“The lady you married, señor?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t have me interested in some other lady on my wedding day, you old reprobate?”
The half-breed laughed softly.
“Even that wouldn’t be so strange a thing as what has really happened, señor. No one knows who the lady is. One man, a distant cousin of mine, told me he heard she landed from a ship only late last night.”
“Great Scott!” muttered Maseden in English, “what a Sphinx-like person! She must be descended from the Man in the Iron Mask.” Then he went on:
“Didn’t your cousin know where she was staying in Cartagena? Surely there must have been a good deal of public curiosity about her. Twenty people were present at the marriage. It was no secret.”
“I understand that she had gone to Señor Steinbaum’s house. She fainted after the ceremony, my cousin said, and had to be carried into an automobile, but he knew nothing more.”
The veiled Madeleine had felt the strain, then! Somehow the knowledge of her collapse touched a chord of sentiment in Maseden’s heart, but his own desperate plight effectually banished all other considerations at the moment.
True, he was safe for the night, and for many days to come, if the foreman’s fidelity remained unshaken. The ranch was called Los Andes because it contained a chain of little hills all covered with valuable timber, among which he could hide without real difficulty.
But of what avail this precarious lurking on his own estate? He must take speedy and effectual steps to get clear of San Juan altogether until such time as he could secure adequate protection, and have his case thrashed out by a tribunal to whose decision even Enrico Suarez, the president of the Republic, must bow.
One thing was quite certain – never again could he settle down in unmolested possession of his property. Though the shooting of Suarez was an unfortunate necessity, its effect would be enduring and disastrous.
He had thought out every phase of the problem during the long, hot hours beneath the trees, and the half-breed’s account of the trend of public feeling decided his adoption of the boldest course of all. He would go to Cartagena, where he was hardly known, save to a few merchants and shopkeepers, a banker and one or two members of the Consular community, and board some outward-bound vessel.
Fortunately, he had plenty of money, and, glory be, could speak both Spanish and the San Juan patois like a native. If his luck held, he would cheat Suarez yet.
“Lopez,” he said, after a long pause, “I must leave the ranch for many a day, probably forever. If I stay here I’ll only plunge you into trouble and get myself captured. Now, do me one last service. Have you any clothes belonging to that vaquero nephew of yours who broke his neck in a race last Easter?”
“I have his overalls, a fiesta jacket, some shirts and a sombrero, señor.”
“Bring them, and speedily. I’ll give you a good price.”
“They are yours for nothing, señor.”
“I don’t deal on those terms, Lopez. Off with you. I’ll wait here.”
“Anything else, señor?”
“Yes. I was nearly forgetting. Bring his saddle, too. My own saddle might be recognized. I have a long ride before me, so hurry.”
Within half an hour the good-hearted old foreman was richer by five hundred dollars, while Maseden, a dashing cowboy, though unkempt as to face and hands, was riding across country by starlight.
He did not tell Lopez his real objective. There was no need. The old fellow occasionally indulged in a burst of dissipation, and if his tongue wagged then he might blurt out some boastful phrase which would bring down on him the merciless wrath of the authorities.
At dawn the fugitive received another slice of real luck. He had just entered a main road leading from San Luis, a town thirty miles from Cartagena, when he came upon a cowherd sitting by the roadside and bemoaning his misfortunes. The man was commissioned to drive some cattle to a sale-ring in the city, and had scratched an ankle rather badly while whacking one of the steers out of a bed of thorns.
Such an incident was common enough in his life, but on this occasion either the thorn was poisonous or some foreign matter had lodged in the wound, because the limb had swollen greatly and was so painful that he could hardly walk.
Maseden played the Good Samaritan. He ascertained the drover’s name, his master’s, and the address of the salesman; the rest was easy. Helping the sufferer into a wayside hovel, he promised to send back a messenger later with an official receipt, took charge of the animals himself, and reached Cartagena as Ramon Aliones, the accredited representative of a San Luis rancher.
The sale-ring was near the harbor, and he mounted a man on his own broncho to deliver the drover’s voucher for the safe arrival of the herd at its destination. He asked for, and obtained, a duplicate, which he kept. This same emissary readily disposed of the horse and saddle at a ruinous price when told that the newcomer was not only thirsty, but meant to see the sights of the capital.
A cheap restaurant, some wineshops, and a vile billiard saloon provided shelter for the rest of the day. Before night fell, Maseden had ascertained three things: He was supposed to be riding hard into the interior; the lady he had married was really a stranger and was Steinbaum’s guest, and a large steamer, the Southern Cross, flying the Stars and Stripes, was due to leave port at midnight.
She should have sailed some hours earlier, but the drastic changes in the marine department entailed by the day’s happenings had delayed certain formalities connected with her manifests.
“For a time, señor,” explained the ship’s chandler who gave him this latter information, “no one would sign anything. You see, a name on a paper would prove conclusively which president you favored. You understand?”
Maseden understood perfectly.
“It is well that you and I, señor, have no truck with these presidents, or we might be in trouble,” he laughed. “As it is, another bottle, and to the devil with all politicians!”
Under cover of the darkness the American slipped away from his boon companions, now comfortably drunk at his expense. Having no luggage, he bought a second-hand leather trunk and some cheap underclothing, such as a muleteer might reasonably possess. He also secured the repeating rifle and cartridges which he had left in a restaurant, and, thus reinforced, made for the Plaza, where Cartagenians of both sexes and all ages were gathered to enjoy the cool breeze that comes from the Pacific with sunset.
From that point he knew he could see the Southern Cross lying at anchor in the roadstead. She was there, sure enough, nearly a mile out, and he was puzzling his wits for a pretext to hire a boat and board her without attracting notice when chance solved the problem for him.
Two men passed. They were talking English, and he heard one addressing the other by name.
“Tell you what, Sturgess,” the speaker was saying, “I’d be hull down on Cartagena to-night if the skipper would only bring up at Valparaiso. But his first port of call is Buenos Ayres, and I’ve got to make Valparaiso before I see good old New York again, so here I’m fixed till a coasting steamer comes along. Great Cæsar’s ghost, I wish I were going with you!”
The second man, Sturgess, was carrying a suitcase, and the two were evidently making for a short pier which supplied landing places for small craft at various stages of the tide.
Maseden quickened his pace, overtook them, and said in Spanish that he wished to book a passage to Buenos Ayres on the Southern Cross, and, if the Señor Americano would permit him to board the vessel in his boat, he (Maseden) would gladly carry the bag to the pier.
Sturgess evidently did not understand Spanish, and asked his companion to interpret. He laughed on hearing the queer offer.
“Guess I can handle the grip myself, and the gallant vaquero is pretty well loaded with his own outfit,” he said, “but he is welcome to a trip on my catamaran,