"It's dangerous, but if you're set on it I'm not the man to stay you. I've been in tight corners myself, and I'd stretch a good many points for the Chief and O'Connor. But for any sake be careful. If they are to be shot we can't alter it, and what's the good of three being murdered instead of two?"
"All right. I won't run my head into a noose if I can help it. I'll start just before dark. You'll take care how you go down, won't you? It would be a disaster if you were wrecked."
"Trust me, Mr. Pentelow. I hope you'll have as easy a job as I shall."
In half-an-hour Will set off with Azito. They went, as they had gone in the morning, across the old camp to the farther side of the railway line, but instead of plunging into the forest, ventured to steal along at the foot of the embankment. It was pitch dark by the time they arrived opposite the new camp. Crawling up the embankment, they lay on the top to take a good look around before going farther. There were fires in the camp, but these were beginning to die down: apparently the men had already cooked their evening meal. They could see the dark forms of the sentries as they passed between the tents. The house was lit up.
They crept along the embankment until they came to the spot below which, about twenty yards from the line, stood the telegraph cabin. Will told Azito to go forward until he could see the side in which the window was. In a few minutes the Indian returned and reported that there was no light in the cabin. Will supposed that he had come too early: the message was not expected before midnight. Yet it was strange that a man had not been left at the cabin to give Machado notice if any communication was made. It was strange, indeed, that Machado himself, considering the importance of the expected message, had not thought it worth while, or been ordered by the General, to remain constantly on duty. Will was so much surprised that he determined to creep down to the cabin and see for himself. Perhaps Machado might be taking a nap in the dark. If he were not there, Will thought it possible to remain in hiding between the cabin and the line, seize Machado when he arrived, and wring out of him the information he desired.
Bidding Azito remain on guard and warn him if he saw any sign of danger, Will descended the embankment on hands and heels and stole forward to the cabin. He listened at the wall. There was no sound from within. The door faced the hacienda. Will peeped round the corner. The nearest tents were at least a hundred yards distant, and the fires were so low that they seemed to make the darkness only the more intense where their light did not directly fall. He crept round to the door, noiselessly lifted the latch, and, listening with his heart in his mouth, stepped in. It was pitch dark. There was not a sound. Grasping his revolver, he moved forward on tip-toe. He remembered clearly the position of the table and chair, and groped towards them, putting out his feet stealthily so that he should not knock against them and make a noise. The table and chair were not where they had been. He touched the wall, and moved along inch by inch. To his amazement, the cabin was bare. Table, chair, telegraph instrument--all had been removed.
What could be the meaning of this? Moving now without such extreme care, Will passed out again and looked up to see if the wire still ran into the cabin. He could just distinguish it against the starlit sky. He crept back towards the embankment, following the wire to the place where it left the telegraph line; and then he saw that another wire had been connected, and ran across the gardens. Evidently after what had happened at the cabin, General Carabaño had taken the precaution of removing the instrument. Will peered into the darkness to see if the wire entered a tent or another cabin, but after a few yards he lost sight of it. Returning to the spot where he had left Azito, he asked him if he, with his sharper sight, could follow the course of the wire. The Indian stood looking for a few seconds: then he said that he saw a pole about thirty yards from the house. It had not been there before. He went a few yards farther along the embankment, and declared that the wire stretched from the pole to the house, where it ran through one of the windows in a room at the side just behind the servants' quarters. The window was half-closed, and within the room was a light. Will could no longer doubt that this was the place where Machado was awaiting the message from Bolivar.
Difficult as Will had known his task to be, it now seemed impossible. On the former occasion of his nocturnal visit to the house the camp was half-a-mile distant. Now the tents formed the arc of a circle about it, the nearest of them being not more than a dozen yards away. Only through the camp could the house be approached. Sounds of laughter and conversation could be distinctly heard: it was clear that the men were as yet very lively. Even had they turned in for the night there were still the sentries to elude. But when Will thought of Machado sitting at his instrument in that little room, almost within stone's throw of him, he could not bring himself to give up all hope of helping his friends. Five minutes with Machado, unless he had entirely mistaken his man, would be enough to wring out of him the information he so earnestly desired. Failing that information, he felt that the Chief and Jerry O'Connor were doomed. Was there not, even now, a chance?
He resolved to wait. Nothing could be attempted while the camp was still awake. Perhaps when the men had gone into their tents for the night an opportunity for slipping past the sentries might offer. So he lay down on the embankment, with Azito beside him, to keep vigil.
Waiting is always tedious, and Will's impatience was such that he found the enforced delay almost unendurable. It was too dark for him to see his watch, and he durst not strike a light. The fires sank lower and lower, but it seemed hours before there was any sensible diminution of the sounds in the camp. It was, in fact, nearly half-past ten before silence reigned and Will thought it possible to leave his post. Bidding Azito in a whisper to follow him, he crawled down the embankment with great caution, so as not to disturb a single stone or clod of earth, and stole as softly as a cat to the part of the encampment nearest to the house.