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  THE COAST OF ADVENTURE

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  ALTON OF SOMASCO LORIMER OF THE NORTHWEST THURSTON OF ORCHARD VALLEY WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE THE GOLD TRAIL SYDNEY CARTERET, RANCHER A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP VANE OF THE TIMBERLANDS THE LONG PORTAGE RANCHING FOR SYLVIA PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN THE DUST OF CONFLICT THE GREATER POWER MASTERS OF THE WHEATLANDS DELILAH OF THE SNOWS BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER THRICE ARMED FOR JACINTA THE INTRIGUERS THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD FOR THE ALLINSON HONOR THE SECRET OF THE REEF HARDING OF ALLENWOOD THE COAST OF ADVENTURE

  "Dropping his chin upon the stock, he stiffened his armsand held his breath as he squeezed the trigger"--Page 327.]

  The COAST OFADVENTURE

  BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

  Author of "PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,""RANCHING FOR SYLVIA," "FOR THE ALLINSONHONOR," "THE SECRET OR THE REEF," ETC.

  _WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR_

  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

  PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

  COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANYPUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "A RISKY GAME"

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE I. FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP 1 II. THE ADVENTURES BEGIN 12 III. HIGH STAKES 23 IV. THE "ENCHANTRESS" 32 V. THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN 43 VI. ON THE SPANISH MAIN 52 VII. MANGROVE CREEK 64 VIII. THE TRAITOR 73 IX. STRANDED 80 X. THE PEON PILOT 89 XI. A MODERN DON QUIXOTE 99 XII. BAITING THE SMUGGLERS 105 XIII. THE EMERALD RING 117 XIV. SMOOTH WATER 126 XV. THE TORNADO 136 XVI. THE RUSE 145 XVII. ELUDING THE GUNBOAT 157 XVIII. THE TEST OF LOVE 167 XIX. THE CUBAN SPY 178 XX. THE ARREST OF CASTILLO 189 XXI. A HALF-BREED'S TRICK 198 XXII. HELD FOR RANSOM 209 XXIII. THE INTERCEPTED NOTE 219 XXIV. IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN 229 XXV. A TRIAL OF SPEED 240 XXVI. TRAPPED 250 XXVII. HANDS DOWN 259 XXVIII. THE PRESIDENT'S DESPATCHES 271 XXIX. THE PRESIDIO 283 XXX. THE ESCAPE 294 XXXI. THE AMERICAN TRADER 305 XXXII. LOVE'S VISION 315 XXXIII. THE HERO OF RIO FRIO 322 XXXIV. THE COMING DAWN 335

  THE COAST OF ADVENTURE

  CHAPTER I

  FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP

  High on the sun-scorched hillside above the steamy littoral of theCaribbean Sea the Spanish-Indian town of Rio Frio lay sweltering in theheat of afternoon. The flat-topped, white houses surrounding the plazareflected a dazzling glare, and the heat shimmered mercilessly upon therough paving-stones. Flakes of plaster had fallen from the buildings; afew of them were mere ruins, relics of a past age; for the town had beenbuilt when _conquistadores_ from Spain first plunged into the tropicforest to search for El Dorado. Here and there dilapidated greenlattices shaded upper windows, and nearer the ground narrow openingswere guarded by rusty iron bars; but some of the houses showed blankouter walls, and the plaza had rather an Eastern than an American look.Spain has set upon the New World the stamp the Moors impressed on her.

  At one end of the plaza stood the Cafe Four Nations, a low, open-sidedroom, with a row of decaying pillars dividing it from the pavement. Itwas filled with flies, which stuck in black clusters to the papershanging from the tarnished lamps and crawled about the dusty tables. Thehot air was tainted with aniseed, picadura tobacco, and the curiousmusky smell which is a characteristic of ancient Spanish towns. On theright-hand side of the square rose the twin towers of the church of SanSebastian. Wide steps led up to the patch of shadow where a leathercurtain left uncovered part of the door, and a niche above sheltered animage of the martyr with an arrow in his breast. The figure was wellmodeled and grimly realistic.

  Opposite the cafe, the _calle Mercedes_ cut a cool, dark gap through thedazzling town. On its outskirts, the hillside fell sharply to a wide,green level. Beyond this a silver gleam indicated the sea.

  The cafe was in shadow, and at its inner end a number of citizenslounged, half asleep, in low cane chairs. The hour of the siesta hadslipped away, but it was not yet time for dinner, and, having read thenewspaper and guardedly discussed politics, the leading inhabitants ofRio Frio had nothing else to do. They were men with formal manners, afew dressed in rusty black, and some in white cotton, but all were notof pure European blood. One or two, indeed, plainly showed their Negrodescent; others the melancholy of the Indian aboriginal.

  Near the front pillars, a priest and two men of lighter color wereseated at a table. Father Agustin wore a threadbare cassock and clumsyrawhide shoes, but he had an air of quiet dignity, and his sharply cutfeatures were of the Gothic type, which is not uncommon in Spain. Hisaccent was also clean Peninsular. James Grahame, who sat oppositeacross the chessboard, wore the same vague but recognizable stamp ofbreeding, though his duck suit was getting ragged and his red silk sashwas obviously cheap. He had steady gray eyes, and light hair, a ratherprominent nose and a firm mouth. He looked older than his thirty years.The lines on his forehead hinted at stern experience, and his alertnesswas partly masked by an easy self-control. Walthew was younger, anddressed with scrupulous neatness in duck, with smart tan shoes. His facewas mobile, his glance quick but open, and his mouth sensitive; he hadthe look of an aristocratic American.

  Father Agustin made a deprecatory gesture as his thin, long-nailed handmoved across the board, and Grahame smiled.

  "Yes," he said, filling the tiny glass before the priest, "it is matethis time, _padre_. When you had made a few moves I foresaw defeat, butwhile the candle burns one plays out the game."

  "It is so, but not with all," Father Agustin replied in his fineCastilian. "The losing game needs courage."

  "Experience helps. Getting beaten does not hurt so much when one growsused to it."

  "Ah!" said the priest, "that is the way to the greatest victory man canwin. But I am your guest, and will not moralize. I must compliment youon the game you play. It is bold and well thought out, but perhapssomewhat lacking in finesse."

  "I am afraid finesse is not a virtue of mine," Grahame smiled.

  Father Agustin studied him quietly. When the Briton spoke he lostsomething of his reserve. His glance got keen, and his eyes had acurious hawk-like look. The priest could imagine him as swift anddetermined in action; quick to seize an advantage, but not a goodplotter.

  "For all that, it is a quality that is useful when one deals with theLatins, at Rio Frio, or elsewhere," the priest said.

  "With apologies, _padre_, that is certainly true," Walthew agreed.

  "So you have some business here? Perhaps, like the others, you seek amineral concession."

  "No. Our host, Don Martin, is of course out of office and doesn't dealin them."

  "He never will," the priest said quietly. "The natural wealth of thiscountry belongs to its people, but it is stolen from them, piece bypiece, and given to foreigners."

  "The foreigners pay for what they get."

  "Yes," said the priest; "but where does the money go? If
it were spenton the development of the country, one would not complain; but it isgamblers and courtezans who benefit. Those who hold office here filltheir pockets from the public purse, and what is left when they aresatisfied is needed to keep the Government in power."

  "Then, why do you not reform your administration and put in straightmen?"

  Father Agustin indicated the drowsy group at the back of the cafe.

  "These are our politicians! They meet every day and ruminate over theaffairs of the nation. Think of it!"

  "Well," said Walthew, "they do not look busy; but things do happen herenow and then."

  "It is true. A clique breaks up, there is a new coalition, and those whoplotted each other's downfall are united again. We Latins have seldom acontinuous policy. Sometimes there is a tumult in the streets anddisaffection among the troops; then the man who rules us uses the whip.One hears of no trial, but a malcontent is missing, an officer's dutytakes him to the fever jungles, where he cannot live. Sometimes, beforethe morning mist has lifted, one is wakened by a volley in the ditchbehind the citadel."

  "You are a patient race," Grahame remarked.

  "Not so," said Father Agustin. "We often dream when we should act, butsometimes we act too soon. It is our misfortune that we do not know howto wait for the right moment." He paused and indicated the thinned-outranks of pawns on the chessboard. "It is like that in the game ofpolitics! The fight is between the greater pieces, but these othersfall."

  Grahame lighted a cigarette and glanced about the square, for Rio Friowas waking up. Here and there a woman of mixed blood crouched beside acast-iron pot, fanning the handful of charcoal in it, ready for cookingthe evening meal. A team of mules hauled a heavy load across the hotpaving stones, a gaunt, dark-faced man in ragged cotton walking at theleaders' heads. Then came a pack train, with jingling bells, a cloud offlies following the burdened animals, and dusty, barefooted peasantsplodding by their side. A group of women appeared from the mouth of anarrow street, their faces wet with perspiration and straps across theirforeheads supporting the big cane baskets on their backs. After themcame a negro with a great tray of fruit upon his head. Next, three orfour lean, barefooted fellows with ragged palm-leaf hats seatedthemselves on the pavement in a strip of shadow. They sat there, silentand motionless, contemplating the scene with listless eyes. The crowdlooked dully apathetic, there was languor in the air they breathed; but,after all, they claimed descent from Spanish stock and Grahame thoughtthey could be roused. It does not need much fanning to wake thesmoldering fire in the Iberian's veins.

  "My sheep!" said Father Agustin. "But they have other shepherds, who donot always lead them well."

  "Shear the flock instead of guarding it? One would imagine that there isnot much wool."

  "None is so poor that he has nothing to give; if not goods, his voice,his sullen clamor and savage rage. The unthinking passion of the mob isterrible, but it is used by those who must answer for the deed some day.My people have their wrongs, but one cannot build the State onfoundations of revenge and cruelty."

  "But you have some honest men who hate the present Government."

  "It is possible that their honesty lessens their influence. At Rio Frioone does not follow the ideal. It is remote and elusive; the feet getweary, and many things that please the eye lie nearer to hand." FatherAgustin rose and bowed with grave courtesy. "And now I have talkedenough and have some duties. I thank you and take my leave."

  They watched him cross the plaza in his rusty cassock.

  "Guess we've struck the wrong place," Walthew said. "We're more likelyto find trouble than money here. Well, there's a prospect of newexperiences and a little excitement; and, anyway, we can't go back onour bargain with Don Martin."

  "I never quite understood what led you to join me," Grahame remarked."You know the risk we run. If the Government catches us, we'll be hangedor shot--whichever suits their fancy."

  Walthew laughed.

  "That's the attraction. But we won't be caught. I guess my Yankeeingenuity will count for something. If these sleepy-looking dagoesshould trap us, we can find a way to give 'em the slip."

  "Optimism is a great asset," Grahame smiled; "but in this country itmust have a handmaiden--a convenient revolver."

  Walthew leaned forward on the table.

  "We've gone into a risky business together. I know nothing about youexcept that you seem to understand these dagoes and are a handy man tohave around when they pull their knives. You know almost nothing aboutme."

  He paused and smiled, and Grahame stirred uneasily. Walthew looked soboyish when he smiled like that. Would he have that carefree look in,say, two months? At times, Grahame regretted letting the boy join him ina venture that might try the heart of even a very strong man.

  "I say, old chap, you aren't listening!" Walthew expostulated. "I'mtelling you that the pater's a money-making machine. When I left Harvardhe was for working me up into a partnership in the Walthew factory. ButI couldn't stand it--too monotonous. I took ten thousand dollars,instead, on condition that if I hadn't made good in my own way when twoyears were up, I'd go back and start as clerk."

  "Well," Grahame returned with a smile, "I haven't much to tell. I haveno family business to fall back on. As my means were not large enough tolet me live as I liked at home, I went abroad to increase them. So far Ihaven't succeeded; but, on the whole, I've had a pretty good time, and Idon't see much reason for grumbling about my luck."

  This was correct, so far as it went, for Grahame did not think it worthwhile to explain that the fiery blood of the Borderers ran in his veinsand his people had been soldiers and explorers until economic changesimpoverished the family. Nor could he add that, because his name stillcounted for something in the North, he had left home to avoid beingskilfully led into a marriage his friends thought suitable. He had,indeed, run away from a well-born girl with money, who, he suspected,was relieved to see him go. Since then he had known trouble, and it hadhardened him. Yet he was honest and was marked by some polish.

  At first sight, and by contrast with his comrade, Walthew looked callow,but he improved on acquaintance. It was not for nothing that he was theson of a shrewd manufacturer, who had built up a great business from ahumble beginning. Walthew was cool in a crisis, and though outwardlycareless, he was capable of looking ahead. So far, his talents wereundeveloped, but Grahame suspected them.

  While they sat talking, the scene in the square gained animation. Groupsof men, moving quickly, emerged from the side streets; there was amurmur of voices; and a crowd began to gather. Women called from theflat housetops; doors were opened and naked, dark-skinned childrendragged in from the pavement. The concourse thickened about the steps ofthe church; gesticulating men chattered in the native patois.

  Grahame's eyes grew keen.

  "Something's going to happen," he said quietly.

  Then he pressed his comrade's arm as a man appeared on the highest stepof the church, and the murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar:

  "_Viva Castillo! Viva el libertador!_"

  The tall figure bowed and held up a hand, and for a moment there wassilence; then a clear voice rang out, and Grahame tried to catch thesonorous Castilian words. He was too far off, and some escaped him, buthe heard enough to gather that it was a grim indictment of the rulers ofthe country. The man spoke with fire and passion, using lavish gestures,and the cries that answered showed that he could work upon the feelingsof the crowd.

  The cafe had emptied, and its stout proprietor lounged, napkin in hand,near Grahame's table.

  "Sounds pretty drastic, if I heard him right," Walthew remarked. "It'sobvious that the authorities don't use half-measures. Did he say theyhad the deputation arrested and its leader shot?"

  "So I understood," said Grahame. "How did you come to learn Castilian?"

  "A notion of the old man's; he made me study languages. It's hisambition to ship the Walthew manufactures all over the world, and he gota footing in Cuba some time ago."

  They were sile
nt for a few minutes, and then Grahame turned to thelandlord.

  "Are these things true?"

  "It is possible," the other answered cautiously.

  "Then are you not afraid of a revolution?"

  "No, senor; why should I fear? When there is a revolution the wine tradeis good."

  "But suppose your customers get killed?"

  The landlord smiled.

  "They are philosophic politicians, senor. It is the untaught rabble thatfights. These others drink their wine and argue over the newspapers.Besides, there will be no revolution yet. Some talk, perhaps; possibly asupporter of the Government stabbed in the dark."

  "And that will be all?" Grahame asked with a keen glance.

  "There will be nothing more. The President waits and watches until heknows his enemies. Then he gives an order and there is an end of them."

  The man turned away, and when, shortly afterward, the plaza rang withfierce applause, a voice was raised in alarm. Others joined in, thecrowd began to stream back from the steps, and the orator disappeared.Then the mass broke into running groups, and through the patter of theirfeet there came a steady, measured tread. It drew nearer; short, swarthymen in dirty white uniforms marched into the plaza, the strong lightgleaming on their rifles. They wheeled and stopped in ranks extendedacross the square, and the rifles went up to their shoulders. Warningshouts fell from the roofs, the patter of feet grew faster, the shadowystreets were choked with fugitives, and the place was empty except forthe line of quiet men. Then an officer laughed and called out, and therifles came down with a clang.

  "I suspect that we're up against a big man in the President," Walthewremarked. "Perhaps we'd better light out before these fellows ask usquestions."