Produced by Al Haines.
Cover]
THE GOBERNADOR RIDES]
THE MOTOR SCOUT
_A STORY OF ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AMERICA_
BY
HERBERT STRANG
_ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO_
LONDON HENRY FROWDE HODDER AND STOUGHTON 1913
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER THE FIRST BOMBASTES FURIOSO
CHAPTER THE SECOND COMINGS AND GOINGS
CHAPTER THE THIRD BENEVOLENCES
CHAPTER THE FOURTH GAS
CHAPTER THE FIFTH PARDO DISMISSES HIMSELF
CHAPTER THE SIXTH TIM IS HELD TO RANSOM
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH THE PREFECT MOVES
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH SUSPENSE
CHAPTER THE NINTH FLIGHT TO THE HILLS
CHAPTER THE TENTH CINCINNATUS O'HAGAN
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH THE MOTOR-CYCLE
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH FREE WHEEL
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH A COMMISSION
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH HIS FATHER'S HOUSE
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH THE RAID ON SAN ROSARIO
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH A SIEGE AND A SORTIE
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH IN POSSESSION
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH THE ORDER OF THE NASTURTIUM
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH PARDO SCORES A TRICK
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH PARDO LOSES A TRICK
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST RUN TO EARTH
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND A PUNCTURE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD A LEAP FOR LIFE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH THE RAVINE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH HANDSOME ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE GOBERNADOR RIDES (_see page_ 10) . . . _Frontispiece_
CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS
HORSEMEN ON THE TRACK
TIM LEADS A CHARGE
THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR
A CHECK AT THE CAVE
MAP
CHAPTER I
BOMBASTES FURIOSO
One hot sultry afternoon in June, the population of the little town ofSan Rosario in the Peruvian Andes was struck with sudden amazement atthe sight of a motor-bicycle clattering its way through the main streetwith some risk to the dogs, poultry, and small boys who had been lazilydisporting themselves there. It was not the bicycle itself that evokedtheir wonder: that was an object familiar enough. Nor was it the youthseated in the saddle, and steering it deftly past all obstacles. It wasa second figure, mounted uneasily on the carrier behind: a rotund andportly figure, which shook and quivered with the vibration of themachine as it jolted over the ill-paved road, maintaining itsequilibrium with obvious difficulty. Children and women shrieked; themen leaning against the walls took their cigars from their lips andgasped; and the noise of the engine was almost smothered by the mingleddin of barking dogs and screaming fowls. It was the figure of thegobernador himself: land-owner, chief magistrate, and father of afamily.
The wondering populace might have supposed that the gentleman had takenleave of his senses--for surely no one of his mature years and seriousresponsibilities would have risked so much if he had been sane--had itnot been plain to them that he was in desperate distress. His head wasbare; his swarthy cheeks were shining with perspiration; his eyes rolledwith fright; and his fat hands were clasped about the waist of the boyin the saddle with the convulsive grip of a man clinging for dear life.The face of the boy was, on the contrary, beaming with delight. Hislips were parted in a wide smile; his blue eyes were dancing; and hismop of tow-coloured hair waved joyously in the breeze that the motion ofthe vehicle created.
The street filled, and soon there was a mingled crowd pouring in fullcry behind the bicycle. There were young fellows in black coats andspotless collars--the well-to-do Peruvian is something of a dandy; menin white ducks and Panama hats; ladies in mantillas; Indians inbright-coloured ponchos; rough-clad muleteers; bare-legged Indianchildren. The rider waved his hand and grinned at a stripling who ran,pen in hand, from an office, to see the cause of the uproar, andsmilingly watched the bicycle as it bowled along over the cobbles of theplaza, with much clamorous outcry from the hooter, finally coming torest before a large house there. The perspiring passenger havingdescended from his uneasy perch, the rider dismounted and offered hisarm as a support to the magistrate, whose legs, cramped by theirunwonted strain, moved very stiffly as he approached his door.
Young Tim O'Hagan and his motor-bicycle had been for some time the talkof San Rosario. Tim was sixteen, but he was called "Young Tim" todistinguish him from his father, and also, perhaps, in the spirit ofkindly tolerance with which elders sometimes regard their high-spiritedjuniors. Young Tim had always been what his father's English friendscalled a "pickle," and old Biddy Flanagan, the family maidservant, a"broth of a boy." As a small boy he had been in frequent scrapes, and acause of bewilderment and trouble to the grave householders of the town.More than once they had politely complained to Mr. O'Hagan of hisescapades: scrambling over their roofs, hunting for lost balls in theirgardens without much regard for their carefully tended flower-beds, andengaging in many other nimble exercises which are natural enough to anEnglish--or Irish--boy, but are rare with the less active Latins.Thrashings and admonitions were equally ineffective; he would promisenot to repeat a certain offence, and keep his word, but only to breakout in a new direction. Mr. O'Hagan at last despaired of furthercorrection, and yielded to his wife's advice, to leave Tim to thesobering hand of time.
As he grew older Tim became less mischievous, without losing his wildspirits and love of frolic. To see him coast down the hills on hisfree-wheel bicycle with no hold upon the handle-bar filled the Peruvianboys with fear and amazement. And when, on his sixteenth birthday, hisfather surrendered to his importunities, and presented him with amotor-bicycle, there were not wanting many who foretold that young Timwould sooner or later break his neck. Tim laughed at them. He had comethrough his most daring exploits without any hurt more serious thanscratches and bruises; and being very clear-headed and possessed of ironnerves he was accustomed to scoff at the warnings of timid people.
In spite of his prankishness, there was no more popular person in SanRosario. Nobody could dislike the boy with his fair Irish face, hishonest eyes twinkling with fun, and the shaggy head that scorned hatsand defied sunstroke. The Peruvian ladies would have made a pet of himif he would have allowed them; and their husbands, in a country whereeverybody, man, woman, and child, smokes, often made him presents ofcigars, which he accepted gratefully, and dutifully handed over to hisfather.
His was the only motor-bicycle in the province, an object of a fearfulawe to the young Peruvians. A crowd of these would surround him as heprepared to mount, and scatter with shrieks when they heard the clatterof the engine. Elderly ladies crossed themselves and drew theirmantillas closer as they saw him flashing by, and the authorities of SanRosario were thinking of framing a bye-law for the protection of theinhabitants from furious
driving. But they were slow to move; to-morrowwould do; and Biddy Flanagan declared that no action would be takenuntil the gossoon had killed somebody dead.
On this June day, Tim had left home early in the afternoon for atwenty-mile trip into the hills. He was returning, and had just rundown a steep and winding declivity which joined the highroad to SanJuan, the provincial capital, when he caught sight of the gobernador,Senor Jose Fagasta, ambling ahead on his mule in the homeward direction.In half a minute he overtook the magistrate, and being always verysociably inclined, and having a certain liking for the largegood-tempered gentleman, he stopped his machine, dismounted, and after asalutation in Spanish stepped on beside the rider, not finding it easyto keep pace with the mule's rapid march.
The gobernador was returning from the capital to his own littletownship, and it was not long before he confided to the boy the objectand result of his visit.
"Brigands, my young friend," he said amiably.
"Are they caught, senor?" asked Tim.
"No, no; but they soon will be, the rascals!"
Tim pricked up his ears. Of late the so-called brigands had been verytroublesome. They swept down from their unknown lairs in the mountains,falling unawares on some remote hacienda, and waylaying the trains ofpack-mules on the roads. Tim, like many another honest boy, felt asneaking admiration for these lawless adventurers, and was not whollydispleased that they had hitherto defied all attempts to track them andbring them to book. Besides, they were "against the government"; andthere were many good Peruvians who had reason to abhor the officialsunder whose exactions they were then suffering.
"What is going to be done, senor?" he asked.
"What am _I_ going to do, you should have said," replied the magistrate."You will see, my boy. They sent for me to-day at San Juan, and I havehad a long consultation with his excellency the Prefect. 'SenorDoctor,' said he, 'you are the man to catch these ruffians. I leave itto you.'"
There was an accent of pride in the gobernador's tone, and he looked atTim with the air of a man demanding admiration.
"Why do they call you doctor, senor?" asked Tim. "You don't attend us."
"No, my son. I am a Doctor of Laws of San Marcos University. Yes, theyhave confidence in me," he continued. "And the brigands will soon haveme to reckon with." He touched significantly the butt of his revolver."I will hunt them down; I will catch them; I shall have no mercy onthem, and they will find that such villainy is not to be allowed to gounpunished within twenty miles of Senor Doctor Jose Fagasta. I am a manof peace; nobody could be more mild and humane; but when I see thebeneficent laws of our republic transgressed and defied, then I rememberthat I am chief magistrate; I become severe; I may even be calledterrible."
"What will you do with them?" asked Tim, impressed by the gobernador'svigorous words, and fascinated by the shining weapon that peeped out ofhis pocket, and the long sword that dangled from his belt.
"They shall be shot, my boy. Not without trial, no; we shall be justeven to the most villainous desperado. We shall catch them, and bringthem in irons to the town. We shall give them a fair trial, and condemnthem: that goes without saying; then we shall place them blindfolded inthe plaza, and----"
"Shoot them!" added Tim, as the magistrate paused mysteriously.
Senor Jose nodded with official gravity, and for a little there wassilence between the two, Tim conjuring up the anticipated scene, andwondering what the sensations of a man about to be shot must be.
CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS]
Suddenly, from behind a cluster of rocks at their left hand, theresprang into the road four men, who without a moment's warning flungthemselves on the travellers. Two seized Tim, the other two dragged thegobernador from his mule, and in a trice had him on the ground at theirfeet. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that there had not beentime even to cry out; but now the gobernador raised his voice inhorrified protest, and Tim regained his wits and took stock of thesituation. The men were attired in ragged tunics and breeches, withsashes about their waists, and feathered hats of varied hue. They wereswarthy wild-eyed fellows; mestizos--men of mixed Spanish and Indianblood; and Tim knew at a glance that they must be members of the verygang of outlaws whom the magistrate had so valorously undertaken toextirpate. They began to talk to one another rapidly in a jargon whichTim, familiar as he was with Spanish, could not understand. But theupshot of their consultation was seen in a minute. One of the men whoheld the lad brought his face close to his, and said:
"You go home! We have nothing to do with you. Take your machine andgo."
Tim glanced at the gobernador, who lay motionless in the hands of hiscaptors, mingling protests, threats, and offers of money. The brigandcursed, and declared that the boy had better take his chance of escapingbefore they changed their mind. It was clear that nothing could be donefor the gobernador; the brigands had him at their mercy; and Timconsidered that there was nothing to be gained by remaining. Indeed, itmust be confessed that he was a good deal afraid of theseferocious-looking fellows, and desired nothing better than to escapefrom their clutches. So he caught the handle-bar, ran a few feet withhis bicycle, then sprang to the saddle, and in a few seconds was ridingat full speed along the road.
At first he was conscious of nothing but relief and joy at his own luckyescape. But he had not ridden far before he began to think of thegobernador. His conscience pricked him. He felt like a deserter. Heowed nothing, it was true, to Senor Fagasta, who, while genial enough inprivate life, had always struck Tim as a ridiculous, pompous kind ofperson in his public capacity. But it seemed rather mean to ride awayand leave the magistrate to his fate. There was not time to reach thetown and bring back help; he could not himself do anything for thegobernador; and he began to wonder what the brigands would do with him.Perhaps they would rob him of what valuables he had, and let him go.Surely they would not hurt him! But when Tim remembered stories of thelengths to which these outlaws sometimes went he grew more and moreuneasy.
After a few minutes he slowed down, considered for a little, thendismounted and pushed his bicycle into a thick clump of bushes, where itwas well hidden. He durst not ride back, for though his machine wasfurnished with a silencer, it did not run so quietly as not to be heard.He had made up his mind to retrace his path on foot, and see for himselfwhat had happened. It was a long tramp uphill in the heat, and it tookhim nearly an hour to walk the distance which on the cycle he hadcovered in six or seven minutes. Fortunately the track wound sofrequently that he ran no risk of being seen by the brigands.
As he approached the spot, he moved slowly and warily, peeping frombehind bushes along straight stretches of the track, and glancing upinto the hills to right and left. On reaching the scene of the capturehe found that it was deserted. Nobody was in sight. He looked this wayand that, and stooped to the ground to see if he could discover by theirfootmarks the direction in which the brigands had gone. But the groundwas hard; he could scarcely discern the tracks of his own tyres. Atrained scout might perhaps have noticed some slight indication, but Timhad had no such training.
"They've hauled him away," he thought, and there flashed into his mindrecollections of fairy stories, in which ogres had carried human beingsto their dens to make a meal of them. Tim had a vivid imagination.
He was on the point of returning when a sudden loud buzzing struck hisear. He listened: it was like the sound made by swarms of insects inthe forest. And yet it was different--hoarser, less musical. Somehow itreminded Tim of the gobernador's speeches on great occasions in theplaza, He left the path, still on his guard, and scouted to the rightamong the trees, from which the humming seemed to come. And guidinghimself by the sound, he presently started back when he saw SenorFagasta himself, bound upright to a trunk, bare-headed, his mouthgagged.
The humming became very violent when Tim appeared. He noticed that thegobernador had managed to shift the gag a little. None of the brigandsbeing in sight, he ran to the tree, removed the gag altogether, slit the
cords about the senor's limbs, and was immediately embarrassed by twostout arms flung around him, and two hot lips pressing kisses on onecheek after the other.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, wriggling. "Steady on, senor."
"Ah, my dear friend! My preserver! my deliverer!" Here there wasanother hug, but Tim evaded the kiss. "Tell me!" whispered thegobernador, "have those wretches gone away?"
"Indeed they have," said Tim. "You had better come away too."
"But they have taken my mule! I am not accustomed to walking. I shallfaint: I shall be seized with apoplexy."
"I have left my cycle two or three miles away, senor. If you can manageto walk to that you can mount behind me, and we'll be home in no time."
"Yes, I will do so. Assist me with your arm. I am on thorns until I amon the machine; till then I am not safe. Hasten, my son. I have notwalked a mile for twenty years, though in my youth--but no matter: Iwill do my best."
They set off, Tim linking arms with the gobernador, who marched down thetrack with the rolling gait of a sailor. Every now and then he stoppedto rest and recover breath, and as at these moments he showed signs ofrepeating his embraces, Tim edged away until he was ready to startagain.
"Ah, my preserver!" said the gobernador once, "you have laid a debt uponme which a lifetime of gratitude will not liquidate."
"Indeed it's nothing at all," said Tim. "You would have done the samefor me."
"That is true; I certainly would; the blood of a long line of hidalgosruns in my veins. In Spain I might call myself Don Jose de Fagasta; inrepublics, alas! there is no aristocracy. But hasten, my son; I am notsafe until I reach the machine."
Tim thought from the gobernador's manner that the current of noble bloodmust by this time have become a pretty thin trickle. But he kept thatreflection to himself.
Senor Fagasta mounted behind Tim, proclaiming himself safe. But therapid motion of the cycle down the steep and rugged track filled himwith alarms of another kind. In vain he implored Tim to drive moreslowly the boy replied that he would not be secure until he reached thetown, and terrified him with apprehension of sunstroke. It must beconfessed that the spirit of mischief was now fully awake in Tim. Everysigh, every ejaculation of the stout gentleman behind him gave him athrill of joy. As they approached the town the gobernador, mindful ofhis dignity, begged Tim to stop and let him finish the journey on foot.But Tim could not resist the temptation to career through the street andset the magistrate down at his own door; he relished the idea of thewonder and excitement he would create.
"It's hardly worth while to set you down now, senor," he said. "You'llbe home in less than a minute. Hold tight!"
As Senor Fagasta entered his house, he turned to Tim.
"My son," he said in a confidential tone, "no doubt you will be asked toexplain this strange occurrence. Do not reveal the cause. I do notcommand you as gobernador of this town; I ask as one gentleman ofanother."
"I must tell my father, senor," said Tim.
"Certainly; your father's discretion is perfect. Not a word to any oneelse, then?"
"Very well, senor. But won't people ask you too?"
"Undoubtedly. The doings of their magistrate are intensely interestingto the citizens of San Rosario. I shall explain to them that I felt anurgent need, a positive passion, to try for myself the qualities andspeed--yes, I may say speed--of your motor-bicycle."
"And your hat blew off in the wind. I see, senor," said Tim withtwinkling eyes. "And now, of course, you will send the police after thebrigands."
"I shall never forget that I am gobernador of San Rosario. Good-bye, myson."
The Motor Scout: A Story of Adventure in South America Page 1
