Suarez. It had been built up, during thirty lazy years, by a distant cousin of Suarez, an elderly bachelor, who grew coffee and maize, and reared stock in a haphazard way.

Seven years earlier he had met the young American in New York, took a liking to him, and offered to employ him as overseer while teaching him the business. The pupil soon became the instructor. Scientific methods were introduced, direct markets were tapped, and the produce of the estate was quadrupled within a few seasons.

Then the older man died, and left the ranch and its contents to his assistant. There was not much money—the capital was sunk in stock and improvement—so a number of free and independent burghers of Cartagena received smaller amounts than they expected.

[Pg 36]

[Pg 36]

Suarez was one of the beneficiaries, seven in all. Six took the situation calmly. He alone was irreconcilable, and blustered about legal proceedings, only desisting when persuaded that he had no case, even for the venal courts of San Juan.

And now, on that sultry January morning, the lawful owner of the Los Andes ranch, while awaiting the appearance of a peon, who, he knew, was tending some cattle in a byre behind the lodge, was wondering whether or not he might urge a tired charger into a final canter to the door of his own house without bringing about a pitched battle when he arrived there.

At last came Pedro—every second man in South America is named after the chief of the Apostles—a brown, lithe, Indian-looking person. But he was Spanish enough in the expression of his emotions.

“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he cried joyously, after a first stare of incredulity, for the eyes rolled in his head at sight of Maseden’s garb, “it is not true, then, master, that you are a prisoner!”

“Who says that I am?” inquired Maseden.

“They say it up there at the estancia, señor,” and Pedro jerked a thumb towards an avenue of mahogany trees.

“They say? Who say?”

[Pg 37]

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