Gomez had assassinated his master, and said so, with many oaths, when he summoned assistance from a neighboring house. It may also be placed on record here that about the same time the gallant aide-de-camp had come to suspect that his beautiful uniform, if not returned promptly, might be sadly smirched by a score of bullets, with accessories; and was kicking up a fearful row because no one could get at the jailer and rescue that gala costume before the prisoner was led forth to execution.
In a word, the Republic’s presidential affairs were greatly mixed, and remained in inextricable confusion until long after Maseden drew rein on a blown horse at the gate of his own estancia.
The ranch, known as Los Andes, and one of the finest estates in San Juan, provided the original bone of contention between Maseden and Suarez. It had been built up, during thirty lazy years, by a distant cousin of Suarez, an elderly bachelor, who grew coffee and maize, and reared stock in a haphazard way.
Seven years earlier he had met the young American in New York, took a liking to him, and offered to employ him as overseer while teaching him the business. The pupil soon became the instructor. Scientific methods were introduced, direct markets were tapped, and the produce of the estate was quadrupled within a few seasons.
Then the older man died, and left the ranch and its contents to his assistant. There was not much money – the capital was sunk in stock and improvement – so a number of free and independent burghers of Cartagena received smaller amounts than they expected.
Suarez was one of the beneficiaries, seven in all. Six took the situation calmly. He alone was irreconcilable, and blustered about legal proceedings, only desisting when persuaded that he had no case, even for the venal courts of San Juan.
And now, on that sultry January morning, the lawful owner of the Los Andes ranch, while awaiting the appearance of a peon, who, he knew, was tending some cattle in a byre behind the lodge, was wondering whether or not he might urge a tired charger into a final canter to the door of his own house without bringing about a pitched battle when he arrived there.
At last came Pedro – every second man in South America is named after the chief of the Apostles – a brown, lithe, Indian-looking person. But he was Spanish enough in the expression of his emotions.
“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he cried joyously, after a first stare of incredulity, for the eyes rolled in his head at sight of Maseden’s garb, “it is not true, then, master, that you are a prisoner!”
“Who says that I am?” inquired Maseden.
“They say it up there at the estancia, señor,” and Pedro jerked a thumb towards an avenue of mahogany trees.
“They say? Who say?”
Pedro was scared, but Maseden had taught his helpers to answer truthfully.
“Old Lopez said it, señor. He told me the president’s men had charged him to touch nothing till they returned.”
Maseden’s heart throbbed more furiously at that reply than at aught which had befallen him during the few pregnant hours since dawn.
“Those rascals have gone, then?” he said, so placidly that the peon was bewildered.
“Si, señor. Did they not go with you?”
“Yes. I was not sure of all… Close and lock the gate, Pedro. Leave other things. Saddle your mustang and mount guard at the bend in the avenue, from which you can watch the Cartagena road. If you see horses, or an automobile, coming this way, ride to the house and tell me.”
“Si, señor.”
Pedro hurried off. Maseden rode on at the best pace the spent horse was capable of. He might lose a potential fortune – though the shooting of Suarez should remove the worst of the hostile influences arrayed against him – but surely he could now save his life.
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