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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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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

F
OR 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.
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