Twenty-Four Hours/Chapter 1
I
FOUR hundred miles from the sea, the adobe settlement of Caicara squatted on the south shore of the tawny river Orinoco.
Fifty miles upstream, heading seaward, a dingy gray launch butted its prow through a rolling horde of waves and doggedly advanced in the teeth of the northeast trade-wind.
Midway between town and boat, and three leagues up a nameless tributary, a long fleet of dugout canoes crawled like a great snake toward the master river.
Over all these, as over all the wide, wild reaches of Venezuela, blazed torrid sun.
In the low, mud-walled houses and the crooked streets of the pueblo moved the leisurely life of the townspeople; petty trading in the crude shops, with much con- verse and little cash; slow arrivals and departures of straw-sombreroed men and sleepy-eyed burros; giggling gossip among mestizo women in patios or at doorways; an occasional shrill squabble between scantily clad children; all the trivialities which went to make up an average equatorial day. Within only one set of walls did thought reach beyond the passing hour—in the official home of the jeje civil, or town authority. There, grouped at a massive table, the half-dozen leading merchants held gloomy converse with the arbiter of the town's problems. At every sudden sound—even the abrupt yelp of a kicked dog—these men started as if at a volley of rifle-shots.
Up in the nameless caño at the westward, the floating serpent swam steadily, though slowly, with a rhythmic dull cadence of pulsing paddles. Every hollowed segment of its loose-jointed back was crammed with men; men with stolid faces, peering slit-eyed through clouds of mosquitoes as they plied their broad blades; men with visages saturnine, satirical, sinister; men with expressions reckless, humorous, vivacious, or coldly predacious, or heavily brutal. Between their feet lay rifles, ranging in make from clumsy single-shot bush guns to heavy-barreled repeaters, and from these to high-powered European military arms. Around their hips or over their chests looped belts or bandoleers of cartridges; and at their waists jutted hilts of poniards or machetes. No idly gliding snake was this, but one advancing with grim purpose. And, though traversing swamp-lands inhabited only by smaller snakes, fierce beasts, silent birds, and skulking human outcasts, it moved with eyes alert and fangs ready to strike.
Under the faded awning of the motor launch lounged three men and a maid, watching the endless echelon of yellow waves and the monotonous clay banks topped by unvarying verdure. Of these four, only one was native born: a leathery-cheeked, crafty-eyed fellow, loose-garmented, alpargata-shod, and unarmed, whose constant study of landmarks and currents marked him as the pilot. The other men, though deeply tanned and garbed in baggy tropical clothing, had features and physique suggesting a more northern clime; the one blond, strong-mouthed, wide-shouldered, tall and lithe, the other florid of skin, gray of eye, and Celtic of lineament, with the powerful build of a heavyweight fighter. Dissimilar, yet potentially dangerous, these two, as a tiger and a bull. The tiger, however, was crippled, his left arm hanging useless in a sling. Yet the sinewy right hand which occasionally caressed the butt of a long revolver at his thigh betokened readiness to meet any human menace, and the blue eyes glancing along the shores now and again showed a glint of steel. His broader mate was likewise armed; and near at hand leaned a pair of big-bored repeaters. The girl, clad in mannish blouse, trim riding breeches, and natty boots, seemed more boy than woman. Her small chin was firm, her dark eyes direct and steady, her poise cool, capable, and confident. Judging from her manner, one might have said that she was as much at home here as her sun-branded companions. But both her Northern clothing and her rose-flushed skin, only lightly burned, proved her to be a newcomer.
Save for the swash of divided waves, the drone of the engine, the muffled panting of the exhaust, and an occasional grunt from the pilot, lazy silence reigned aboard and about the launch. Shaded by the heavy top and fanned by the lusty wind, the voyagers rode in quiescent comfort. Nowhere in all the broad vista beyond them rose any sail, any steamer-smoke, or even the low-riding dots betokening men in a canoe. All the river seemed their own. Yet all four watched constantly ahead—the girl as if awaiting the appearance of some destination, the men as if long habituated to wary vigilance.
AT LENGTH the girl recalled her attention from the distances to her immediate environment. Her gaze dwelt for a moment on the rugged profile of the bronze blond, then roved back to the somewhat morose visage of the red-skinned man behind the engine, who sat with one huge hand on a small steering wheel. On her curving lips grew a smile.
“Why so solemn, my bandit chiefs?” she bantered. “Everything's as peaceful as a Quaker meeting. Where's all that red ruin and rebellion you were predicting down here, Mr. Tiger and Mr. Bull?”
The set faces and tense muscles of the pair momentarily relaxed. But the response of the taller one was not reassuring.
“It's come,” he asserted. “The fact that there's nothing to see only proves it. If things were normal there 'd have been a piragua or two—sailboats, you know—somewhere in sight before now. When there's not even a canoe moving in this section something has broken loose on land.”
“Jest about what I was thinkin', Hart,” agreed the engineer. “O' course I dunno this here river, seein' I jest come down out o' Colombia; but some way it don't look right or feel right to me. There's people livin' along here, ain't there?”
“Sure. Little plantations scattered all along. You can't see them from midstream because they're tucked away behind the shore timber, but they're there. Poor folks, mostly, who live in palm shacks and just manage to grow enough grub to keep alive.”
“Yeah. And they're jest the kind that fall for this revolution stuff when some grafter out of a job stirs 'em up. They've got nothin' to lose but their lives, which ain't worth much, and they think the new guy will give 'em a square deal if he wins out. Poor simps! I bet if we coasted along shore now we wouldn't find an able-bodied man or a decent canoe at any o' them shacks. They're all gone down river somewheres to fight in General Mañana's so-noble army for liberty and justice. Mm-pah!” He spat over the side.
“General Mañana?” echoed the girl. “Is there such a man?”
Hart, the blond, chuckled.
“Mañana's the middle name of all these rebel generals, Jean,” he explained. “They're always going to reform things mañana—tomorrow—when they've licked the federals. Meanwhile they seize everything in sight and promise to pay for it mañana—when they get into office. If you're a rancher they kill your cattle for campaign food and give you an I O U which you can collect mañana—only you never do. If you have anything else they want they grab that too. And by the same token they'd seize this launch and our guns if they could get—What? Qué dice, Pablo?”
“Derecha,” repeated the pilot.
The steersman swung the boat to the right, as directed, to follow a new current.
“Kelly's right,” resumed Hart. “This part of the river's quiet just now because it's unquiet somewhere else. We may bump into something rough almost any time. Don't want to alarm you, but you might as well know the facts.”
Again he scowled along the sunlit expanse of waves. Kelly, too, swept a bleak look along both advancing shores. Then his heavy mouth quirked in a sardonic grin.
“And seein' we're a couple of innocent young fellers that ain't used to associatin' with rough guys, we don't want to meet up with no bad actors,” he jested. “If anybody should speak cross to us I bet we'd bust right out cryin', hey, Hart?”
Hart chuckled again. Jean laughed—a clear, ringing laugh that distracted the pilot's attention from his duty and made his mouth stretch in a thin smile, even while his probing glance vainly sought the cause of merriment. He did not understand English.
“Yes, I can just imagine it!” she scoffed. “El Tigre and El Toro whining in concert! The very mention of your names would make most of these Orinoco men dodge into cover.”
“Perhaps so—yesterday,” conceded Hart. “Yesterday, when Bull and I had our respective gangs behind us. But this is another day, and we're just peaceable sailormen trying to deliver a passenger at Ciudad Bolivar. How's the gas holding out, chief?”
“I dunno, Cap'n. All we got is in the tank. Ingyne ain't showin' no signs o' missin' yet. We might make Caicara before she quits.”
Silence again descended. Pablo faced forward, frowning in suspicion. Why could not these norte americanos speak in Spanish, so that he could understand? Perhaps they were making some plot behind his back and laughing at him. He did not like it.
Another hour took its leisurely flight. From time to time the distant banks on either hand showed small, vaguely visible gaps where entered side streams, slipping smoothly into the river from the uplands at the right or the prairies at the left. Whatever lurked or swam beyond those unmarked gateways remained unseen by the voyagers.
Still another hour, and the erstwhile empty mouth of one of those caños became clogged with floating life. The stealthy serpent of the swamplands had reached the broad waterway where the waves rolled; and, at sight of those heaving hosts, had drawn back its head. Its body shortened and broadened on itself as its hollow sections jammed together. Among its riders passed the word that el rio grande was too rough to be crossed now by craft so low-riding and heavy-laden, and that the afternoon calm must be awaited. Wherefore lookouts were posted, and the rest of the armed force devoted itself to loafing and gnawing at tough slabs of sun-cured beef.
To the eyes and the ears of the sentries, the laboring motorboat was nonexistent. Miles downstream, following a near-shore current, it was lost to sight in the dazzling sun-glare and the thin heat-haze; and the soft drumming of its exhaust was deadened by the swash and slap of myriad rollers against the banks. So it passed away unseen and unknown, and behind it a curve of the shore presently crept out, blotting it from even the keenest vision up-river. For that matter, none of the guards even thought to look for such a craft; they peered in both directions for sail or smoke, saw neither, and thereafter stood in semi-somnolence.
Noonday, fiercely hot, held both river and land in its burning grip when all four of the launch-travelers leaned forward. Down ahead had appeared a yellow-gray block of low houses on a slanting shore, behind which rose a steep hill. Pablo turned with a grin and a single word: “Caicara!” Hart and Jean scanned the place narrowly; the man seeking any indication of disorder, the girl peering with interest through the intense sunlight. At the same moment Kelly, his forehead drawn into a scowl, announced—
“Ingyne's missin'!”
The even purr of the motor was breaking into fitful snores, halting as the bow dropped into a trough, spurting again as it tilted up a new wave. Hart, withdrawing his attention from the obviously peaceful town, listened a moment and frowned. Kelly jockeyed with the spark, but the skipping continued. Soon he looked up with a gray gleam under his black brows.
“Miss Rogers, ye might git for'ard and cover up yer ears. There's jest two things that'll make a gas ingyne run—gas and cuss-words. The gas is about gone, and we've got to run the next couple o' miles on swearin'. Hart, you come back here and stand by to relieve me when I run out o' words. If ye've got half as much steam in yer language as ye had when me and you was bossin' that hardboiled B company in the A. E. F., we'll make port in a cloud o' blue smoke.”
The blond, after another glance downstream and a quizzical look at his fair companion, smiled grimly, arose, and sauntered aft. The girl took one straight survey of the engineer's truculent physiognomy and walked forward.
“Now,” rumbled Kelly, jaw out and baleful gaze fixed on the stuttering motor, “now ye and a hop-headed horse's neck, what the merry d'ye think ye're doin'? Snap into it, ye blitherin' blatherin' , or by the jumpin' Judas Christopher Columbus I'll—”
The boat gave a nervous lurch and began to pick up speed.