South, West and North/Part 2/Chapter 1

HEN the Veronique of Bordeaux cast anchor in the shallow harbor of Chagres, there was no ship in port except one steamer of the Atlantic Steamship Company; the Hannah of Beverly had come and gone again. The company of gold-seekers aboard the French ship, who called themselves the Compagnie de l'Ouest d'Or, now experienced the same adventures which met all companies, of whatever nation, landing at Chagres.

The inimitable “Doc” White, an enterprizing Yankee, was first aboard the ship, and with praiseworthy energy contracted for delivery of all freight and luggage across the isthmus—half the payment in advance. He then rushed ashore to get his lighters out to the ship, and that was the last seen of the gentleman. Meantime, the harbor sharks were enjoying huge feasts, and constant explosions were taking place in the bowels of the Veronique as rotten tinned meats and provisions let fly; a stream of tins were going overboard. No one got ashore from the French ship that evening, except two castaways who had been picked up at sea—two dark, bearded, silent survivors of a foundered American fishing smack. These two, who spoke Spanish fluently, and who were well provided with money, greased the palm of the port officer and went ashore with him.

Eagerly enough, the Frenchmen piled ashore next morning, delighted with the golden oranges and bananas, the green jungle, the gaily colored birds and the chattering monkeys; sight of the crumbling and dismantled fortifications wakened their romance, which did not wane at closer view of the thirty miserable huts which made up the village, and the two wretched hotels. Romance presently gave way to more prosaic feelings, however, when they left their luggage piled along the beach and set out to obtain passage to Panama. Voluble Frenchmen engaged in high talk with silent, shrugging peons, obtained interpreters, arranged for boats and mules, paid over money on account, and then returned to the beach to find most of their luggage stolen. Lusty Gallic voices arose on the morning air, there was shrugging and shouting and swearing on all sides; brown men gazed placidly at the excitement; the Frenchmen, each of whom had brought huge quantities of baggage, rushed madly to the town again to find their carriers, only to discover these missing; then back to the beach, to see that a good half of the remaining goods had mysteriously disappeared. Grinning Indians and mestizos regarded the confusion with appreciation.

The two castaways stood on the hillside above the river, surveying the boats and the wild turmoil along the beach. One of them, whose cool gray eyes gleamed like ice above his half-grown fair beard, turned to his swart companion.

“Let 'em work out their own salvation, Job. They'd never be able to get all their stuff to the isthmus, anyway; the less they have to carry, the better. Had we better look up our boatman and get off? Wish I could shave these whiskers.”

Job Warlock tucked a big quid of tobacco away and grinned.

“Never mind your hankerings, matey—stick to business! Our job is to get to Panama and pick up news of the company. If that Dias is what we think him, you may be sure he has posted men here to watch for us, and our only chance is to slip along unknown. Yes, we'd better find that Indian and get moving.”

“There's the fellow,” said Hampton suddenly, and pointed. “Bargaining with those three Frenchmen. I'll go and attend to him—you grab his boat, that big canoe with the second man in it. We'll take along that French chap who was white to us, eh?”

“Right,” said Warlock, and swung off down the slope.

Dick Hampton approached the group of three gesticulating men who bargained with the swarthy half-Indian boatman. The latter had on the previous evening agreed to take the two friends up to Gorgona for eight dollars per head, and had been paid half the sum in advance; he now totally ignored Hampton and attempted to wave him away.

“So that's your game, eh?” said Hampton in Spanish, and reached out.

A howl broke from the boatman. Hampton gripped him by his long, greasy hair, bent him around, and kicked him vigorously, then, using the hair as a bridle, guided him toward the boats, amid fervent wailings and protestations. Job Warlock, meantime, had taken possession of the big canoe in even more vigorous fashion, and the astonished crowd of Frenchmen beheld the “savages” subside into meek and frightened obedience. Hampton summoned a bearded son of Bordeaux who had given them many kindnesses aboard the Veronique, got him stowed in the canoe with his luggage, and in five minutes the long craft swung off upstream. Catching the idea of how to handle the natives, the French Company at once went to work, and Hampton looked back to see carriers at work and boats being laden. He laughed grimly, serene in the knowledge that their kindly guest knew no English.

“They've lost their awe of the bare-footed soldiers in the ruined fort—well, we've a good start on the crowd, Job! We'd better rush our friend here right across to Panama, and pass for Frenchmen.”

“And meantime,” added Job sagely, “do our durndest to get in touch with El Hambre.”

Very cautious inquiries, the previous night, had elicited the information that the Hannah was a week ahead of them; and, apparently, Dias had made good his promises as to transport, for the company had gone forward without delay. Delays at Chagres were not desirable, as Hampton had already discovered, for the two wretched hotels were filled with non-paying guests, while native huts or tents were rendered terrible by clouds of mosquitoes, together with scorpions, snakes and millepeds [sic]. The old town abounded in all manner of insect life, and there were no sanitary conditions whatever.

All this, however, now mattered nothing to Hampton, as the canoe slid up the river at good speed, and the jungled walls on either hand opened up new vistas with every-moment. Like Chagres itself, the river was at first glance beautiful, with its vivid green walls, its numberless monkeys, darting toucans and parrots, splashes of gay flower growths. It soon palled, how ever, for mosquitoes swarmed in clouds, there was no breath of wind, and a miasmatic vapor clung to the edges of the stream.

The Frenchman was supplied with rifle and shotgun and several small arms of various makes, including two revolvers; and late in the afternoon he succeeded in bringing down two wild turkeys. Hampton forced the boatmen to keep at work, instead of landing immediately, and not until the sun was nearly down did he let them seek a camping place, for he was determined to make Gorgona by the following night. With the turkeys cooked as only Job Warlock could manage, the discomforts of the night camp were forgotten—but Hampton slept in the canoe, to make certain that the boatmen did not decamp.

With a bonus promised for making Gorgona, the two mestizos worked more cheerfully the next day, and managed to accomplish the usual three-day trip before the second night set in. The sun was not yet vanished when the canoe drew in to the bank and the voyageurs stepped ashore at Gorgona—a large place containing nearly a thousand souls, nestling under a hill. Here began the trail to Panama, twenty five miles away.

By the time the three paid off their men, hired a hut for the night and cleaned it, and got something to eat, darkness had fallen. They were sitting about their fire, smoking furiously to daunt the mosquitoes, when an American voice lifted out of the night:

“Hullo thar, pards! Heard a boat had come in, and come along to pay a visit.”

Into the firelight emerged a thin scarcrow [sic], shaking with fever, a ragged serape flung over his shoulders. He shook hands delightedly, with a storm of questions.

“Where ye from? What company? Another ship come in? My gosh, now thar'll be another  rush acrost to blue water and more tents on the Panama beach! Me, I'm just back. Goin' home, you bet. Been over thar three months and nary a berth to be had. Got enough o' pelicans and bugs and niggers. Where ye from, anyhow? Tom Smith, Hartford, is my handle.”

Hampton explained in Spanish that a French company had arrived, and Smith was properly disgusted at finding no English speech among the three. He understood and spoke a little Spanish, however, and informed them that Panama was crowded with gold-seekers, and the only chance of getting to California lay in shipping south to Callao and catching a north-bound ship there. Every such ship was crowded by the time it touched at Panama.

“The last company acrost had a tough time,” went on Smith, in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Beverly men, and most of 'em are stuck in Panama now. I hear somebody ran off with their money, left 'em stranded here at Gorgona or in the jungle beyond. Some got through and went along in a schooner that was waiting for 'em”

“Were there any women in the party?” demanded Hampton, catching a swift look from Job Warlock. Smith nodded.

“Si, señor, some few. One señorita, muy hermosa, you bet! About thirty of them poor are stuck in Panama now. The others got off all right. Say, could you señores lend me enough dinero to get me to Chagres?”

Warlock produced a gold coin, Hampton another, and Smith was overjoyed. He gave them advice on securing mules here, and on behalf of the Frenchmen who were following, Warlock undertook to arrange for these. Their French companion was only too glad to stay in Gorgona and keep the muleteers under constraint until his friends arrived. So Job went out with Smith, and in half an hour was back with a number of peons. Matters were arranged promptly, and after shaking their blankets for stray scorpions, the three rolled up for the night.

“You and me,” said Job softly, in Hampton's ear, “can light out in the mornin' afoot, since we ain't got no luggage. Smith give me a tip. All these greenhorns are bound and determined to ride, on account of snakes; but it's a heap better and quicker to go afoot. Them mules are razor-backed, savvy? Mostly half-dead, too. All the carrying is done by peons. We can pack our blankets and make Panama tomorrow night with luck. Ain't that news about our Beverly company, though?”

“Bad news,” said Hampton. “Just as we thought. Dias robbed and left most of them, and took the others along. I'm beginning to think that if he'd brought me and placed me in charge, I'd have suffered for it.”

“Sure—he'd have left you to swaller the blame, and most likely the police at Panama would have jailed you, while that skunk slid off with the loot. But say!” and Warlock's voice became suddenly tense and eager, “I got a line on that Hambre Injun! He's comin' in from Panama tomorrow, and we'll meet him sure. Heard a couple o' dagoes talkin' about him. Dias didn't know it was him sent that letter from your brother?”

“No.”

“That's why he's alive. Get to sleep, now, and be up early.”

Sleep was slow in coming to Hampton, for his thoughts were all with Nelly Barnes and the men from Beverly, and he was confronted by a new perplexity. It was easy to see just how Dias had played his bold stroke; he had gone on to Panama with the officers and those chosen few whom he had not cajoled into parting with their money, and had loaded them aboard his schooner—simply abandoning those who had entrusted their funds to him. It had been done plausibly, of course, and the dozen who had embarked with Nelly were still probably unaware of their leader's perfidy. Since that schooner was certainly not bound for California, whither was it taking them?

“Perhaps up the coast, perhaps to that hidden place Dias has built,” thought Hampton. “But—we can't be seen in Panama! Some of those Beverly men would be sure to recognize me, despite this beard. Well, wait and see. They might have me jailed as a murderer, and they might not. First thing is to meet El Hambre.”

With daybreak, the two were up and preparing their packs of blankets and food. Upon parting, the Frenchman insisted volubly that each should take a derringer and a revolver from his ample store—indeed, he opened a trunk to disclose a small arsenal, which now he sadly realized was destined to be of no particular use to him. So, thus armed, Hampton and Warlock bade him farewell, and got out of the town quietly enough.

No guide was necessary; before them opened up the narrow, rocky trail that wound over the mountain flanks to the jungle beyond, and they struck off briskly. Once well on their way, which promised to be deserted until noon at least, Hampton voiced a thought that had been troubling him.

“Job, are you sure you didn't misunderstand what you heard last night, about El Hambre?”

Warlock showed a flash of teeth through his whiskers.

“You bet, but I didn't want to do too much talkin' in the hut. Somethin' mighty queer about that hombre, by the way those peons were talking. I couldn't get it all, but gathered he was a bandit or somethin' like that. Anyhow, we're sure to meet him—one good thing about this trail, a body can't get lost on it. Like goin' to the main royal yard; there's only one way to do it. How are you and me goin' to show up in Panama City, though? Some o' them Beverly men are sure to spot us, beard or no beard.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Job. We'd better lie low when we get there—go out only at night. Luckily, we had our money with us when Dias set us adrift; so we can buy ourselves Spanish outfits. Might be a good notion to call ourselves Basques, too, since we talk Spanish.”

Presently the sun was up, and they paused for a bite of breakfast, then on again. The road was no more than a trail over rough rocks, half-cleared and by no means easy to negotiate even without loads; how porters carrying two hundred-weight could manage it, Hampton failed to see. Repeatedly it led through deep sunless chasms in the side of the mountain, barely four feet wide and with precipitous walls on either hand, where seepage and travel had created patches of apparently bottomless adobe mud; and remembering the emaciated, staggering mules they had seen at Gorgona, Hampton quite approved Tom Smith's tip that they go forward afoot.

The sun was high overhead when they left the first portion of the trail behind and entered into the jungle. Here the trail wound with many meanderings through high walls of green, whose interlaced vines and branches overhead completely shut out the sun and formed a hot and steamy obscurity below. Here and there, beside the trail, was set up a crude native shrine to commemorate some deed of blood in times past. On and on they pushed, and by midday they had encountered half a dozen bloated or half-stripped carcasses of mules, over which hung clouds of loathsome vultures and other carrion birds.

It was quite high twelve, and a little after, when they came to a sun-bathed opening, where a trickle of water and a wide mud flat marked the course of a rivulet across the trail. On the near bank was set up a shrine, tattered and despoiled by weather, and Job Warlock proposed that they halt for a rest and a bite to eat. Hampton assented gladly—both men were dripping with perspiration and exhausted by the intense humidity of the jungle trail, which was far more tiring than any acutal [sic] exertion. When Hampton would have flung himself down carelessly, however, the crafty Warlock intervened.

“Hold on! The less we show ourselves the better, matey; lay up to one side, off the trail. We're liable to meet carriers comin' from the west 'most any time now.”

Hampton nodded, and followed his companion in behind the screen of brush. Here they hacked out a small cleared space with their knives and settled down to eat and smoke and drink of the clear cold water furnished by the rivulet. Hot as was the jungle, this one spot was washed clear of humidity by the intense and burning sunlight, and afforded vast relief. When they lighted their pipes, it was almost in comfort.

“This is a right smart spot to lay up for anybody comin' from Panama,” said Warlock in a low voice, pointing to the opening in the sunlight. “They got to cross the crick and that there patch o' mud, which is sticky as glue, then they got to come right up the trail to here, opposite us. If we step out, then what? They sure can't go back in any hurry.”

Hampton gave him a curious glance.

“Eh? What's in your mind?”

“I dunno, for a fact,” said Warlock, “but I got a feelin' that somethin's on the way to us—you needn't laugh, neither. Remember that time aboard the Watersprite, when I felt like that, and we got a durned quick shift o' wind that stripped us off bare and sent 'Nigger Joe' to glory? I got the same feelin' now. If anybody shows up, douse that pipe.”

Hampton nodded and waited frowningly, his eyes peering through the leafy screen and watching the opposite side of the opening, across the mud flat, where the western end of the trail debouched on the creek. He had none too much faith in Job Warlock's premonition, yet he knew that the man had sometimes an uncanny ability to sense trouble or peril.

Then, abruptly, there came a breath of motion among the bushes on the farther bank, and a moving object appeared.

Hampton laid down his pipe suddenly, pressed the tobacco into the bowl, and lay motionless. Warlock followed suit, squinting. A mule, heavily loaded, was descending the creek bank, and now began to pick his way gingerly across the rivulet and the mud flat beyond. The mud clogged him, holding him to a slow and sucking pace. He struggled forward to firm ground and stood there waiting. Behind him, a man, appeared descending the bank, then a second man.

Hampton's eyes widened. The first man was a Chinaman, heavy-set and burly of aspect, with black silk coat and trousers but wearing a belted horse-pistol. The second man was an Indian, very swarthy, very tall and lank; a plaited grass sombrero hid his features and a scarlet serape was swung across his shoulders. The two men were talking as they came into sight, and stopped for a moment to watch the mule, while the Indian lighted a cigarito. Then the Chinaman came on across the rivulet, showing high boots beneath flapping trouser-ends, and began to pick his way across the mud.

The Indian followed more leisurely, yet with a certain cat-like grace of movement. He caught up with his companion when the latter was nearly through the sticky adobe mud, and made some remark, to which the yellow man returned a grunting response.

Then the Indian flung away his cigarito with a wide sweep of his arm. His hand darted beneath his serape, plucked forth a flashing blade of steel, and drove it forward into the back of the Chinaman. The act was deliberate, deadly and swift as the lashing stroke of a fer-de-lance, and as murderous. The yellow man emitted one agonized gulp, and pitched forward dead. The mule reached up his head to tug at some leaves, and his bell tinkled on the hot silence. The Indian stood motionless for a moment, thrust away his knife, and calmly began to roll another cigarito of tobacco and thin paper.

Hampton, paralyzed by the swiftness of it all, turned blazing eyes to Warlock, who gripped his wrist. The same thought was in the minds of both men.

“We got him,” murmured Warlock. “Ready? Up and out”

They burst out together, then Warlock leaped into the trail, Hampton waiting on one knee, revolver steadied. The murderer was caught indeed, and realized it; he stood staring at them, his smoke half-rolled, the menace of their weapons holding him immobile.

“Los manos arriba!” snapped Hampton, and the Indian lifted his hands.

“We got him,” said Warlock, “and got him red-handed! He was guiding this chink, savvy? Planned to murder and rob him.”

The Indian stood like a graven image; under the wide brim of his hat, his flashing eyes drove from one to the other of the two men. Hampton rose and stepped forward. He could not understand the stolid immobility of the murderer, whose attitude held no cringing fear, and who gave expression to none of the usual plaints and wails of a frightened mestizo. He seemed, indeed, to stand there in proud scorn of the two men who had surprized him, nor did he move when Job Warlock stepped around to his other side, quite cutting off any retreat.

“So you thought you could murder that man and rob him in a lonely spot, eh?' said Hampton in Spanish. “Well, now you can turn around and go back to Panama with us”

“Hold on, Hampton!” exclaimed Warlock. “It ain't our job, and you know it's plain to get tangled up with them dagoes”

The Indian started suddenly. His eyes fastened on Hampton with a peculiar look; his lean and cavernous features seemed suddenly amazed, astounded.

“Ham-ton!” he exclaimed. “No es possible—no, no! Señor Don Ricardo Hamton”

“What's that?” exclaimed Hampton. “You know my name”

“Are you that man, señor?” Excitement blazed suddenly in the brown face. “Are you the brother of my friend—he who wrote a letter”

“My gosh!” broke from Job Warlock. “It's El Hambre, Dick!”

“Si—El Hambre!” cried the Indian. “Señores, I kiss your hands and feet—we are friends! I have been looking for you a long time, Don Ricardo.”

Dick Hampton lowered his revolver, stared amazedly into the suddenly friendly, laughing face of the Indian, and wondered if he were dreaming. What a fashion in which to find El Hambre, the man whom he had come so far to seek!

Then his eyes fell to the dead Chinaman.