He shook hands again, and went away with Harper and the girl; but it was scarcely two hours later when his daughter and he stood upon the flat roof of the “Four Nations,” while a long line of men with rifles, who were no longer ragged, marched out of Santa Marta. One who marched with the second company looked up and waved his hand to them.
“That,” said Harding gravely, “is a straight man, and he will do something by and by when he has an opportunity. It is not going to be my fault if he doesn’t get one.”
[IX — THE BREAKING OF THE NET]
THERE was no wind, and the night was very still, when Appleby lay aching in every limb behind an aloe hedge which cut off the dim white road. Harper sat on the steaming earth close beside him contemplatively munching the end of a cigar, for smoking was distinctly inadvisable just then, and he was in need of something to stay the pangs of hunger. Here and there a dusky figure showed among the leaves, and now and then a low murmur or a soft rustling rose from the black shadow of the overhanging palms; but the scarcely audible sound sank once more into the silence, and a muleteer had just passed along the dusty road apparently without the faintest suspicion that rather more than a hundred famishing men had watched him with fingers tightening on their rifle barrels. He saw and heard nothing, which was fortunate for him, and now his voice and the tramp of his team came back faintly across the cane.
The dew was heavy, as it usually is in the tropics when a clear, still night follows a day of scorching heat, and Appleby could have wrung it from the garments he had borrowed from the Alcalde’s wardrobe at Santa Marta. That, however, did not trouble him, for they rested with a pleasant coolness upon his sun-scorched skin; and he was mainly conscious of a sense of emptiness and a distressful stitch in his side as he watched the strip of road. It wound out from the inky shadows of the palms, led by the hedge of aloes, and was lost again in the cane that stretched away, a dim sweep of dusky green, under the moon. It was at least a week since he had had an adequate meal, and he had passed that day crawling through a mangrove swamp, where pits of foul black mire lay beneath the great slimy roots.
Haste and concealment had, however, appeared advisable to the Sin Verguenza; for their success at Santa Marta had brought two strong battalions upon their trail, and Morales had decreed their extermination. Cut off from the hills, they had taken to a belt of reeking mangrove swamps, and Morales, who was too wise to venture his raw troops in those dim haunts of fever, had persistently drawn his net tighter about them. They had accordingly divided when supplies ran out, and the Captain Maccario, who did not know whether the rest had succeeded in breaking through, had halted those who remained with him to wait until the moon sank before making a dash for another tract of jungle. They were, indeed, almost too weary to drag themselves any further just then, and their leader had reason for believing there was a company of cazadores somewhere upon the road.
He lay a little apart from Appleby, and raised his head so that the moonlight shone into his face, which showed intent and anxious, when a palm frond rustled behind them. There was nothing astonishing in this, but when the rustle repeated itself it seemed to Appleby that there was something curiously persistent in the sound. He glanced at the Spaniard, who saw him, and raised one hand as if in warning. The sound ceased, and there was once more an impressive silence, which lasted for some minutes. Then Appleby felt Harper’s hand upon his shoulder.
“Look!” he said in a hoarse whisper, and his comrade set his lips as he turned his head.
A man who had appeared without a sound stood in the white road, his rigid figure forced up sharp and black against it, and it was evident that he was peering about him. Then, with a swiftness that had its significance, he slipped back into the shadow, and moved through it, stopping a second or two now and then as though to listen. Appleby could just see him, and felt a little shiver run through him, for he knew the loyalist scout was running a horrible risk. He hoped the man would see nothing, for the last thing the Sin Verguenza desired was to chance a rifle shot just then. He, however, came on, treading softly and stooping as though to observe the dew-clogged dust, until he stopped again where a little pathway led in among the aloes.
Then he straightened himself, looked behind him, and turning his head stared into the shadow of the palms that lay black and impenetrable beyond the aloes, while the moonlight shone down into his face. It showed white and set against the dusky background; and Appleby, who could see the intent eyes, held his breath, for he knew the man’s life hung trembling in the balance. One step would take him to his death, for another face that was drawn and haggard and had the stamp of hunger on it showed amidst the leaves behind him. The suspense lasted for a space of seconds, and Appleby felt himself quivering under the tension, until the man made a sudden movement as though something suspicious had caught his eyes. Then there was a rustle of leaves, a shadowy form sprang, and the scout went down; while Appleby, who saw a flash in the moonlight, turned his head away. He heard a strangled groan and a struggling amidst the leaves, and then there was once more an impressive silence.