Twenty-Four Hours/Chapter 8

AWN. A pale shroud filmed the sky, blotting from it the stars. A weak half-light crawled along the ground, giving a lifeless look to houses, a sickly appearance to slow-moving, weary men. Sentries and outposts nodded over their rifles or, concealed in various nooks, shamelessly slept. Glum, sour-speaking groups stood about or worked half-heartedly at the still fruitless search for Jaime Gordo. Frowning heavily, Federico Gordo sat again in the office, brooding over the failure to unearth his wounded brother. In rooms at the rear slept the Americans; Jean in her hammock, her guardians hunched over at a table, heads resting on arms.

Rapidly the light brightened. Cocks began to crow. Men straightened, walked with a little more vim, though yawning long and often. As a pink blush dyed the eastern clouds, from somewhere came marching a squad of sombre-faced men, eyes set stonily to the front, rifles rigid on their shoulders. Commanded by a sargento, they trod in unison to one side of the plaza and halted a few yards from a blank wall. There they grounded arms and stood at rest. The non-com strode away, halting again outside an open window of the office.

“Ready, my general,” he announced in monotone.

The frown of Veinte Cuatro tightened perceptibly. To several officers standing about he spoke:

“Is a priest in this town?”

“None at present, the gente say,” answered one.

An instant of hesitation. Then he arose, grim and ruthless.

“Bugles,” he ordered. “Summon all to the plaza. Lieutenant Compero—” His sidewise nod indicated another duty for that officer. The lieutenant and his fellows hastened out.

A couple of minutes later the bugles blared. Loud, imperious, unfeeling, they volleyed notes over the town, startling the heaviest sleeper into full wakefulness. Succeeded a medley of orders, a confused trampling of feet, as the forces of Veinte Cuatro gathered from all sides and took designated positions. Thereafter ensued shouts summoning to the plaza all citizens of Caicara.

At their table, Hart and Kelly started up, throwing blank looks around. The former strode to a window and threw its shutter wide. In rushed the cool, sweet breeze of early morning and the light of the new day. The sky now was becoming fiery red.

Kelly, advancing to the door, found the guards alert but morose. They scanned him sourly.

“What is the assembly, hombres?” he asked.

“Two men are to be shot. And we shall not see it,” grumbled one.

“Huh! Who are they?”

“Fools who disobeyed the general.”

“Oh. Well, go and see the show. The night is done; so is your duty.”

They looked quickly at each other, their sourness vanishing.

“You will not try an escape?”

“Huh? We are not prisoners, hombre, we are guests of the general. I will go with you.”

“Bueno! Quickly, señor!”

“A moment.” To Hart, with a wink and a thumb-jerk toward Jean's room, he added loudly, “Some guys are leavin' for the west, Hart, and the gang's givin' 'em a bump—a send-off. Want to take it in?”

“Guess not,” came the casual reply. “I'll stick around. Go ahead.”

“Quickly, señor!” besought the guards again.

As he stepped forward they loped to the corridor, aglow with excited expectation. Kelly, with a blasé yawn, lounged along at an unhurried pace.

Reaching the open, they found the raiders drawn up in two long columns, standing at ease, their lines dressed toward the blank wall. At one end of the inclosed space waited the sombre squad. At the other was massing the populace, asking no questions—for any Venezuelan knows the meaning of a squad and a wall. In the midway, silent but dominating, bulked the great, black Veinte Cuatro, thumbs in belt and shoulders back. The rustle and jostle became a tense stillness. Overhead blazed the first rays of the fast-rising sun.

Against the wall now appeared several figures moving in from one side. Two of these were halted and swung about to face the assemblage. The others retreated. The pair stood alone, backs to the adobe. The armed squad facing them stiffened, watching the lieutenant who had taken position at one side. The two against the wall looked at the squad. That was the last look one of them gave to anything.

A heavily built, strong looking man was this, seemingly rugged enough to meet any fate without flinching. Yet now, after one furtive glance at the knot of riflemen, he swayed on his feet; his visage contorted, his eyes shut tight, and his head drooped. In that position he froze, dumbly waiting, blindly holding his face toward the earth. The other, much slighter of frame, stood with chin in air and gaze roving defiantly along the columns, over the crowd of townsmen, and back to his executioners. In one hand he held a freshly lighted cigaret, from which he drew an occasional puff of smoke.

“People of Caicara!”

Grave, cold, measured, the deep chest-tones of Federico Gordo boomed across the plaza like the tolling of a bell. At its sonorous impact the heavier of the doomed pair started visibly, but did not look up. His companion took a quick draw at his cigaret, then stood watching as if he were only a disinterested spectator.

“Citizens of a misruled town, victims of a tyrannical government! You know that I, Federico Gordo, fight against oppression; that I make war to free our country from the chains of slavery, to sweep away corruption, to restore to your lives the freedom and happiness of liberty and justice. You know that there can be no liberty without justice, no justice without impartiality. And you know there can be no safety without just law and just punishment for those who violate such law. You are called here to witness the fact that I not only speak these things but act them; that I do not lay upon you one law and upon my own men another; that I protect all who conduct themselves with peace and order, punish those who do not. I stand for order and justice in government, and order and justice I will have!

“Last night I commanded that no inhabitant of this town should be harmed unless he himself made violence. That is my rule in every town I take. Later a man was shot by two of my soldados. He was not one of you, but a visitor. He provoked my men and brought his death on himself. Yet he was unarmed and harmless. The killing of him was unnecessary and unjustifiable; a disobedience of my command, a lawless violation of peace and order. Those men now pay the penalty.”

His speech ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He turned, looking at the pair against the wall. The slim fellow looked straight back at him; lifted his cigaret once more, drew a last puff deep into his lungs, and deliberately tossed the butt away; slowly exhaled the smoke, lifted his head still higher, and gazed into the far sky.

Veinte Cuatro flung up a hand. The lieutenant voiced a curt command. Rifle-butts leaped to shoulders. Another order; the steel tubes froze into aim. A third bark—a thumping crash.

As they had stood, so the two fell. The heavy one pitched on his face, rigid as a toppling tree. The wiry one, head unbowed, dropped loosely on his back. Both lay motionless.

Veinte Cuatro turned again, his gaze sweeping along the lines of his own men and coming to rest on the crowded townsmen.

“You have seen,” he said gruffly. “Let it not be forgotten.”

Without another word he strode back to the house of his brother. Silently his forces broke ranks, and quietly the citizens melted away. At the foot of the wall six men lifted the lifeless figures and trudged down a side street toward the cemetery. The lesson in liberty and justice was over.

ELLY, expressionless, sauntered back to headquarters, his attendants close behind making great show of zeal in watching him. As soon as they had passed the doorway of the office without drawing a question from Veinte Cuatro, however, the guardian pair dropped their pretense. In low tones they fell to discussing the coolness of Rafael, the fear of Luis, the difference in their ways of falling, and kindred details. The American, ignoring them, reentered the room where he and Hart had napped. He found the latter seated at the table with Jean, who, though sleepy-eyed, looked refreshed by her few hours of rest.

“Mornin', miss,” he saluted. “How d'ye feel this glorious mornin'?”

“Just a little sleepy,” she confessed, stifling a yawn, “and very much puzzled as to how we are to continue our journey. You said last night that the boat wouldn't run, and—”

“It'll run as quick as these guys move out,” he assured her, lowering his tone. “And they ain't stayin' much longer. They must have picked this burg clean before now.”

“But—they haven't found Gordo, have they? Or have they? What—what was that shooting just now?” Her face was suddenly serious.

“Aw, no. That wasn't nothin'. Jest a kind of a—a salute to Pablo Benito, to tell ye the truth. Uh—did ye hear the general's speech?”

“No. We heard a big voice talking, but I didn't catch the words.”

“Wal, ye see, he made a kind of an oration about peace and order and liberty and justice, and how it was tough that Pablo got knocked off, and there wouldn't be no more o' that rough stuff. And then they fired that salute. And some fellers that was goin' on a trip by the general's orders went as per schedule, so it was a kind of a send-off for them too. Funny time to pull a stunt like that, ye might say, but down here they like to git things done in the cool o' the mornin'.”

She watched him dubiously as he talked; but his tone was so casual, his gaze so candid, that his deceptive explanation passed muster. Hart's eyes twinkled, but he preserved a poker face. In the same careless way Kelly added:

“This Jaime guy, he's made his gitaway, I guess, and it's a sore man I am; I wanted to give him somethin' to take to the hospital with him. But about the boat, I'll put her in trim as soon as these ginks pull out, and I don't think they'll stick around on Jaime's account. They'll git him some other time.”

Jean looked soberly out through a window.

“It's too bad about Pablo,” she said. “He wasn't so good, but he might have been much worse, perhaps. He was all right except for—for being so weak that anybody could wind him around a finger. And his wife and children—”

“They'll make out all right,” comforted Hart. “She's a capable woman, and I'll bet she knows where he hid many a good silver bolívar. He made money on his cartage and never spent it. Nobody will mourn him long. Weaklings seldom live to old age in this country, anyway. Speaking of the boat, it seems queer that nobody's said anything about it yet. The revolutionist never lived who'd let a fast boat get away from him—”

“Ssss!” warned Kelly. “Somebody comin'.”

The somebody proved to be Veinte Cuatro himself, accompanied by a couple of subordinates. No sound had heralded his approach, but Kelly had noted that the lounging guards had suddenly stiffened to soldierly alertness. Now a brief sentence of dismissal was heard, and the sentinels gladly left their post. As they disappeared the others entered. At a glance it was evident that the mood of the leader had changed again.

“Buen' dia'." He bowed. “Señorita, I trust that you have rested well. And I hope, Señor 'Art, that your temper is improved by food and sleep.”

“A little,” Hart conceded. “It would be still better if we had a good breakfast.”

“That is good. You shall have it at once. It makes me most uncomfortable to have a hungry tigre so near me.” The black-lashed lids twitched humorously. “Afterwards perhaps you will tell my engineer officer how to make your boat run. He says it does not operate.”

Blank stares and unreadable expressions met this announcement. After a pause Hart queried—

“Do we understand that you mean to take our boat from us?”

“Not precisely. And yet—yes. You men, as men of experience, must understand what such a boat means to my forces: a swift scouting boat, a little boat of war, going many miles in a day. But it is my wish that the señorita be carried as far as possible on her way. Therefore when it is in condition we shall speed down the river to some point where you three can easily find a piragua, in which you can continue safely to Bolívar. After that I shall leave you.”

Another pause, while the trio appeared to consider the proposal.

“Oh, general, please do not take my boat!” pleaded Jean, looking doleful. “It is so comfortable and—”

“I am desolated, señorita, by the necessity. But I must have the boat. Be assured that you shall be well provided when it leaves you. And, if you will pardon me, it is not your boat. One of my men recognizes it as the property of a merchant of Bolívar. Thus the loss will be his, not yours. It is unavoidable.”

His tone, though courteous, was final. Hart and Kelly looked at each other as if accepting the inevitable.

“Bien,” said the former. “General, no gas boat will run without gas. That was why we stopped here.”

Up spoke one of the officers in a tone of annoyance.

“Maldito! Do I not know enough to put in fuel? The tank is filled. But the engine will not start.”

The Americans achieved another blank look. Then Kelly chuckled patronizingly.

“You do not understand the compression,” he said. “It is very simple. I will show you—after breakfast. General, when do we eat?”

“Now. At once. You will come then to the office? Bueno. Señorita, accept my apologies for intrusion.”

More bows, and a dignified withdrawal. The three glanced at one another, and Kelly slyly touched the pocket wherein reposed the vital switch.

“I bet that spiffy ingineer officer dunno his right hand from his left when it comes to marine ingynes,” he muttered. “I'll soon find out.”

“And if he doesn't?” breathed Jean.

“Remains to be seen, as the guy said at the morgue. Mebbe we can put one over on His Nibs yet.”

“Have to make it slick and snappy,” cautioned Hart. “If we make one fumble we're completely out of luck.”

“And wouldn't it be rather a shame,” laughed Jean, “to deceive our friend? He's such a gentlemanly sort of robber!”

“Robber?” Hart's brows lifted in mock reproof. “My dear girl, the fact that he seizes our guns and our launch, and perhaps changes his mind about giving us a ride after the launch is back in commission—that's not robbery. It's only 'liberty and justice'.”

“Yeah. Liberty and justice,” echoed Kelly, his face hardening.

His head lifted, and his eyes dwelt sombrely on the door through which the volatile commander had gone. Despite his outward callousness—which, in truth, was considerably more than skin deep—he kept seeing again the slim, dauntless fellow with the cigaret whose life had just been shot out in the names of libertad y justicia. That fellow, he felt, had been worth a hundred such as Pablo Benito. Where was the justice of executing a brave man for the death of a yellow dog?

“Bunk! Blah!” he growled aloud. “Grandstand play, that's all 'twas! This guy's a big cheese! He makes me sick!”

“What?” questioned Jean, wonderingly.

“Aw, nothin'.” He stood up. “I don't want no breakfast, I guess. Got a sour taste in me mouth. I'll go down and stall round the boat. If I don't git back before long the two o' ye might mosey down and see how I'm makin' out.”

His eye held Hart's for a second. Then he sauntered out.