“In five minutes or less, you will be riding at a steady gallop towards Cartagena,” he said. “If possible, deliver that letter yourself to Señor Peguero, the American consul. By ‘possible’ I mean if you are not held up by soldiers or police on the way. Otherwise, keep it concealed, and post it when the opportunity serves.”
Lopez knew the pleasant methods of his fellow-republicans.
“They may search me, señor,” he said.
“Not if you do as I tell you. Curse me fluently enough, and they’ll look on you as their best friend.”
“Señor!” protested the old man.
“Yes. I mean it. Call me all the names you can lay tongue to. When I leave this room I’ll follow you, revolver in hand. Be careful to scowl and act unwillingly. I want some food and a couple of bottles of wine, also a leather bottle full of water and a tin cup. Saddle the Cid, and see that three or four good measures of corn are put in the saddle-bags with the other things.
“When I vanish rush to the stables, pick out a good mustang, and be in Cartagena within the hour. If not interfered with, take the letter to Señor Peguero. Don’t wait for an answer, but hurry at top speed to the Castle, where you must tell some one that I came back to the ranch and ordered you about at the muzzle of a revolver.
“Lead the soldiers straight here. If Captain Gomez is in command, assure him that you rescued his uniform, and he’ll be your friend forever. Should you meet them on the way, turn back with them. You understand? You’re for the president and against me.”
Lopez smiled till his face was a mass of wrinkles. He was beginning to see through the scheme, and was Spaniard enough to appreciate the leaven of intrigue.