style="font-size:15px;"> He had never realized how dear life was at twenty-eight until that morning. Hitherto he had given no thought to it. Now he wanted to live till he was eighty!
CHAPTER III
ADIOS, SAN JUAN
Suarez was not dead. He was not even dangerously wounded. A two-ounce bullet had dealt an upper left rib a blow like the kick of a horse, but at such an angle that the bone deflected its flight. Consequently, a fractured sternal costa, loss of blood, and a most painful flesh wound formed for Suarez the collective outcome of Maseden’s disturbed aiming.
In effect, the president regained consciousness about the time Captain Gomez had succeeded in persuading several members of the new government that it was not he, but an escaped prisoner, who had so grievously maltreated the head of the Republic.
A doctor announced that Señor Suarez must be given complete rest and freedom from public affairs during the ensuing week or ten days. Even the wrathful president himself, after making known the true identity of his assailant, felt that he had no option other than placing the affairs of the nation temporarily in the hands of his associates.
He made the best of an awkward situation, therefore, and issued a vainglorious decree announcing the change.
Now, even San Juan could not provide a second revolution within twelve hours. States, like human beings, can experience a surfeit of excitement; moreover, the next gang of office-seekers had not yet emerged from the welter of parties. Sometimes, too, in South America, a disabled president is preferable to an active one, because the heads of departments can do a little pilfering on their own account.
So San Juan became virtuously indignant over the “attempted assassination” of that renowned “liberator,” Enrico Suarez. A hue and cry was raised for the scoundrelly American, several supporters of real law and order in the State were arrested, and cavalry and police rode forth on Maseden’s trail.
This planning and scheming and explaining consumed valuable time, however. It was high noon when a party of horsemen, headed by a well-informed guide, in the person of the ranch superintendent, “old” Lopez, tore along the avenue of mahogany trees at Los Andes.
Lopez, a wizened, shrewd, and sufficiently trustworthy half-breed, was not betraying his employer. He was merely carrying out explicit instructions. Maseden had no desire to place his faithful servants in the power of the Cartagena harpies. He was literally fighting for his life now. He meant to meet violence with greater violence, guile with deeper guile.
When a Covenanter buckles on the sword, let professional swashbucklers take heed; when an honest man plots, let rogues beware. A clear-headed American, armed against oppression, can be at once a most lusty warrior and the astutest of strategists.
“It is the unexpected that happens,” said Disraeli in one of his happiest epigrams. A few strenuous hours spent in the Republic of San Juan in Maseden’s plight would have yielded the cynic material for a dozen like quips, if he had survived the experience.
When Maseden reached the estancia he was received by Lopez with even greater amazement than was displayed by the peon. Being a privileged person, the old fellow expressed himself in absolutely untranslatable language. After a lurid preamble, he went on:
“But, thanks to the heavenly ones, I see you again, señor, safe and sound, though in a strange livery. Is it true, then, that the president is dead?”
“Yes. Both of them, I believe.”
Maseden laughed wearily. He was tired, and the day was only beginning. He knew, of course, that Lopez meant Valdez, having probably, as yet, not so much as heard of Suarez as chief of the Republic.
“I’ll explain matters,” he said. “Stand by to catch me if I fall when I dismount. The devil take all dudes and their vanities! These boots have nearly killed me.”
In a minute the offending jack boots were off and flung into the veranda, the helmet after them. The horse was given over to the care of a peon, and Maseden went to his bedroom.
A glance at a big safe showed that the letter lock had defied curiosity, and no serious attempt had been made to force it. He saw that the drawers in a bureau in the adjoining room had been ransacked hastily. Probably, the new president’s emissaries were instructed to look for a list of “conspirators” – of well-affected citizens, that is – who meant to support the honorable régime of Valdez.
“Now, listen while I talk,” said Maseden, tearing open the tight-fitting blue coat. “I can put faith in you, I suppose?”
“Señor – ”
“Yes, I take it for granted. Besides, if you stick to me you may come out on top yourself. Valdez is dead. He was murdered last night, and Enrico Suarez stepped into his shoes… Oh, I know Enrico’s real name, but I haven’t a second to spare. I was sentenced to death early this morning, and married about an hour ago, just before being taken out to be shot… Well, I got away; how – is of no concern to you. In fact, it is better that you shouldn’t know.
“A lady will come into possession here. She will call herself the Señora Maseden. Señor Porilla will introduce her. She and the lawyer are playing some game to suit Suarez and Steinbaum, the German consul at Cartagena. My escape may bother them a bit, but I cannot guess just how things will work out. What orders did Enrico’s lieutenant give you?”
The foreman’s wits were rather mixed by his master’s extraordinary budget of news, but he answered readily.
“He told me, señor, if I valued my life, to see that nothing was disturbed in the estancia till the president came or sent a representative.”
“I thought so. That gives me a sporting chance.”
Maseden had changed rapidly into his own clothes, an ordinary riding costume suitable to a tropical climate. He opened the safe, stuffed some papers into his pockets, also a quantity of gold, silver, and notes.
Then he wrote a letter, and filled in a check. Having addressed and stamped the envelope, he handed it to his assistant.
“In five minutes or less, you will be riding at a steady gallop towards Cartagena,” he said. “If possible, deliver that letter yourself to Señor Peguero, the American consul. By ‘possible’ I mean if you are not held up by soldiers or police on the way. Otherwise, keep it concealed, and post it when the opportunity serves.”
Lopez knew the pleasant methods of his fellow-republicans.
“They may search me, señor,” he said.
“Not if you do as I tell you. Curse me fluently enough, and they’ll look on you as their best friend.”
“Señor!” protested the old man.
“Yes. I mean it. Call me all the names you can lay tongue to. When I leave this room I’ll follow you, revolver in hand. Be careful to scowl and act unwillingly. I want some food and a couple of bottles of wine, also a leather bottle full of water and a tin cup. Saddle the Cid, and see that three or four good measures of corn are put in the saddle-bags with the other things.
“When I vanish rush to the stables, pick out a good mustang, and be in Cartagena within the hour. If not interfered with, take the letter to Señor Peguero. Don’t wait for an answer, but hurry at top speed to the Castle, where you must tell some one that I came back to the ranch and ordered you about at the muzzle of a revolver.
