I thought much about the affair at Tiravaya and determined to watch Don Rodrigo closely. A week later Don Julian informed me he was going to Aacna on business. He would be gone several days, but Felicita would stay here. Fatal mistake.



XII.

COWARDLY ACT OF A VILLAIN.

"Don Juan! Ah, Don Juan! Something dreadful! Felicita!" cried Chico as he burst into my room breathless near midnight.

"What is it?" I demanded, "quick, I say," but he could only gasp "Felicita!"

I hurried to the stable and saddled my horse, Chico following. We rode with all haste to the home of Don Julian. Everything was in uproar. The Indian servants moaned and cried, and pointed in the direction of the road leading to the cemetery. Thither I rode, fast as my horse could run. It was a lonely road, with few houses by the wayside and those were mostly Indian huts. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning, no one to be seen—on and on I went. I could see a dark outline of what I thought must be a vehicle of some kind. As carriages are seldom used in Arequipa, I concluded that this must be bearing Felicita away. I drove the spurs harder and leaned forward, peering into the darkness. I was gaining rapidly. I was certain now that it was Felicita, for they were driving at full speed. I never thought how I was to rescue her, my whole purpose being to catch up with that villain. Just then the moon shone bright from behind a cloud and lighted up the scene. The occupants of the carriage now knew they were being pursued, and they stopped. I could plainly see two men unhitch two horses from behind the carriage. They took Felicita from the carriage and were forcing her to mount when, suddenly, her horse became unmanageable, and she fell to the ground. By this time I was close upon them, and called to Felicita to be brave, but the poor girl never heard me, for she was unconscious. Don Rodrigo stopped, as if determined to resist me. Would to God he had! But he put spurs to his horse and fled. I shot at him, but as the distance was great, and the light uncertain, the bullet went wide of the mark. I soon forgot him on reaching Felicita, as she lay with an ugly cut on her head caused by striking the carriage step when she fell. There lay my child-friend, unconscious. She was dressed for retiring, her other clothes being in the carriage. My first impulse was to pursue the accursed scoundrel and avenge the insult to Felicita, but I could not leave her there. I took her in my arms and carried her to a near-by Indian hut where, after some parley with the poor, superstitious Indians, the door was opened, and I laid my burden on some sheepskins on the floor. Her hands were cold and she appeared to be dead.

By this time, Chico arrived and brought her clothes from the carriage. I staunched the flow of blood with my handkerchief, while Chico prepared some hot native liquor, which I put to her lips. After a time, she opened her eyes, but did not know me. I called and called her name, but it was long before consciousness returned. When she did recognize me, a look of love and happiness passed over her face. I would not let her speak, but told her that when she was taken home, she could tell me all. The carriage driver had long since made his escape, so I had sent to Arequipa and had a closed carriage brought, in which I took her home.

Time dragged wearily until the return of her father. I remained by her side and with the assistance of the Indian servants, made her as comfortable as possible. I had been without sleep so long that I had gone into the parlor and laid down. I had just awakened from a sleep when Don Julian entered. Poor old man, he was overcome with grief. He knew all, Felicita had told him. From him I learned how the abduction had taken place. About 11 o'clock at night, Don Rodrigo had entered the bedroom and before she realized what was being done, Felicita had been carried to the carriage in waiting. Leaving her in charge of the driver, Don Rodrigo returned for her clothes. No sooner was his back turned than she screamed. This attracted the attention of Chico, who had been enjoying a visit with Don Julian's Indian servants in the kitchen. He had run at full speed to inform me.

It was the opinion of Don Julian that Don Rodrigo had intended taking the child to some remote Indian habitation in the mountains, and demanding a ransom for her.

This was a plausible theory, for besides getting revenge for Felicita refusing his hand in marriage, he would be able to extort money from Don Julian, and also avenge his fancied wrongs at my hands.

The following day Felicita was still weak and nervous. The doctor advised that she be taken to the sea coast for a time. She protested, saying she was getting stronger, but I knew she was only saying it to cheer her father and myself. I could plainly see her condition was precarious. After a long consultation with the doctors, Don Julian decided he would take her to Truxillo, their former home. After considerable pleading, she consented to go. I was to follow when she recovered.

I accompanied them and their Indian servants aboard the steamer and remained aboard the little ferry boat, waving my handkerchief until they faded into the distance. I returned ashore, and although I had not been in Mollendo for some time, I had no desire to see my friends. I wanted to be alone.

Weeks of dreary waiting followed. I was not myself. Anxiously I looked for a letter and with trembling hands I broke the seal. The letter was dated Lima, and read: "Don Juan, I am crazy. Felicita is dead. Will write you all, when I am composed. Julian."

Never was human being more distracted than I. Absenting myself from everybody night after night in deep ravines and valleys, among the lofty mountains that surrounded Arequipa, I wandered. Many an Indian no doubt looked upon me with superstitious awe, walking without caring whither I went, like one demented. A second letter came stating that the death of Felicita was caused by a terrible cold she had contracted and the nervous shock suffered on the night of the abduction. Like his first, Don Julian's letter was brief. He said: "I will let you know where she is buried in my next, and I think I will not be long after her."

I concluded to go to Lima, but another letter, dated Truxillo, stated that he had left Lima and would bury Felicita in Truxillo. I received no more missives. To go to Lima was useless, to go to Truxillo and perhaps not find him there, would not accomplish anything so I decided to wait until I heard further news. I scarcely know how I passed my time. Night after night I would go up town, play billiards and visit the drinking places, always with the hope that I would meet Don Rodrigo.

I intended, when I heard from Don Julian to make a trip to Truxillo, visit the last resting place of Felicita, and perhaps remain in Lima, away from scenes that reminded me of the only happy time in my existence, and its tragic ending. But circumstances over which I had no control changed my plans.

One night, as I was sitting alone in my room, a boy handed me a telegram. It was from the general manager of the railroad, saying to report at his office at once and bring all the engine runners with me, and to enjoin absolute secrecy on the part of the men. I did as requested, and now begins one of the most exciting adventures of my life.



XIII.

MURDEROUS PLAN OF THE INSURGENTS.

On my arrival at the manager's office, I found him in consultation with the Prefecto of Arequipa and the General in command of the regular army. I was informed that another revolution was about to be attempted in Peru in favor of General Pierola.

The General said he had a valuable package which must be delivered to the Prefecto of Puno, that in the event the package was captured it would ruin all their plans. Would I undertake to deliver it for the government? I turned to the general manager and, speaking to him in English, said: "There is some mystery connected with this. Before I pledge myself to do this, it will be necessary to have a clear understanding." He repeated my request to the General, who informed me that a secret message had come over the wires that a revolution had broken out again, and this time the insurgents had taken possession of several points to prevent the government troops from reaching Puno; that the package I was to take was a notice to the Prefecto of Puno, for himself and those in favor of the government, to proceed to a designated place, where the government troops would arrive, and march by stages to Puno.

I realized the danger connected with this undertaking and accepted the responsibility with some trepidation. A generous reward awaited me if I succeeded, but it was understood in accepting the perilous message, no instructions were to be given me; that I was to use my own judgment and, if danger threatened the package, to destroy it before it should be captured.

The little Arequipena had long since been rebuilt, and I at once proceeded to put her in readiness for the journey. Manuel, my fireman, was a native of Arequipa, a powerfully built and sturdy fellow. He had been much among the British and American railway men and could understand English.

After leaving orders as to the time of starting, I called on an English friend and confided my mission. I asked him, in event of my death, to write to my relatives in Scotland, giving the details. He did everything in his power to dissuade me, but I told him his talk was idle. No use, I had made up my mind. Upon seeing the Arequipena ready, the men in the shops questioned me, but I evaded their questions.

I went to the office of the general manager and he gave me the package, unaddressed, done up securely, and sealed with red wax. I placed it in the inside pocket of my vest. The manager asked me to be careful with myself. He would much rather I should not go, but in my state of mind, I was only too glad to get my thoughts off the sad remembrance of Felicita's fate.

I left Arequipa at ten o'clock that night, cautiously and silently leaving the station. I arrived at Puno the following evening and lay over at Juliaca Junction a few hours. At this point the station master asked me where I was going. I replied that I had orders for Puno. Leaving Juliaca, I arrived at Puno at exactly five o'clock. I blew the whistle for the station. I noticed that it was crowded with people, but saw no one I would suspect of being a revolutionist. I put the engine in the shed, and then went and washed up. I hid the package in a secure place, where it was impossible for anyone to find it, as I had planned to go to the hotel, eat supper and then learn my chances for getting to the Prefecto, before I took the package from its hiding place. The station of Puno, like all terminal stations of the Arequipa railway, was fenced in by corrugated iron, about eight feet high, and it was necessary to go through the station outlet, which was only opened on the arrival and departure of trains, or another outlet guarded by a dog and night watchman. I went out by the small gate, familiarly bidding the watchman good evening. This gate only employes had the right to use. I walked up town to the hotel Inca. I met several gentlemen who knew me and asked one to play a game of billiards before supper. No one seemed to think that my coming was anything more than the usual routine of railway business.

After darkness, I lit a cigar and strolled down the street where the Prefecto lived. I observed the sentry at the front entrance and upon close observation, I found that the rear of the house could be approached by a little back street connecting with a small alleyway by means of which the house could be entered from the front.

I retraced my steps to the station but did not go near the gate. I went around to the engine shed, where an opening had been made by the boys so they could get to their rooms when out late nights and avoid answering the questions of the watchman. When I reached the Arequipena, the wipers were cleaning her. I spoke to the foreman, and getting the package, went out the same way, no one noticing my departure. Then going through, the narrow street I went up the small alley and, seeing no one, presented myself at the main entrance of the Prefecto's house. Here the sentry barred my passage and demanded the password. I told him to call the officer of the guard, and when he appeared I explained that I had important business with Senor Prefecto, and desired to see him personally.

"Who are you?"

"The Senor Prefecto will answer that question," I replied.

I had folded the package and hid it in the lining of my overcoat which I had thrown over my arm. The officer withdrew for a few minutes, but soon returned and allowed me to pass the sentry. Halting in front of a large door, a signal was given and it was opened by another officer. I was ushered in, and from there into an adjoining room, where I was told to wait.

Presently there came in a priest, then an officer with side arms, and last Senor Prefecto, who asked me the nature of my business. I replied that I had a message for the Prefecto, which could be imparted to him alone. When my errand was communicated to him, he could do as he chose.

There was much hesitation before my request for a private audience was granted, but on being searched, overcoat and all, the Senor Prefecto finally agreed to see me alone. When the others had retired, I took the package from the lining of my overcoat and gave it to him.

I watched him closely as he read the contents. His face became blanched, and his hands shook in abject fear, although nothing else could have been expected from him, as he was an arrant coward.

After reading the document, he called the others. He handed it to the priest, who asked where I came from. I told him. Then he wanted to know if anyone had seen me enter here, and whether the arrival of the Arequipena was known. I told him I thought no one would pay any attention to the arrival of the train but would consider it the ordinary routine railway business. A consultation was held, and after they found that I knew the contents of the message I had brought, they admitted me to their council. They asked me to get the Arequipena ready, and they and the principal officers would flee to Arequipa. I told them that such a course could not be pursued, as all the telegraph offices were in the hands of the insurgents, and that our departure would become known, the engine surrounded and all taken prisoners. They agreed it would be impossible to escape that way, and decided that about midnight they would escape on horseback. Just then an officer arrived and reported that the insurgents had taken possession of the station, and two engines, one being the regular passenger. One of the engine runners had been taken prisoner. Their spy had reported that it was their intention to take both engines and several coaches loaded with soldiers and arms; also, large quantities of powder had been put on the Arequipena for the purpose of destroying Sumbay bridge—to prevent the passage of government troops.

I was forgotten for the time being, their fear for their own safety outweighing all other considerations. Another officer came in and breathlessly added the climax. The regiment of regulars had joined the insurgents!

I was now doing some rapid thinking. If Sumbay bridge was destroyed and the fact not known in Arequipa, the government troops would come along and, with the engine crew, be hurled into eternity. The bridge being about one hundred and seventy-five feet high and six hundred feet long and on a curve with deep cuts on either side and a heavy down grade, it would be impossible for any train to stop, unless warned beforehand.

This was the murderous scheme of the insurgents.

I learned it was the intention of the insurgents to proceed to Vincocaya in the morning, destroy as they went along, the telegraph offices, wait at Vincocaya until the arrival of the regular passenger train from Arequipa and then proceed to Sumbay bridge. They evidently had calculated with a great deal of precision, and if their plans carried, victory would certainly be theirs.

All these things were filling me with apprehension. I knew I would be captured, but how could I save the bridge? I was determined to try at all hazards.



XIV.

FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY.

"This document calls for the payment of $10,000, and guarantees you life employment by the government of Peru, provided you save the Sumbay bridge," said the prefecto as he handed me a paper duly witnessed by the priest.

"No, Senor, I cannot accept it," I replied. "I will do my duty for the sake of humanity. It is part of my plan to be captured by the insurgents and should that paper be found on my person, I would be shot as a spy. If I succeed you can reward me."

I left the Prefecto and his party, wishing them a safe journey, and sauntered carelessly back to the Inca hotel. I entered smoking a cigar and wearing a look of unconcern, pretended I was not aware of any revolutionary movement. There were several men playing billiards in the parlors. I took a chair and sat down to watch the players. About 11 o'clock I asked to be shown to my room, and retired, knowing full well that I had been watched by a citizen of Puno since my entrance to the hotel, and I was satisfied I would soon be taken prisoner.

About 2 o'clock in the morning, I was awakened from a restless sleep by the entrance of twelve men armed with bare swords and revolvers. They were all talking at once. I sat up in bed and appeared to be amazed. The leader requested me to dress and accompany him. The streets were lined with people shouting the old familiar cry, "Viva Pierola," as I was marched in the center of this crowd. The cry resounded down street after street. The city was wild with excitement. The escape of the Prefecto was on every lip, as we turned at a street corner and to the station. We had great difficulty in obtaining entrance, but a passage was cleared and I was ushered into the presence of the leader of the revolutionary forces. He was about fifty years of age, some six feet in heighth, and powerfully built, but with a countenance far from pleasing.

With little ceremony, I was notified to get the Arequipena ready to depart from the station at 7 o'clock in the morning. The principal officers would go with her, I was told, and the regular train would follow with the troops.

I replied that as a British subject it would be impossible for me to comply, unless force was used; that I protested against this high-handed proceeding. I did this so that, in the future, no one could accuse me of aiding the rebels willingly. He replied that he did not care for the British government, that I would do as I was told or suffer the consequences. They then escorted me to the engine house, where I found my fireman Manuel already a prisoner; also Beaumont, the other engineer, and his fireman.

After getting the engine ready, I requested the officer in charge to allow us to procure something to eat. His permission was given, then another procession marched through the streets to the hotel, where the rebel guards stood over us at breakfast.

The Arequipena was ready. Behind were the passenger engine and five coaches, which rebel troops were already entering. At breakfast I had managed to get a few words with Beaumont.

As the Arequipena was to go ahead, I would endeavor to get the officers out to eat at Vincocaya. I would give a signal for him to uncouple his engine and follow at full speed. It would be impossible to stop him and they would be at the mercy of the government troops, which would leave that afternoon, according to the instructions given the Prefecto of Puno from Arequipa.

The officers came aboard the little Arequipena and loaded on several barrels of powder, picks and shovels to destroy the abutments of the bridge.

There were eleven officers who came aboard the coach, when to my surprise, I beheld along with three soldiers, Don Rodrigo Garcia, who was to guard me. I cannot describe my feelings. I know I am not a coward, but I was taken with a shock of nervousness. It was not of long duration. Indignation took the place of fear, but I realized how formidable a task I had undertaken to save Sumbay bridge. Howbeit, I determined more than ever to succeed, and the knowledge of that man being near me, gave me renewed courage.

Before starting he hissed to me: "Don Juan, we meet again."

I did not answer. It was all I could do to keep from attacking him despite the disadvantage I was at. The thought of the bridge, however, restrained any hasty action.

We left the station with the troop train closely following. According to orders, our first stop would be at Juliaca station. I knew that when we reached there the telegraph office would be destroyed. Telegraph communication was cut off between Juliaca station and Puno. Nearing the station, we stopped to take water from a tank. I asked permission from the leader to allow my fireman to go and draw some oil, explaining that I had none and it was necessary, that his going there would not create suspicion, and it would save much time. I was greatly surprised when he consented. I took a small piece of paper and wrote the following in English: "Van Buren, I am coming with rebels to destroy Sumbay bridge. Hurry up troops. Buchan." After writing, I read aloud in Spanish: "Procure from Senor Southers, the station master, two quarts of engine oil for the Arequipena." I handed it to Manuel who understood my meaning. He took the engine cans and walked to the office.

My heart beat rapidly. I fairly held my breath. Would he be able to see Southers before I took water? Would Southers understand my meaning and get the message off before we arrived at the platform and find the office destroyed? I delayed taking water as long as possible, then pulled slowly down the track to the platform. The moment we stopped, the officers rushed in the telegraph office and disconnected the instruments from the wires. Don Rodrigo and his three soldiers never left me for a moment, which made me suspect that my every movement would be closely watched.

The fireman came down the platform, both engine oil cans in his hands. I asked him if he had seen Southers. He replied that he had and that everything was all right. I received the oil and looked at him. His look told plainly that the message was sent. I felt that a heavy load had been lifted and breathed freer. I looked at Don Rodrigo. I was satisfied that in a short time we would meet in a struggle that would be the final one between us.

After the office had been destroyed we started again, the troop train always close behind us. We stopped at Cabanillas, Maravillas and Santa Lucia and carried away their telegraph instruments; then we ran direct to Vincocaya. Arriving there the telegraph office suffered like the others. I pulled down in front of the hotel, then told the officers that the passenger train was due in an hour, and that it would be impossible to proceed until its arrival. I showed him the time card to satisfy him I was telling the truth, and remarked that advantage might be taken of the time by having supper. Accordingly all of them, left the Arequipena except Don Rodrigo and the three soldiers. The officers left their arms in the little coach. Now was the time to act. Should I fail now, no other chance would present itself, for, after the arrival of the passenger train, the only stop would be at Sumbay bridge, when it would be too late. I figured that, after Van Buren had received my message from Juliaca the troops could not possibly arrive at Sumbay bridge before eight o'clock that night. It was four o'clock when we reached Vincocaya and the passenger would be leaving Sumbay station. Pucacancha was another station between Sumbay and Vincocaya. The grade being 160 feet to the mile, the train makes very slow time between Sumbay and Pucacancha. It was my only hope to succeed in getting to Pucacancha before the arrival of the passenger train.

I was nervous. I got off the engine, then called to Manuel to hand me another oil can. I spoke to him in English to have everything ready. I was going to run away with the engine—would he assist me? This I asked while I was pretending to oil the engine, and I had to trust largely to Manuel's intuition, as he knew but little English. He returned to the engine and raised a full head of steam. I noticed Don Rodrigo watching me from one of the side doors of the coach. I climbed back on the engine and put away the oil can, when Rodrigo said with a significant tone: "My time will soon come when I can avenge the insult I received at Tiravaya."

I did not answer. I knew his meaning. When my services were no longer required, he would, with his cowardly instinct, devise a means to kill me. The three soldiers were a fair sample of the poor ignorant Peruvians. They were armed with breech-loading rifles of French pattern, bayonets fixed. After Rodrigo had muttered his threat, he went into the little coach, sitting directly behind me, and could, by his position, observe every move I made. Manuel was standing on the left watching me. Although I had endeavored to make him understand, he was not aware of my plans. I looked back and saw the troop train taking water at the tank. I looked at Manuel, and he understood "the time had come."

With my left hand, I threw the throttle wide open and with my right blew the signal agreed upon. With a prayer to God I threw myself upon the nearest soldier.



XV.

IN DESPERATE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

Don Rodrigo and his soldiers were surprised. I dealt the one nearest me a terrific blow in the face. Don Rodrigo raised his hand to fire. I knocked his gun from his hand. The other soldier thrust at me with his bayonet, inflicting a severe scalp wound, which along with another thrust at me with his bayonet in my left arm, gave him time to recover. I struck the soldier in the face, and knocked him to the floor. The other was coming at me, when Manuel, armed with a shovel, brought it down with terrific force on his head.

By this time the engine was going at lightning speed, having reached a down grade of 160 feet to the mile. The throttle was wide open. I knew we would soon reach some sharp curves and if the speed was not checked, the engine would jump the track. I called to Manuel to shut off the steam, and apply the brakes. At this time I was struggling with Don Rodrigo for life or death. We had clinched one another. I spoke once.

"Recuerdo Felicita," I hissed in his ear.

He did not speak. He was never a physical match for me, but at this moment he seemed endowed with superhuman strength. His face took on the awful look of desperation, that comes to men when death seems near at hand. His lithe body struggled to be free of my grasp. He tried to trip me and just then the engine rounded a sharp curve causing him to stagger. The side door of the coach was open. For a moment he vainly tried to catch hold of something, and then, with a shriek upon his lips, fell from the speeding coach.

The struggle had lasted but a short time, but it had seemed to me hours. Manuel bandaged my head and arm. The two soldiers remained perfectly passive, suffering from severe blows. The one felled by Manuel was still unconscious.

We were within three miles of Pucacancha, rounding a sharp curve, when I looked back and exclaimed: "My God, Manuel, the troop train is coming!" My blood almost froze, but realizing that this was no time for fright, I determined to master the situation.

I knew the two soldiers would not attempt to molest us. They had learned a lesson. I looked at my watch. In five minutes the passenger, if on time, would be at Pucacancha. The troop train could not reach there for fifteen minutes, because at all obscure places it would have to go slow for fear of meeting obstructions on the track.

I reached Pucacancha, stopping far enough back to allow the passenger to pull up and back on the side track. The siding had only one switch, chiefly used for ballast for the road bed. I looked anxiously for the passenger. Seconds dragged like hours. Would she never come? There was a curve not far from the station, and the passenger could not be seen until it almost reached it. I listened. I could hear the low tremulous noise of the rails, a puff of black smoke went up from behind the curve—at last it was in view, engine No. 8. On seeing me the engineer came to a sudden stop. I hurriedly told him what to do. He was to back onto the siding and let me pass, then pull out and follow me back to Pampa de Avieras, where I told him the government troops would surely be. Our plans were quickly executed. I determined that should the troop train come before I could get by the passenger, Manuel and I would desert the Arequipena, start her back with a full head of steam, and cause a collision. No doubt there would have been loss of life, but it would have given an opportunity to escape by going on the passenger train.

Dobbie, the engineer, succeeded well in backing into the clear. Not seeing the troop train, I ran with a hammer and spike when he left the switch with the Arequipena ahead of him and spiked the track. Just then the troop train came in sight. I hurriedly boarded the Arequipena and started, Dobbie backing up at fast as he could.

There were several officers on the engine of the troop train, and when they saw us they compelled the engineer to increase his speed, with the result he could not check his train in time to stop it from running into the switch. His engine jumped the track half burying itself in the ground.

We arrived at Pampa de Avieras and the government troops came thirty minutes later. I was beginning to get weak from loss of blood. My left arm seemed to be a dead weight, and the muscles were painful and swollen. The people from the passenger train crowded about me and did everything in their power to relieve my suffering. The soldier who had been struck with the shovel came out of his stupor.

I was lying in the coach of the Arequipena, when the commanding officer of the government troops came to see me. After detailing the story to him, I turned over fourteen rifles, ten revolvers, and seven swords, all the cartridges and barrels of powder, together with the three soldiers whom I pleaded for, stating that compulsion was the cause of their joining the insurgents. I insisted on their hurrying to Sumbay bridge, although I told him they did not have anything now with which to destroy the bridge. However, they could post their troops should they arrive first and be in position to command the approaches. After leaving me, he ordered his troops forward.

I was getting weaker and weaker. At last orders came to go to Arequipa with the Arequipena. The station master telegraphed to have a doctor ready for me on my arrival. It was nearly forty miles from Pampa de Avieras to Arequipa, mostly down grade. I had to give the engine up to Manuel, as the pain in my arm became so intense I had to lie down. The station at Arequipa was crowded back to the street, the news having been telegraphed by the officer in command of the government troops. I could hear cries of "Viva Juancita!" that being my name in Spanish.

The people in Arequipa were loyal to the existing government. The general manager met me with the doctor. His eyes were full of tears when he saw me. I presented a horrible and bloody appearance, the wound in my head still bleeding, my left arm in a sling and my clothes almost in rags.

I was carried from the coach by four of my friends to my room where the faithful Chico had everything prepared. Cries of "Viva Juancita!" rent the air from the time I left the coach until the doctor requested silence. Manuel was taken home by his friends. The poor people, ignorant of the revolution, but knowing by the demonstration that something unusual had happened, realized that he had done something deserving recognition.

My friends grouped about with tear-dimmed eyes, and warmly pressed my hand. Chico, looking at me with a most sympathetic expression on his Indian features, did not restrain his tears. For days I tossed in pain and delirium.

One day when the general manager came, he told me that another engineer who had taken out the Arequipena to repair the telegraph, came up with a body of the insurgents who were going to surrender, but they intended to kill him first thinking he was I. Only the timely interposition of one who knew him, saved his life. The insurgents had got their engine back on the track after much time and labor, but it was damaged and as they were out of water, they gave up hope of winning their cause.

The train bearing the government troops stopped when within a few miles of Vincocaya, where they picked up the body of Don Rodrigo Garcia and buried it near the track. He would have exulted over my death, but I cannot say that I felt any satisfaction because he was dead. It only brought sad memories of the past.



XVI.

THE SCREAMING WINDS OF NIGHT.

I sat on the broad balcony of the British consulate at Mollendo, looking out over the blue waters of the Pacific. The soft breeze from the south seas imparted the glow of health. How proud I felt with the knowledge that no one dared insult me beneath the blue and crimson folds that waved above. Safe from the assassin's knife at the hands of some of Pierola's men, of whom I had been warned, I felt a certain refuge beneath the ensign of my country.

"Don Juan, does that make me a Britisher, too?" asked Manuel, pointing to the flag above.

"Yes, it protects you too. Pierola's men do not dare to harm us here."

"Praised be the Virgin," replied Manuel, crossing himself.

The great bells of the cathedral tolled out a funeral knell as a solemn procession marched to a transport ship. They were dust covered, haggard men, with a hunted look, chained in pairs. On either side marched a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets. Pierola's men were being taken to Lima.

I arose from the balcony and went inside. They had to pass under the balcony of the British consulate to reach the wharf. I did not care to witness their misery and so remained indoors until their departure. The revolution over, there was nothing now to fear; Manuel packed my belongings and we returned to Arequipa.

The general manager requested me to take care of the shops of Vincocaya. It would enable me to be quiet and recover from my wounds, as there was nothing to do but to see that the work was kept going. Meanwhile the excitement of the revolution would die out.

Vincocaya is situated high in the Andes, above timber line, a desolate and dreary waste of rock and crag, where wild winds scream among the cliffs in the blackness of the night, as though a thousand imprisoned Joshuas were reaching upward for that sun which will stand still no more over the plains of Ajalon. Leaden clouds drift like winding sheets among the peaks and hover like a pall over canyon and deep ravine. The grave of Don Rodrigo was but a few miles distant, but I never visited it. There have been times when I regretted not stretching forth my hand to save him, but at the time, with a most violent hatred of the man and the many injuries I had received from him, and the attempt to save the bridge foremost in my mind, I found excuse for lack of the finer feelings. And, too, what would it benefit had he been saved? His life was spent in debauchery, the gambling table and plots to overthrow any government where a leader in opposition to the ruling power would promise him a political office.

Deep down in my heart I felt the weight of the past; those shrieking winds of the night were the responsive echoes of my soul for the loved and lost. Was it upon this planet or upon some distant sphere that we two had met and loved and builded hopes as high as the lofty peaks that now entombed me—hope and love that may have been breathed in the morning of the world when the spirit of God dwelt within us—hope that existed before the wrathful change that shattered all and turned an Eden into blackness and despair?

Days, weeks and months passed. Often I would spend hours in the wild solitudes hunting the vicuna and alpaca, or in some gloomy canyon communing with myself. Within my spirit I could hear an undertone, "Why cast thyself on waters wild, believing that God is gone, that love is dead and Nature spurns her child?" So, from my grief, I arose at length to feel new life returning. New hopes and ambitions sprang forth in my soul that had so keenly felt God's chastening rod.

A year had passed. I was in Arequipa. Chico had my room ready and my friends gave me a splendid banquet in one of the largest restaurants in the city. In all ages the world has had two ways of doing honor to a man. One is by parade, the other by setting him down to a banquet table and making speeches about him until they overcrowd his emotions and leave him limp and speechless. I had to pass through this ordeal. The Prefectos of Arequipa and Puno, the Commanding General of the Government troops, the manager and officials of the railway and a host of friends of lesser note, but none the less loyal hearts, crowded the banquet room. They feasted, drank wine, sang songs and made speeches to me and about me that were enough to have satisfied the vanity of a survivor of Thermopylae. At the close, the Prefecto of Puno arose, and after saying things that were loudly applauded, presented me with ten thousand dollars not as a gift, but as something I had justly earned. He was followed by the general manager of the railroad, who said his company desired to show their appreciation of my conduct in the Sumbay bridge affair, and on their behalf he presented me with two thousand dollars. Manuel, too, came in for his share of honors and praise. He was presented with five hundred dollars by the Prefecto of Puno and two hundred dollars by the company—more money than he had ever seen in his life, or ever hoped to possess. Deserving fellow, his eyes streamed with tears of joy and gratitude when he received the money which would now enable him to own a comfortable home. His pleasure was even greater the next day, when I gave him one thousand dollars.



A month later, and Arequipa was wild with excitement. War had been declared by Chile against allied Peru and Bolivia. It was a sad blow, as Peru had been extremely prosperous and was rapidly forging ahead in the commerce of the world. I had concluded to leave the country and seek some other field, when a call was made to the railroad men to assist the government to convey troops from the interior to the coast. I responded and was sent to Santa Rosa on the proposed railway to Cusco, the ancient capital of Peru. Here a great number of Indians were huddled together to be sent to Arequipa, and drilled and sent to the coast. They were abject and disconsolate. The priests were calling on them to be brave and return victorious. These people had never seen the ocean and had never lived in an altitude of less than two miles. There was much suffering in store for them under the tropic sun of the coast. I asked an officer if he thought these men would make good soldiers. He replied with an air of great importance, and looking quite serious, that he had received word that the Chilean navy was coming to bombard Mollendo, and it was his intention to instruct the Indians in the use of the rifle. When the ships came near enough, he would station his men among the rocks and shoot the sailors off the decks. This, too, with flint lock rifles—a sample of the calibre of the Peruvian officer of the interior and his unfortunate Indian soldiers.

After getting to the head of the Tambo valley, I proceeded to Mollendo and found a terrible state of affairs. Everyone was expecting the Chilean fleet; men and women were carrying their household goods to the mountains. At sight of every ship on the horizon, whether sailing vessel or steamer, a cry would go forth—"They come—they come!" The greatest confusion prevailed. There was no organization, no discipline; everybody for himself, and all running at the cry of—"They come!"

One morning about ten o'clock the hostile fleet did come.



XVII.

THE BARBARIAN MEETS HIS INGOMAR.

A heavy fog was clearing from the sea, when from out of the mist rose the black hull and conning tower of the Cochrane. The senior officers of the flagship stood grouped on the starboard rail. The wind changed suddenly to the west, and, as it changed, it rolled up patches of the fog and revealed the black hull and conning tower of the Enlado. A heavy cloud of smoke poured from their funnels; decks cleared for action when they should put into practice the desperate objects of their existence.

A boat was lowered from the flagship and rowed to the wharf of Mollendo by sturdy Chileans, while an officer bore a message to the Prefecto for all noncombatants to leave the city, as bombardment would begin in an hour.

As the boat was leaving, it was fired upon. Then the ear-splitting reports which followed showed how the flagship took this breach of the rules of war. There was the rushing swishing sound, the terrifying screech of projectiles passing through the air, followed by terrific explosions and the crash of falling buildings.

In the city, pandemonium reigned. Men and women with blanched faces, were fleeing to the hills. Others threw themselves upon the ground, too terror-stricken to move. I heard a voice at my elbow calling in English. It was the voice of a woman, young and fair. "This way," said I, and we hurried toward the massive rock from whose summit I had watched the battle of the Huascar and Amythist two years before.

"We are safe now," I said, as we stood behind the thousands of tons of granite, "safe as if we were behind the rock of Gibraltar."

"Oh, mother, sister and Mr. Robinson—heaven help them at this hour!" she exclaimed. A shell struck a stone building and exploded by impact; fragments screamed like a panther in the air.

The young woman's face was blanched to a death-like pallor, but she was calm, and, kneeling by my side, she asked God to help us. Aloud she prayed, a beautiful, impressive prayer, one that must have gone straight to the throne of heaven and received its answer, for soon the wind shifted and those belching volcanoes of the sea were curtained by the fog; the firing ceased.

We hurried to her home amid scenes of desolation and confusion. Her family was safe and, to my surprise, the Mr. Robinson she had spoken of was an employe of our railway, who had but lately arrived from the United States and to whom I had been introduced a few days before.

The bombardment was now over, but the human wolves began to sack the city. Fire was raging in some quarters and burned far into the night. It lit the streets with a lurid glare; its red light fell upon motionless figures in the dust, and scurrying forms, bent beneath their weight of plunder.

Mr. Robinson was anxious to send his family to Arequipa, and I lent them all possible assistance, receiving their heartfelt thanks. They were in a strange land, not even knowing the language of the country. Hattie, the young woman I had met, was the sister-in-law of Mr. Robinson. Mrs. Robinson and her mother, an aged woman, were disappointed with Peru and were glad to get away from the theatre of war.

I met the Indian soldiers the next day, and the officer commanding was very indignant at his superior for not allowing him to go to the rocks at Mollendo and pick off the gunners from the battle ships, with flint lock rifles.

I was a frequent visitor at the home of the Robinson family in Arequipa, with whom I had now become well acquainted. It was strange to my ears to hear them all talk English, for seldom had I heard my own language spoken by women. The old lady was one of those quiet, sweet, motherly women. Once introduced to her, it seemed one had always known her. The whole family was the happiest and most cheerful I had ever met. Hattie Judson became school teacher to the English and American children in Arequipa, and her gentle ways soon won the hearts of all. I enjoyed taking her to the theatre and other places of amusement, because of her bright conversation and high ideals. From her I began to catch a glimpse of the nobler things of life, things that to me, being but poorly educated and in a foreign land, had been denied. She was a sweet singer and an excellent performer on the piano, and somehow when she sang I was able to understand the soul-reaching depths of the melody.

There was company at the house one night, when I heard her sing for the first time "Coming Thro' the Rye." My soul floated back to Bonnie Scotland, as when a boy I saw the waving fields of grain, the cows in the barnyard, and the lassies coming down the path from school; my mother with the willow basket, bringing in the clothes from the line, and father smoking his pipe by the well—scenes that nevermore would return.

In our walks in the shaded dells of the mountains, she often told me of the United States, the habits and customs of the people—how ambitions and aspirations were rewarded when accompanied by virtue and industry. Of the history of Peru she knew far more than I. It was interesting to hear from her lips the strange stories of the conquering Pizzaro hosts, whose mailed heels had once trod the ground we walked, and clanked the knell of a fallen empire.

My school had been the school of adversity. I had grown up with men who knew or cared little for the finer sensibilities. I felt that her standards of life were superior to mine. Her loyalty to God and holy charity toward the humblest soul, bent my spirit to profound respect. She was one who could see all there was of good in mankind and could measure the product of one's powers and give them impulse and direction. In my soul I bowed to the fair graces of her character. Each day we met I found in her some new wealth of noble thoughts that created higher ideals in my own untutored mind.

As time went on, fiercer rose the maddening cries of war. I felt the hot blood surge in my veins and I longed to be at the front, amid the roar of cannon and the clash of arms.

We were walking in a grove beneath the swift glimmer of the tropical twilight, when I told her that I felt it my duty to fight for the land that had been the home of my youth for so many years, and showed her a letter in which I was offered an officer's commission on the Huascar. She laid her hand on my arm and said, "There are nobler things in life than the shedding of the blood of fellow men. The youth of the world goes out to fight for the empty glory of another's crown. It is not on the field of carnage that greatest honors are won, but in the nobler, more peaceful pursuits of life, doing good and becoming leaders of men and preventing war, that one wins the royal diadem of him who said, 'peace on earth, good will to men.'"

As she spoke in earnest eloquence, I could have knelt and worshipped her. Her delicate cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were filled with tears.

No words of love had yet been spoken, but the Barbarian knew and felt that he had met his Ingomar.



XVIII.

ON SUNNY SEAS BOUND NORTH.

I met Mr. Robinson on the street one day, bleeding from a wound on his face. He said that Mr. Wood, superintendent of our railway, had struck him. Two of Mr. Wood's children were attending Miss Judson's school, and on account of the official position of their father, behaved in an ugly manner. Miss Judson made complaint to the school board, which exasperated Mr. Wood and he demanded her resignation. This the board would not permit. He called Mr. Robinson to his office and dismissed him from the service of the company. Being requested by Mr. Robinson to give his reasons for his dismissal, he struck him.

I was angry to think a young man would so brutally use a man of Mr. Robinson's age, and, too, in a strange country. Before I could restrain myself I demanded his reason for striking Mr. Robinson. Mr. Wood replied in a haughty manner that he was not accustomed to account for his acts. I replied: "Perhaps not, but when one of your position and age so far forgets himself as to strike an old man, any respect you may be entitled to is dispelled by your cowardly act."

For a moment it looked serious. He raised his hand as if to strike me. I said: "Mr. Wood, if you attempt to go any farther I will certainly be a far different antagonist than Mr. Robinson, and teach you that some of your acts, at least, will be rewarded in a manner not to your liking." He knew he had gone too far, and said in a quieter tone, that he did not consider the affair any of my business.

"Mr. Robinson is an American; let his countrymen investigate this matter. I will deal with them."

"Mr. Wood," I replied, "I hope the time will never come when a Briton will so far forget his duty as not to go to the assistance of any family, irrespective of nationality."

At this moment some other shop men came in, loud in their denunciation of Mr. Wood. There is something that binds a Britisher and an American when they are away from their respective countries, and among strangers. On many occasions I have seen the Britisher and American argue and even quarrel over the merits of their countries but when serious trouble arose, all jealousies would be cast aside, and each one would endeavor to outdo the other in kindness.

That night an indignation meeting was held in a large building formerly used as a storeroom. The employes all knew the reason of Mr. Wood's attack on Mr. Robinson. Although the majority of them were working under Mr. Wood, they felt the indignity inflicted on Mr. Robinson was an insult to them all, most of them having children attending the school.

From the beginning of the school, Mr. Wood had tried to dominate it. This was another reason for the employes' grievances and, chief of all, they were now being paid in the depreciated currency of the country. The meeting was conducted in a quiet business manner. The sentiment was to strike until Mr. Wood was removed from office.

I told the men that that would be an injustice, as the general manager was in Lima and we had no one to appeal to. Therefore we should continue to work until we could communicate with him. This appeal had the desired effect, as all could see the injury our strike would inflict on the railway.

I was then selected as the representative of the employes to go to Lima and lay the matter before the general manager. I was about to start when I was handed a note from the superintendent, saying that my services were no longer required. I replied that I would receive my orders from his superior and proceeded on my journey.

At Lima I succeeded in reinstating Mr. Robinson, and shortly after my return to Arequipa, Mrs. Robinson died. Grief at the injury inflicted upon her husband and a feeling of friendlessness in a foreign land, had hastened her end. Another indignation meeting was held and Mr. Wood was dismissed from the service of the company. Mr. Robinson became despondent and after a few months decided to leave the country.

The war with Chile was still on. The Peruvian army suffered defeat after defeat. Her navy had made some show of success at first, but not after the terrible fight between the Huascar, and two Chile ironclads, in which the Peruvians lost. The currency of the country became practically worthless. My accumulation of years was almost swept away.

Mr. Robinson decided to return to their home in San Louis Obispo, California, and about this time I received an offer from the Peruvian government to bring a torpedo boat from Panama to Mollendo. The Robinson family were going north on the steamer which would carry me to Panama. On leaving, our friends gave us a splendid banquet and assembled at the station to bid us farewell. Poor Chico, I can see him yet, waving his old red handkerchief with his right hand, his left covering his eyes.

When the ship moved out of the port, I stood on the deck with Hattie. Mr. Robinson and the aged mother stood near us looking upon the scene amid a flood of tears. The memory of their dead they were leaving behind, was no doubt uppermost in their minds.

I looked upon the mountains we were just leaving until they were a mere speck. I intended to perform one last service for Peru, for, however much I had suffered, it was my boyhood's home, the only home I had had since leaving my native shores.

We were a week making the voyage from Mollendo to Panama. The weather was fine and the sea was smooth. I was in company with Hattie much of the time. In her gentle way, she sought to dissuade me from the perilous undertaking with the torpedo boat. But when I reminded her of my duty to Peru she said no more. I could see, however, she was pained at the thought.

The north bound steamer had gone when we arrived at Panama and the Robinsons would have to wait ten days, which compelled them to stay at the hotel in that sultry city.

After visiting the Peruvian consul, who had been notified of my mission by his government, I learned that a Chilean cruiser was watching the torpedo boat and it was decided to await a dark night when we could escape from Panama harbor. Meantime I stopped at the same hotel with the Robinsons. I made several trips around the bay to test the speed of the boat and was satisfied we could outrun the cruiser, but somehow I began to dread the venture. The full force of this feeling dawned on me when I realized I was in love with Hattie.

The day was drawing near for their departure, when Hattie and I were seated on the veranda of the hotel, looking out over the Pacific. The afternoon wore away, the sun began to set in the dense blue haze of the tropic ocean, the great cathedral bells pealed out the hour of eight, the night birds screeched from out the palms, and still we sat in the glow of the twilight, talking of our past and future.

The streets became silent and even some stars had faded from the skies and the ceaseless roar of the surf beating upon the sands was music, when she promised to be my wife.



XIX.

DEATH SHIPS OF THE SEA.

A thick fog rose from the sea, as we stole away in the darkness with the torpedo boat. We had no distinguishing lights and every sound was muffled. Even the funnels were protected against the tell-tale sparks of soft coal. The spume of the sea fell over our forward deck in flecks, and the waves splashed at our bow. The harbor lights of Panama shone in a glow of sickly yellow.

An officer stood by the hooded binnacle, watching our course by the faint glow of a tiny lamp. The bulldog engines, which I was working, were speeding us at 17 knots an hour and we were headed for Mollendo. We had no armament. That was sent to the Peruvian government by other means and our only defense against the Chilean cruiser was a clean pair of heels.

Suddenly, the eye of a search-light opened, and sent a long gleam of yellow into the fog. It swung around and rested for a moment on the column of smoke trailing from our funnels and changed its color from a black to a fiery red. It rested there a moment, then closed and all was darkness. The tumult was deafening. The hissing rush of projectiles, as they struck the water and exploded by impact, or shrieked in ricochet overhead.

The brave officer at the binnacle fell to the deck, his mangled body a quivering mass. One funnel was struck midway and cut in twain as though by a sharpened blade. Fire darted up from the half funnel, and showed the cruiser's gunners the correctness of their aim. It lit our deck with its glare and showed the bodies of two others on the forward deck bathed in blood. Another officer coolly took his place at the binnacle and directed a change in the course of the boat.

The spurting jets of fire from our broken funnel gleamed in the fog, like a beacon light to those on board the gaunt black monster of the seas, in pursuit of his prey. A hunted thing on the black waves, we crowded on every ounce of steam throughout the watches of the night.

With the morning came the blaze of the tropic sun. It drove the fog off the sea and showed us the hull of the cruiser, looming up out of the purple mist. Steadily, we held our course, with steam up to the danger line. By noon we had gained a little, and again, with the approach of night, the fog began to rise and soon enveloped us in its grey cloak. But that beacon light from our funnel shone hateful as its spurting jets flashed signals to the enemy in pursuit.

Another night passed, and, when the fog lifted again, there was the vampire even nearer than before.

The nervous strain was telling on our crew. The day before we joked and laughed—we would outrun him yet in the night. We would have; but for the glare from that funnel. We might have stolen into some cove and let him pass us in the dark, but for that. He did not waste shot anymore, we were going his way. He could afford to wait. The third day the crew was worn and silent. They had the look of desperation in their faces, as they threw furtive glances back at the spectre, the Ship of Death—The Black Coffin—we called him now.

At high noon, we met an American warship. His crew crowded to his decks and gave cheer after cheer in sympathy for our desperate plight. The big greyhound of the sea was chasing the rabbit he had bitten and maimed, and the sympathy was with the weak. By night the nervous strain had become almost a frenzy. Then to add to our peril, the coal in the bunkers was running low. Something must happen in our favor soon. Our signal still flashed from the half funnel—our signal of distress—and by midnight we called it our funeral candle. The sky was clear now and the stars were shining. We could see lights flash now and then through the haze of the sea. When morning came there he was big, black, hideous—still in our wake.

Coal for eight more hours only. Surely something would happen; help must come, out of the sea, out of the sky, out of somewhere, only it must come. The sea was smooth; not a ship could be seen on the horizon. All on board were in restless anxiety. Only coal for three more hours.

We were now off Ecuador. The officer in command called the crew.

"We shall have to surrender the boat," he said.

The assistant engineer, two stokers and myself, all of us British, shouted "Never! We are not here to lay in a Chilean prison and perhaps be shot! We beach the boat!" Our emphasis was our drawn revolvers.

Without a word, the officer headed the boat for the shore. We gathered up a few edibles and when we grounded the boat, swam to the beach. The officer lingered for some time after all were ashore, then hurried over her sides and made his escape. The Chilean cruiser launched her boat, eight sailors to each side of rowlocks, an ensign and a party of marines. They rowed rapidly to the torpedo boat and half of them climbed on board, when her sides parted and a terrific flame shot upward, bearing the bodies of a dozen men. The officer had lit the fuse that did the work.

Ten days afterwards the two stokers, assistant engineer and myself, footsore and ragged, went on board the British mail steamer at Guayaquil and presented ourselves to the gruff old captain.

"Get below in the stoke-hole and black up," he said, "the Chilean government offers five thousand dollars reward for each of you. If we are searched you are stokers."

Meanwhile, on board another ship far to the north were aching hearts. Hattie's aged mother fell ill when two days out from Panama and the next day she passed away. Rules required that the body be buried at sea. It was a solemn group that assembled at the ship's gangway, while all that was mortal of the aged mother rested on a plank, one end of which was held by a sailor. Slowly the chaplain read the beautiful service. The ship was stopped. Not a sound was heard and the midnight moon was hidden by clouds. "Therefore we commit this body to the deep," was pronounced. The plank was raised and the body was swallowed up in the cavernous depths of the ocean.

Hattie leaned upon the arm of Mr. Robinson, who tenderly escorted her to the cabin when the rites were over. To her the world was gloomy and desolate, her sister but recently buried in far away Arequipa and the mother now in the sea. With a fortitude beyond her years the Christian girl bore bravely her deep sorrows, trusting in Him "who doeth all things well." When the ship reached the open roadstead of Port Harford, and she again landed on the shores of her native California, she went to her former home—a vine-clad cottage in San Louis Obispo.

It was here I found her some weeks after I assumed the role of stoker on the British mail steamer. Mr. Robinson had gone to his former home in Missouri, but Hattie was protected by relatives. We talked of our coming marriage. It was not possible at that time. I had lost so much money by exchange from the paper currency of Peru to the gold of California, that I needed time to replenish my almost depleted purse. We decided that we would wait one year, meanwhile I would go to Arizona and run an engine on the railroad east of Tuscon.

It made my heart glad to be in a country once more where my own language was spoken and among people whose customs were like unto that of my native land. There was no prejudice toward me on account of my foreign birth, such as I had often encountered in Peru. The hand of fellowship was extended in this broad free land of the United States, where the greatness of men is measured almost by merit alone.

What surprised me at first was the absence of soldiers until I came to understand the peace-loving disposition of the people, and learned that in the hour of the country's need, all men became her defenders.

It was one of those balmy afternoons, so characteristic of southern California, when Hattie and I were seated in a park overlooking the beautiful Los Ossis valley. Our plans were made for the future, and I was to leave that night for Arizona. It was the tender parting of man and woman whose lives had been seared by the hot irons of adversity, and each felt that the other was the one and all upon this planet.

* * * * *

Here Buchan's narrative was broken short. He was writing the last chapter on a pair of ladies' dainty cuffs, when he stopped and listened. He arose to his feet. "Do you know," he said, "I thought a moment ago I heard something—her voice."



XX.

A DAUGHTER OF THE CHEROKEES.

Mary Greenwater was not the ugly, coarse-featured woman that many squaws are. She possessed many of the fine features of her white sisters. She had been well educated at the Carlisle Indian school, and had traveled much. While, with other Cherokee Indians, she drew her annuities from the government, yet she was known to be the wealthiest woman of the tribe. She was lavish in the expenditure of money. Her home in the Cherokee hills was elaborately furnished with the richest of carpets and furniture; even a grand piano adorned her parlor. But with all its costly appointments, the house was a wilderness of disorder. Like other of her race, she despised anything akin to neatness. Her dresses were gaudy in color and extravagant in style. Pearl necklaces, diamond brooches and rings were worn on all occasions. She owned fine carriages and many spirited horses. As a horsewoman, she was an expert and as a pistol shot she was accounted the best in the Cherokee nation. Her servants were the half-breed Indian Negroes to whom her word was as absolute a law as any Caliph ever possessed over a tribe. She was accustomed to command, and if disobeyed she enforced her orders at the point of the revolver she always carried.

The source of Mary Greenwater's wealth was a mystery. Those of her tribe gave themselves no concern about it, but the matter was a subject of much comment among the few white men in the territory. Mercer, a young man of adventurous spirit, hearing of her fabulous wealth, sought her hand in marriage. After the wedding, he used all his arts to wring from her the secret of her riches. Once when she started on one of her lone journeys to the hills of the Grand River, he attempted to follow and that was the last ever seen or heard of him. That the woman possessed the secret of a vast amount of lost treasure was evident, as she spent many Spanish gold coins of ancient date as months rolled on, and this induced Grim, a farm hand, to marry her. She elevated him from a menial position, to overseer of her ranch. She gave him money, which he recklessly spent at the faro tables at the Garrison. When she refused to further indulge him in his reckless expenditures, he, like Mercer, attempted to follow her on her journey to the Grand River hills one night. He was missed by his companions who went in numbers to search for him, taking an Indian guide. They were led in an opposite direction from the way he went and his fate remained a mystery, until many months later his body was found in the Grand River, with a bullet in the brain.

Two years after the death of Grim, Carson and a negro were hunting in the Grand River country and were encamped one night in the hills. While seated beside their campfire, they heard a cry of distress. Upon going to the spot, they found a lone Indian woman pinioned beneath her pony, which had stepped into a wolf hole and broke its leg. The woman was badly injured and they carried her to their campfire and made her comfortable. The next day they constructed a rude litter and carried her twenty miles to a place where she could receive medical attention.

The woman was Mary Greenwater, and this was, perhaps, the first act of kindness she had ever received.

A certain escapade at the close of Carson's college days had caused him to migrate to the West, where, like many others, he became a soldier of fortune, drifting whither the strongest tide wind blew. When Mary Greenwater recovered she sought him, and in her gratitude made him the overseer of her ranch at a princely salary.

In course of time they were married by the ancient Indian ceremony of the Fastest Horse. When the days of feasting were over, and Mary Greenwater's relatives had returned to their cabins richer by a number of ponies, Mary told Carson a wondrous story of how, many summers ago, when her grandfather was a boy, a Spanish caravan came from Santa Fe and was besieged in the Grand river hills for many days, and of how, finding that they would eventually be starved to death if they remained, the travelers had hidden their possessions among the lime rocks and undertaken to cut their way through the Indian hordes to a place of safety. Her grandfather had found the hiding place of the treasure and had kept it a profound secret from all except herself, to whom he told it only when he began to sing his death song.

Mary Greenwater swore to Carson that the hiding place of the Spanish treasure would never be known except to one other member of her tribe, and then not until after her death. She told him there were valuable papers which she knew none of her people could ever use, and which she later gave to Carson.

The documents were discolored and the ink faded and this much Carson was able to decipher: "Jean Maldonado visited a far distant country north of Santa Fe—a wide valley through which flowed a stream, along the banks were bushes that bore fruit like unto those of Spain—in the valley were herds of oxen of the bigness and color of our bulls—their horns are not so great—they have a great bunch upon their fore shoulders and more hair on the forepart than on the hindpart; they have a horse's mane upon their backbone and much hair and very long from the knees downward—they have great tufts of hair hanging from their foreheads and it seemeth they have beards—they push with their horns—they overtake and kill a horse—finally it is a fierce beast of countenance and form of body—we feared these beasts and stayed near the mountains named the Sangre de Christo.... Climbed the mountain to a great flat rock that stood on end like a platter.... Jean Maldonado, commander of an expedition reached this place 1750.... The mine yielded much gold in a rock like white china—Babtiste beat it out with—Mattheo returned from Santa Fe with more donkeys—loaded donkeys with much unbeaten rock—returned to Santa Fe"—

Here the ink was so faded that nothing more could be made of the manuscript. The accompanying map was more perfect. The tracings showed the mountain ranges. It had been drawn almost with the precision of an engineer. The route from Santa Fe through the mountain passes was clearly shown; there were marks of each day's stops. Where the map showed the end of the journey there was the rude drawing of a cliff set on edge and below it was marked "Gold."

Carson pondered over the quaint document for many days. The Indian marriage with Mary Greenwater had become a matter of regret. While the woman loved him, yet her love was like a new bowie knife, to be handled with care. He decided to leave the Grand River country and bide his time until Mary Greenwater should make one of her long visits to the hills. One night he mounted the best horse on the ranch and driving thirty others ahead of him, set out for Colorado. On the way he sold most of the horses to ranchmen and cattlemen and netted a neat sum.

When Mary Greenwater returned and found her spouse had vanished, her fury knew no bounds. Ordinarily the Indian squaw might be deserted by her lord and she would stoically accept her fate. Mary might have done so had she not been spoiled by being educated at Carlisle. Her savage blood grew hot for revenge. She made another trip to the Grand river hills, presumably for a larger amount of money, placed her affairs in the hands of her Indian-Negro servants, and started on the trail of Carson, believing she would have no trouble in overtaking a man driving that many head of horses. Meanwhile the fall rains set in and the shallow rivers of the plains became raging torrents. But to a woman of Mary Greenwater's determined character, these things were obstacles only for the time being. Her heart was bad and her love of revenge strong.



XXI.

CARSON'S BLANK PAGES IN LIFE.

When Carson left the cabin he followed the winding trail that led to the valley below. The road to Saguache showed the hoofprints of a prospector's outfit, and the marks of a sleigh leading to Del Norte. The glare of the sun on the reflected snow was blinding and he drew his hat down over his eyes. He was thinking of his worthless life since leaving college. Once he had builded lofty hopes of future doings in the world, but he had allowed himself to drift; his ship of fate had gone wherever the strongest tide wind carried. He saw now that he might have marked out some honorable career and piloted his course toward it. Others of his class in college were in a fair way to make their mark in the world. Why was it not so with him? It was born in him, as it had been in his father, to choose the wild life of the frontier in preference to holding the presidency of a bank in Atlanta. He felt that the world in its wildest freedom was his for his pleasure. The cords of restraint which society demanded were to him the fetters of a tyrant ruler, and so, as Sampson broke the green withes which bound him, Carson broke the laws of society—nay civilization, and married a squaw according to the ceremony of her people. He repented the act to some extent, and then cast his cares aside, with the comforting knowledge that the world was too busy a place for people to give themselves much concern over his affairs. Long ago he realized that if he threw himself into the swirl of humanity and allowed himself to become a part of its motives and its emotions, that it would require a herculean effort to attain a position where he could look over the heads of other men. That position, he argued, was not worth the life-long effort required. Withal, he could not bring himself to quite understand why he had married Mary Greenwater, unless that she possessed some occult power and gained control over forces of his nature which he did not understand. True, there was but little or no obligation to the ceremony. It held good in the Cherokee Indian nation, that government within a government. Outside that limited space of ground it was null and void. He was a free man under the laws of his own government. Yet that act, of his own creation, somehow seemed to stand over him like a Frankenstein with an uplifted axe.

The snow was deep, and as he plodded along with these thoughts running through his mind, he heard a cry. Glancing backwards he saw a horse drawing a sleigh, plunging madly down the road. The reins were held by a woman, frantically urging the horse forward. Some distance behind four huge mountain lions were in hot pursuit, their heavy bodies crouching and springing forward many feet at a leap. Carson took in the situation at a glance and, raising his hand as a signal to the girl in the sleigh to rein in, he sprang into the vehicle as she passed. The momentary pause had given the beasts a chance to gain, when, drawing his revolver, he fired at the foremost and sent it rolling in the snow. Another shot and a second lion paused with a mighty roar. At this the other two turned and fled in the opposite direction.

Carson now took the reins and stopped the horse. The animal was trembling with fright, while the girl was calm but pale.

"Rather a close shave, eh, Sis?"

"Truly," she replied, "how fortunate you were here. I was driving to Del Norte when I met the lions. They were gamboling in the snow like kittens. When I turned Bess, they pursued. I want the one you have just killed, I want to have him mounted to remember today,—and—and—you."

"By all means, Miss, you shall have it, but where are you going now?"

"Back to Saguache after this fright. Poor Old Bess could not have stood the race much farther. See how she trembles. I am the niece of Mr. Amos. My name is Annie Amos. I have friends in Del Norte, whom I intended to visit. I shall wait now until I have an escort."

"Ah—my name is Carson—Jack Carson. I was going to Saguache to see Mr. Amos, the assayer, to have him test a jug handle,—er, that is, to have the jug handle test him. I don't mean that; I mean our mine is named the Jug Handle, I will get it right after awhile, and I want him to make a test of the ore."

"Confound it," he thought as he turned the horse, "I haven't the sense of a jackrabbit to make a break like that."

One of the lions lay pawing the snow in its death struggle and as Carson came near, it reared itself as if to make one last leap. Its eyes gleamed in savage yellow, foam fell in flecks from its mouth, while a tiny stream of crimson stained the snow. Carson's weapon spit fire and the creature rolled over motionless. He dragged the carcass to the end of the sleigh and, lifting it upon the edge of the box, made it fast.

"If you are going to Saguache to see my uncle, I fear you will be disappointed as he left this morning for an absence of several days."

"That does not matter as I have other business anyway. Most any time will do, as I am in town quite often. We would better not drive so fast. Your horse is in a foam."

Carson was fast becoming interested in the girl at his side. Her calm poise, after the exciting adventures with the mountain lions, surprised him. Other women would have been hysterical, but here by his side sat a girl not yet out of her teens, as calm and collected as a veteran soldier after the battle. And Amos, the man he was going to see and intended to kill if he proved to be the villain he suspected him to be, was her uncle.

The white billows rose rank on rank on the distant mountains, while the snow of the valley shrunk visibly away, leaving the grey rocks naked and protuberant.

The newly-made acquaintances chatted gaily as the horse jogged along.

"I was thinking of your remark awhile ago," said Carson, "that you would go to Del Norte tomorrow if you had an escort, and as I have some time to idle away it would give me pleasure to drive you over."

"It would give me equal pleasure to have you do so," she replied with admirable frankness, "that is, if you are going there anyway."

"I may need to purchase some new implements with which to work the Aberdeen—I mean the Jug Handle mine," he explained. "I have heard of a new drill they are working over there and it may be just the thing for the formation we are now in."

"I see," said the girl, as a mischievous smile flitted about her lips, "and I am very glad you will accompany me. I shall make you acquainted with some of my very dear friends."

Carson was forgetting his millions in the mine and letting his mind wander to the expected joys of entertaining and being entertained by people of real worth once more. He felt returning pride, and then the thought of the Frankenstein with the uplifted axe made him groan inwardly. But pshaw! she did not know—never would know, and what people do not know will not hurt them, he reasoned.

He felt an increasing admiration for the girl beside him. They were alone in the wide expanse of valley and had known each other only an hour, yet this girl was willing to trust to his honor and manhood. And be it said for Carson, as it may be said for thousands of other men on the American frontier, he would have yielded his life rather than betray that sacred trust. Instances like this are common in the West.

As they drove down the main street of Saguache, the passers looked curiously at the pair in the sleigh and at the dead lion strapped behind. When they stopped in front of the postoffice, a crowd gathered around the sleigh. A supple figure edged through the crowd and addressed the girl:

"Kill it all by yourself, Annie?"

The familiarity with which he spoke nettled the girl, and she turned her head without answering. The supple figure felt the rebuff and all the more because others noticed it. He stood his ground, however, until Carson returned and when he saw his face he quickly drew out of sight.

"Tomorrow at seven," said Carson, as he bade her good-bye at her house.

Carson went to his hotel with a lighter heart than he had had for months. He lit a cigar and sat by the window, then felt for something in his pocket, and threw it in the wood-box. "There are other jug handles," he said to himself.

He walked the streets aimlessly until supper. He retired early and tried to sleep, but his thoughts ran wild on the events of the day. He could think of no one except Annie. It was still early in the night, when he arose from a restless bed and went out on the streets. Lights blazed from the Lone Tree saloon, and as he entered he saw a crowd about the faro table. The sudden exclamations of many voices told that some one was winning heavily. He pressed forward through the crowd and saw the form of a woman. When she partially turned her face, he felt his heart give a great throb, and he fled into the street.

The remainder of the night he walked through the crunching snow, while the silent stars seemed to gaze with tearful eyes upon him in this, the greatest misery he had ever known. He walked several miles out of town to avoid meeting anyone he knew and then presented himself at the Amos residence.

"I believe it is seven o'clock, Miss Annie," he said, when she answered his call.

"Yes, and I am ready," was the cheerful answer.



XXII.

A VOICE FROM CENTURIES PAST.

Buchan was ready to throw the lever of his engine and roll out of Tucson, when a messenger handed him a packet bearing the postmark of Peru. The missive showed signs of age, and, having traveled much, had reached its destination at last. He tossed it into his tool box and an hour later when speeding over the scorched deserts of Arizona, he opened the packet. The letter was dated at Truxillo and read:

"Dear Don Juan—I have been ill for many months, and I feel that my end is drawing nigh, but before I go I want to do something for you. I have heard how Don Rodrigo so justly met his end, and with this knowledge I die easier. You are young and strong, with a long life of usefulness ahead, and I feel that in entrusting to you a family secret, I am only doing that which I would have done had Felicita lived. She was the last of our house and the heritage of our family belonged to her. As it is, I make you my heir to the valuable papers handed down to me from my ancestors. May they prove to you a blessing. Would that I had more to give you. May the blessings of the Virgin ever rest upon you.

"Julian."

Accompanying the letter was a parchment scroll, dated Lima, 1752. It read:

"I, Jean Maldonado, do write of my extraordinary adventures in Nueva Espanola, wherein I was duly appointed the Commander of an expedition to the land of Quivera, in search of the Seven Cities of Cibola, in the service of his excellency, the viceroy of Santa Fe. A barbarian told us he would lead us unto a land to the far north, where shops blazed with jewels and common cooking vessels were made of gold; that the metal was so common as to be of no value. The king of this city took his noonday meals beneath a golden canopy, hung with tinkling silver bells. There was a sea upon which this king rode in a canoe, which would carry twenty horses. Upon its prow was an idol of beaten gold. The canoe was fitted with sumptuous cushions, upon which the monarch took his siestas, to the music made by dancing maidens with bells and castanets. Fish as large as horses abounded, and sweet fruit bigger than a soldier's helmet grew upon the trees. The monarch who ruled over this land was long-bearded, white-haired, and wore robes of bright-hued, rich stuffs, and slept in a garden where trees were hung with a thousand bells, which made exquisite music when shaken by the wind. And this king worshipped the golden image of a woman, the Queen of Heaven, and ate from gold and silver bowls, of which the dais he sat upon was made. He spoke with vast assurance and said he would conduct us thither whenever we should follow.

"We journeyed northward many leagues over mountains and came to a wide valley watered by a stream. Farther on were high mountains and we named them Sangre de Christo and marked three mountains 'Spanish Peaks' on our map, that we might not miss our way. One day a pious soldier saw the barbarian with his face in a pool of water, talking with the devil. After that we were suspicious. After many days' journey we found the city, but alas, it was mud huts, and the only metal was a copper plate around the old chief's neck and by which he sat great store. There were no golden vessels, no image of the Virgin, no golden dais and no silver bells.

"The wicked barbarian then said he had led us into the desert to die. Our soldiers were wroth and I ordered him hanged on a considerable tree, to let him know there was a God in heaven and a King in Spain.

"We turned our steps backward after we had set up a cross, and journeyed into the valley. Now there were many oxen come into the valley of the figure and color of our bulls, but their horns were not so great. They had a great bunch upon their fore shoulders and more hair upon their fore parts than on their hind parts. They had a horse's mane upon their backbone and much hair from the knees downward. They had great tufts of hair hanging from their foreheads and it seemeth that they had beards, because of the great store of hair at their chins and throats. In some respects they resembled a lion, and in some others the camel. They pushed with their horns, and they overtook and killed horses. Finally, it was a foul and fierce beast of countenance.

"We have stayed close to the mountains where we could flee to the rocks if they pursued us. We were crossing the mountain, when we came upon a spring near unto a huge cliff that sat on the edge like a platter. We camped here many days until the bulls left the valley. Some distance from the rock like a platter, Casteanda found gold in a white rock, which we did beat up and saved much pure gold. Casteanda journeyed to Santa Fe and returned with more donkeys, and we loaded upon them much unbeaten rock. We all then journeyed back to Santa Fe, for the barbarians were angry at our intrusion and we went in haste, leaving more gold in the white rock than would load a ship's boat. I cut in the rock, high up, the words:

"'Jean Maldonado. "'Commander of an Expedition, reached this place, 1750.'

"All this, so that the subjects of Spain might know this country belonged to His Majesty.

"We journeyed back to Santa Fe after many days of hardships and we found a new Viceroy had been appointed and he demanded our gold. This we were loath to give up, and after selling it to a trader for the coin of the realm, we started across the country for New Orleans, knowing well not to go south for the new Viceroy would pursue us and take the gold.

"We journeyed along the banks of a considerable river by night and hid ourselves by day. We saw many thousands of ferocious bulls grazing, and when they ran the noise was like thunder and it made us afraid. We crossed many rivers and finally came to a country of wooded hills where the Barbarians were thick and ferocious.

"The Barbarians pursued us and we hid our gold and records in a cave and rolled a stone over the hole and fled. They killed nearly all of our expedition and our mules. Baptiste was sorely wounded in the breast with an arrow and notwithstanding we bled him copiously, he died.

"The treatment given us by the Barbarians irritated us exceedingly and we fell upon them with swords when they were not in great numbers.

"We came to a river whose waters were red, like unto the color of the tiles on the houses of Seville, and after journeying along its banks for many nights, we came unto the River of the Holy Ghost, which DeSoto discovered and here we found safety.

"While all these things were new in my mind I made another map in order that I might take another expedition to the mine when the Viceroy grew rich from the spoils of office and would trouble us no more. But he did write unto the people of Spain that I would be hanged upon my return to Santa Fe, therefore I desisted in returning. Being extremely irritated at his conduct I sought my fortune in Peru, until such time when he should be called to heaven, which call even now, in my old age, has not yet been made, over which misfortune I have sorely grieved."

Accompanying this document was a map with the Sangre de Christo range, the Spanish Peaks, the River, Valley and flat cliff on edge, plainly marked. The distance from Santa Fe and the mountain passes was clearly indicated.

A month later Buchan was transferred on a run out of Santa Fe where the hand of Fate and Chance again took part. He received a letter from Mr. Robinson who had joined a surveying party and had fallen ill at Saguache. The letter implored him to come, if he ever expected to see him alive. True to his old time friendship, he lost no time in reaching his bedside. Mr. Robinson lingered a few weeks and died. This was more sad news for Hattie in her far-away home, amid the Santa Lucia mountains. She alone remained of the happy family who had gone to Arequipa with fond hopes for the future beneath those sunny skies.

I, the writer, had been with Carson a few days before prospecting in the Sangre de Christo mountains, when by chance we rested at the spring beside the peculiar shaped cliff. I noticed that Carson was interested in the surroundings, but I thought nothing of it at the time. The formation of the cliff appealed to my fancy, and I chanced to mention it to Buchan one day when he became excited and asked to be shown its whereabouts.

Together with Carson we visited the spot. Being an old prospector, I soon discovered formations that looked like pay ore. My years of experience in these mountains had taught me that a man might work a lifetime and gain nothing, and again from the outcroppings of a stone at grass roots he might develop a mine worth a million dollars.