OONLIGHT, clear and cool, flooded the streets and the patios and the plaza of Caicara with a radiance well-nigh as brilliant as that of the vanished sun. It laved the reddish tile roofs of the low houses, cast sharp-edged shadows under the eaves, and, on eastern walls, traced in inky lines the irregular contours of cracks or spotted with darkness round dents made by forgotten shootings. It streamed through eastern windows, too, spying on sleep or wakefulness, comfort or wretchedness, smiles or scowls or tears. And out on the river it danced along the tops of slumberous little waves, hardly more than ripples, moving gently westward under the playful push of a soft breeze.
Outside the yellow walls, all was peace. Inside some of them, all was not so serene. Within the house of Jaime Gordo, for example, circled conflicting currents of plot and counterplot, none the less intense because of their silence and secrecy. In a hammock in a rear room, whence exit was blocked save by passage through other rooms, lay a girl apparently asleep, but wide awake and fixedly determined to arise and steal forth whenever opportunity should offer; and then, having gained freedom, to open by some as yet unknown means the door of the jail. At his bare council table in his dim-lit office, with streetward shutters closed, a balked and morose official gnawed his fingers and groped mentally for a practicable scheme of flight. Schemes in plenty had wriggled through his brain—snaky ones, all of them—but each armed with fangs which might turn on him. The plan of action which should redound to his own credit stubbornly refused to take shape; and no other would do.
He knew now that the launch was useless. He knew something must have been done to it by one of those brigands now in the cârcel. He knew the brigands had a gun. He knew what they would do with it at the first opportunity. So he could not make use of them in starting the boat. He could not even make terms with them; he had tried this by having a note thrown through a window, only to receive in return most disgraceful reflections on his character. Nor could he give them food or drink with certain ingredients slyly mixed therein to render them helpless; for this would involve opening the door. He could do nothing whatever with them; and he could do virtually nothing without them.
Gone was his self-gratulation over his cleverness in trapping those two guapos. It had seemed a heaven-sent chance to dodge danger and climb to fame at the same time; to speed down the river to the protection of troops, to pose before the governor as savior of the hapless foreign señorita, to come back to his town with soldiers, deliver to their commander the terrible desperadoes, and see to it that a garrison remained in Caicara—thus exhibiting to the townsmen his zeal for their protection. If by chance the pueblo should be raided in his absence, that could not be his fault; and he would be safe during the raiding. And El Presidente himself should know of the brave capture of El Tigre and El Toro—trust Jaime to attend to that!—and the doughty Gordo might rise in the world as the result. El Presidente liked bold fellows.
But now his ladder to the heights had fallen apart, for the Americans forming its rungs would not remain in place. Worse yet, its collapse seemed exceedingly likely to bring down unpleasant consequences on his head. For one thing, that spiteful señorita meant to make trouble for him at Bolívar; and in all probability she could do so. Now that he reflected, he felt that the powerful General Perez was likely to be wroth over his action in detaining her by force. And in this connection there was another disquieting angle to the affair. If a recent statement of hers was credible, General Perez had empowered her to inform El Tigre that if he would come in peaceably he could leave the country unharmed; and El Tigre was accompanying her under that guarantee of amnesty. In that case, the general would not exactly appreciate the patriotism of Jaime in assaulting and jailing this ex-outlaw. Angrily the thinker told himself that the young woman's statement was untrue; but he could not entirely convince himself of its falsity. If it was true, he had blundered badly. And, true or not, he could not release his prisoners now without grave risk of dire results, both here and hereafter. Neither could he hold them indefinitely. Yet he must do something with them pronto. Moreover, he must take some action for the protection of the town—or, at least, of himself and the federal moneys—before some raiding rebel force struck. But what course would bring him triumphant through this tangle of complications? Yes, curse it, what?