The Dust of Conflict

“It is not advisable to stay here,” a low voice said. “There is a door at the back. Come with me.”

The place was almost dark now, and Appleby contrived to seize Harper’s shoulder and drag him back as the crowd poured in from the plaza. Once more somebody touched him, and a man overturned a larger table, which brought down three or four of those who made at them most fiercely, while in another moment or two he found himself, still clutching Harper, in a shadowy calle behind the café. He turned to thank the two men he saw beside him, but one ran up the street, and the other, slipping back into the café, slammed the door in his face. Harper stared at him, gasping.

“Let go of me. I’m going back to kill two or three of them,” he said.

Appleby thrust him forward into the street. “You are not while I can hold you,” he said. “It seems to me you have done quite enough!”

Harper turned and glared at him, but Appleby still clutched his shoulder resolutely, and his face relaxed. “Well,” he said more calmly, “I guess I’ve hurt more than the feelings of one of them. What did that fellow shove us out for, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Appleby. “Perhaps he was afraid of their wrecking the café, or he didn’t want us hurt. We seem to have more friends than we are aware of in Santa Marta. It is apparently convenient at times to be connected with the Sin Verguenza.”

Harper, who shook off his anger, followed him down the street, but he stopped again when they crossed another one that led back to the plaza. They could see the wide opening, with the white walls that hemmed it in cutting against the soft indigo of the sky, and hear the confused murmurs that rose out of it. Then there was a crash of music that rang, as it were, exultantly across the shadowy town until a tumultuous roar of voices drowned the Royal March of Spain.

Harper clenched one hand. “You hear them!” he said. “Well, they’ll get their answer by and by, and they’re not going to feel like shouting when we’re through with them.”

Appleby said nothing. He understood the hot Castilian temperament, and the outburst of sentiment was comprehensible, but the news of the disaster had also sent a chill of horror and suspicion through him. Still, he laid his hand with a restraining grasp on Harper’s arm, and they went on silently to the “Four Nations,” where they had left the vehicle in which they had driven out from the hacienda.

It was, somewhat to Appleby’s astonishment, next evening before they heard anything more of the affair, and then, as he sat in the big barely furnished general room at San Cristoval, Pancho, the major-domo, came up to say that the Colonel Morales was waiting below. Appleby bade him bring out cigars and wine, and rose from his seat when Morales came in. He shook hands urbanely, unbuckled his sword, and laid his kepi on the table, and then sat down with an expression of concern in his olive face which Appleby fancied was assumed. It was then about eight o’clock in the evening, and had been dark two hours, but it was very hot, and the door and window lattices which opened on the veranda had been flung wide. There was, however, no moon, and black shadows closed in upon the scanty strip of light that shone outside.

“I have come as a friend on a somewhat delicate business,” said Morales, pouring out a glass of wine. “The affair is, as you will realize, a serious one.”

Appleby, who fancied he understood his man, smiled. “I scarcely think it is. Nobody attaches much importance to a trifling dispute in a café. One has also to make allowances in moments of political excitement.”

“It is not a trifle brutally to assault a Spanish officer, as you would have discovered had I not held back the order for your friend’s arrest,” said Morales dryly.

“Still, one would scarcely fancy the officer in question would wish everybody to hear of it. He had, if I remember correctly, his sword with him. I am only suggesting this because it seems to me that in his case I would prefer the affair arranged quietly.”

The color appeared to grow a trifle warmer in Morales’ cheek, and there was a faint sparkle in his eyes, but though it seemed to cost him an effort he smiled.

“You have, as I surmised, considerable discretion,” he said. “Well, I will admit that the view I urged upon the Teniente Pinillo much resembled yours. In fact, it is conceivable that he would be willing to entertain any honorable amend your comrade should think fit to make him.”

Appleby decided that he would gain nothing by showing any special eagerness to straighten out the difficulty, since he had reasons for believing that it was not mere friendliness which had brought Morales there.

“Of course, that is the sensible view,” he said. “Still, knowing the delicate pride of your countrymen, I am a trifle astonished that the Teniente Pinillo proved so amenable to reason.”

A little grim twinkle crept into Morales’ eyes. “It was at my suggestion. When I venture to make a recommendation it is apt to prove convincing.”

Appleby knew that this was the case, for the little olive-faced soldier was more dreaded in that country than the Sin Verguenza. He also felt that it was not without a reason the dark eyes were fixed upon him searchingly.

“That is not astonishing,” he said. “Well, I fancy the one I intend to make will also be considered by the Señor Harper. I will send for him by and by.”

Morales sat still a minute or two fingering his cigar, with his back to the window, and the light upon his face. Appleby had foreseen this when he drew out a chair for him, but he could himself follow the stream of light that shone out across the veranda, and fancied that a shadowy object was crouching just outside it. His ears were also keen, and he had once or twice caught an almost imperceptible sound. Then Morales turned to him.

“Your comrade was concerned in another affair which cannot be arranged so easily,” he said. “It is not so very long ago since he was seen carrying arms in the Alturas Pass.”

It was only by a strenuous effort that Appleby sat very still, and strove to keep his face expressionless. “That is your contention!” he said. “You do not expect me to admit it?”

The two men looked at each other steadily for almost a minute, and then Morales smiled. “It is of no importance. Here are no witnesses,” he said. “He had, however, a companion, Señor Appleby.”

Appleby had expected this, and was prepared. He was also by no means as sure as Morales seemed to be that there were no witnesses, but the uncertainty on that point did not trouble him. He had a quiet confidence in Pancho, and the only men the latter allowed near the house had, Appleby felt certain, at least a suspicion of his connection with the Sin Verguenza. He listened intently, and though everything seemed very still, again fancied he heard a very faint sound on the veranda.

“How long have you known this?” he said.

“Since you came to the hacienda, I think,” said Morales dryly. “It was a very poor compliment you paid me when you fancied that you had deceived me.”

“Then would it be too much to ask exactly how much you know?”

Morales laughed. “I will put my cards on the table. There was the attack on Santa Marta, the affair at Alturas, and the escape of a prisoner the night of the Alcalde’s ball. There are, I think, other counts one could urge against you, but those I have mentioned would be sufficient.”

Appleby decided to make an experiment. “It seems to me,” he said, “that so much knowledge is apt to prove dangerous to the man who possesses it.”

“You mean – ”

“I have but to raise my voice, and you would find it difficult to get out of the hacienda San Cristoval alive.”

It was evident that the little officer’s nerves were good, for he smile contemptuously.

“That difficulty has been provided against,” he said. “There are two or three files of infantry not very far away, my friend, and two of my officers have precise instructions as to what o do in case I am absent a suspicious time.”

Appleby laughed, for, though he fancied there was something behind it, the man’s frankness was not without its effect on him. His fearlessness he took as a matter of course, for it was not without a reason Morales bore the title of the Sword.

“Then,” he said, “we come to the question what do you want from me?”

“As a commencement it would be pleasanter to mention what I can offer you, and that would be employment on special service by the Administration at a reasonable remuneration. I may admit that you have abilities. Still, should you prefer it, you could be sent to the coast with a permit that would take you safely out of Cuba instead. You are here to make money, which is, however, scarce in Cuba just now, and the revolution is no affair of yours.”

“Well,” said Appleby, “we will come back to my question.”

“Then I ask very little. Certain papers of the Senor Harding’s which are in your possession, and the perusal of the communications that pass through your hands.”

Appleby was glad he had his back to the light, for he felt his face grow hot, but, though it cost him an effort, he maintained an outward tranquillity, and sat still, rolling in his fingers the cigar he took up. Morales’ purpose was plain to him. He was known to be a loyal soldier, but he was also a man with an insatiable greed, and Appleby was aware that Harding, perhaps forecasting an American occupation, had been making overtures to the insurgents. Indeed, though Harding had never entirely taken him into his confidence, he had seen enough to convince him that he was playing a very risky game. Morales, it seemed, suspected it, and apparently desired sufficient proof to bring Harding within his grasp, which, Appleby surmised, would only relax when the American had been largely denuded of his possessions. Then another thought flashed into his mind. He had once or twice seen Morales’ dark eyes fixed on Nettie, and knew that he was one who usually obtained what he set his heart upon, while Harding was on his way to Cuba even then. If he proved obdurate, and Morales had anything to support his demands with, it might go hard with him.

This was plain to Appleby, though his perceptions were somewhat blunted by the anger he felt. Morales’ suggestion that he was capable of such treachery stung him to the quick, but he was quite aware that the retort incisive would be puerile folly, and that if he was to prove he realized his obligation to Harding he must proceed circumspectly. As affairs stood just then Morales held him beneath his thumb.

“It is a proposal that must have consideration. There are difficulties,” he said, and hoped his voice did not betray him.

“I think,” said Morales dryly, “that haste would be advisable.”

“Still, I must have until this time to-morrow.”

Morales rose, put on his kepi, and buckled on his sword. Then he turned to Appleby with a little significant smile.

“Until then, though it is quite unnecessary,” he said. “I think a very few minutes’ reflection will convince you that my proposal should be acceded to. In that case you will find me at the cuartel any time to-morrow.”

Appleby went out with him, and as they descended the stairway the officer stopped.

“I fancy I heard somebody in the shadows yonder,” he said.

“Yes,” said Appleby dryly, raising his voice a trifle, “it is quite likely that somebody is there. In this country one takes precautions. You, however, have my word that in your case there is no necessity for apprehension.”

Morales laughed a little. “It is well that I took mine, but I will ask you for your company as far as the carretera, Señor Appleby. One does not attach too much importance even to the word of a gentleman just now.”

They walked through the dusky cane together, and parted with punctilious salutations when they reached the dim white road. Then Appleby went back to the house, and met Harper at the foot of the stairway.

“Colonel Morales came to demand an apology from you, and I promised him that you would make it,” he said.

Harper seemed hoarse with anger. “I could scarcely keep my hands off him as it was. It would have pleased me to pound the life out of him.”

“Well,” said Appleby dryly, “I scarcely think it will be necessary to make the apology now, but I can’t tell you anything more until to-morrow. There is a good deal I must think over.”

He went up the stairway, and sat for at least an hour staring straight before him with an unlighted cigar in his hand. Then he rose with a little weary smile, and tapped a suspended strip of tin, which rang dissonantly until the major-domo came in.

“You know where Don Maccario is?” he said.

Pancho’s eyes twinkled. “I think I could find him.”

“Then remember what I tell you,” said Appleby, who laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, spoke softly and rapidly, until the latter nodded.

“With permission, I will give the message to three other men who can be trusted and start at once,” he said.

“Is it necessary?” said Appleby, with a faint trace of astonishment.

Pancho smiled significantly. “I think it is,” he said. “Morales makes certain. He leaves nothing to chance.”