might pass him without recognition. If they didn’t, he would shoot Steinbaum and put a bullet into a tire. There would be no half measures. Suarez and his ally had declared war on him to the death, and war they would have without stint or quarter.
It was a ticklish moment when the fast-running car drew near. Maseden affected to bend over and examine the horse’s fore action, as though he suspected lameness or a loose shoe. He gave one swift underlook into the limousine as it sped by and fancied he saw Porilla, seated with his back to the engine, bending forward.
That was all. The car raced on and was speedily lost in a dust-cloud.
So far, so good. He was dodging peril in the hairbreadth fashion popularly ascribed to warriors on a stricken field. Yet his mount was hardly in a canter again before he was plunged without warning into the most ticklish dilemma of all.
Steinbaum’s car had just turned to the left, where the road bifurcated a few hundred yards ahead, when another car came flying down the other road – that which the fugitive himself must take for nearly half a mile; and this second menace harbored no less a personage than Don Enrico Suarez, president of the Republic of San Juan!
It was an open car, too, and the president was seated alone in the tonneau.
Maseden jumped to the instant conclusion that his enemy was hurrying to witness his execution, probably to jeer at him for having ventured to cross the predestined path of a conqueror. But, even though he passed, Suarez would know that the gaily bedizened horseman was not his glittering aide-de-camp.
To permit the president to reach the Castle meant the beginning of an irresistible pursuit within five minutes. However, that consideration did not bother the Vermonter if for no better reason than that he was determined it should not come into play.
He smiled thoughtfully, adjusted the helmet once more, and voiced his sentiments aloud.
“Good!” he said. “This time, Enrico, you and I square accounts!”
Pulling up, he took the middle of the road, wheeling the horse “half left,” and holding up his right hand. The chauffeur saw him, slackened speed, and finally halted within a distance of a few feet. From first to last, the man regarded the newcomer as being Captain Gomez. The wind-screen was up, and the roads were dust-laden, so he could not see with absolute accuracy. Moreover, events followed each other so rapidly that he was given no chance to correct an erroneous first impression.
The car being stopped, Maseden moved on, passing by the left. Drawing the revolver, he fired at the front right-hand tire at such close range that it was impossible to miss. The reports of the weapon and the bursting tube were simultaneous.
The next shot would have lodged in the president’s heart if the startled horse had not swerved. As it was, quite a nasty hole was torn in the presidential anatomy; Suarez, himself fumbling for an automatic pistol, sank back in the tonneau a severely if not mortally wounded man.
For one fateful instant, the eyes of the two had met and clashed, and recognition was mutual.
A third bullet plowed through the back right-hand tire, and Maseden galloped off, the horse being only too eager to get away from the racket.
The American did not look behind to ascertain what the chauffeur was doing. It really did not matter a great deal. Speed and direction were the paramount conditions during the next fifty minutes. The die was cast now beyond all hope of revocation. He was at war with the Republic, and, although he had rendered its citizens a valuable service in shooting their rascally president, they might not regard the incident in its proper light until a period far too late to benefit the philanthropist.
As a matter of fact, interesting historically and otherwise, the chauffeur was convinced that Captain Ferdinando Gomez had assassinated his master, and said so, with many oaths, when he summoned assistance from a neighboring house. It may also be placed on record here that about the same time the gallant aide-de-camp had come to suspect that his beautiful uniform, if not returned promptly, might be sadly smirched by a score of bullets, with accessories; and was kicking up a fearful row because no one could get at the jailer and rescue that gala costume before the prisoner was led forth to execution.
In a word, the Republic’s presidential affairs were greatly mixed, and remained in inextricable confusion until long after Maseden drew rein on a blown horse at the gate of his own estancia.
The ranch, known as Los Andes, and one of the finest estates in San Juan, provided the original bone of contention between Maseden and Suarez. It had been built up, during thirty lazy years, by a distant cousin of Suarez, an elderly bachelor, who grew coffee and maize, and reared stock in a haphazard way.
Seven years earlier he had met the young American in New York, took a liking to him, and offered to employ him as overseer while teaching him the business. The pupil soon became the instructor. Scientific methods were introduced, direct markets were tapped, and the produce of the estate was quadrupled within a few seasons.
Then the older man died, and left the ranch and its contents to his assistant. There was not much money – the capital was sunk in stock and improvement – so a number of free and independent burghers of Cartagena received smaller amounts than they expected.
Suarez was one of the beneficiaries, seven in all. Six took the situation calmly. He alone was irreconcilable, and blustered about legal proceedings, only desisting when persuaded that he had no case, even for the venal courts of San Juan.
And now, on that sultry January morning, the lawful owner of the Los Andes ranch, while awaiting the appearance of a peon, who, he knew, was tending some cattle in a byre behind the lodge, was wondering whether or not he might urge a tired charger into a final canter to the door of his own house without bringing about a pitched battle when he arrived there.
At last came Pedro – every second man in South America is named after the chief of the Apostles – a brown, lithe, Indian-looking person. But he was Spanish enough in the expression of his emotions.
“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he cried joyously, after a first stare of incredulity, for the eyes rolled in his head at sight of Maseden’s garb, “it is not true, then, master, that you are a prisoner!”
“Who says that I am?” inquired Maseden.
“They say it up there at the estancia, señor,” and Pedro jerked a thumb towards an avenue of mahogany trees.
“They say? Who say?”
Pedro was scared, but Maseden had taught his helpers to answer truthfully.
“Old Lopez said it, señor. He told me the president’s men had charged him to touch nothing till they returned.”
Maseden’s heart throbbed more furiously at that reply than at aught which had befallen him during the few pregnant hours since dawn.
“Those rascals have gone, then?” he said, so placidly that the peon was bewildered.
“Si, señor. Did they not go with you?”
“Yes. I was not sure of all… Close and lock the gate, Pedro. Leave other things. Saddle your mustang and mount guard at the bend in the avenue, from which you can watch the Cartagena road. If you see horses, or an automobile, coming this way, ride to the house and tell me.”
“Si, señor.”
Pedro hurried off. Maseden rode on at the best pace the spent horse was capable of. He might lose a potential fortune
