N THE gloom of the jail three men started from slumber. A few seconds of listening to the strident clamor outside, and two of them broke into joyous yells. The third remained silent, and on his shadowy face grew perturbation.
“Yeay!” shouted Kelly. “Here's where we eat! Sneaky Gordo's on his way to hell, and us poor convicts are out of the pen—almost. Boy! Listen to 'em tearin' into the jefe's house, will ye! Veinte Cuatro's gang, with blood in their eye! 'Muert' al traidor!'”
“Quick curtain and a slow march for Jaime!” exulted Hart. “But Jean's in that house, and that mob sounds hardboiled. We've got to get over there, double time.”
“Sure. Quick as we can. Give 'em the high sign and keep it up. Somebody'll hear it.” With that he began bellowing, “Libertad! Libertad! Amigos! Al cârcell Libertad!”
Hart's yells joined in. Presently Pablo, too, took up the call. Their release was a foregone conclusion, since conquering rebels invariably liberate the prisoners of the overthrown federals, and usually gain recruits thereby; for such prisoners frequently are not actual criminals but victims of official spite, and, naturally, embittered against all officialdom. However, the opening of the prison is likely to be an afterthought, and neither of these Americans was disposed to wait. Pablo, on the other hand, had little desire to emerge while shooting was in progress; but then it occurred to him that the sooner he slipped away from these fierce companions of his the better. Perhaps, too, he could turn a trick or two to his own advantage in the disorder.
So the three of them vociferated at the top of their lungs. For some time, however, no response came. The bugle rang, the uproar quieted, a series of shots indicated a duel at the official residence, and a virtual silence ensued. Then recommenced a noise of voices, of marchings, of sharp demands for opening of doors, and of splintering wood. At length came an abrupt thumping and creaking at the portal of the jail. The barrier swung back.
“Libertad!” exulted a hoarse voice outside. “Come forth, you in the trap! Liberty and justice are here!”
The Tiger and the Bull needed no second bidding. Out into the moonlight they lunged, almost colliding with several armed men. Pablo, wavering, hung back.
Without a word, the pair of Northerners shoved their liberators aside and started for the Gordo house. At once came clicks of rifle-hammers and an angry command.
“Alto! Stand there! Who are you, with your cursed arrogance?”
Kelly growled, and his right hand lifted to his shirt. But Hart spoke swiftly.
“Steady, Kelly! As you were!” He slowed, but did not halt. His voice snapped back over his shoulder, “El Tigre and El Toro, children! We go to Veinte Cuatro. Do you think it wise to stop us?”
A pause, filled with various noises from the town. The group began moving after them.
“El Tigre?” echoed a surprized voice. “El Tigre of the Vichada country? In the Caicara jail? It is impossible!”
“Impossible but true,” retorted Hart, with a short laugh. “El Tigre, who came here in a boat and has starved since midday.”
“Cra! I begin to believe you.” The raiders closed in, their spokesman sharply scrutinizing the pair. “We have seen your boat. And you look much hungered. Cra! You are hurt! The arm is bad. Bien. You shall see the general, never fear. It is his order.”
“Bueno. Vamos. Let us go.”
They went, passing disorderly knots of roving marauders who, with no orders to fulfil, sought whatever they might find; meeting detachments moving as if under command and bound on definite missions; hearing rough talk, an occasional laugh, a smash of glass and a chorus of oaths as somebody dropped a bottle. The rum-shops already had been broken into.
To these details they gave little attention. Quietly, as they walked, Hart
“We don't know anything about the switch being out of the boat.”
“Uh-huh. I got ye. We dunno where it's gone, so we can't fix it.”
“Qué dice?" suspiciously demanded their escort.
“I was saying I hoped we could find some food.”
“Ah. Most certainly. When you have talked with the general.”
They were striding fast now, Hart setting the pace with space-eating swings. Lights were shining in the office of the jefe civil, and the shutters stood half open. Along the front of the house was posted a line of men standing at rest, lounging on their rifles, swapping low-toned jests, but sharply watching all comers. As the two strangers approached, these straightened.
“Not so fast, there, hombres!” one warned. “What do you want?”
“These are from the cârcel," returned the leader of the liberators. “The general will see them.”