ABLO BENITO, faithful citizen, having performed the small service for his country recently imposed on him as conclusive proof of loyalty, squatted in a dark corner and nervously washed his hands with perspiring palms.
The motion was involuntary, but incessant; prompted, perhaps, by a subconscious yearning to cleanse himself of participation in the trickery of the jefe civil. For the aforesaid jefe was not a noble, bold, resolute hero and an illustrious caballero, after all; he was a mean, sneaking, underhanded liar, an oily hypocrite, a slimy serpent—in short, utterly despicable. He had permitted—indeed, must have surreptitiously commanded—that Pablo, the valiant patriot who at great risk to himself had performed a notable deed in capturing two dreaded guapos, be locked up in the same jail with those same desperadoes. And now, with the terrible Tigre and the man-slaying Toro likely to regain their senses at any moment—he fidgeted and squirmed, while, despite the oven-like heat of the mud pen, the sweat trickling down his back ran cold.
The scheme of the wily Gordo had worked out to perfection. Carrying the expected gasoline and several bultos of cassava, a small procession of peons had gone to the port, accompanied by Pablo and Claudio the stone-thrower. In answer to Kelly's growling question as to the whereabouts of his two companions, Pablo had glibly declared that they still were selecting supplies, but would return pronto. After a sharp look at the weaponless, expressionless mestizos, El Toro had stood at ease, bossing the stowage of the cans and the leaf-wrapped bundles. Then Claudio had silently cast his stone. Thereafter there was nothing to do but to carry the supplies back to the shops and transport the fallen man to the jail.
Pablo, having no other burden to bear, had—by request—assisted Ramon and Claudio in their allotted task of portaging the heavy body. They had maneuvered him into entering the lock-up first. A sudden shove, a mocking laugh, a thud as the door shut; and Pablo had scrambled from under Kelly's dead weight to find himself imprisoned. Poundings and pleadings and promises had brought in response only guffaws and ribald advice as to the most pleasant way of passing his time. Ah, what a vile, treacherous nest of snakes was this town of Caicara! And what a horrible hole was this in which to imprison an honest man!
The honest man now had been confined in the horrible hole for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In that time, however, he had lived at least half a day. The first five minutes had gone in howls for release and in a futile eye-search for any possible line of escape. The adobe walls were solid, the floor of immovable stone, the two high windows heavily barred and too small for even a child to squirm through. Wherefore the ensuing time had been devoted to miserable cogitation, the while his panicky gaze remained glued to the senseless Americanos. What would they do to him when they revived? Caramba, what would they not do? Although one was a cripple and both were disarmed, he felt that when they finished with him he would resemble nothing human.
All at once his hand-massage halted. A quick light flitted across his face. From his hunched position he started up as if jabbed by a scorpion. His glance darted to the hard wall, switched to the recumbent forms, returned to the adobe, hung there. He stepped away a couple of paces; clenched his fists in desperate resolution; and suddenly, with head lowered, launched himself against the unyielding barrier.
The shock stunned him, as he well knew it would. He crumpled to the dirty floor. For a few minutes he lay there motionless; not totally unconscious, but dazed, and feeling but vaguely the bum of the resultant contusion. Then his brain cleared, and at once his hands rose to explore his scalp. As the fingers pressed his crown he winced; but into his recently troubled visage came a look of relief—almost of peace. Under his ebon hair was mushrooming a large bump.
Without rising, he awaited with new-found serenity the recovery of his companions. At length the long Tigre, lying flat on his back, opened his eyes and stared blankly at the roof; lifted his head, scowling as a stab of pain streaked through it, but swiftly surveying his surroundings; then started up to a sit, his hand sliding at once to his holster. A blacker scowl creased his brow as he found the leather scabbard empty. He fixed a dire gaze on the Venezuelan.
Thereupon Pablo, watching through his lashes, allowed his lids to rise; squinted with feigned amazement at El Tigre, El Toro, and the yellow walls; shoved himself up, groaned, and clasped his head.
“Ajo! Where are we, señor?”