RDER, if not peace, had descended on the pueblo of Caicara. Gone was the turbulent confusion consequent on the midnight surprise and seizure. Now, although armed men moved in every street and busied themselves in many a house, every movement was under command, every invasion of dwelling or shop watched by officer or non-com. The reckless mob had become a military body; the turmoil had given way to martial law. Veinte Cuatro, the forceful Black Ant, had shut his jaws and clamped the town in an iron grip.
Within fifteen minutes after the shooting of Pablo Benito the transformation from lawless license to cold control was complete. The swiftness and thoroughness of it spoke volumes for the strength of the mercurial commander. These men of his were restive, unruly individuals at best, many of them outlawed for good cause, and all of them hard-bitted; and with rum in their brains and a defenceless town in their power, they were hardly more amenable to discipline than a pack of wolves. Yet, when the commands of Veinte Cuatro sped among them on the tongues of sharp-voiced officers, they came to heel like dogs—growling, snarling, showing their teeth, perhaps, but obedient to the voice of the master.
Ordered to disarm and imprison their two mates who had shot down Pablo, they forthwith disarmed and imprisoned them. Told to surround the town, picket the river-bank, and search every house for Jaime Gordo, they surrounded, picketed and searched. Warned that violence to non-combatants, looting of premises, or molestation of women would incur summary punishment, they refrained from commission of any such offenses. True, a few little articles which took the fancy of certain searchers may have disappeared from the possession of their owners; and it is quite possible that good-looking girls found in conveniently dark places by young soldados were embraced with extreme ardor—but they did not complain about it. All in all, the mandates of Federico Gordo were carried out with a promptness and precision almost incredible.
“Diablo y diablillos del infierno!” he swore, on learning of the death of Pablo. “Is this an army fighting for liberty and justice, or a herd of drunken beasts? Shall it be said that Federico Gordo is a mere disorderly guapo and his men butchers? Order I demand, and order I will have!”
In thus demanding and enforcing order, he saw no incongruity in the facts that he had entered the town amid powder-flame and terror, that he had commanded the seizure of its money and its arms, and that he himself had shot his blood brother. Had he been interrogated by the Recording Angel as to the basic difference between these acts and those of his followers, he might have answered—with some amazement and more resentment—that he had not been sure the place was ungarrisoned, and that therefore he had made his entry forceful in order to cow any resistance before it could start; that the commandeering of moneys and munitions was a matter of military necessity, and that the usual promissory notes had been given; and that vengeance upon the traitorous Jaime was a duty of honor. But the slaying of a citizen by his men in a petty brawl was a flagrant violation of his orders, a crime against the peace and security of the people, and a reflection on his own ability to govern. Wherefore he would have no more of such insubordination.
Now, while the sobered pair of killers held gloomy converse in the jail and the body of their victim lay straight and still on the floor of the office of the vanished Jaime, the stern-browed leader conducted a brief examination. Farther back in the house, with shutters closed and a double guard stationed at the door, the three Americans sat exchanging experiences of the past twelve hours. Outside proceeded the persistent search for the hated jefe civil; a blind hunt, since the peon who had revealed the existence of the tunnel did not know whither it led. In all the town, the only one not engaged in some form of physical or mental activity was Pablo Benito, whose work and worry were forever past.
Beside his lifeless form Veinte Cuatro straightened up, wiped his hands, and swept a smoldering gaze along the faces of several of his men. All others had been banished from the room.
“The bullets struck in the back,” he declared. “The man was running away. He made no fight.”
“None,” agreed a short, alert-looking fellow. “But he was offensive and angered Luis and Rafael—”
“How?”