Pedro was scared, but Maseden had taught his helpers to answer truthfully.
“Old Lopez said it, señor. He told me the president’s men had charged him to touch nothing till they returned.”
Maseden’s heart throbbed more furiously at that reply than at aught which had befallen him during the few pregnant hours since dawn.
“Those rascals have gone, then?” he said, so placidly that the peon was bewildered.
“Si, señor. Did they not go with you?”
“Yes. I was not sure of all.... Close and lock the gate, Pedro. Leave other things. Saddle your mustang and mount guard at the bend in the avenue, from which you can watch the Cartagena road. If you see horses, or an automobile, coming this way, ride to the house and tell me.”
“Si, señor.”
Pedro hurried off. Maseden rode on at the best pace the spent horse was capable of. He might lose a potential fortune—though the shooting of Suarez should remove the worst of the hostile influences arrayed against him—but surely he could now save his life.
He had never realized how dear life was at twenty-eight until that morning. Hitherto he had given no thought to it. Now he wanted to live till he was eighty!