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CHAPTER I.

THE SECRET OF THE CORDILLERAS.

The steamship Elbe had crossed the equator on her long passage from Southampton to Buenos Ayres in September, 1893. All but the final phases of a well-regulated, fair-weather voyage on a big passenger ship had duly presented themselves. The first irksomeness of the long monotony had worn off; the invalids had begun to enjoy the slow, lazy rolling which at first had been their hopeless undoing; companions of a fortnight were exchanging confidences which the friendship of years on land would not have induced. The frankness, the unrestraint, the offguard good fellowship of life at sea held full sway.

We are concerned with only two of the numerous ship’s company. Strangers to each other and to all on board at the outset of the voyage, they had by this time formed rather an odd intimacy. Men of widely different types, it would be difficult to discover any natural bond of sympathy between Robert Brent and Duncan Fraser. The one an American, whose quiet, self-possessed bearing had in it that indescrib{8}able ease of manner which is the unfailing mark of thorough acquaintance with men and affairs in the best phases of fin de siècle existence. The other a Scotchman, of rougher mold, more advanced in years, and whose natural keenness had been sharpened into an intuitive suspicion by much grinding against the unpolished side of human nature.

Physically the two men were in marked contrast. It would have puzzled you to say whether or no the American had reached his thirtieth birthday. He was rather above the medium height, neither light nor dark, and of well-built, athletic frame. Few would have called him handsome, but his face combined strength, intelligence, and refinement, with a touch of something which at first you might have described as cynicism or melancholy. The Scotchman had evidently been a typical representative of his race. The large-boned, sturdy, close-knit body was well-preserved after fifty years spent, many of them, under suns less kind than those of his native moors and mountains. But the sandy complexion and almost flaxen hair had given place to a grizzled head and that peculiar deep-tanned, almost leathery skin which is always a record of whole chapters of adventure. The left cheek and tip of the left ear bore an index to some special record of violence. A furrow in the skin just over the high cheek-bone and a bit missing{9} from the top of the ear immediately back of it seemed to mark the course of a bullet that had failed by the smallest margin in the accomplishment of a deadly mission.

The vicissitudes of life ashore would seldom throw two such men into companionship, much less into close friendship. The sea fortunately is sometimes responsible for delightful bits of social phenomena. Perhaps after all it was the lottery of seats at table that brought it about. One must be at least conventionally sociable with one’s vis-à-vis and nearest neighbors, in a steamship saloon. Fraser and Brent were assigned adjoining seats and after a day or two the acquaintance begun at table was continued on deck and in the smoking-room. They became interested each in the opposite tastes, antecedents, and manner of life of the other. Brent speedily gained a high respect for the Scotchman’s deep, though rather uncouth philosophy and downright hard sense. Fraser admired the American’s alert, broad-minded mastery of all the absorbing topics of the day. Both were men naturally reserved and each respected this quality in the other. Their talks did not become personal for some days, save for an occasional anecdote from the Scotchman’s varied experience. It came out that Fraser was well acquainted with Argentina and other parts of the continent to which the{10} ship was bound, while it was Brent’s first trip below the equator.

The young man’s close inquiries about Buenos Ayres led at length to some explanation of his mission there and the causes of it. He had suddenly found himself a month before face to face with the necessity for earning his living. The silver panic in America in the summer had swept away all but a few thousands of a comfortable fortune, which had enabled him to indulge a too enervating love of ease. His indulgences had not been vicious, they were intellectual rather than physical, and he had strength of character enough after the first disappointment of loss to welcome the coming struggle. He had been in London when the blow fell. His first determination was to return to New York and undertake the practice of law. He had prepared himself for admission to the bar after leaving college, but the sudden death of his father deprived him of his last family tie and led him to postpone active work at his profession. He went abroad to be gone a few months and his absence had lengthened into three years, when the disaster to his property compelled him to rouse his dormant talents to action.

When the necessity was upon him his energy was unbounded. He dreaded the dull days that would probably come before he could secure any opportu{11}nity for an active display of his powers. Besides he was not particularly in love with his profession. His sudden afflux of energy tempted him to challenge fortune in some more desperate struggle. The trip to Argentina, however, was not an unreasoning whim. Two or three of his London friends had suffered severely by the financial misfortunes of the Argentine Republic in 1892-93. They had been informed by agents in Buenos Ayres that the prevailing depression offered tempting opportunities for the investment of fresh enterprise and capital in several directions, notably in mines, real estate, and manufacturing. Brent had decided to make a trip for investigation, partly on his own account and partly on the assurance of his friends that they would join him financially in any promising enterprise.

These plain facts about his recent life and prospects Brent made known to his companion while they sat sheltered from the already tropical sun under the deck-awning one hot afternoon. The Scotchman was a sympathetic listener. It was, indeed, his genuine and apparent interest which induced the narration of most of the points in the simple biography. He did not refuse confidence in return, but what little he said about himself was in such general terms that Brent felt that it was modesty as well as natural reticence which withheld the details of a most adventurous{12} career. He had evidently taken a strong fancy to the younger man and he discussed with greatest interest the chances of success in his search for fortune amid the many difficulties then existing in the struggling republic. He was silent, however, about his own immediate plans and about the nature of the interests which were occupying him. His offers of assistance to his new friend in the strange city to which he was going were coupled with the announcement that he should remain only a few days in Buenos Ayres, because business called him further south immediately.

The heat of the tropics was unrelieved even by one of the sudden storms which often break the monotony of the long southern voyage. Those who hoped for something out of the ordinary to make the trip memorable had begun to content themselves with anticipations of early arrival in port, when they were informed that the steamer had already entered the waters of the Rio de la Plata. No land was in sight. The sea was apparently as boundless as it had been for three weeks past. Most of the passengers thought it was a joke of the steward. There was only one river in the world, the Amazon, into whose mouth one could sail without sighting land—so, at least, they had read in their geographies. They were wrong, though, as they found when they applied to{13} the first officer for information and had looked the matter up on the large map in the saloon. Buenos Ayres was still more than one hundred miles distant and they would see no land during the remaining two hours of daylight.

But an experience much more exciting than the first sight of land was vouchsafed them. A white line upon the sea appeared suddenly on the port bow away off to the southwest. It was seen from the bridge first and two or three quick orders set sailors and stewards flying in their hasty execution. Awnings were taken down in a trice, passengers were driven from their comfortable lounging chairs on deck, everything movable was taken away or made fast. To most of the passengers the sudden excitement was inexplicable and alarming.

“The pampero” was the only explanation anybody would stop to give. It was not many moments before ample explanation arrived. The pampero was soon upon them and it explained itself. The wind-storm, or dry hurricane, which comes off the land from the southwest and without warning lashes the Rio de la Plata and the sea beyond with a fury sometimes worse than the heaviest ocean storms, is a phenomenon peculiar to these latitudes. It never lasts long but its violence is often terrible. The Elbe faced the furious blast at first with dignified steadiness.{14} Then as the sea became white, tempestuous, cyclonic, the ship forgot her dignity and struggled with trembling, straining frame against her merciless enemies. It was a test of her sternest resources. It was not a new peril. She had faced it before, not always unscathed, and this time again she survived the struggle. With only a few hurts, she emerged from the hour’s battle, shaken but safe.

It had been a trying hour below. Neptune’s transformation was full of terror for the passengers. His anger under the sudden assault of the winds seemed directed against those who had complained of his monotonous tranquillity. The wise ones among the ship’s company acted on the advice of the stewards and sought their berths at the beginning of the outbreak. Those whose curiosity to witness the fury of the sea kept them upon their feet were glad to seek a safer anchorage before the storm reached its height. Fraser and Brent were among these latter. Both were fairly good sailors and nature’s outburst of passion was a sublime spectacle which they were loth to leave. But they had no choice. The pitching of the ship became wilder and more erratic every moment. It was impossible to stand upright at a port-hole to watch the chaos of wind and water without. They did not abandon the attempt until two or three sudden lurches had thrown them into violent{15} contact with tables, chairs, and other fixed objects.

They started at last to go to their staterooms below, but locomotion by this time was a dangerous experiment. They steered a zigzag course to the staircase, which they did not reach without several collisions, and Brent began to descend. He clung to the reeling railing and had gone down half the steps, when there was a cry and a blow from behind. He was wrenched from his hold and in a moment both men were pitched headlong to the deck below. A great lurch of the ship added violence to the fall, and they lay for a moment almost senseless upon the rubber mat at the bottom of the staircase.

“Are ye hurt, lad?” said the Scotchman, finding voice presently and trying to rise. He sank back again with an exclamation of pain, saying, “A broken leg, I’m afraid.”

Brent sat up rather dazed. “I don’t know,” he began, trying to raise his voice above the roar of the storm and the creaking of the ship’s timbers. “My arm is hurt, I think. Let me help you.” But the movement to aid his friend gave him a twinge that made him desist. They called for aid, but when a steward managed with some difficulty to reach them he could do little.