Tales of Mysteries & Espionage - John Buchan Edition. Buchan John
and shirt-sleeves. To-day he wore breeches and boots and a drill jacket, and in his belt was an ostentatious revolver. The manager opened his eyes at this magnificence and waited for Varnay to speak. He was itching to get at his secretary and start the day’s routine.
The Texan was in no hurry. He poured himself out a cup of coffee with extreme deliberation, lit his cigar, and blew smoke-rings.
“The new draft will be in by midday,” said the manager.
It was the day in the month when a batch of fresh labour arrived, and what Peters had called the “returned empties” began their melancholy journey to the pueblas.
“Yep,” said the Texan. “The outgoing batch went last night, and the new outfit arrived an hour ago.”
The manager jumped to his feet. “Who altered the schedule?” he cried angrily. “Who the hell has been monkeying with my plans? I’ve had the schedule fixed this last month, and the Universum Mine has got to be run according to it. I’ll flay the man that stuck his clumsy hoof into it.”
He was about to cross the veranda to the bell which would have brought his secretary when the quiet drawl of the other detained him. The Texan had stuck out his long legs, and was regarding with abstracted eyes a butterfly which had perched on his coffee-cup.
“Sit down, mister,” he said. “Things have been happening this morning in this outfit, and I got to put you wise about them. The Universum is closed down till further notice.”
“By whose order?” the manager barked.
“By the Gobernador’s.”
The manager cursed with vehemence and point. He was the boss, and any instructions from Headquarters came through him. “What misbegotten son of a yellow dog had dared to usurp his authority? If this was a hold-up—
“Say, this love-talk don’t cut no ice,” said the Texan without heat. “You haven’t been let in on this scheme because you’re a newcomer and wouldn’t have got the hang of it. Say, listen. Things have been going crooked in the little old country, and his Excellency is going to straighten them out. Those dagos in Olifa are giving us a dirty deal and we reckon it’s time a white man took charge. It ain’t sense. We’re using up these poor goldarned Indians and chucking them aside like old boots. That’s bad business, mister, and the pueblas won’t stand for it.”
“You fool! What can the Indians do?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Varnay gently. “But it ain’t the Indians only. There’s the Police, and there’s all of us white men who think the time has come for a clean-up.”
“Man, that’s rebellion,” the manager cried, his orderly soul shocked to its roots.
“Why, yes. I guess it’s rebellion. But you’ve no cause to get scared, for we’re not rebelling against the boss. It’s our boss rebelling against Olifa.”
“You’re a liar. Headquarters would never be such God-forgotten idiots. They’re business men and know where their profit lies.”
“I don’t say there mayn’t be some pikers at Headquarters, and a bit of trouble, but I reckon that his Excellency Castor is a mighty clever man, and it’s him we follow. Why, the vaqueros are all wearing medals with his face on them, and they look up to him as a God Almighty.”
The shaken manager at last turned to the telephone. But there was no answer from Headquarters and the bell failed to bring his secretary.
“The lines were cut last night,” said Varnay, “after our orders came through… But see here, mister. We want to treat you on the square. You’ve not been let in on this deal, and you’ve no cause to mix yourself up in it if you don’t want to. We’re going to town presently, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get on ahead and judge things for yourself. There’s an automobile at your disposal whenever you like to start.”
The manager took the hint, and departed with a box full of confidential papers and the balances left in the pay-chest. He was loyal to his employers, but it remained for him to find out who these employers were.
At the Alhuema Mine things went with equal smoothness, for the manager there was in the plot. But at the San Tome there was some unpleasantness and for an hour or two a difficult situation. The San Tome manager had only just come, having been before in the Administration at Headquarters. He was a young American from Montana, who had had experience of copper-mining in half a dozen quarters of the globe, and had earned a reputation as a go-getter and a firm handler of coloured human material. He was set on making good, for there was a girl waiting for him at home, and he had the contempt of the youth of his country, scientifically trained and furiously ambitious, for all things which cannot be set out in graphs and figures. Also, having just come from the city and having heard for months the intimate talk of Headquarters, he was not easy to bluff.
The situation was complicated by the fact that the white technical staff of the mine were not unanimous. Three of the engineers had refused to join in the plot, and had only refrained from prematurely exposing it on being assured that the thing had failed and had been abandoned. Moreover, when the ringleader, a Scotsman called Melville, received the message which was to fire the train, it was found impossible to cut the telephone line to Headquarters. The outgoing draft of labour was too slow in starting, and the incoming draft, which was to give the rebels their armed force, was unaccountably delayed. The night was spent anxiously by Melville and his colleagues in a vain attempt to get into touch with Peters and the police. But Peters had his own troubles, for his squadron also had its doubtful elements. Headquarters had taken alarm and had just drafted into it some of the more desperate characters in the Mines guard. The consequence was that there was shooting, and at daybreak, when Peters had his force ready for the road, two dead men and three trussed-up prisoners were left behind.
Early in the morning, when Melville played his hand, the young manager was beforehand with him. The manifesto of the malcontents infuriated him, and their use of Castor’s name did not convince, for he rang up Headquarters and thereby precipitated trouble in the city two hours before it was due. Believing that he had to deal with a piece of common brigandage, and having been promised immediate reinforcements, he resolved to hold the fort. He had the three malcontent engineers, his staff of Olifero clerks, his half-caste servants, and his own stout heart. He put his house into a state of defence, and he had one conspicuous asset, for in the same building was the magazine of explosives, and, with such perilous stuff about, his assailants must go circumspectly.
About 10 a.m. Peters arrived with his police. The manager took them for his reinforcements, and Peters might have entered his house and taken peaceful possession, but for the fact that his greeting by Melville was observed from an upper window. A parley was attempted, and Peters and the manager sat opposite each other in chairs on the veranda, each with a revolver on his knee. The policeman was no diplomatist. His temper had been soured by his difficulties in the night watches, and he talked to the manager like a sergeant to a recruit, and was met by a stiff defiance. Did he imagine that a rising of Indians and a few mutinous police would worry the Gran Seco, much less the republic of Olifa with its potent army? The thing was moonshine. That the Gobernador was a party to it was an impudent lie. The manager knew the mind of the Administration better than any bush policeman. He would hold the place till succour arrived, and if there was any attempt to rush his defences, they would all go to glory—and he nodded towards the magazine. Peters retired discomfited, for he read in the stiff chin and the frosty eyes that this man would be as good as his word.
The impasse continued till noon, while Peters and Melville consulted anxiously, for this delay was dislocating the whole programme. Then at long last the incoming Indian draft arrived, and with it a young man the Olifero called Carlos Rivero, who had chaperoned Janet and Archie on their journey to the Gran Seco. When he heard of the trouble he proposed to interview the manager a second time, and under a flag of truce the two sat again on the veranda. But Rivero had no revolver on his knee.
What he said can only be guessed. But as an Olifero of an ancient stock he must have spoken with an authority denied to Peters. It is probable that he told the manager