The Dust of Conflict

XXVIII – TONY MAKES AMENDS

THE moon hung low above the clump of cottonwoods that flung their black shadows across the road when Appleby with Harper and four of the Sin Verguenza crept in among the roots which, rising like buttresses, supported the great columnar trunks. Beyond the trees the road wound faintly white towards Santa Marta through the cane that stretched away a vast sweep of dusky blueness, under the moon. The night was hot and almost still, though a little breeze that was heavy with a spicy, steamy smell now and then shook a faint sighing from the cane.

The men sank into the blackest of the shadow with ears strained to catch the slightest sound, while Appleby lay in a hollow with his rifle across his knees where he could follow the strip of road until it twisted sharply. He also fancied that the light was clear enough to make it risky for any of Morales’ cazadores to venture round that bend, and there was, he felt tolerably certain, a handful of them not far away, for certain supplies which had been sent the Sin Verguenza had failed to reach the hacienda. Supplies were also necessary, for, as Maccario had predicted, adherents had flocked in daily. They, however, had travelled by paths through the cane, and Appleby had gone out to locate one of the pickets which were watching the road.

It was not exactly his business, and both Maccario and Harding, who had remained at the hacienda because he could not well get away, had protested against his undertaking it, but since the latter had given him Nettie’s message Appleby had been curiously restless, and felt that the excitement might help him to shake off the thoughts and fancies that troubled him. It had, however, signally failed to do so as yet, and while he lay with hot fingers clenched on the rifle barrel he once more found himself wondering anxiously what had come about in England.

It was with a thrill of satisfaction, that was mixed with disgust at his own infirmity of purpose, he realized that Nettie Harding must have meant that she had vindicated him in Violet Wayne’s eyes, but in that case it was evident that he had gone away in vain, since Nettie could not have proved his innocence without inculpating Tony. It also appeared out of the question that anybody would believe Tony if he told the truth now, and Appleby flushed with anger at himself as he pictured the effect of the blow upon the girl. He knew at last that it was to save her the pain of the discovery he had borne the blame, and yet he could not overcome a curious sense of relief and content at the thought that she had heard he was innocent. Then he wondered what had befallen Tony, and decided with a trace of bitterness that it was no affair of his. Tony had had his chances, and if he had thrown them away had only himself to blame.

At last he shook himself to attention when a distant patter of feet came faintly across the cane. The sound grew plainer as he listened, while here and there a shadowy figure rose up among the roots and sank from sight again. It was evident that two or three men were moving down the road in haste, but the soft patter of their feet did not suggest the approach of the cazadores. Still, it seemed advisable to take precautions, and he sent out two men, who, crossing the road, faded again into invisibility on the edge of the cane.

“Now we’re going to find out where that picket is,” said Harper. “Those fellows are coming right here, and I guess by the noise they’re making they don’t belong to the Sin Verguenza.”

Appleby repeated the observation in Castilian, and a man unseen among the roots laughed softly.

“The Señor Harper has reason,” he said. “Our friends do not travel on a white road with their shoes on when the moon is shining.”

In another moment a hoarse cry rose from the cane, the patter of feet quickened suddenly, and Appleby stood up when he heard the sharp ringing of a rifle. Another shot followed, but the men unseen beyond the cane were evidently running still, and there was a little murmur from the Sin Verguenza. Appleby made a restraining gesture with his hand.

“I think the cazadores are coming too,” he said.

Then there was silence among the cottonwoods, but hard brown fingers stiffened on the rifle barrels, and while the patter of feet grew rapidly louder the strip of white road was swept by watchful eyes. Still nothing moved upon it, until a man appeared where it twisted into the cane. A moment later another showed behind him, and then a third, who seemed to reel a little in his stride.

It was evident that they saw the cottonwoods, and hoped to find concealment there, but the Sin Verguenza lay still watching the three blurred shadowy objects with dispassionate curiosity. What befell the strangers was no concern of theirs, but they were doing excellent service in leading on the cazadores. Then there was a very faint murmur as a cluster of men in uniform appeared, for there were rather more of them than the Sin Verguenza had expected, and it became apparent that they were running faster than the fugitives. Appleby could almost see the faces of the latter now, and a moment later Harper, who was crouching close by, dropped his hand on his comrade’s arm.

“That last one’s not quite like the rest,” he said.

Appleby stiffened his fingers on the rifle at his hip, and stared at the last figure with growing astonishment.

“No. The man’s complexion is as light as mine,” he said.

Then there was another rifle shot, and a little spurt of dust leapt up from the road. The third man swung suddenly round and a pistol twice flashed in his hand, while his companions flung themselves gasping into the shadow of the cottonwoods. Hands were stretched out that seized them and pulled them down, and a little quiver ran through Appleby as he watched the lonely figure that now showed clear in the moonlight by the edge of the road. Close behind it the cazadores were coming on at a run, and there were considerably more of them than there were of the Sin Verguenza.

Still, the fugitive stood tense and immovable. He was dressed simply in white duck, with a wide felt hat on his head, but there was something curiously familiar in his pose that perplexed Appleby, until turning half round suddenly he looked over his shoulder. Then as his face showed white in the moonlight Appleby gasped and flung up his rifle.

“Keep still!” he cried in English.

He felt the jar on his shoulder, there was a thin red flash and the smoke was in his eyes. Then spurts of pale flame blazed out from among the trees, and when the soft vapor slid away the road was empty save for one man, who ran straight in towards the cottonwoods with uneven lurching stride. Then while the Sin Verguenza looked on wondering Appleby stepped out from the shadow.

“Tony!” he said. “By all that’s wonderful, Tony!”

The stranger stood still gasping, and stared at him, ignoring his outstretched hand. Then he drew back a pace.

“I have found you at last,” he said. “I’ve a good deal to tell you, but it scarcely seems likely those fellows yonder will give me the opportunity now. It’s specially unfortunate, because there does not seem to be many of you, and I’m a trifle lame.”

Appleby glanced up the road, and saw enough to convince him that the cazadores were slipping forward circumspectly through the shadow of the cane, while it became evident from their murmurs that his companions had decided it was advisable to retire while the way was open. He slipped his arm through Tony’s, and they started down a little path through the cane, while Tony endeavored to shake his grasp off, and finding that he could not do so limped along clumsily, leaning heavily upon him. The cazadores, however, apparently knew the ways of the Sin Verguenza too well to venture far from the open in pursuit of them, and finally they came gasping and perspiring into sight of the hacienda. Maccario stood at the gate of the patio waiting them, and glanced curiously at the stranger.

“A prisoner?” he said.

“No,” said Appleby. “A friend of mine!”

Maccario swung off his hat, but when he begged Appleby to explain that any friend of his was welcome there he saw that the stranger winced.

They went up to Appleby’s room, where there was an awkward silence for a moment or two, when Tony dropped limply into the nearest chair and averted his eyes from Appleby, who leaned upon the table looking down on him compassionately. He was worn with travel, and his face showed pallid and haggard under the lamplight.

“How did you chance upon the cazadores?” said Appleby, who felt that the question was trivial as he asked it.

“They were watching the road”; and Tony laughed in a curious hollow fashion, though there was apparently no cause for it. “They nearly got me. I was a little lame, you see. Tore my foot with one of those condemned aloe spikes a day or two ago.”

“Well,” said Appleby, “you were about the last person I expected to come across. What, in the name of wonder, brought you here?”

Tony looked at him a moment and smiled, while Appleby felt the blood rise to his forehead, and grew angry with himself. The constraint that was evidently upon Tony had extended to him, and would not be shaken off. Why this was so he did not know, but he could not greet his comrade with fitting friendliness.

“I came to find you,” said Tony hastily. “Landed at Havana with Harding’s address as my only guide. He had, I found out, left the city, but I came across two or three men who seemed to know him, and one of them passed me on to his friends, who contrived to get me here. We travelled, for the most part, at night, hiding in the daytime, and got very little to eat, but most of the men I met did what they could for me when I told them that I had business with a leader of the Sin Verguenza.”

Appleby laughed a little. “You will find a bath yonder, and I’ll send you up some food,” he said. “Then come down when you are ready. You will find me on the veranda.”

He spent half an hour pacing up and down the veranda before Tony reappeared, and as it happened Harding came out from his room just then. The moon, which had risen higher now, flooded the veranda with silvery light. Harding glanced at the stranger and pointed to a cane chair, while Appleby, who was not sure whether he was glad or displeased to see him at the moment, introduced them. Tony, however, did not shake hands.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter in England, Mr. Harding, and it was only owing to that fact I managed to get here at all,” he said. “You have evidently a good many friends in this country.”

“I am glad I have been of service,” said Harding, with a smile. “In the meanwhile I haven’t the slightest doubt that you and Appleby will excuse me.”

Tony looked at him gravely. “I understood from Miss Harding that you had reposed a good deal of trust in Appleby and that he had taken you into his confidence respecting something which happened in England.”

“You have surmised correctly,” said Harding.

“Then I would sooner you sat down and listened to me. It is, I fancy, likely that he has not told you all the story. You are not altogether unconcerned in it, since your daughter was the means of sending me here.”

Appleby made a little impatient gesture. “Tony,” he said sharply, “is it necessary?”

“I believe it is”; and Tony leaned forward in his chair. “It would be a favor if you sat down, sir.”

Harding did so, and for ten minutes Tony, who stared straight in front of him at the blue Bougainvillea on the moonlit wall, spoke with quiet conciseness, while Harding sat in the shadow watching him. At last he turned to Harding.

“I think you will see that your confidence in the man I have injured was fully warranted, sir,” he said. “If I have made you understand that, it is, at least, a little in reparation. I can’t ask you to forgive, Bernard, but I want to straighten out what I can.”

Harding for some reason moved uneasily in his chair, but Appleby, leaning across the table, held out his hand.

“You can’t look past it now, Tony,” he said. “Can’t we still be friends?”

Tony glanced at him, and made a curious little sound which resembled a groan, then a red flush crept into his face as he took Appleby’s hand. An unpleasant silence followed until Harding spoke.

“I shall hope for your better acquaintance, Mr. Palliser,” he said.

Tony looked at him in wonder. “You realize what I have done, sir?”

Harding nodded gravely. “I have heard how you have tried to make it up,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ve seen and handled a good many men, and there’s more hope of those who trip up and get on their feet again than for quite a few of the others who have never fallen at all. Now, I’m glad you’ve told me, though, so far as my belief in Mr. Appleby goes, it was not by any means necessary.”

Tony made a little movement with his head. “I’ve made over Dane Cop to you, Bernard,” he said. “It is yours by right, and you can take it without feeling that you owe anything to me. Godfrey Palliser meant it for you – until I deceived him.”

Appleby said nothing, but his set face showed what he was bearing for his comrade, and Harding quietly touched his shoulder.

“It seems to me that Mr. Palliser is right,” he said. “The land is yours, anyway, and you would only hurt him by not taking it.”

Tony raised his head, and looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “It would hurt me, Bernard.”

Appleby smiled a little, though it apparently cost him an effort. “Well,” he said, “I’m not burdened with money yet, and I think you can afford it.”

A light crept into Tony’s eyes. “That is one thing accomplished. When will you come back?”

“I don’t quite know. I may find an opportunity in a year or two.”

“You must come now.”

“I can’t.”

“You must,” said Tony, almost hoarsely. “Bernard, can’t you see that to bring you over, and to prove that I have made amends is the last chance for me?”

“The last chance. You must be more explicit, Tony.”

They were both apparently oblivious of the fact that Harding was watching them, and Tony’s voice trembled a little with eagerness.

“It’s the only way I can make my peace with Violet,” he said. “Can’t you understand what she is to me? She would promise nothing until I had made all straight with you – and I can’t let her go.”

Appleby’s face was compassionate, but he shook his head. “It is out of the question, Tony. I can’t – even for you,” he said. “I have got to stay here, and see this trouble through.”

“Mr. Appleby is right,” said Harding. “He has work to do.”

Tony seemed to groan, and sat still a pace. Then he looked up with a little flush in his face.

“Well,” he said very quietly, “in that case I’ll stay with you.”

Appleby laughed. “The thing is palpably absurd. A Palliser of Northrop consorting with the Sin Verguenza!”

“Still,” said Tony doggedly, “I’m not going back to leave you in peril here. I couldn’t face Violet, and tell her that tale. Nor am I as sure as you seem to be that the thing is so absurd. It’s only the moral courage that has been left out of me.”

“Try to realize what it is you wish to do,” said Appleby almost sternly.

Tony smiled curiously. “It is quite plain to me already. I’m going to stay here and see the affair through with you; then when the insurgents will let you go you’ll come with me, if it’s only for a week or two, and tell Violet that you have forgiven me. In the meanwhile Craythorne and my agent will take better care of Northrop than ever I could do. There is another point you don’t seem to have remembered. I should almost certainly be made a prisoner by the Spaniards if you sent me away.”

“There is a good deal of sense in that,” said Harding.

Appleby sat silent for almost a minute, and then seeing that Tony was resolute made a little gesture of resignation.

“Well,” he said slowly, “we will talk to Maccario. Mr. Harding, I may ask you for a month’s leave when we have taken Santa Marta.”

“You shall have it,” said Harding quietly.

Just then, as it happened, Maccario strolled into the veranda, and Appleby, who stood up, laid his hand on Tony’s shoulder.

“I have the honor of presenting you another comrade,” he said.

XXIX – TONY PERSISTS

FOUR of the Sin Verguenza girt with bandoliers were waiting in the patio while Harding made hasty preparations for his journey when Appleby and Tony stood on the veranda. The night was a trifle clearer than any of them desired, though the half-moon had dipped behind the flat roof which was projected sharply against the luminescent blueness of the sky. A stream of light shone out from the open window of Harding’s room, and Pancho’s voice rose suggestively now and then as he watched him dressing. Harding, who had affairs of importance with the banker, was going into Santa Marta, and since it appeared more than likely that Morales knew he had arrived at San Cristoval, it was essential that, in order to avoid observation, he should be attired correctly in Cuban fashion.

Appleby, however, scarcely heard the major-domo, for he was making another attempt to induce Tony to leave with Harding, who purposed to head for the coast in the hope of finding a steamer there when he had made what arrangements he could respecting his Cuban possessions. Tony listened with a quiet smile, and then resolutely shook his head.

“We have been through it all before, and you are only wasting breath,” he said. “I am going home with you when you have taken Santa Marta, but until then I stay here.”

Appleby lost his patience. “It’s a piece of purposeless folly. What have you to do with the fall of Santa Marta?”

“It is also my last chance,” said Tony, with a curious little smile. “You could understand that if you wished to.”

“No,” said Appleby doggedly. “I don’t think I could. Nor do I believe you would convince any reasonable man.”

Tony smiled curiously. “One has objections to stripping himself, so to speak, before even a friend’s eyes. It really isn’t decent, but – since you are persistent – what I went through at Northrop was getting insupportable. The anxiety was crushing the life out of me, and it’s out of the question that I should go back there while you are carrying the load that should have been upon my shoulders here. I’m not claiming any virtue I don’t possess. Indeed, it’s selfishness and what is most likely superstitious cowardice that decides me to stay, but I feel that until I have made all right with you there can be no peace for me.”

“I do not want to live in England, and you are taking too personal a view of the thing. Since there is Violet to consider your life is not your own to throw away, and I am not sure you know how much she would forgive you.”

Tony’s face grew a trifle grim, and the light that streamed from the window showed the weariness in it.

“The trouble is that Violet was never in love with – me,” he said very slowly. “I have a gift for deceiving people, even when I don’t mean to, and it was not until the truth came out she saw me as I am. It is difficult to admit it, but there the fact is. She gave her heart to the man she supposed me to be, but I loved her for herself, and because I know she is the one woman who could make an honorable man of me. I lose my last hope if I let her go.”

He stopped a moment with a little groan, while Appleby regarded him compassionately, and then continued in a low strained voice.

“Now you see the selfishness of it, and why I mean to stay. I must prove I’m not wholly worthless by making amends to you.”

Appleby stood silent a moment. He knew Tony’s unstable nature well, and that his passion for Violet Wayne, which was almost reverential, might yet lift him to a higher level. It was also evident that in desiring to make amends Tony was wise, and Appleby felt a curious sympathy for the man who clung so desperately to his last hope of vindicating himself in her eyes. That Tony’s motive was, as he had admitted, largely selfish, and his contrition by no means of the highest order, did not trouble him. It was his part to help and not censure him, and with a little swift movement he laid his hand upon his shoulder.