Randall Parrish - The Strange Case of Cavendish

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"Please, please," she begged. "I give in, _senor_, I give in."

But as she spoke her right hand closed about a square jagged bit of
rock.

"So, my pretty," sneered Cateras, "you have learned that Juan Cateras
is not a man to trifle with. It is well." And, releasing his grip
upon her, he allowed the girl to rise.

As she stood there in the half light, her grey eyes flashing, her young
bosom rising and falling, she was a vaguely defined but alluring
figure. So Juan Cateras thought, and he took a step nearer, his thick,
red lips curling with lust, eager to claim their rich reward. As they
came closer Stella Donovan stiffened.

"Look, _senor_," she whispered--"behind you!"

The Mexican in his eagerness was off his guard. He turned to look, and
at that instant the girl drew back her sturdy arm and then brought it
forward again with all her vigour. _Cluk_! She heard the rock sound
against her oppressor's head, heard a low moan escape his lips, and saw
him sink slowly to the floor at her feet.

The next instant she was beside him, in terror lest she had killed him;
but a hurried glance, supplemented by her fingers which reached for his
pulse, assured her that she had only stunned her assailant. Her heart
beat less rapidly now, and she again had control of her mental
processes. With deft hands that worked speedily in the darkness she
unstrapped from around his waist the belt with its thirty-six
cartridges and revolver, then pulled from his pocket the keys, not only
to her cell, but, she judged, to others.

The feel of their bronze coldness in her hot hands brought a quick
message to her brain; beyond a question of doubt, the missing Cavendish
was concealed in one of the dark, dank cells in the immediate vicinage,
if not actually in this same passage, then in another one perhaps not
greatly distant. The speculation gave her determination and decision.

Reaching beneath her outer skirt, she jerked loose her white petticoat,
and then began tearing it into long strips which she knotted together.
This done, she bound Juan Cateras's hand and foot, and, with some
difficulty, turned him over on his face after first thrusting into his
half-open mouth a gag, which she had fashioned from stray ends of the
providential petticoat.

Then leaping to her feet and strapping the ammunition belt and revolver
about her waist, she stole on tiptoe to the doorway and peered out; the
silent, cavernous passage was empty.

Lithely, like a young panther, she slipped out of the cell and began
making down the passageway to a spot of light which she judged to be
its opening. She had scarcely gone ten feet, however, before she
stopped short--somewhere in the dark she heard a voice.

Flattening herself against the sides of the passage, she thought
quickly; to return to the cell in which lay Juan Cateras would be
unwise, for he might break the bonds, which were none too strong, and,
in his fury at having been so easily duped, subject her to unknown but
anyway horrible indignities, if not death itself. But what other
course was there?

As she stood there a fraction of a second against the wall, knowing not
which way to turn, the girl wished with all her heart that big Jim
Westcott, strong, cool, collected, the master of any situation
requiring force, tact, and acumen, were there by her side to take her
arm and guide her out of this terrible predicament. But Jim was
elsewhere--where, she could hardly guess.

What was to be done? Her temples throbbed as the voices sounded
nearer. Then it came home to her--why not try one of the other cells?
Possibly she would be lucky enough to find an empty one; the chances
were, she felt, that most of them were.

Suiting action to the thought, she stepped quietly from the niche in
the wall, moved noiselessly along its surface, and came at length to
another dungeon similar to She one she had occupied, except that it had
no window in its oaken door. Fumbling with the bunch of keys, she took
the first one around which her fingers fell and thrust it hurriedly
into the lock. Would it open the haven to temporary safety? She
struggled with it--turning it first to the left and then to the right.
The footsteps were sounding nearer and nearer every minute, the voices
were growing louder.

Frantic, she gave the key a final desperate twist, and as a sigh of
relief escaped her lips the door swung open. Slipping through the
aperture, she closed it softly after her and, panting from excitement
and her exertions, turned and faced the recesses of her hiding-place.

It was black, pitch-black, except for a long ray of light that
struggled in between the heavy door and its casing, but as Stella
Donovan stood there in the gloom she was aware that she was not the
only occupant of the cell. She crouched back, gripped in the hands of
another fear, but the next moment her alarm was lessened somewhat by
the sound of a soft, well-modulated voice.

"Who's that?" it said faintly.

Then followed the repeated scratching of a wet match, a flame of yellow
light, which was immediately carried to a short tallow candle, and in
the aura of its sickly flame Stella Donovan saw the face of a man with
long, unkempt beard and feverish eyes that stared at her as though she
were an apparition.

CHAPTER XXVI: THE REAPPEARANCE OF CAVENDISH

As her eyes became more accustomed to the light she saw that the
stranger was a man of approximately thirty, of good robust health. His
hair was sandy of colour and thin, and his beard, which was of the same
hue, had evidently gone untrimmed for days, perhaps weeks; yet for all
of his unkempt appearance, for all the strangeness of his presence
there, he was a gentleman, that was plain. And as she scrutinised him
Miss Donovan thought she beheld a mild similarity in the contour of the
man's head, the shape of his face, the lines of his body, to the man
whom, several weeks before, she had seen lying dead upon the floor of
his rooms in the Waldron apartments.

Could this be Frederick Cavendish? By all that had gone before, he
should be; but the longer she looked at him the less certain she was of
the correctness of this surmise. Of course the face of the man in the
Waldron apartments had been singed by fire so that it was virtually
unrecognisable, thus making comparisons in the present instance
difficult. At any rate, she dismissed the speculation temporarily from
her mind, and resolved to divulge nothing for the time, but merely to
draw the man out. Her thoughts, rapid as they had been, were
interrupted by the fellow's sudden exclamation.

"My God!" he cried in a high voice, "I--I thought I was seeing things.
You are really a woman--and alive?"

Miss Donovan hesitated a moment before she answered, wondering whether
to tell him of her narrow escape. This she decided to do.

"Alive, but only by luck," she said in a friendly voice, and then
recounted the insults of Cateras, her struggle with him, and capture of
his cartridge belt and revolver, and how finally she had left him bound
and gagged in the adjoining cell. The man listened attentively, though
his mind seemed slow to grasp details.

"But," he insisted, unable to clear his brain, "why are you here?
Surely you are not one of this gang of outlaws?"

"I am inclined to think," she answered soberly, "that much the same
cause must account for the presence of both of us. I am a prisoner.
That is true of you also, is it not?"

"Yes," his voice lowered almost to a whisper. "But do not speak so
loud, please; there is an opening above the door, so voices can be
heard by any guard in the corridor. I--I am a prisoner, although I do
not in the least know why. When did you come?"

"Not more than two hours ago. Two men brought me across the desert
from Haskell."

"I do not know how I came. I was unconscious until I woke up in that
cell. I was on the platform of an observation car the last I
remember," his utterance slow, as though his mind struggled with a
vague memory, "talking with a gentleman whom I had met on the train.
There--there must have been an accident, I think, for I never knew
anything more until I woke up here."

"Do you know how long ago that was?"

He shook his head.

"It was a long while. There has been no light, so I could not count
the days, but, if they have fed me twice every twenty-hours, it is
certainly a month since I came."

"A month! Do you recall the name of the man you were conversing with
on the observation car?"

He pressed his hand against his forehead, a wrinkle appearing straight
between his eyes.

"I've tried to remember that," he admitted regretfully, "but it doesn't
quite come to me."

"Was it Beaton?"

"Yes. Why, how strange! Of course, he was Edward Beaton, of New York.
He told me he was a broker. Why, how did you know?"

She hesitated for an instant, uncertain just how far it was best to
confide in him. Unquestionably, the man's mind was not entirely clear,
and he might say and do things to the injury of them both if he once
became aware of the whole truth. Besides, the meeting him there alive
was in itself a shock. She had firmly believed him dead--murdered in
New York. No, she would keep that part of the story to herself for the
present; let it be told to him later by others.

"It is not so strange," she said at last, "for your disappearance is
indirectly the occasion of my being here also. I believe I can even
call you by name. You are Mr. Cavendish?"

"Yes," he admitted, his hands gripping the back of the bench nervously,
his eyes filled with amazement "But--but I do not know you."

"For the best of reasons," she answered smilingly, advancing and
extending her hand--"because we have never met before. However
mysterious all this must seem to you, Mr. Cavendish, it is extremely
simple when explained. I am Stella Donovan, a newspaperwoman. Your
strange disappearance about a month ago aroused considerable interest,
and I chanced to be detailed on the case. My investigations led me to
visit Haskell, where unfortunately my mission became known to those who
were responsible for your imprisonment here. So, to keep me quiet, I
was also abducted and brought to this place."

"You--you mean it was not an accident--that I was brought here
purposely?"

"Exactly; you were trailed from New York by a gang of thieves having
confederates in this country. I am unable to give you all the details;
but this man Beaton, whom you met on the train, is a notorious gunman
and gambler. His being on the same train with you was a part of a
well-laid plan, and I have no doubt but what he deliberately slugged
you while you two were alone on the observation platform. As I
understand, that is exactly his line of work."

"But--but," he stammered, "what was his object? Why did those people
scheme to get me?"

"Why! Money, no doubt; you are wealthy, are you not?"

"Yes, to an extent. I inherited property, but I had no considerable
sum with me that day; not more than a few hundred dollars."

"As I told you, Mr. Cavendish, I do not know all the details, but I
think these men--one of whom is a lawyer--planned to gain possession of
your fortune, possibly by means of a forged will; and, in order to
accomplish this, it was necessary to get you out of the way. It looks
as though they were afraid to resort to actual murder, but ready enough
to take any other desperate chance. Do you see what I mean?"

"They will rob me! While holding me here a prisoner they propose
robbing me through the courts?"

"That is undoubtedly their object, but, I happen to know, it has not
yet been fully accomplished. If either of us can make escape from this
place we shall be in time to foil them completely."

"But how," he questioned, still confused and with only the one thought
dominating his mind, "could they hope to obtain possession of my
fortune unless I was dead?"

"They are prepared to prove you dead. I believed so myself. The only
way to convince the courts otherwise will be your appearance in person.
After they once get full possession of the money they do not care what
becomes of you. Living or dead, you can never get it back again."

He sank down on the bench and buried his face in his hands, thoroughly
unnerved. The girl looked at him a moment in silence, then touched his
shoulder.

"Look here, Mr. Cavendish," she said firmly, "there is no use losing
your nerve. Surely there must be some way of getting out of here. For
one, I am going to try."

He looked up at her, but with no gleam of hope in his eyes.

"I have tried," he replied despondently, "but it is no use. We are
buried alive."

"Yet there must be ways out," she insisted. "The air in that passage
was perfectly pure; do you know anything about it?"

"Yes; it leads to the top of the cliff, up a steep flight of steps.
But it is impossible to reach the passage, and since these Mexicans
came I have reason to believe they keep a guard."

"They were not here, then, at first?"

"Only for a few days; before that two rough-looking fellows, but
Americans, were all I saw. Now they have gone, and Mexicans have taken
their places--they are worse than the others. Do you know what it
means?"

"Only partially. I have overheard some talk. It seems this is a
rendezvous for a band of outlaws headed by one known as Pasqual Mendez.
I have not seen their leader; but his lieutenant had charge of me."

"Miss Donovan," he said with gravity, "we are in the hands of desperate
men. We will have to take desperate measures to outwit them, and we
will have to make desperate breaks to obtain our freedom."

The girl nodded.

"Mr. Cavendish," she said with womanly courage, "you will not find me
wanting. I am ready for anything, even shooting. I do hope you're a
good shot."

Cavendish smiled.

"I have had some experience," he said.

"Then," the girl added, "you had better take the revolver. I never
fired one except on the Fourth of July, and I would not want to trust
to my marksmanship in a pinch. Not that we will meet any such
situation, Mr. Cavendish--I hope we do not--but in case we do I want to
depend upon you."

"I am glad you said that, Miss Donovan; it gives me courage."

The girl handed the revolver over to him without a word and then held
out the cartridge belt. He snapped open the weapon to assure himself
it was loaded and then ran his fingers over the belt pockets.

"Thirty-six rounds," adjusting the belt to his waist; "that ought to
promise a good fight. Do you feel confidence in me again?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes lifting to meet his. "I trust you."

"Good. I am not a very desperate character, but will do the best I
can. Shall we try the passage?"

"Yes. It is the only hope."

"All right then; I'll go first, and you follow as close as possible.
There mustn't be the slightest sound made."

Cavendish thrust his head cautiously through the door, the revolver
gripped in his hand; Miss Donovan, struggling to keep her nerves
steady, touched the coat of her companion, fearful of being alone. The
passage-way was dark, except for the little bars of light streaming out
through the slits in the stone above the cell doors. These, however,
were sufficient to convince Cavendish that no guards were in the
immediate neighbourhood. He felt the grip of the girl's fingers on his
coat, and reached back to clasp her hand.

"All clear," he whispered. "Hurry, and let's get this door closed."

They slipped through, crouching in the shadow as the door shut behind
them, eagerly seeking to pierce the mystery of the gloom into which the
narrow corridor vanished. Beyond the two cells and their dim rays all
was black silence, yet both felt a strange relief at escaping from the
confines of their prison. The open passage was cool, and the fugitives
felt fresh air upon their cheeks; nowhere did any sound break the
silence. Stella had a feeling as though they were buried alive.

"That--that is the way, is it not?" she asked. "I was brought from
below."

"Yes; it is not far; see, the passage leads upward. Come, we might as
well learn what is ahead."

They advanced slowly, keeping closely against the wall, and testing the
floor cautiously before venturing a step. A few yards plunged them
into total darkness, and, although Cavendish had been conducted along
there a prisoner, he retained small recollection of the nature of the
passage.

Their progress was slow but silent, neither venturing to exchange
speech, but with ears anxiously strained to catch the least sound.
Stella was conscious of the loud beating of her heart, the slight
rasping of Cavendish's feet on the rock floor. The slightest noise
seemed magnified. The grade rose sharply, until it became almost a
climb, yet the floor had evidently been levelled, and there were no
obstructions to add to the difficulty of advance. Then the passage
swerved rather sharply to the right, and Cavendish, leading, halted to
peer about the corner. An instant they both remained motionless, and
then, seeing and hearing nothing, she could restrain her impatience no
longer.

"What is it?" she questioned. "Is there something wrong?"

He reached back and drew her closer, without answering, until her eyes
also were able to look around the sharp edge of rock. Far away, it
seemed a long distance up that narrow tunnel, a lantern glowed dully,
the light so dim and flickering as to scarcely reveal even its
immediate surroundings; yet from that distance, her eyes accustomed to
the dense gloom, she could distinguish enough to quicken her breathing
and cause her to clutch the sleeve of her companion.

The lantern occupied a niche in the side wall at the bottom of a flight
of rude steps. Not more than a half-dozen of these were revealed, but
at their foot, where the passage had been widened somewhat, extended a
stone bench, on which lounged two men. One was lying back, his head
pillowed on a rolled coat, yet was evidently awake; for the other,
seated below him, with knees drawn up for comfort, kept up conversation
in a low voice, the words being inaudible at that distance. Even in
that dim light the two were clearly Mexican.

"What shall we do?" she asked, her lips at Cavendish's ear. "We cannot
pass them--they are on guard."

"I was wondering how close I could creep in before they saw me," he
answered, using the same caution. "If I was only sure they were alone,
and could once get the drop, we might make it."

"You fear there may be others posted at the top?"

"There is quite likely to be; the fellows are evidently taking no
chances of surprise. What do you think best?"

"Even if you succeeded in overawing these two, we would have no way of
securing them. An alarm would be given before we could get beyond
reach. Our only hope of escape lies in getting out of here unseen."

"Yes, and before Cateras is discovered."

"He gave no orders to the guard to return?"

"No; but he will be missed after a while and sought for. We cannot
count on any long delay, and when it is found that he has been knocked
out, and we have disappeared, every inch of this cave will be searched.
There is no place to hide, and only the two ways by which to get out."

"Then, let's go back and try the other," she urged. "That opens
directly into the valley and is probably not guarded. What is
happening now?"

A grey gleam of light struck the steps from above, recognised instantly
as a reflection of day, as though some cover had been uplifted
connecting this underground labyrinth with the clear sky. A dim shadow
touched the illumined rocks for a brief moment, a moving shadow
uncertain in its outlines, grotesque, shapeless: and then the daylight
vanished as suddenly as it dawned. There was a faint click, as though
a door closed, while darkness resumed sway, the silence unbroken, but
for the scraping of a step on those rude stairs. The two guards below
came to their feet, rigid in the glow of the lantern, their faces
turned upward. Then a man came slowly down the last few steps and
joined them.

CHAPTER XXVII: A DANGEROUS PRISONER

He was tall and thin, wearing a wide cloak about his shoulders, and
high hat with broad brim. Even at that distance it could be seen that
his long hair was grey, and that a heavy moustache, snow-white, made
more noticeable the thin features of his face. The man was Mexican, no
doubt of that, but of the higher class, the dead pallor of his skin
accented by the black, deep-seated eyes. He looked at the two men
closely, and his voice easily reached the ears of the listeners.

"Who posted you here?"

"Juan Cateras, _senor_," answered one.

"Not on my order. Dias is watching above. Did the lieutenant give you
a reason?"

"The prisoners, _senor_."

"The prisoners! Oh, yes; those that Lacy had confined here. Well,
they will not be here for long. I do not believe in prisoners, and
because I do business with that dog is no reason why he is privileged
to use this place to hold his victims. I have just despatched a
messenger to Haskell to that effect, and we'll soon be rid of them.
Where is Cateras?"

"In the valley, _senor_! he went back down the passage with Silva after
posting us here."

"And the prisoners?"

"Occupy the two inner cells. Merodiz here says one of them is a girl."

"A girl!" the tall man laughed. "That then will account for the
unusual interest of Juan Cateras, and why he preferred being left in
charge. A girl, hey, Merodiz! You saw the witch? What sort was she?"

"An American, _senor_, young, and good to look at," the other man
explained. "Her eyes as blue as the skies."

"Good! 'tis not often the gods serve us so well. I forgive Cateras for
failure to report such a prize, but from now on will see that he takes
his proper place. She was here when we came?"

"No, _senor_; the two Americanos brought her; it was Silva and I who
put her in the cell."

"At Cateras's order?"

"Yes, _senor_."

"In what cell?"

"The second in the passage; the man who was here when we came has the
one this way."

"Caramba! this is all pleasant enough. I will pay my respects to the
lady, and there is no time like the present."

He turned away, thumbing his moustache, quite pleased with his conceit,
but one of the men stopped him with a question.

"We remain here, _senor_?"

"Yes, you might as well," his lips smiling, "and if the Senor Cateras
passes, you can tell him that I visit the fair American. It will give
him joy."

The girl drew Cavendish back hurriedly, her mind working in a flash of
inspiration.

"Quick," she breathed in his ear. "There is a niche where we can hide
a few yards back. If he follows the other wall he might pass, and not
notice."

"But he goes to your cell; 'tis Pasqual Mendez."

"I know, but come. He must not go there. I will tell you my plan."

They were pressed back within the slight recess before the Mexican
turned the corner, and she had hastily breathed her desperate scheme.

"It can be done," she insisted, "and there is nought else possible. We
dare not let him enter, and find Cateras, and to kill the man will
serve no good end. You will not? Then give me the revolver. Good!
Be silent now."

Mendez came down the black passage evidently in rare good humour,
humming a tune, with one hand pressed upon the wall to better guide his
movements. So dark it was, even the outlines of his form were
indistinguishable, yet, as he felt no need for caution, it was easy
enough to trace his forward progress. The girl stood erect, the
revolver gripped in one hand, the other pressing back her companion
into the recess. She had lost all sense of fear in the determination
to act; better risk all than surrender without a struggle. Mendez
fumbled along the wall, stumbled over some slight projection and swore;
another step, and his groping hand would touch her. He never took the
step, but was whirled against the side wall, with the cold barrel of a
revolver pressed against his cheek. A stern, sibilant whisper held him
motionless.

"If you move I fire, _senor_; raise your hands--quick!"

He responded mechanically, too profoundly astounded to dream of
resistance. It was the sound of the voice which impressed him.

"Santa Maria! A woman?"

"Yes, _senor_, a woman; the same you sought, but I have found you
first."

He chuckled.

"A good jest surely; how came you here?"

"Not to discuss that, _senor_," quietly. "Nor is this to be laughed
over. If you would live, do as I say. Mr. Cavendish, see if the man
bears weapons."

"Only a belt with a knife."

"Keep the knife; it may come handy for some purpose. Now bind his
hands with the belt. Cross your wrists, _senor_."

He had lost his temper, no longer deeming this a joke.

"You damn vixen," he growled savagely. "This play will soon be done;
do you know who I am?"

"The Senor Pasqual Mendez, but that means nothing," she answered.
"This revolver will kill you as surely as any one else. Do what I say
then, and talk no more--cross your wrists behind."

He did so, and Cavendish strapped the stout belt about them, winding it
in and out until he had sure purchase. He drew it so tightly the
fellow winced.

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