# Twenty-Four Hours/Chapter 7

pp. 22–25.

### VII

ORDER, if not peace, had descended on the pueblo of Caicara. Gone was the turbulent confusion consequent on the midnight surprise and seizure. Now, although armed men moved in every street and busied themselves in many a house, every movement was under command, every invasion of dwelling or shop watched by officer or non-com. The reckless mob had become a military body; the turmoil had given way to martial law. Veinte Cuatro, the forceful Black Ant, had shut his jaws and clamped the town in an iron grip.
Within fifteen minutes after the shooting of Pablo Benito the transformation from lawless license to cold control was complete. The swiftness and thoroughness of it spoke volumes for the strength of the mercurial commander. These men of his were restive, unruly individuals at best, many of them outlawed for good cause, and all of them hard-bitted; and with rum in their brains and a defenceless town in their power, they were hardly more amenable to discipline than a pack of wolves. Yet, when the commands of Veinte Cuatro sped among them on the tongues of sharp-voiced officers, they came to heel like dogs—growling, snarling, showing their teeth, perhaps, but obedient to the voice of the master.
Ordered to disarm and imprison their two mates who had shot down Pablo, they forthwith disarmed and imprisoned them. Told to surround the town, picket the river-bank, and search every house for Jaime Gordo, they surrounded, picketed and searched. Warned that violence to non-combatants, looting of premises, or molestation of women would incur summary punishment, they refrained from commission of any such offenses. True, a few little articles which took the fancy of certain searchers may have disappeared from the possession of their owners; and it is quite possible that good-looking girls found in conveniently dark places by young soldados were embraced with extreme ardor—but they did not complain about it. All in all, the mandates of Federico Gordo were carried out with a promptness and precision almost incredible.
“Diablo y diablillos del infierno!” he swore, on learning of the death of Pablo. “Is this an army fighting for liberty and justice, or a herd of drunken beasts? Shall it be said that Federico Gordo is a mere disorderly guapo and his men butchers? Order I demand, and order I will have!”
In thus demanding and enforcing order, he saw no incongruity in the facts that he had entered the town amid powder-flame and terror, that he had commanded the seizure of its money and its arms, and that he himself had shot his blood brother. Had he been interrogated by the Recording Angel as to the basic difference between these acts and those of his followers, he might have answered—with some amazement and more resentment—that he had not been sure the place was ungarrisoned, and that therefore he had made his entry forceful in order to cow any resistance before it could start; that the commandeering of moneys and munitions was a matter of military necessity, and that the usual promissory notes had been given; and that vengeance upon the traitorous Jaime was a duty of honor. But the slaying of a citizen by his men in a petty brawl was a flagrant violation of his orders, a crime against the peace and security of the people, and a reflection on his own ability to govern. Wherefore he would have no more of such insubordination.
Now, while the sobered pair of killers held gloomy converse in the jail and the body of their victim lay straight and still on the floor of the office of the vanished Jaime, the stern-browed leader conducted a brief examination. Farther back in the house, with shutters closed and a double guard stationed at the door, the three Americans sat exchanging experiences of the past twelve hours. Outside proceeded the persistent search for the hated jefe civil; a blind hunt, since the peon who had revealed the existence of the tunnel did not know whither it led. In all the town, the only one not engaged in some form of physical or mental activity was Pablo Benito, whose work and worry were forever past.
Beside his lifeless form Veinte Cuatro straightened up, wiped his hands, and swept a smoldering gaze along the faces of several of his men. All others had been banished from the room.
“The bullets struck in the back,” he declared. “The man was running away. He made no fight.”
“None,” agreed a short, alert-looking fellow. “But he was offensive and angered Luis and Rafael—”
“How?”
“Strutting, boasting, and acting the guapo. He had drunk rum. It flew to his head at once. He became loud and loose in his talk. He said he was a guapo who had fought under El Tigre of the Vichada; he had done many things bold and desperate; now he would take whatever plunder he liked in this town; we had best walk wide of him; and such things. Luis and Rafael sneered and told him to get away from them. He did step away, but he called them certain names. Then he turned and ran. Luis and Rafael are hot of head. They shot.”
“Ah.” The commander looked thoughtfully down at the dead face. “Do you know this man?”
The witness answered in the negative. Another man spoke up.
“I do. He was keeper of the cart road around the rapids at Atures. A scheming fellow of little courage but much conceit. He had not bravery enough to fight nor brains enough to keep his mouth shut. A poor bag of wind.”
“Ah,” repeated Federico, with a contemptuous inflection. “A sheep who would be a wolf. The old story. But he had a family?”
"Sí.”
The black-lashed lids narrowed. For a moment the inky eyes glimmered as if peering afar, seeing in a masterless home a widow and fatherless children. The broad jaw tightened.
“Those two have given trouble before now,” he said. “An example must be made.” His glance darted to a silent captain. Curtly he added, “At sunrise!”
The officer saluted. The others lifted the body from the tiles. Except for a loitering orderly, all moved quietly outward. So passed Pablo Benito from the room where, a few hours agone, he had turned so readily against his companions at the behest of a man who struck from behind; a schemer who had outschemed himself, earning for his final reward only a couple of slugs in the back, and leaving to his children a name signifying vacillation and vanity. From the lamplight to the moonlight he was borne; and in the moonlight his bearers paused, looked at each other, and turned their steps toward the river. Grave-digging is tedious and tiresome work, and in the Orinoco are plenty of crocodiles.
As these men left, others arrived, bringing various reports. Seated at his brother's council-table, the rebel leader listened, gave succinct instructions, sent them away. Thereafter he picked up the long Colt of El Tigre, found in the room where Jaime had fought. With a grim smile he inspected it, weighed it in a big hand, fondled it as if it pleased him. Presently he shoved it under his belt; frowned again as if pondering; then jerked his head at the attentive orderly.
“Bring here my three guests.”
THE man departed down the corridor. At the door of the “guest” room the guards stepped aside to let him enter. Beyond, he found the three eating cold food and drinking hot coffee brought by some servant from the kitchen. Unspeaking, they eyed him questioningly.
“The general will talk with you at once.”
“Good enough,” approved Hart. “It's about time you got some sleep, Jean, and after this palaver you can turn in, perhaps. Let's go.”
“I do feel a little fagged,” she admitted.
Kelly made no comment. He emptied his coffee-cup and arose. They filed out, and, a moment later, were facing Veinte Cuatro. The orderly placed a chair for Jean, who sank into it, steadily regarding the new ruler of the town. Hart and Kelly stood on either side of her, their attitudes easy but their eyes watchful. The recent geniality of the revolutionist was not now in evidence; his pose was formal, his expression austere. When he spoke, it was in his native tongue.
“I regret, señorita, the necessity of keeping you longer from your rest, but after this conference you may sleep in perfect security; and I shall not detain you here long. Do me the favor of telling me how you came here.”
With an impersonality matching his own, she complied. Briefly she identified herself and sketched her voyage up the river; in more detail she narrated the events of her return trip, with particular reference to the things which had come about since arrival at Caicara. As she spoke of the duplicity of the jefe civil and of Pablo, resentment crept into her tone; but this changed to a mirthful note as she mentioned her fall from the sarrapia and her whirlwind combat with Jaime. As she finished, a slight smile flitted across the tight lips of Federico.
“Bueno,” he approved. “You are a brave young woman. Now tell me what you know of these men.”
“I think, señor, that they are quite able to speak for themselves,” was her gentle reproof. “But I can tell you that they have been most valiant defenders, and that without their aid I could not have escaped from a very bad situation.”
“Bien. You have named them Señores 'Art and Kay-lee. By what other names are they known?”
She glanced up at her stalwart guardians. Hart nodded carelessly.
“Tell him,” he acquiesced.
“Very well. Señor Hart is also called El Tigre; Señor Kelly, El Toro.”
With that she stood up, tacitly indicating her decision to say no more. The interrogator bowed and also arose.
“Many thanks, señorita. You may retire. Rest without fear. It would be well for you to sleep while you can, for my troops will be withdrawn from this place before another sunset. Buen' noche'.”
Another formal bow. After a momentary hesitation she walked confidently to the corridor, throwing a nod and a smile to El Tigre and El Toro as she went. The eyes of all three men followed her slender figure into the dimness beyond the door.
“Now,” went on the raider, his tone becoming more brusk, “Señor El Tigre, explain to me one thing. That Tigre of whom I have heard was a fighter, a revolucionario with a strong hand and a strong band. If you are that one, how comes it that you desert the cause of liberty and justice when every good fighter is needed? I find it hard to believe that courtesy to a young woman is your only motive.”
Hart's head snapped up angrily.
“Meaning that I am now going over to the federals? Any man who says that is a liar!”
The Venezuelan's hands closed slightly, but he made no other move. His unwinking gaze bored steadily into the wrathful face of the American.
“You can blow all the federals in the country to ——, and then blow the whole rotten country after them, as far as I am concerned!” the latter raged. “I am through with the whole mess. I am getting out. Call it desertion or what you like—I don't give a —— for your opinion! But if you're hunting deserters find the patriotic revolucionarios who used to ride with me and you will have a fine bunch of them. They gave me this—” he gestured toward his wounded shoulder “—when my back was turned. And don't talk 'liberty and justice' to me! Feed that sort of pap to thick-headed peons. I'm sick of the sound of it!”
A pause, while eye continued to clash with eye. Then a faint grin seemed to flit under the heavy mustache. Without reply, the Southerner turned his attention to Kelly.
“And you? Who are you, and why are you here with this one?”
“El Toro of Colombia. I bossed the old Malojo gang until I was tired of it.” The Spanish brows lifted. “I deserted them, if it is any of your business. I feel the same as Hart. Colombia and Venezuela can both be ——. I go home.”
Kelly's voice, though rough, was not angry like that of his mate; it was coolly defiant and determined. His gray gaze met the black orbs without a flicker of feeling. Veinte Cuatro studied him for unmeasured seconds.
“The Malojo band? A bad one! And how came you to control it?”
“I shot old Malojo.”
“Ho! So? A most laudable act, my faith!” The hairy lips stretched in a wolfish grin. “I had intended to shoot him myself at some good time. Bien. But— You will raise your hands! High!”
The command came like the snap of a whip. At the same instant his own revolver sprang from its sheath and covered the self-confessed bandit. Kelly reddened and slowly obeyed.
“Within the shirt, Jorge,” directed the captor. The orderly, gliding behind El Toro, passed an arm around him, extracted the concealed weapon from its sling, and stepped back. “You are too dangerous to be allowed to keep the weapon longer,” grinned the raider. “You might decide to shoot me as you shot Malojo, and take control of my army!”
“Yeah. I might,” retorted Kelly, with a glare. “So why not shoot us both? Then you need not be afraid of us.”
“Afraid?” The black-fringed mouth tightened again. “Afraid! Ah, sí! Of one thing I am afraid, you fool, but it is not you! I fear that you may make me or my men shoot you because of your offensiveness; and I will have no more such shootings in this town. I took your weapon to prevent you from provoking disorder. Now go back to your quarters! Vaya!”
The revolver-muzzle, which had sunk, jerked impatiently toward the rear. The unarmed pair complied, although with no abatement of their stiff-grained independence; moving deliberately, and exchanging comments not diplomatic. As they passed down the corridor, however, Kelly became philosophic.
“Wal, we come through without casualties, anyway,” he vouchsafed, “and he's a squarer guy than his brother, at that. Hits right out from the shoulder and lets another guy do the same. He was givin' us the works to see how we'd come back at him, I bet, and we handled him right. He's satisfied now that we're the guys we say we are. Because why? Because we give him the hard-boiled line o' talk we'd naturally give him if we was El Tigre and El Toro. If we'd squirmed around and acted worried he might have stood us up against a wall; I wouldn't put it past him. He's bitter as gall with anybody that tries puttin' anything over on him, I bet.”
“Uh-huh. Naturally, after what his brother handed him.”
“Yeah. Wal, he's got nothin' on us, and we're in the clear for a while, anyway. And there's some grub waitin' on the table. We could be a lot worse off. Might grab a wink o' sleep 'twixt now and reveille, too. Guess the kid's turned in already.”
They returned to the room where they had been lunching, the guards passing them in without a word, then standing again to their vigil. Hart went on to the portal where the shattered door hung askew; listened, and came back, nodding to Kelly. Quietly they resumed eating. And beyond the splintered barrier Jean, lying with heavy eyes still open, let them close and swiftly dropped into peaceful sleep.