# Money to Burn/Chapter 19

pp. 227–235

### CHAPTER XIX
#### THE VAGABOND.

THE trail had opened upon a small, natural clearing in the jungle's heart. It was walled by sour-orange trees and giant ferns. Ropes of vines hung, snakelike, from surrounding boughs. No spot could have seemed less usually frequented by humankind. The heavy carpet of moss muffled the sound of the traveler's progress, and no other sound reached Dan's atentive ears.
“Listen!” repeated Luis. He drew in his horse.
Gertrude's mount and Stone's stopped still. To the American the perfect silence seemed continuous.
“What's wrong?” he inquired, yet he spoke below his breath. “I'm listening, all right, but there's not anything to hear.”
“There is,” said Luis.
Dan looked inquiringly at the girl.
She shook her head. “I don't——” she began.
Luis gestured a command that all talk cease, and then, sure enough, from somewhere ahead, from somewhere along the trail as it cut again into the jungle at the clearing's farther side, there came the crackle of breaking twigs.
The girl gasped: “My uncle?”
“Your uncle,” said Luis, “does not go afoot.”
“Somebody from the hacienda?” whispered Dan.
Luis shook his head. “There is no trail there that connects with this one.”
“Shall we go on?”
“No. Wait and see.” The Indian drew his already stained machete.
“Don't use that!” cried Gertruda.
Stone restrained her.
Twigs crackled again. The footsteps were distinctly audible now. They drew nearer. Then the escaping trio saw, approaching them, a vagabond pedestrian.
On such a road at such a time even a beggar proved fit subject for mistrust. This one, as he paused at sight of the attentive group and gazed straight into Dan's blue eyes, was ragged beyond anything previously believable to Stone; beyond things believable the fellow was dirty, and beyond things believable he was known and knew.
“Hoagland!” cried Dan.
Luis looked at him. Was this friend or foe?
Stone could not answer with words. He was half stupefied by the recognition. For an insane instant his instinct of self-preservation clamored for precipitate flight. Could Hoagland have followed him from the coast? How could he know of that roundabout journey to the hacienda? Dan pictured the prosperous-looking fellow standing in the sheltered doorway of Sanchez and thence tracking Don Ramon as the planter went to buy clothes and fill prescriptions—the prescriptions that had so nearly saved Tucker's life. Hoagland would probably like to put Dan in the hands of justice, but a surrender on the murder charge was part of Stone's present enterprise, and here might be, at all events, an ally against the certainly soon-following Peña. The voyager of the Hawk was at least a fellow countryman. Dan could speak frankly to him and trust to his national sense of fair play. A motion told the Carib to lower his weapon.
Dirt was caked upon the erstwhile Hoagland's cheeks, and sweat ran through it in muddy gutters. He smiled. Was that the smile of a successful pursuer? Dan thought so, but before Stone could speak the newcomer demanded:
“What's all this? A joy ride?”
“It's no joke,” said Dan, “and we haven't got a minute to spare. If you were looking for me—well, I'm here, and it won't be you I'll run away from.” He spoke rapidly. “Turn around. Put a hand on my bridle if you like. We've got to hurry. If you'll walk as fast as you can beside me, I'll tell you all about it. We're sure to be followed soon. You,” he broke out, “you must help—and you will if you're a good American.”
Hoagland's eyes were keen. “I'm an American, all right,” said he. “As to whether I'm a good one or not, opinions differ.”
“Then come along.”
The Hawk's passenger took off his broad-brimmed native straw hat, disclosing to Dan, in a bow toward Gertruda, the once familiar thatch of thin hair.
“I think——”
“No introductions now,” snapped Stone, and as the march was resumed, he continued: “You'll want to know first about what I did on that ship, and, anyhow, what I did there is what got me into this new mess. Well, then——”
But again Luis interrupted, and again it was with a command to listen that he did so. He reached from his saddle and touched Dan's arm.
“Hush!”
This time it came from behind them, from that stretch of the trail over which they had just passed, and this time it was immediately unmistakable. Nothing afoot. Mounted men—mounted men advancing as rapidly as the jungle track allowed. It was the pursuit at last.
“There they are!” said Dan.
“They?” asked Hoagland. “Who?”
There was no use in attempting to run away any farther; since a battle there must be, it had better be here. Stone flung a rapid and sketchy explanation to his latest recruit:
“When you were looking for me in Sanchez, you followed a big man in white—a planter—name's Villeta. He's a crook—all sorts. Robbed his niece—this girl here. I got her away. Now his people are trying to get her back.”
As he spoke, Dan was looking to right and left. His party had not yet crossed the clearing; but he could see that the green walls of the open space were everywhere backed by a dense mangrove swamp, its depths doubtless breathing poison, its surface promising, at a short distance, engulfment to any trespasser. Gertruda might hide safely on its outskirts for a few minutes, abiding the issue of the now certain conflict, but the rest of them must stand their ground.
Stone ordered the girl five paces—and no more—into the jungle. She reluctantly obeyed. The sounds of pursuit drew still nearer.
“Got a gun?” he inquired of his fellow American.
Hoagland nodded.
“Then draw off to the left there and use it from the flank. We haven't anything but machetes; we'll have to go to it hand in hand. If they get us two, you try to draw them after you. Break for the swamp on the opposite side from where the señorita is.”
He translated, for the Carib's benefit. His own mount he pushed to the extreme edge of the open space, covering the girl's retreat, and he bade Luis follow him there. That last order was no sooner executed than the pursuers were upon them.
Two—four—eight—ten—the enemy, muleback, swarmed into the clearing. Twelve! A successful resistance was probably as impossible as further retreat. Nothing to do but fight it out, any how! They were coming without pause straight at their quarry; at their head and well in advance of the others, the liberated hunchback, perched on his saddle like a big doll, waved an automatic pistol and shrieked with triumph.
Dan raised his machete. His nearer ally also made ready to strike.
Peña was now not a yard distant from Luis, upon Stone's right. The dwarf's wild eyes were all for that deserter.
“Traidor!” yelled Fernando.
Another pound forward. The Carib struck, but struck too late. Peña, thrusting his pistol directly against the Indian's broken nose, fired.
Luis flung up his arms. He fell from his horse, dead.
Dan prodded his own mount toward the hunchback. As he did so, there came a volley of shots and a final rush from Fernando's henchmen. He thought that, out of the corner of an eye, he saw Hoagland reel. The gang clashed all around; they closed in. Stone's machete was straightway stricken from his grasp.
Of course the fugitives had been hopelessly outnumbered. Stone caught sight of three peons heading into the swamp beside him; their trained eyes had, even in the high heat of warfare, caught some telltale sign. They were going to recapture Gertruda. Well, there remained the splendid opportunity of dying barehanded in her defense. He reined his horse about, broke through his nearest enemies and rode at the trio.
And then an incredible thing happened. Some one jumped at him from behind. Before he could resist, his arms were pinioned to his sides and a voice—Hoagland's voice—was shouting in easy Spanish to Peña:
“If this is the man you're after, I've got him—only I think I ought to have a little reward for turning him over to you!”