Twenty-Four Hours/Chapter 5

OONLIGHT, clear and cool, flooded the streets and the patios and the plaza of Caicara with a radiance well-nigh as brilliant as that of the vanished sun. It laved the reddish tile roofs of the low houses, cast sharp-edged shadows under the eaves, and, on eastern walls, traced in inky lines the irregular contours of cracks or spotted with darkness round dents made by forgotten shootings. It streamed through eastern windows, too, spying on sleep or wakefulness, comfort or wretchedness, smiles or scowls or tears. And out on the river it danced along the tops of slumberous little waves, hardly more than ripples, moving gently westward under the playful push of a soft breeze.

Outside the yellow walls, all was peace. Inside some of them, all was not so serene. Within the house of Jaime Gordo, for example, circled conflicting currents of plot and counterplot, none the less intense because of their silence and secrecy. In a hammock in a rear room, whence exit was blocked save by passage through other rooms, lay a girl apparently asleep, but wide awake and fixedly determined to arise and steal forth whenever opportunity should offer; and then, having gained freedom, to open by some as yet unknown means the door of the jail. At his bare council table in his dim-lit office, with streetward shutters closed, a balked and morose official gnawed his fingers and groped mentally for a practicable scheme of flight. Schemes in plenty had wriggled through his brain—snaky ones, all of them—but each armed with fangs which might turn on him. The plan of action which should redound to his own credit stubbornly refused to take shape; and no other would do.

He knew now that the launch was useless. He knew something must have been done to it by one of those brigands now in the cârcel. He knew the brigands had a gun. He knew what they would do with it at the first opportunity. So he could not make use of them in starting the boat. He could not even make terms with them; he had tried this by having a note thrown through a window, only to receive in return most disgraceful reflections on his character. Nor could he give them food or drink with certain ingredients slyly mixed therein to render them helpless; for this would involve opening the door. He could do nothing whatever with them; and he could do virtually nothing without them.

Gone was his self-gratulation over his cleverness in trapping those two guapos. It had seemed a heaven-sent chance to dodge danger and climb to fame at the same time; to speed down the river to the protection of troops, to pose before the governor as savior of the hapless foreign señorita, to come back to his town with soldiers, deliver to their commander the terrible desperadoes, and see to it that a garrison remained in Caicara—thus exhibiting to the townsmen his zeal for their protection. If by chance the pueblo should be raided in his absence, that could not be his fault; and he would be safe during the raiding. And El Presidente himself should know of the brave capture of El Tigre and El Toro—trust Jaime to attend to that!—and the doughty Gordo might rise in the world as the result. El Presidente liked bold fellows.

But now his ladder to the heights had fallen apart, for the Americans forming its rungs would not remain in place. Worse yet, its collapse seemed exceedingly likely to bring down unpleasant consequences on his head. For one thing, that spiteful señorita meant to make trouble for him at Bolívar; and in all probability she could do so. Now that he reflected, he felt that the powerful General Perez was likely to be wroth over his action in detaining her by force. And in this connection there was another disquieting angle to the affair. If a recent statement of hers was credible, General Perez had empowered her to inform El Tigre that if he would come in peaceably he could leave the country unharmed; and El Tigre was accompanying her under that guarantee of amnesty. In that case, the general would not exactly appreciate the patriotism of Jaime in assaulting and jailing this ex-outlaw. Angrily the thinker told himself that the young woman's statement was untrue; but he could not entirely convince himself of its falsity. If it was true, he had blundered badly. And, true or not, he could not release his prisoners now without grave risk of dire results, both here and hereafter. Neither could he hold them indefinitely. Yet he must do something with them pronto. Moreover, he must take some action for the protection of the town—or, at least, of himself and the federal moneys—before some raiding rebel force struck. But what course would bring him triumphant through this tangle of complications? Yes, curse it, what?

At last he gave it up. A night's sleep would refresh his brain. Perhaps in the morning those rogues in the jail, still unfed and unwatered, would be more amenable to his persuasion. Extinguishing the light, he opened the shutter and peered out. All was quiet. Turning, he tiptoed across the patio and listened intently at a window of the room to which, that afternoon, he had transferred the recalcitrant señorita. Faint, regular breathing stole to his ears. He nodded and took his ponderous but noiseless way to his own room; yawned hugely, imbibed a generous nightcap of Maracaibo rum, and turned in.

The moon rolled on its way, widening the shadows of the eaves and narrowing those of the streets. Its beams, imperceptibly changing their slant, crept in at a tiny window of the prison and stole by hairbreadths along the stone floor until they touched the face of a fitfully sleeping Tiger. There they paused a little; then glided on to the loose-jawed but still pugnacious physiognomy of the Bull, snoring on a rough bass note. Other beams, pouring into the patio of Gordo, illumined a face at the bars of Jean's room, where she now knelt to keep track of the moving hands of her little watch. With pulses pounding, but with nerves held under control, she awaited the time when she might venture toward the front of the house. Stillness now reigned; but she knew the wisdom of making certain sure.

At length she arose. More than an hour had passed since the bulky form of Gordo had vanished from her window. In all that time no further indication of wakefulness had come from any part of the place. Everybody must be buried in sleep. She turned to go. But then she halted short, listening. A moment, and she wheeled back to the window.

NTO the quietude of the night had come movement; a vague, formless, virtually soundless movement, intangible, unnamable, felt rather than heard. Had it been louder, it might have been the tread of many soft-stepping feet on the earth; but now it seemed a mere disturbance of air, impacting without shock on alert senses, revealing nothing of its character. Its very strangeness made it weird and alarming. To the taut nerves of the lone girl it suggested a gathering of bodiless spirits—malevolent ghosts of murdered men, perhaps, flocking together for some diabolical purpose. She thrust the unnerving fancy from her, tried to think that perhaps Hart and Kelly and Pablo had broken jail and were stealing to her aid. But something told her that this movement was sinister, deadly dangerous to her as well as to others. Tense, she poised seeking to grasp its meaning.

Steadily, rapidly, it became a trifle more distinguishable, though still only a faint rustling and padding. Now it seemed the purposeful advance of feet up-wind, the sound of their swing and thud swept away behind them by the increasing breeze. Those feet—if feet they were—had come from the direction of the river, bearing their masters in an uncadenced march. Now, somewhere outside the wall of the patio, sounded a low creak like that of a loose flagstone tilting under a weight; and hissing noises and half-heard mumbles, as of whispers and subdued voices—ghost-sounds of ghost-men. These died. Came a long minute of utter silence. And then—

''Crrrash! Crack-crack-crack—crrrrash!''

''“Yeeee-ah! Veinte Cuatro! Vive Veinte Cuatro! Jaime Gordo abajo! Muert' al traidor!”''

The crash of gunfire, the thundering roar of hundreds of voices, burst like a giant shell in the midnight calm. Before its nerve-shattering impact Jean recoiled. A moment later the empty wall became alive with figures scrambling over and dropping into the patio like buccaneers crossing the bulwarks of a captured galleon. And buccaneers they were in their attack—roaring for death and blood, with guns and knives flashing under the moon and eyes and teeth gleaming like those of merciless beasts of prey. Rifles up, they swept the doors and windows with wolfish gaze as they came, ready to shoot down instantly any one loosing a bullet at them. To the shocked vision of the defenceless girl standing back in the shadows they were a hellborn brood devoid of all instincts save those of loot and lust. Frozen, she stood for a few seconds staring at their furious onslaught. Then she dropped to the floor. Swiftly she crept to the window, and under it she pressed herself against the wall.

Her door, she knew, was stoutly barred from the inside; she had seen to that before lying down. Through the outcurved iron grille at the window no human eye could detect her in the darkness immediately below. No bullets could penetrate the thick walls, and any fired through the window must pass over her. For the moment she was beyond harm.

Outside reigned bedlam. In the patio reverberated wanton shots, raucous yells, jarring thumps at closed doors. The score of men who had crossed the wall made the noise of a hundred. Farther out, all over the town, hundreds more created a cacophony worthy of a rioting army corps, the tumult of shots and shouts punctuated by the screams of terrified townspeople and the crash of shattering doors and blinds. A veritable hell had broken loose—a hell of noise and fire and fear. The worst of it centered about the house of Jaime Gordo, assaulted from every side by the vindictive force which he once had betrayed to disaster and death, but which now was stronger than ever and rabid for revenge. And Jaime Gordo, awaking to the blood-howl of that swarming horde, lay for long seconds unable to move; paralyzed, petrified, seeing in the darkness the grinning skull and the skeleton fingers of Death.

Yet he did not remain there until that specter closed its freezing hand on him. Out in the plaza blared a bugle ordering cessation of fire; and at once the shooting stopped. The command of that brazen voice also lifted Jaime out of his catalepsy and sent him diving for revolvers—his own and that of El Tigre. The feel of their butts in his palms aroused once more the killing impulse of his bandit days. He crouched at bay, dangerous as a cornered jaguar. The corridor door of his room was open, but he made no move to close it. Instead, he faced the gloomy passage and waited.

The street door broke and swung back. Beyond it thundered a harsh voice:

“Way! Out of my path! Make room for the embrace of brothers!”

“Federico!” breathed Jaime.

A rumbling thud and a sharp crackle drew his darting glance to ash uttered window. It was yielding, battered in by riflebutts. Another blow—the wooden barrier splintered and a panel fell. Faces snarled beyond it. With his right-hand gun he opened fire.

Four times that gun spoke. Four heads slumped downward and were gone. Bullets flew back at him; but he had moved, and they missed in the dark. Now from the corridor banged a loud report, and against the moonlight at the ruined doorway loomed a great black figure. With a hiss Jaime turned loose his left-hand weapon. Streaks of flame slashed the dark. In the corridor blazed answering powder-flares, and the big form came on. Brother against brother, the Gordos were shooting to kill.

More faces had risen to the open window, and through the grille were leveled gun-barrels. But no bullets came. Their general himself now was inside, these men knew, and great was his hunger for vengeance by his own hand. If he killed Jaime, well. If Jaime killed him—adios, Jaime, in a volley of lead!

Jaime was a miserable marksman with his left hand, and he knew it. Ignoring his flankers, he now swung his right gun into line with that inexorably advancing figure. Then he staggered, and that revolver fell. Federico had scored in the right shoulder. Jaime gave back toward a corner, shooting again with his remaining weapon. At the answering flash he staggered again and nearly fell. With trembling hand he loosed his last bullet. Once more flame stabbed from the corridor. Jaime quivered under a third impact; reeled backward; was swallowed up in blackness.

At the doorway of the room, huge and terrible in the dimness, Federico Gordo halted, peering about. His own revolver was shot out. He did not reload. Jerking from his belt a long poniard, he waited a moment to locate that vanished betrayer. Was his prey dead? Dying? Lying silent and awaiting his approach? The gloom gave him no answer.

“In the corner, chief!” then called a window watcher. “At the left! It was there he last shot—”

“Fool! Do I not know it? Jaime! You slime, you spittle, you worm of a dunghill, crawl to me on your belly and lick my feet while I tear out your bowels! To me! Crawl!”

Silence. With a furious oath the avenger hurled himself forward. Knocking down furniture, smashing an unseen lamp, tripping over a low stool, he lunged savagely into the corner. He kicked for a body and found none. He clutched for a cowering form—stabbed for an upright one—and failed again. His hated kinsman had disappeared.

“Lights!” he bellowed. “Lamps! Lanterns! At once!”

Feet trampled. Matches blazed. A naked candle appeared. From somewhere came an oil lantern.

“Ha!” snarled the leader, a vindictive flash passing over his black-browed, hook-nosed, gash-mouthed visage. On the wall, as well as on the tiled floor, were bloodstains. From the wail, too, projected a small knob, smeared with fresh red. Barely visible were the outlines of a low door. Seizing the knob, he wrenched open the portal and raised his dagger. An instant he stood, peering blankly; then turned and snatched the lantern.

Beyond the door was a narrow stairway leading down. Light showed the stone steps to be streaked with blood. For perhaps twelve feet they descended—and there they ended at another door. A massive barrier was this, solid as stone, and as impregnable; of wood, to be sure, but one of those dense tropic woods which break axes. Of unknown thickness, and barred on the farther side, it blocked all pursuit.

For minutes Veinte Cuatro stood there and cursed, his face purple and his temples swollen with passion. On the stairs above, hi s own fearless, godless gang began to look at one another and quietly withdraw from him. Then, of a sudden, he broke into a wild laugh and remounted the steps.

“Let the rat lie in his hole,” he chuckled. “There are other things to be done. You, Sargento Salas, take two men and remain here on guard. If the door opens, kill!”

“Kill, my general,” acknowledged the stocky Salas, with a yellow-toothed grin.

His general strode back into the bedroom, where he volleyed commands.

“Capitanes! Take detachments and collect all moneys in the shops. Give the merchants the usual receipts. Tenientes! Seize all arms and ammunition to be found. All officers, see that order is preserved. No more shooting is necessary. Allow no violence unless attacked. Open the prison, of course, and bring all victims of oppression found there to me. Libertad!”

“Libertad y justicia!” rang a chorus. “Liberty and justice!” They flocked outward, and faces disappeared from corridor and window.

“You others,” added the dictator to several who loitered, “search this house from end to end, floor to roof. Break all doors found locked. Bring to me the rats of the house of Traitor Jaime. They shall squeak!”