The Car of Destiny
mysterious. His real connection with the Marqués of Casa Triana might be
unearthed by the police; and because of that miserable affair at
Barcelona, whose consequences were continually cropping up, some hideous
story might be concocted and believed.
Dick and I unhesitatingly decided to take the Cherub’s advice, and leave
Ropes behind. He was engaged in getting the car ready, and would no doubt
be disappointed to hear that he was to be temporarily abandoned; but he
would see the wisdom of such a course, and might be trusted to guard my
interests. As for Dick, he might turn his back on the proceedings in
Seville without danger, for he posed only as the employer of a man who had
found the bomb; besides, as I suggested without glancing at Pilar, he
could come back in a few days in case he were wanted to give evidence.
Thus it was settled; at eight o’clock we had said good-bye to Pilarcita
and the Cherub, softening the farewell with a hopeful “_au revoir_”; and
with Ropes staring disconsolately after us, we flashed out of the Plaza de
San Fernando.
I drove, with Dick beside me, for there was no longer need for subterfuge.
Carmona knew me for what I was, and I could help Monica more by defying
him than by playing the old waiting game, of which I was tired.
It seemed strange to be racing across country again in the car, after
those fevered days in Seville. With the steering-wheel in my hand, the
steady thrum of the motor seemed to say, “You’ll do it; you’ll do it;—I’ll
help you to do it.”
The air was made of perfume—orange blossoms and acacias; and the vast
flowery plain where Seville is queen gave us a tolerable road, on which
the car ran lightly. Soaring snow peaks of fantastic shapes walled the
green arena of rolling meadows, and the day was like a day of June.
Save for the grey Lecomte, scarcely a motor had we seen since leaving
Biarritz, except in Madrid; but now, when I tried to decipher the road
hieroglyphics, the dust showed more than one track of pneus. Cars had come
to Seville from Madrid for _Semana Santa_, and had evidently run out this
way for a spin more than once. As I had not Ropes’ detective talent I was
unable to distinguish the Lecomte’s tyre-marks from others.
In sight of the conspicuous church tower at Utrera—ancient home of
outlaws—we came upon a dusty white line diverging to Ecija. Pausing to
question a road-mender, I remembered Colonel O’Donnel’s story of the Seven
Men of Ecija, and the curious bond between them and the Dukes of Carmona.
But what brought the tale to my mind—unless it was the name of Ecija on
the road-map and signpost, or the fact that we were now in the real heart
of brigand-land—I could not have told.
Yes, said the road-mender, he had seen an automobile go by—a big one, not
long ago, steering as if for Jerez. Was it grey? He would not be sure, but
at all events the thing was so grey with dust that had there been another
colour underneath, no one could have seen it. Ladies in the car? Well, he
was not positive, for it had gone by like a cannon-ball in a cloud of
smoke; but there were several persons inside, and it was the only motor
which had passed him to-day. Several cars had appeared in the distance
yesterday, but they had turned back on the Seville side of Utrera.
One automobile, a big one, apparently grey, and with several persons
inside, had gone by at a tremendous pace not long before. That sounded as
if the car we chased could not be far away. Our eyes searched the
tell-tale dust, and found the sleek, straight trail of a pneu in the midst
of wobbling cart tracks. We had but to follow that straight trail, then, I
said, to come up with Carmona and interfere with his new plans.
Now we were racing through a wide region of salt marsh, where within
enclosures grazed hundreds of fierce black bulls, sooner or later to die
in the arena. The country became desolate, and curiously sad. We met no
more peasants’ carts or laden donkeys as the road began to undulate among
the foothills of distant mountain ranges.
“What an ideal place for a band of Colonel O’Donnel’s _bandidos_, eh?”
said Dick; then drew in his breath with a sharpness that cut the sentence
short, as we whirled round a hummock at a turning of the road.
XXXIII
THE SEVEN MEN OF ECIJA
Close in front of us was drawn up a large automobile, its front wheels
mounted on a barrier of rough stones built across the highway. Rolled in
the dust lay a leather-clad chauffeur, limp in unconsciousness or death;
and with their backs to the car, two young men stood bravely defending
themselves against seven.
So suddenly did we burst upon the scene, and so furiously had I to put on
the brake, that I saw only a wild picture of determined faces pale above
flashing blades, fierce faces under red peasant caps, and carbines used as
clubs. Then Dick and I were out of the Gloria; and instead of two there
were four against seven.
Where were the revolvers we had bought by Don Cipriano’s advice at Madrid,
for just such an emergency as this?—In our suit-cases at the Cortijo de
Santa Rufina, forgotten from the moment of purchase until this moment of
need. But, as by one accord, each seized a jagged stone which had rolled
from the barricade, and before we had had time for two consecutive
thoughts we had joined the strangers, and all four were fighting like
demons.
Oddly enough, the seven red caps did not fire their carbines, and had
apparently directed all their efforts to disarming or stunning the
automobilists. But at sight of us their tactics changed. Surprised at
first, their astonishment was burnt up by rage. Four of the seven turned
upon us, and drew knives, but quick as light I had wrenched one of them
out of a brown hand, giving its owner a smashing blow between the eyes
with my stone.
Down he dropped like an ox, and I was ready for another; but the blade of
a third would have slid between my ribs had not one of the seven cried out
sharply, “Stop! A red car—a red car. These are the men we want.”
“Disable them,” yelled another voice; but it was easier said than done.
The second’s pause which followed the warning shout saved my skin. The
brigand’s knife flew; and he got a side blow on the temple which sent him
spinning.
We were now four against five; but already the right arm of another red
cap spouted crimson from the blade in a sword-stick which was flashing
blue lightning, and another wore a dark spot on his shirt—a spot which
spread and changed its shape.
There was no time to look at faces. I scarcely saw the features of friend
or foe, and could not have sworn to the identity of one man had my life
depended on it. But I knew that two beside whom we fought were brave
beyond the common, that they were worth fighting for and with. We were all
four shoulder to shoulder now, our backs against the car, though how we
had won through to that position I could not have told.
Another red cap had gone down on one knee, cursing, and there was a fresh
blot of crimson on a dark-stained shirt. We four had the advantage now,
for we had come to no harm but a few bruises and an aching head or two,
when suddenly there was a howl from the fellow last down, “El guardia
civile!”
It was true. Out of the distance rode two men, dashing towards us from the
direction of Jerez. Far away still, their white, black, and red uniforms
caught the sun; and guessing from the knot of forms swaying round a
motor-car that something was wrong, the pair spurred their horses to a
gallop.
“It’s too hot for us!” panted the brigand I took for the leader. He
growled an order; and supporting two of their fallen comrades who were
able to help themselves, the uninjured pair made off towards a small wood
where I now saw horses tethered. After them we went; but they promptly
left their half-disabled friends to shift for themselves, and loaded their
carbines—so lately clubs—with quickness almost incredible.
An instant later two black muzzles covered us; and the tide of battle
might after all have turned disastrously, had not the shrill ping of a
bullet warned the enemy that there was no time to waste upon reprisals.
One of the civil guard had fired from a distance, but with precise aim, as
a yell of pain announced. A man already wounded got another souvenir of
the encounter; and out of the seven only four could get to their saddles.
One limped in the rear, but he had lost his carbine; one sat where his
comrades had flung him in their flight, and the last of the seven—stunned
by my stone—lay breathing stertorously on the road.
“After them—after them!” one of the young men who had fought so
brilliantly shouted now to the civil guards. “Don’t let them get away.”
For the first time I looked at him with seeing eyes. Then, I could hardly
stifle an exclamation. It was the King.
He gave me back look for look, smiling that brave and charming smile which
has magic in it to transform an enemy into a loyal servant.
I had my cap off now, and so had Dick, who wore the jaunty air I had seen
him wear in more than one battle.
“I have to thank you both,” said the King. “And—not for the first time.
Our cars, as well as ourselves, have met before. Wasn’t it—near Biarritz?”
I felt the blood stream up to the roots of my hair. “Your Majesty has a
King’s memory for faces,” I stammered.
“There are faces one doesn’t forget,” said he. “But we’ll talk of that
presently. Now we have work here.”
The King’s companion was already down on one knee by the side of the
chauffeur, pouring _aguardiente_ from a flask into the man’s half-open
mouth. As for the fellow I had hit, I was sure that he would presently
come round, but little the worse for wear; and I suggested that Dick and I
find a rope in the car, which would bind him and the two other
half-disabled ones. But the King would not let us work alone. He did as
much as we, and more, before we were joined by the young officer who was
his friend.
Discouraged and weak from loss of blood, as well as the loss of their
carbines and their comrades, the wounded brigands made no further fight.
But they were silent, save for a muttered oath or two, and I made up my
mind that the true secret of this morning’s work would never be torn from
them.
For there was, of course, a secret. The King, who had not the clue which I
held, saw that, and wondered why the brigands had not wished at first to
shoot us. Plainly, their plan had been to make captives.
The obvious idea was that they would have conveyed their prisoners to some
brigands’ nest in the mountains, in the hope of obtaining a rich ransom.
But they had evidently expected an automobile, or they would not have
raised a barricade, just round a sharp corner on a particularly lonely
piece of road.
Could they have been lying in wait for the King? This seemed impossible,
as he had told no one that he was going out, and the expedition had indeed
been made on the impulse, in the company of but one companion beside the
chauffeur. He had intended to have a spin, and discover the state of the
roads as far as practicable on the way to Jerez before turning back for
the procession in the afternoon. And that evening he must return to
Madrid. No, it was not the King for whom the seven men had prepared.
Who, then, was to have been their prey?
I believed that I could have answered this question, but I kept silent;
and there was no reason why the King should guess that I had a suspicion.
“At all events,” he said, “we have you and your friend to thank that the
affair was not more serious. I hope we should have been able to give a
good account of ourselves; but seven against two are long odds. And there
seems a fate in it that you should have come to me in the nick of time