King should be there by eight o'clock, and the yacht ought to make the run to Truxillo in three hours.But we shall not be able to get back to the city before five to-morrow morning.Isuppose your family will be wild about Hope.We didn't know where she was when we sent the groom back to King.''
``Do you think that driver is taking us the right way?'' Langham asked, after a pause.
``He'd better.He knows it well enough.He was through the last revolution, and carried messages from Los Bocos to the city on foot for two months.He has covered every trail on the way, and if he goes wrong he knows what will happen to him.''
``And Los Bocos--it is a village, isn't it, and the landing must be in sight of the Custom-house?''
``The village lies some distance back from the shore, and the only house on the beach is the Custom-house itself; but every one will be asleep by the time we get there, and it will take us only a minute to hand her into the launch.If there should be a guard there, King will have fixed them one way or another by the time we arrive.Anyhow, there is no need of looking for trouble that far ahead.There is enough to worry about in between.We haven't got there yet.''
The moon rose grandly a few minutes later, and flooded the forest with light so that the open places were as clear as day.It threw strange shadows across the trail, and turned the rocks and fallen trees into figures of men crouching or standing upright with uplifted arms.They were so like to them that Clay and Langham flung their carbines to their shoulders again and again, and pointed them at some black object that turned as they advanced into wood or stone.From the forest they came to little streams and broad shallow rivers where the rocks in the fording places churned the water into white masses of foam, and the horses kicked up showers of spray as they made their way, slipping and stumbling, against the current.It was a silent pilgrim age, and never for a moment did the strain slacken or the men draw rein.Sometimes, as they hurried across a broad tableland, or skirted the edge of a precipice and looked down hundreds of feet below at the shining waters they had just forded, or up at the rocky points of the mountains before them, the beauty of the night overcame them and made them forget the significance of their journey.
They were not always alone, for they passed at intervals through sleeping villages of mud huts with thatched roofs, where the dogs ran yelping out to bark at them, and where the pine-knots, blazing on the clay ovens, burned cheerily in the moonlight.In the low lands where the fever lay, the mist rose above the level of their heads and enshrouded them in a curtain of fog, and the dew fell heavily, penetrating their clothing and chilling their heated bodies so that the sweating horses moved in a lather of steam.
They had settled down into a steady gallop now, and ten or fifteen miles had been left behind them.
``We are making excellent time,'' said Clay.``The village of San Lorenzo should lie beyond that ridge.'' He drove up beside the driver and pointed with his whip.``Is not that San Lorenzo?'' he asked.
``Yes, senor,'' the man answered, ``but I mean to drive around it by the old wagon trail.It is a large town, and people may be awake.You will be able to see it from the top of the next hill.''
The cavalcade stopped at the summit of the ridge and the men looked down into the silent village.It was like the others they had passed, with a few houses built round a square of grass that could hardly be recognized as a plaza, except for the church on its one side, and the huge wooden cross planted in its centre.
From the top of the hill they could see that the greater number of the houses were in darkness, but in a large building of two stories lights were shining from every window.
``That is the comandancia,'' said the driver, shaking his head.``They are still awake.It is a telegraph station.''
``Great Scott!'' exclaimed MacWilliams.``We forgot the telegraph.They may have sent word to head us off already.''
``Nine o'clock is not so very late,'' said Clay.``It may mean nothing.''
``We had better make sure, though,'' MacWilliams answered, jumping to the ground.``Lend me your pony, Ted, and take my place.I'll run in there and dust around and see what's up.
I'll join you on the other side of the town after you get back to the main road.''
``Wait a minute,'' said Clay.``What do you mean to do?''
``I can't tell till I get there, but I'll try to find out how much they know.Don't you be afraid.I'll run fast enough if there's any sign of trouble.And if you come across a telegraph wire, cut it.The message may not have gone over yet.''
The two women in the carriage had parted the flaps of the hoods and were trying to hear what was being said, but could not understand, and Langham explained to them that they were about to make a slight detour to avoid San Lorenzo while MacWilliams was going into it to reconnoitre.He asked if they were comfortable, and assured them that the greater part of the ride was over, and that there was a good road from San Lorenzo to the sea.
MacWilliams rode down into the village along the main trail, and threw his reins over a post in front of the comandancia.He mounted boldly to the second floor of the building and stopped at the head of the stairs, in front of an open door.There were three men in the room before him, one an elderly man, whom he rightly guessed was the comandante, and two younger men who were standing behind a railing and bending over a telegraph instrument on a table.As he stamped into the room, they looked up and stared at him in surprise; their faces showed that he had interrupted them at a moment of unusual interest.
MacWilliams saluted the three men civilly, and, according to the native custom, apologized for appearing before them in his spurs.
He had been riding from Los Bocos to the capital, he said, and his horse had gone lame.Could they tell him if there was any one in the village from whom he could hire a mule, as he must push on to the capital that night?
