“An American; Raoul Arthur.”
“I have heard of him.”
“He is well liked here.”
“That is good,” commented Herran drily.
For the first time since he had been in Colombia David felt uneasy as to the possible outcome of his trip. His friends, in reach of the river steamers, could leave the country at the first sign of real danger. But every mile placed between himself and the Magdalena lessened his chances for escape—and that he might need to get out of Colombia in a hurry was evident from Herran’s attitude, his reserve, his ambiguous answers to David’s questions. All this was not exactly through a lack of friendliness on the general’s part. David knew Herran fairly well, and did not doubt his loyalty. He also knew that he was under suspicion on account of the Panama affair, and for this reason would have to be extremely wary in extending protection to an American seeking to enrich himself in Colombia. Politically, the man who lost Panama could not afford to let his name be further compromised.
General Herran, however, was not one to keep up an attitude of restraint for long. The air was bracing, the mountain trail was in excellent condition, the horses were fresh and responded readily to whip and bridle. Under these favoring influences the two travelers soon became sociable enough, and even joked over some of the sinister circumstances attending their journey.
“We are a long way from Panama, Senor—and Miranda’s pills!” exclaimed Herran.
“Heaven help the schoolmaster!” laughed David.
“Ah, poor fellow! To be at the doctor’s mercy! But he is not a bad doctor. Only nine out of every ten of his victims die, they say. Perhaps this schoolmaster—— Have you your pistol, Senor?” he broke off suddenly.
“My pistol, General?”