Twenty-Four Hours/Chapter 2

N THE office of Jaime Gordo, jefe civil of Caicara, the glum conference still was going on. From the parched little plaza outside now came virtually no sound; midday heat and hunger had driven all within doors to dine and drowse. It was high time for Don Jaime and his visitors also to stop talking and eat, but the council showed little sign of breaking up. In fact, it was going over the same ground for the twentieth time, as if in wearisome repetition might at last be found the solution to a pressing problem.

“Vâlgame Dios!” groaned the heavy-paunched official, once more mopping his moist face. “Must I talk myself tongueless? The thing should be plain to blind men. There are no troops. I have asked and asked, and no soldados have come. Perhaps a garrison is on its way to us, perhaps not. I have done all I can. I can do no more. We can only wait.”

“You are the official of the government,” obstinately reiterated a fat-cheeked trader, “and it is your duty—”

“To protect you and your money,” snapped Don Jaime. “For the love of God, can you not even change the words of that whine of yours? You repeat it like a parrot! When taxes are due, maldilo, you have no money! None of you has a bolívar then, and the official of the government is a cold-hearted wretch who snatches the crusts from your starving children. But when rebellion sweeps the land and bandits shoot and loot, then you suddenly discover that you possess not only bolívares but morrocotas And then the inhuman beast of a government official must grow wings and miraculously save you—carry you and your goods up to ride on the clouds, where no man may harm you—or by a greater miracle create an army to defend you! Por Dios! From where shall I make this army to come? Shall I spit on the ground and cause rifle-men to leap from it, or sneeze into the air and turn the spray of my nose into cavalry?”

“Nevertheless something must be done,” insisted an undersized merchant in not-too-recently laundered ducks, “before those guapos who attacked San Fernando de Apure can reach this city. They may be within a league of us even now—”

“And the federal garrison which I have asked from Ciudad Bolívar may be landing at the port at this moment,” sarcastically retorted the chief. “One is as likely as the other. I tell you again, and for the last time, that we can do nothing at all but wait for whatever may come. If the soldiers of the President come it is well. If raiders come—then every man must do what he can for himself.”

A sour silence. Then a man sitting near an iron-grilled window cocked an ear toward the plaza.

“Something comes at this moment,” he announced, “and in haste.”

All tensed. In the stillness of the square sounded the rapid slip-slaps of a single pair of alpargatas speeding along the narrow flagstones forming a sidewalk. A man running at this broiling hour!

Slip-slap, slip-slap, slip-slap; hoarse breathing; then, at the Gordo door, a panting voice—

“Don Jaime! Where is he? I have news—”

“Back, hombre!” sounded the growl of a Gordo peon posted on guard. “Don Jaime is not to be seen. Give your news to me.”

“But they are coming! They have landed and even now are—”

With speed astonishing in so heavy a man, the jefe civil heaved himself erect. The merchants sprang up as if kicked, their eyes darting about in panic.

“Ramon!” sharply called the chief. “Pass the man in! At once!”

“Sí, señor! Go in, you!”

A slither of soles. Into the office popped a sinewy riverman, his sweaty face alive with excitement.

“Señor Don Jaime! I bring news from the river! I was down in the shade of a tree and mending a sail when I heard a strange noise, a noise one does not often hear upon this Orinoco, but I knew at once what it was—I know all noises of all boats, crra!—and I said to myself, 'Ajo, now here comes a boat of Bolívar, having in it an engine of gasoline, and I think it is the lancha of—”

“Câllese! Hold your tongue!” roared Gordo. “Who has landed?”

The garrulous newsmonger gulped, scowled, then responded—

“The North American señorita who with her father and a crew from Bolívar passed up the river in a lancha not many days ago.”

Vast relief overspread every countenance. Don Jaime, after a speechless moment, sank back in his chair.

“Bueno!” he muttered. “That is good. They have turned back and will be more safe—perhaps.” Then, brow darkening and voice rising, he demanded, “And you come blundering in like a crazy bull and upset a conference of señores only to tell us that a young woman has arrived? You fish-mouthed fool! Get out!”

“But no, Don Jaime, no! There is more to tell. Of all those who went up with her, only she comes back! All the men are gone! And with her are new men with guns!”

At that the señores started. Sudden anxiety again contracted their faces.

“How many?” snapped the chief.

“Three. One of them is Pablo Benito, who has charge of the cart road around the rapids at Atures—”

The informer paused, eyes glistening as he watched relief dawn again upon these high and mighty gentlemen. Order him out, would they? Watch them jump when he dropped his bomb!

“And Pablo comes this way now with the señorita. Another man, big and ugly, with a rifle and a revolver, stays in the launch. I do not know that one. And the third man comes with Pablo and the woman. And he is—”

Another dramatic pause. He seemed listening toward the plaza.

“Sí, sí," prompted Gordo. “And he is—”

“He is a man I saw once on the river above the rapids and ran away from, as I shall run now. He is the blond guapo, the bandido—the desperado, the bandit, the killer of killers—El Tigre!”

Dead silence. Jaws dropped, cheeks paled, cold sweat seemed to ooze from every brow. Outside sounded soft footfalls coming nearer, growing more audible, treading with purposeful strides.

“Adios, señores!” breathed the riverman, with a mocking glint of teeth.

And he fled into the patio at the rear, scrambled up a small sarrapia tree, swung to the top of a wall, and dropped outside the premises of Gordo.

“Ajo!” croaked one of the conferees. “So it has come! El Tigre and his band are upon us! All the raiders in all the world must be swarming together at the west, for never before has that blond one struck so far from his own region.”

“But this man of the river said there were three men only—” began another.

“Idiot! More of them, many more, must be close behind these three. This Tigre has captured the señorita and killed her men and seized her launch and come before the rest to—”

“Ssss! Silencio!” warned Gordo. “They enter.”

Outside sounded a curt, cold voice.

“Muchacho! Your master is within? Bien. Stand aside!”

A slight shuffle of feet, as the erstwhile arrogant peon betook himself hastily from the path of the dominant newcomer. In the doorway of the office loomed the tall Hart.

MOMENT he stood there, sweeping the uneasy assemblage with sardonic gaze; noting how swiftly they spied his crippled arm, and how speedily they also absorbed the fact that his other hand, hanging low, was ready for swift movement. A thin smile flitted over his lips. Coolly he advanced another pace or two, making room for his companions to follow. Beside him appeared the boyish lady of the launch, glancing amusedly at the perturbed townsmen, and the unarmed Pablo, squinting shrewdly from under the drooping brim of his peaked sombrero.

Another short interval of silence, while the Caicaran physiognomies became a trifle perplexed. These two presumptive prisoners of the terrible Tigre did not exhibit such nervousness as should logically be expected. Their expressions were not strained, their attitudes not indicative of anxiety. On the contrary, the boy-girl who so nonchalantly wore breeches seemed entirely at ease; and Pablo Benito, although somewhat deferential in poise, did not appear worried. Inasmuch as Pablo was known to be far from bold or brave, his present serenity in the company of a noted outlaw was in itself mystifying.

“Buenos tardes. Good afternoon,” spoke Gordo, assuming official formality. “In what way may I have the honor of serving you?”

“Gasoline,” laconically replied Hart.

Gordo blinked. The first thing a raider should ask for was government gold.

“Gasoline?” he returned. “But—but I have no gasoline, señor. I am not a merchant. Do you mean that you desire the usual government permit to purchase gasoline?”

“Hardly. I issue my own permits. You will give an order for gasoline, to be paid for at Bolívar.”

Every one blinked this time; every one but the newcomers. To be paid for at Bolívar! Paid for! And at Bolívar—where federal forces would joyously stand this Tigre against a wall! Was the man loco?

The blue eyes watching them twinkled. Suddenly, but silently, the raider laughed; baring his teeth with the abruptness of a jaguar showing its fangs, but in mirth instead of menace. His gaze still held them, however, reading their changing expressions. All at once his merriment ceased.

“Who am I?” he demanded.

“El Tigre!” blurted some one.

“Ah. You know me. And how? I have not been here before.”

“All the world knows the famous Tigre,” flattered another trader. “Have we not heard for years of the mighty fighter with hair of gold who shot with both hands and—” He paused, involuntarily glancing at the useless left arm; then, as if fearful that his look might give offence, began to rattle on again. But Hart stopped him.

“And who still can shoot, if necessary,” he crisply reminded. “But El Tigre now will shoot only if necessary. I escort this señorita down the river to safety, and we come and go in peace—unless some one wants trouble.”

“Trouble? Vâlgame Dios, nobody here desires it!” ejaculated Gordo. “Too much trouble already rides abroad! And—and your men then will not molest our city, señor?”

“No danger. They are many miles from here. I have left them.”

“Left them? Ah! You mean that you go to Bolívar to surrender yourself? And no other guapos—pardon, I mean no other revolucionarios—come after you?”

Hart made no reply. He stood narrowly watching the official, into whose fat face had leaped an odd light. Then spoke the girl.

“Señor Hart, whom you call El Tigre, is no longer a revolutionist,” she calmly declared. “He is a North American—like myself—who has seen enough of this country—like myself—and is leaving it—like myself. He has traveled with me from Atures as escort and bodyguard, and we go to Bolívar to take the steamer for Trinidad.”

Every countenance before her betrayed amazed incredulity. Yet all seemed somewhat impressed by her cool composure. In the same quiet tone she went on:

“You remember, of course, Señor Gordo, that I am Jean Rogers, of the United States, and that I recently went up the river with my father, who meant to explore above the rapids. He is dead. At Zamuro the men of the crew vexed him, and—his heart was not strong, and—it stopped. Then the crew deserted me and went away; I do not know where. I walked to Atures, where Señor Benito gave me shelter. Then Señor Hart appeared; and, because he had heard that disturbances might break out at this time, he came with me down the river.

“You remember also, of course, that I have the passport of the President of Venezuela and the order of General Perez, governor of this State, commanding all officials to assist my voyage in every way possible. I now am in need of gasoline. I have no money here—the men of the crew took it—but we left funds in bank at Ciudad Bolívar, and when I arrive there I can pay well for the fuel and food obtained here. So I ask you to give us twenty gallons of gasoline and enough food to enable us to finish our journey.”

For a moment after she ceased speaking no answer came. The merchants stared. Her story rang true enough, except that the explanation of the presence of El Tigre still seemed a bit improbable; and her request for assistance was altogether natural. It was her concise way of going straight to the point, her confident air, her direct gaze and assured tone, that made them watch her in wonder. En verdad, this slim young man-woman was a man in speech as well as in dress! A fit companion for the straight-shooting Tigre, caramba! More than one eye went to her belt, as if half expecting to find there a revolver-butt.

Similar thoughts streaked through the mind of the jefe civil, to be instantly displaced by others more weighty. On occasion, his brain was far more nimble than his fat face would indicate; and this was such an occasion. After a barely perceptible hesitation he bowed with pompous dignity.

“Most assuredly, señorita,” he suavely acquiesced. “My services are entirely at your command. You shall be my guest—you and your companions—for as long as you care to honor my poor house. Even now dinner waits; and thereafter you shall rest. In the meantime”

“In the meantime we are going,” broke in Hart. “We eat on the river and rest in our boat. Let the gasoline be furnished pronto."

“So? You will not stay? It is a pity. But now—the gasoline. It is possible that some of it is in a locked room at the rear, held there for payment of taxes. I am not sure. But I shall look. A moment.”

With another bow he excused himself, sidling out through a doorway into a dusky corridor.

“No tricks!” warned Hart.

“Tricks? Assuredly not, amigo! For what should I play tricks?”

His footsteps receded. El Tigre looked after him suspiciously; then, with a contemptuous smile, turned his attention back to the group of business men. Watching them, he spoke aside to Jean.

“If you'd like to eat dinner here it'll be all right, I guess. I'll wait and eat mine after we get to going. But your food wouldn't be doctored.”

“Doctored?” Her eyes widened. “Do you think they'd poison yours? Oh, I don't believe it!”

“I hardly think so myself, but still—I've been in this country long enough to be superstitious about some things. And my appetite's not so good just now.”

“Neither is mine. I think things would taste better in the open air.”

He smiled slightly, but said no more. Minutes dragged away, each growing longer. Once more Hart began to look toward the corridor, his lids narrowing. But then came the sound of returning feet, and soon the jefe civil reappeared, perspiring profusely.

“I have made a sad blunder,” he mourned. “The tins of gasoline are not of gasoline but of kerosene. But it does not matter. There is gasoline at the shop of Señor Morales—is it not so, Morales? Bien. Then let your muchachos carry to the boat of the señorita the twenty gallons requested. I shall write the order later. And you, Señor Paez, shall send from your tienda the best food you have. You others, go! There is no more to be said regarding the matter we have discussed, and I wish to speak in private with these new guests. Vaya!”

A pudgy hand waved in imperious command. The mute group moved with alacrity doorward, glad of the opportunity to remove themselves from such close proximity to the erstwhile bandit. It might be true that he had reformed, but it was also possible that he might backslide without warning. So they shuffled ahead, and the Tiger and his companions stepped carelessly aside to let them pass, meanwhile watching them go.

Then, while the blond man's head was momentarily turned away from Gordo, that worthy gentleman emitted a slight cough. Instantly a wiry young peon glided through the darksome doorway at the rear. His right hand swung up—back—shot forward with the speed of a striking catapult. Like a bullet a smooth stone darted through the air. And like a man shot down in his tracks El Tigre toppled, pitched sidewise, and lay senseless on the tiled floor.

With a triumphant squall Gordo threw himself forward; stooped, snatched the unconscious man's revolver from its holster, and arose grinning.

“The orders are changed,” he gurgled. “Señores, the gasoline and food need not be sent to the port; at least, not yet. The señorita has decided to dine and rest here for a time. As for this so impatient guapo who now enjoys siesta on my floor—Ramon! Claudio! Remove this yellow-haired dog and throw him into the jail!”