentine
camp and he did not want to give him too good an opportunity to
display his skill now.
Roberts glared at him with a fierce hatred which he did not try to
disguise. “Not so far away from home as you will go when you leave
here,” he hissed.
“You don’t seem to be as glad to see visitors here as you do at the
turpentine camp,” Scott mocked. “It must have spoiled your temper
to have to work so hard reloading that stolen lumber.”
Murphy saw the blood surge through the swollen veins of Roberts’
neck and saw his hand spring convulsively toward his automatic. He
saw the time for action had come and gathered himself for a spring.
But Scott was ahead of him. He had long ago prepared himself for
just such a situation. He shot from the ground as though he had
been sitting on a spring. Just as Roberts had drawn his revolver from
its holster Scott struck him a tremendous blow on the point of the
chin and knocked him sprawling. He had struck blows like that
before and knew that there was no need to waste any more time on
Roberts who would not be in a condition to do any damage for some
time to come, so he turned his attention to the man beside him who
had been doing all the talking before Roberts came.
The attack on Roberts had been so sudden and unexpected that it
had somewhat dazed the rest of the party. Murphy had been so
astonished by Scott’s sudden action that he had lost a valuable
instant and in that instant the man beside him had hurled himself
upon him bearing him to the ground.
“Go for ’em, Murphy,” Scott shouted, as he turned to the second
man who was scrambling to his feet with his rifle in his hand. But
the man never had a chance to use the rifle. Just as he straightened
up Scott caught him with an upper cut that sent him spinning. His
rifle fell at his feet. Scott saw the other two men of the crew rushing
upon him. He waited till the last instant as though he was watching
the man on the ground and then side-stepped the first of the two
with the agility of a cat, tripped him as he went past and met the
second one with a terrific blow between the eyes, and followed it
with a right swing which felled him like an ox. The man Scott had
tripped had picked himself up now and was returning to the fight
with renewed fury.
There was no time to lose. Scott dropped suddenly on the rifle at
his feet and let the man trip over him again. Then grasping the rifle
by the end of the barrel he ran to Murphy’s assistance. He saw the
gleam of a knife in the firelight and it almost sickened him. He
swung wildly with the butt of the rifle and struck the man’s wrist,
sending the knife flying. The rifle swung on through a second circle
and came down on the man’s neck with a sickening thud.
Murphy was unhurt and furious. He sprang to his feet and tore at
the only remaining one of the crew who was rushing at Scott once
more, armed with a stick of firewood. Maddened by the knowledge
that he had been blocked out of the fight by a man half his size and
largely by his own fault because he had allowed that man to get the
jump on him, Murphy paid no more attention to the club which the
man had than if it had been a straw. He brushed it aside and literally
bore the man to the earth under the fury of his onslaught. He was
proceeding to pound him in true Irish fashion when Scott interfered.
“Let him go, Murphy!” he shouted. “Grab Roberts’ revolver and
come ahead. We’ve got to get out of here, there is no telling how
soon those fellows may come from the mill with that lumber.” He
snatched up the other rifle and started down the beach.
A little time before Murphy might have accused Scott of cowardice
for running away from the fighting field in this way, but he had no
such notion now. He obediently left the man whom he had been
pounding with such satisfaction, caught up the automatic from the
ground beside Roberts and joined Scott. Except when Scott had
spoken and a single roar of rage from Murphy when the man had
unexpectedly thrown himself upon him, they had fought in utter
silence.
Loaded down with their captured arms, they hurried along the
beach toward the east. Looking back they could see some crumpled
figures beginning to move painfully about the fire. They had not