The Terms of Surrender Part 34

Power had suddenly recalled the name of the stuffy little tramp on which he set forth from Valparaiso. What memories crowded in on him, what a record of suffering and achievement! Seven years! He knew now that his pilgrimage was ended. The great world had thrown wide its gates again.

He could go back to his own country, his own people. His sacrifice had been accepted. He was a.s.soilized. He thought of his mother, of Nancy, and tears glistened in his eyes. He believed that some lesion had been lifted off his brain. He looked at the great facts of existence with a new and saner vision. He almost heard a vibrant and majestic voice saying to his spirit, "Go, and sin no more! Thy faith hath made thee whole!"

He rose, and was dimly aware that Sinclair was pressing him to stay.

There was so much to discuss yet, so many vital matters to weigh and debate; but he managed to explain that he must depart now, and would return later.

"You don't understand that you are here on sufferance," he said. "I had to stretch my domination to the utmost--and I am a king among these Indians--to stop them from attacking you. Your life, and the lives of every man in your party, are not worth a day's purchase if my influence is weakened. I cannot tell what evil counsel may be given to these wild folk in my absence. If I show myself, and a.s.sure them that I am safe, and that you mean to retreat almost at once, they will be satisfied, and bloodshed will be averted."

Sinclair glanced at him curiously, but did not seek further to prevent his immediate departure.

"You must act as you think best, Mr. Power," he said amicably; "but I certainly cannot promise to retreat merely because a few wretched Indians bar the path."

"I will convince you, never fear," came the prompt a.s.surance.

"But I am not the only skeptic. There are others to consult. I have two partners in this enterprise, and one of them is a mining expert."

"Leave everything to me, and make no forward move till I come back. You can expect me in a couple of hours."

He could say no more. He was choking. It was a mere pretense that he must conciliate the Indians, who, he knew, were watching every move in the camp with the eyes of eagles. What he really feared, in that moment of revulsion and self-enlightenment, was that he might break down and cry like a child.

He strode away, aflame with the fire of longing for communion with his fellow-men. The tumult of emotion evoked by contact with the expedition startled and dismayed him; but he had not gone two hundred yards up the valley before a sibilant hiss restored his scattered wits. He was pa.s.sing an Indian outpost, and the faithful creatures were warning him of their presence. He signed that he was going to the village, and pa.s.sed on. He had seen no one. Not a leaf moved among the trees; but the watchers were there, and would remain.

Much against the grain, though there was no help for it, he pacified the head men of the tribe by the statement that he must remain in the encampment that night; indeed, he did not purpose leaving the invaders until they had turned on their tracks. He dared not risk telling his "subjects" that he meant to abandon his empire. Their fierce pa.s.sions were easily aroused, and a prompt ma.s.sacre of Sinclair and his followers would be the certain result of a fanatical outbreak. Entering his hut, he picked up the "Horae." As he did so, a wave of sentiment shook him, because he thought of the poor Spanish priest who had brought that precious volume from Cadiz or Barcelona, and, perchance, gazed at it with eyes glazing in death while he lurked, wounded and starving, in the cave where he had sought shelter from the pitiless savages. Now, if G.o.d willed, it might cross the Atlantic again.

He opened the book haphazard, and read:

"_In ma.n.u.s tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum!_"

Then he sank on his knees, and prayed; for, if ever man had placed soul and body in the keeping of the Almighty, he had.

That evening, master of himself, and ever recovering facility of speech, he reasoned with Sinclair and the two Spaniards who had joined in the adventure. One, a Senor Felice Gomez, though posing as an authority on mines, had to admit that his knowledge was that of the company director and well-informed amateur. They were inclined to scoff at Power's predictions of disaster; but he wound up with an argument which proved irresistible.

"How much has this enterprise cost you?" he asked.

Sinclair answered readily.

"We have put up twenty thousand paper dollars[A] for expenses," he said.

"My share is ten thousand, and my friends stand in five thousand each."

[A] A paper dollar is worth about 40 per cent. of the gold dollar.

"Would you be satisfied if you got your money back, with a profit of one hundred per cent?"

"According to you, Mr. Power, and almost you convince me, we shall lose every penny."

"But, a.s.suming the profit I have named, would such return on your capital send you home well content?"

"Speaking for myself, it would."

The Spaniards grinned amiably. As a conceit, the notion appealed to them. They were not poor men; but had embarked on the quest largely to sate their curiosity with regard to the unexplored reaches of the Chubut River.

"Good!" said Power. "I give your syndicate my personal undertaking to pay the sum of forty thousand dollars when we reach any place where there is a bank with a New York agent. I really mean what I say," he went on, seeing the blank incredulity written on three faces. "I am rich enough to table that offer without the slightest chance of failing to make good. Even though I die on the way to the coast, you will have my written undertaking, which will be honored by my bankers. If I survive the journey, a cablegram will convince you of my financial standing. Naturally, you will ask why I behave so generously. Well, there are three reasons: Were it not for your presence here, I might never have had a chance of returning to civilization; so I am disposed to pay liberally for your safe escort, which, to my thinking, has been sent by Providence in my special behalf. That, in itself, should suffice as an explanation. But the remaining motives are almost equally strong.

I am sure you are rus.h.i.+ng to certain death if you advance another mile up the valley; but, supposing, as you imagine, that your guns open the path, it will be across the dead bodies of a people whom I have learned to like, and among whom I have pa.s.sed three not unhappy years. Very well! I purchase their lives. All I demand to seal the bargain is your promise to start downstream at daybreak, taking me with you; but leaving here all the pieces of iron, knives, nails, and such like articles you can spare from your equipment. The Indians will find and value them.

They have no knowledge of metallic ores. There are hardly any to be found in this locality. It is a dead land, mere shale and rock and crumbling earth, devoid of the riches which alone would make it habitable. What do you say? If you agree to my terms, give me a pen and paper. I suppose I still can write, though I have not held a pen during seven years."

The man who could tame, and partly civilize, two Indian tribes was not like to fail when called on to subjugate men of his own or a kindred race. The triumvirate yielded. Next day, when the canoes had gone ahead, Power bestrode one of the dozen horses which accompanied the expedition.

The rearguard set off at a canter, since a rolling down ran for eight miles to the first portage. As Power rode away with his new friends a long drawn-out, shrill wailing came from the forest. The Indians understood then. Their territory was left unspoiled; but they had lost their wonder-worker. Had they but known it, the "white fool" drew his hand across his eyes to clear away the tears.

For three weeks the hors.e.m.e.n and canoes followed the windings of a river the waters of which were never turbid or blue, but emerald green, except during occasional sunsets, when they became a vivid crimson. Then the party reached Port Madryn, whence a small steamer took its chief members to Carmen, in the Rio Negro Territory. The Spaniards hailed from that place, and Sinclair, who had sold his Chubut ranch, had left his daughter with friends there. There was no cable available; but, by this time, Sinclair and his partners would as soon have distrusted an archbishop's word as Power's. Each day he reverted more and more to type; yet he lost nothing of the dignity and air of reposeful strength which his wanderings had conferred. So, when he gave written orders for the various sums due on his bond, they were accepted with the confidence which would have been shown in the certified checks of a state bank.

The vessel had to steam several miles up the Rio Negro (the river is called "black"; but it is green as the Chubut) before touching the wharf at Carmen. News of their coming had preceded them, though no mention had been made of Power, and it was vastly amusing to Sinclair when his daughter, after embracing him affectionately, turned and held out her hand to the brown-skinned stranger.

"Welcome to Patagonia, Mr. Power!" she cried. "I was sure you would come to us some day; though I was told in Valparaiso, three years ago, that you were lost utterly in the depths of the Andes."

"So you have not forgotten me?" was all that Power could find to say; though he flushed with pleasure at this prompt recognition.

"Forgotten you? Didn't I tell you I should know you again in twenty years?"

"I am glad to have survived even a third of the time in your memory."

"Well, please don't test it so severely again. What have you been doing to yourself? You look like an Indian."

"Meg," broke in her father, "I hoped that four months' residence in a Spanish household would give you a more polite way of expressing yourself."

"Mr. Power takes that as a compliment, I am sure. When we parted he was running away from the flesh-pots of Egypt--or was it Bison? Evidently he has succeeded in his object. He is lean as a herring. Where did you find him, Dad? Ruling a tribe of Araucanians, I'm certain."

"If I hadn't found him, you would never have seen me again, Girly. But we can't tell the horrible story here on the quay. Take me to a long cane chair, and mix me a whisky and soda. That wretched little tub of a steamer tried to stand on its head last night."

One thing was evident. Power had convinced his companions of the real danger they had escaped. He had said no word concerning the canyon, while it const.i.tuted the Indians' defense; but it was betraying no secret to make clear its perils during the journey to the coast.

Next day, after breakfast, Sinclair drew him aside, and handed him a sealed envelop.

"Meg objects strongly to the arrangement we entered into, in so far as it affects me," he explained. "She insists that I return your draft. I was turning the matter over in my own mind, and I was not altogether happy about it. Now I see that she is right."

"But both of you happen to be wrong," said Power.

"We're not. Why in blazes should _you_ pay _me_? The boot is on the other leg. I owe you my life. Look here, Power, the thing can't be argued. If it pleases you to let my Spanish friends have their share of the money, I'll not say a word, one way or the other; but I'll see you cremated before I cash that draft!"

"Let me defray your out-of-pocket expenses, at any rate."

"Not a centavo! If you say anything more about it, I'll get an actuary to calculate my life value, and worry you till you accept a settlement in full."

"Women invariably take a distorted view of a matter like this,"

protested Power.

Sinclair laughed. "Oh, you have discovered that, have you?" he said.

"Well, I can't afford to quarrel with Meg, and her heart is set on your tearing up the draft, Mr. Power."