LITMIR.BIZ

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was in the mid-afternoon, and Henry, at his barred cell-window, stared out into the street. The street was dusty and filthy. Next, he saw a light wagon drawn by a horse. In the seat a gray-headed, gray-bearded ancient man strove vainly to check the horse.[58]

      Henry smiled. When directly opposite the window, the old man made a last effort. The driver fell backward into the seat. Then the wagon was a wreck. The old man swung the horse in a circle until it stopped.

      The gendarmes erupted from the jail. The old man went hurriedly to the wagon and began an examination of the several packing cases, large and small, which composed its load. One of the gendarmes addressed him.

      “Me? Alas senors, I am an old man, and far from home. I am Leopoldo Narvaez.[59] I have driven from Bocas del Toro. It has taken me five days, and business has been poor. My home is in Colon. But tell me, is there Tomas Romero[60] who dwells in this pleasant city of San Antonio?”

      “There are many Romeros who dwell everywhere in Panama,” laughed Pedro Zurita,[61] the assistant jailer.[62] “Do you mean the rich Tomas Romero who owns many cattle on the hills?”

      “Yes, senor, it must be he. I shall find him. If my precious stock-in-trade[63] can be safely stored, I shall seek him now.” As he talked, he took out from his pocket two silver pesos and handed them to the jailer.

      Pedro Zurita and the gendarmes began to carry the boxes into the jail.

      “Careful, senors, careful,” the old one pleaded, greatly anxious. “Handle it gently. It is fragile, most fragile.”

      Then he added gratefully: “A thousand thanks, senors. It has been my good fortune to meet with honest men with whom my goods will be safe. Tomorrow I shall return, and take my goods. Adios, senors, adios!”

* * *

      In the guardroom, fifty feet away from Henry’s cell, the gendarmes were robbing Leopoldo Narvaez. Pedro Zurita made a profound survey of the large box.

      “Leave it alone, Pedro,” one of the gendarmes laughed at him. The assistant jailer sighed, walked away and sat down, looked back at the box, and sighed again.

      “Take the hatchet there and open the box,” he said. “Open the box, Ignacio,[64] we will look, we will only look. Then we will close the box again.”

      “Whiskey! The old man was a fool,” laughed gendarmes. “That whiskey was his, all his, and he has never taken one little sip!”

      In few minutes everybody was drunk. Pedro Zurita became sentimental.

      “My prisoners,” he maundered. “I love them as brothers. Life is sad. My prisoners are my very children. My heart bleeds for them. Behold! I weep. Let us share with them. Let them have a moment’s happiness. Ignacio, carry a bottle of this elixir to the Gringo Morgan. Give him my love. He will drink and be happy today.”

      The voice outside caught Henry’s attention, and he was crossing his big cell to the window when he heard a key in the door. Ignacio came in, completely drunk, bottle in hand, which he gravely presented to Henry.

      “With the high compliments of our good jailer, Pedro Zurita,” he mumbled. “He says to drink and forget that he must stretch your neck tomorrow.”

      “My high compliments to Senor Pedro Zurita, and tell him from me to go to hell along with his whiskey,” Henry replied.

      The gendarme suddenly become sober.

      “Very well, senor,” he said, then passed out and locked the door.

      In a rush Henry was at the window just in time to encounter Francis face to face. Francis was thrusting a revolver to him through the bars.

      “Henry,” Francis said. “Stand back in your cell, because there’s going to be a hole in this wall. The Angelique is waiting for you. Now, stand back.”

      Hardly had Henry backed into a rear corner of his cell, when the door was clumsily unlocked and opened.

      “Kill the Gringo!” cried the gendarmes.

      Ignacio fired wildly from his gun, missing Henry by half the width of the cell. The next moment he went down under the impact of Henry’s bullet. Henry waited for the explosion.

      It came. The window and the wall beneath it became all one aperture. Francis dragged him out through the hole.

      “The horses are waiting up the next alley,” Francis told Henry, as they gripped hands. “And Leoncia is waiting with them. Fifteen minutes’ gallop will take us to the beach, where the boat is waiting.”

      “The gendarmes got full of whiskey and decided to finish me off right away,” Henry grinned. “Funny thing that whiskey. An old man broke a wagon right in front of the jail.”

      “A noble Narvaez, eh, senor?” Francis asked.

      “It was you!”

      Francis smiled.

      Chapter VI

      Jefe Politico of San Antonio, leaned back in his chair with a quiet smile of satisfaction proceeded to roll a cigarette. The old judge gave judgment according to program. And the Jefe was two hundred dollars richer for the transaction. His smile was even broader as he greeted Alvarez Torres.

      “Listen,” said the latter, whispering low in his ear. “We can kill both Morgans. Henry hangs tomorrow. Francis should go out today.”

      The Jefe remained silent.

      “I have advised him to storm the jail. The Solanos have listened to his lies and are with him. They will surely attempt to do it this evening. They could not do it sooner. Francis Morgan will be killed in the fight.”

      “For what and for why?” the Jefe asked. “Henry must be out of the way. But let Francis go back to his beloved New York.”

      “It is imperative that the Francis be kept away from New York for a month if forever, and I do not misunderstand Senor Regan, so much the better. Money matters, you know.”

      “But you have not told me how much you have received, nor how much you will receive,” the Jefe said.

      “It is a private agreement, and it is not so much as you may fancy. He is a hard man, this Senor Regan, a hard man. But I will divide fairly with you.”

      The Jefe nodded, then said:

      “Will it be as much as a thousand?”

      “I think so. And five hundred is yours if Francis leaves his bones in San Antonio.”

      “It must be more than a thousand,” the Jefe persisted.

      “And he may be generous,” Torres responded. “He may even give me five hundred over the thousand, half of which, naturally, as I have said, will be yours as well.”

      “I shall go from here immediately to the jail,” the Jefe announced. “You may trust me, Senor Torres, as I trust you. Come. We will go at once, now, you and I, and you may see for yourself the preparation I shall make for this Francis Morgan’s reception. So this Gringo will storm our jail, eh? Come.”

      He stood up. But, half way across the room, a boy plucked his sleeve and whined:

      “I have information. You will pay me for it, Senor? I have run all the way.”

      “I’ll sent you to the jail!” was the reply.

      The boy cried: “You will remember I brought you the information, Senor. I ran all the way until I am almost dead!”

      “Yes, yes, animal, I will remember. What is your information? It may not be worth a centavo. Скачать книгу