Hearts of Three 36

Hearts of Three 36

Long after the siesta hour, on his third and most reluctant mule, Henry

rode into sleepy San Antonio. In the main street, midway between the

court and the jail, he pulled up at sight of the Jefe Politico and the

little fat old judge, with, at their heels, a dozen gendarmes and a

couple of wretched prisoners——runaway peons from the henequen

plantations at Santos. While the judge and the Jefe listened to Henry’s

tale and appeal for help, the Jefe gave one slow wink to the judge, who

was his judge, his creature, body and soul of him.

 

“Yes, certainly we will help you,” the Jefe said at the end, stretching

his arms and yawning.

 

“How soon can we get the men together and start?” Henry demanded

eagerly.

 

“As for that, we are very busy——are we not, honorable judge?” the Jefe

replied with lazy insolence.

 

“We are very busy,” the judge yawned into Henry’s face.

 

“Too busy for a time,” the Jefe went on. “We regret that not to-morrow

nor next day shall we be able to try and rescue your Gringos. Now, a

little later——”

 

“Say next Christmas,” the judge suggested.

 

“Yes,” concurred the Jefe with a grateful bow. “About next Christmas

come around and see us, and, if the pressure of our affairs has somewhat

eased, then, maybe possibly, we shall find it convenient to go about

beginning to attempt to raise the expedition you have requested. In the

meantime, good day to you, Senor Morgan.”

 

“You mean that?” Henry demanded with wrathful face.

 

“The very face he must have worn when he slew Senor Alfaro Solano

treacherously from the back,” the Jefe soliloquized ominously.

 

But Henry ignored the later insult.

 

“I’ll tell you what you are,” he flamed in righteous wrath.

 

“Beware!” the judge cautioned him.

 

“I snap my fingers at you,” Henry retorted. “You have no power over me.

I am a full-pardoned man by the President of Panama himself. And this is

what you are. You are half-breeds. You are mongrel pigs.”

 

“Pray proceed, Senor,” said the Jefe, with the suave politeness of

deathly rage.

 

“You’ve neither the virtues of the Spaniard nor of the Carib, but the

vices of both thrice compounded. Mongrel pigs, that’s what you are and

all you are, the pair of you.”

 

“Are you through Senor?—quite through?” the Jefe queried softly.

 

At the same moment he gave a signal to the gendarmes, who sprang upon

Henry from behind and disarmed him.

 

“Even the President of the Republic of Panama cannot pardon in

anticipation of a crime not yet committed——am I right, judge?” said the

Jefe.

 

“This is a fresh offense,” the judge took the cue promptly. “This Gringo

dog has blasphemed against the law.”

 

“Then shall he be tried, and tried now, right here, immediately. We will

not bother to go back and reopen court. We shall try him, and when we

have disposed of him, we shall proceed. I have a very good bottle of

wine——”

 

“I care not for wine,” the judge disclaimed hastily. “Mine shall be

mescal. And in the meantime, and now, having been both witness and

victim of the offense and there being no need of evidence further than

what I already possess, I find the prisoner guilty. Is there anything

you would suggest, Senor Mariano Vercara é Hijos?”

 

“Twenty-four hours in the stocks to cool his heated Gringo head,” the

Jefe answered.

 

“Such is the sentence,” the judge affirmed, “to begin at once. Take the

prisoner away, gendarmes, and put him in the stocks.”

 

* * * * *

 

Daybreak found Henry in the stocks, with a dozen hours of such

imprisonment already behind him, lying on his back asleep. But the sleep

was restless, being vexed subjectively by nightmare dreams of his

mountain-imprisoned companions, and, objectively, by the stings of

countless mosquitoes. So it was, twisting and squirming and striking at

the winged pests, he awoke to full consciousness of his predicament. And

this awoke the full __EXPRESSION__ of his profanity. Irritated beyond

endurance by the poison from a thousand mosquito-bites, he filled the

dawn so largely with his curses as to attract the attention of a man

carrying a bag of tools. This was a trim-figured, eagle-faced young man,

clad in the military garb of an aviator of the United States Army. He

deflected his course so as to come by the stocks, and paused, and

listened, and stared with quizzical admiration.

 

“Friend,” he said, when Henry ceased to catch breath. “Last night, when

I found myself marooned here with half my outfit left on board, I did a

bit of swearing myself. But it was only a trifle compared with yours. I

salute you, sir. You’ve an army teamster skinned a mile. Now if you

don’t mind running over the string again, I shall be better equipped the

next time I want to do any cussing.”

 

“And who in hell are you?” Henry demanded. “And what in hell are you

doing here?”

 

“I don’t blame you,” the aviator grinned. “With a face swollen like that

you’ve got a right to be rude. And who beat you up? In hell, I haven’t

ascertained my status yet. But here on earth I am known as Parsons,

Lieutenant Parsons. I am not doing anything in hell as yet; but here in

Panama I am scheduled to fly across this day from the Atlantic to the

Pacific. Is there any way I may serve you before I start?”

 

“Sure,” Henry nodded. “Take a tool out of that bag of yours and smash

this padlock. I’ll get rheumatism if I have to stick here much longer.

My name’s Morgan, and no man has beaten me up. Those are

mosquito-bites.”

 

With several blows of a wrench, Lieutenant Parsons smashed the ancient

padlock and helped Henry to his feet. Even while rubbing the circulation

back into his feet and ankles, Henry, in a rush, was telling the army

aviator of the predicament and possibly tragic disaster to Leoncia and

Francis.

 

“I love that Francis,” he concluded. “He is the dead spit of myself.

We’re more like twins, and we must be distantly related. As for the

senorita, not only do I love her but I am engaged to marry her. Now will

you help? Where’s the machine? It takes a long time to get to the Maya

Mountain on foot or mule-back; but if you give me a lift in your machine

I’d be there in no time, along with a hundred sticks of dynamite, which

you could procure for me and with which I could blow the side out of

that mountain and drain off the water.”

 

Lieutenant Parsons hesitated.

 

“Say yes, say yes,” Henry pleaded.

 

* * * * *

 

Back in the heart of the sacred mountain, the three imprisoned ones

found themselves in total darkness the instant the stone that blocked

the exit from the idol chamber had settled into place. Francis and

Leoncia groped for each other and touched hands. In another moment his

arm was around her, and the deliciousness of the contact robbed the

situation of half its terror. Near them they could hear Torres breathing

heavily. At last he muttered:

 

“Mother of God, but that was a close shave! What next, I wonder?”

 

“There’ll be many nexts before we get out of this neck of the woods,”

Francis assured him. “And we might as well start getting out.”

 

The method of procedure was quickly arranged. Placing Leoncia behind

him, her hand clutching the hem of his jacket so as to be guided by him,

he moved ahead with his left hand in contact with the wall. Abreast of

him, Torres felt his way along the right-hand wall. By their voices they

could thus keep track of each other, measure the width of the passage,

and guard against being separated into forked passages. Fortunately, the

tunnel, for tunnel it truly was, had a smooth floor, so that, while they

groped their way, they did not stumble. Francis refused to use his

matches unless extremity arose, and took precaution against falling into

a possible pit by cautiously advancing one foot at a time and

ascertaining solid stone under it ere putting on his weight. As a

result, their progress was slow. At no greater speed than half a mile an

hour did they proceed.

 

Once only did they encounter branching passages. Here he lighted a

precious match from his waterproof case, and found that between the two

passages there was nothing to choose. They were as like as two peas.

 

“The only way is to try one,” he concluded, “and, if it gets us nowhere,

to retrace and try the other. There’s one thing certain: these passages

lead somewhere, or the Mayas wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of

making them.”

 

Ten minutes later he halted suddenly and cried warning. The foot he had

advanced was suspended in emptiness where the floor should have been.

Another match was struck, and they found themselves on the edge of a

natural cavern of such proportions that neither to right nor left, nor

up nor down, nor across, could the tiny flame expose any limits to it.

But they did manage to make out a rough sort of stairway, half-natural,

half-improved by man, which fell away beneath them into the pit of

black.

 

In another hour, having followed the path down the length of the floor

of the cavern, they were rewarded by a feeble glimmer of daylight, which

grew stronger as they advanced. Before they knew it, they had come to

the source of it——bei