Сердца трёх / Hearts of three

Chapter II

So Francis Morgan, three weeks after he had said good-bye to Regan, found himself on board his schooner, the Angelique.[20] The water was glassy. Francis, through his glass, saw a white hacienda, and, on the beach, a white-clad woman’s form. He asked the captain to order a small skiff over the side.[21]

“Who lives around here?” he asked.

“The Enrico Solano[22] family, sir,” was the answer. “They own the entire general landscape from the sea to the Cordilleras[23] and half of the Chiriqui Lagoon[24] as well. They are prideful and fiery as cayenne pepper.[25]”

Straight to the white beach of coral sand Francis rowed, not looking over his shoulder to see if the woman remained or had vanished. When the skiff grounded, he stepped out, and with one sturdy arm lifted its nose up the sand to fasten it by its own weight. Then he turned around. The beach to the jungle was bare. He went forward confidently.

Suddenly, the woman sprang out of the green wall of jungle and with both hands seized his arm. She muttered tensely:

“Quick! Follow me!”

A moment he resisted. She shook him.

“Do as I do.”

He smiled and obeyed. Abruptly she stopped and sat down, her hand directed him to sit beside her. “Thank God!”

“My dear lady…” Francis began.

But an abrupt gesture checked him. He heard the movement of men several yards away.

She slipped away down the runway. Francis followed her, through the jungle to the beach. She stopped.

“You fool!” she cried, lifting her finger to his toothbrush moustache. “As if that could disguise you!”

“But my dear lady…” he began to protest.

“I won’t talk with you,” she answered. “Go back to your schooner, and go away… Forever. If you ever come back I shall shoot you.” She showed him a revolver.

“So I’d better go, then,” he uttered, as he turned to the skiff. She had followed him. The strange young woman, dropped to her side, was crying. Francis was about to turn to the boat, when she stopped him.

“At least you…” she began, then faltered and swallowed, “you might kiss me good-bye.[26]”

She advanced impulsively. Francis hesitated a puzzled moment, then gathered her in to receive an astounding passionate kiss on his lips. She lifted her tear-wet face and kissed him again and again.

Then she menacingly directed him with the revolver to get into the boat.

From the edge of the jungle he saw three men, armed with rifles, run toward her where she had sunk down in the sand. They caught sight of Francis, who had begun rowing. The next moment, one of the tree men on the beach, a bearded elderly man, was directing the girl’s binoculars on him. And the moment after, dropping the glasses, he was taking aim with his rifle.[27]

The bullet spat on the water within a yard of the skiff’s side, and Francis saw the girl spring to her feet, knock up the rifle with her arm, and spoil the second shot. She was threatening the men with the revolver.

“Cayenne pepper, those damned, horrible, crazy Solanos,” the captain said.

“Yes, you’re right,” Francis agreed.

The Angelique made the outer rim of Chiriqui Lagoon and the Bull. After breakfast Francis landed to reconnoiter on the Bull.[28]

And Francis very immediately found that he had traversed not merely thirty degrees of latitude from New York but thirty hundred years, or centuries. Nearly naked, armed with cruelly heavy hacking blades of machetes,[29] the Indians told him that the Bull belonged to them. But there lives a madly impossible Gringo.[30]

Francis decided to meet the mysterious Gringo. He came down to the beach. On the shore, across the narrow channel, he saw a barefooted young man in the canvas trousers, who stepped from behind a palm, automatic pistol in hand, and shouted:

“Get out!”

“I beg you pardon?” Francis grinned, half-humorously, half-seriously.

“Nobody invited you,” the stranger retorted. “You’re intruding. Get off my island. I’ll give you half a minute.”

Francis’ arrival behind the trunk was simultaneous with the arrival of a bullet that thudded into the other side of it.

“Now, just for that![31]” he called out, as he centered a bullet into the trunk of the other man’s palm.

The next few minutes they were shooting each other.

“What gun are you using?” Francis asked with cool politeness.

“Colt’s,” came the answer.

Francis stepped boldly into the open, saying: “Then you’re all out.[32] I counted them. Eight. Now we can talk.”

The stranger stepped out, and it seemed Francis had previously known him. It was a replica of himself!

“Talk!” the stranger sneered, throwing down his pistol and drawing a knife. “Now we’ll just cut off your ears, and maybe scalp you.”

“Gee! Let’s wrestle.” Francis retorted.

“I want your ears,” the stranger answered pleasantly, as he slowly advanced.

“Sure. The man who wins gets the other fellow’s ears.”

“Agreed.” The young man in the canvas trousers sheathed his knife.

They began to fight. Francis was winning, but the stranger planted his foot in Francis’ abdomen. In a moment Francis was lying on his back.

“Why do you wear a mustache?” the stranger muttered.

“Go on and cut my ears,” Francis gasped. “The ears are yours, but the mustache is mine.”

“As for your ears, keep them. I never intended to cut them off. Get up and get out of here. And don’t come here again!”

In greater disgust than ever, Francis turned down to the beach toward his canoe.

“Say, will you leave your card?” the victor called after him.

“My name’s Morgan, that’s enough,” Francis answered.

“Really? No wonder we look alike. Listen,” the stranger said. “I am a Morgan, too.”

“My first name is Francis,” Francis returned. “And yours?”

“Henry. We must be remote cousins[33] or something or other. What are you doing here? As for me, I am looking for the old Morgan’s treasure.”

“So am I,” said Francis, extending his hand.