They might pass him without recognition. If they didn’t, he would shoot Steinbaum and put a bullet into a tire. There would be no half measures. Suarez and his ally had declared war on him to the death, and war they would have without stint or quarter.
It was a ticklish moment when the fast-running car drew near. Maseden affected to bend over and examine the horse’s fore action, as though he suspected lameness or a loose shoe. He gave one swift underlook into the limousine as it sped by and fancied he saw Porilla, seated with his back to the engine, bending forward.
That was all. The car raced on and was speedily lost in a dust-cloud.
So far, so good. He was dodging peril in the hairbreadth fashion popularly ascribed to warriors on a stricken field. Yet his mount was hardly in a canter again before he was plunged without warning into the most ticklish dilemma of all.
Steinbaum’s car had just turned to the left, where the road bifurcated a few hundred yards ahead, when another car came flying down the other road—that which the fugitive himself must take for nearly half a mile; and this second menace harbored no less a personage than Don Enrico Suarez, president of the Republic of San Juan!
It was an open car, too, and the president was seated alone in the tonneau.
Maseden jumped to the instant conclusion that his enemy was hurrying to witness his execution, probably to jeer at him for having ventured to cross the predestined path of a conqueror. But, even though he passed, Suarez would know that the gaily bedizened horseman was not his glittering aide-de-camp.
To permit the president to reach the Castle meant the beginning of an irresistible pursuit within five minutes. However, that consideration did not bother the Vermonter if for no better reason than that he was determined it should not come into play.
He smiled thoughtfully, adjusted the helmet once more, and voiced his sentiments aloud.
“Good!” he said. “This time, Enrico, you and I square accounts!”