A minute later, the bridge, unable to recover from the death blow struck by El Capitan, went whirling into the ravine and was broken upon the rocks below.  Hearing the crash behind him, Chesterton guessed that in the jungle a tree had fallen.

They had started at six in the afternoon and had covered twenty of the forty miles that lay between Adhuntas and Mayaguez, when, just at the outskirts of the tiny village of Caguan, El Capitan stumbled, and when he arose painfully, he again fell forward.

Caguan was a little church, a little vine-covered inn, a dozen one-story adobe houses shining in the moonlight like whitewashed sepulchres.  They faced a grass-grown plaza, in the centre of which stood a great wooden cross.  At one corner of the village was a corral, and in it many ponies.  At the sight Chesterton gave a cry of relief.  A light showed through the closed shutters of the inn, and when he beat with his whip upon the door, from the adobe houses other lights shone, and white-clad figures appeared in the moonlight.  The landlord of the inn was a Spaniard, fat and prosperous-looking, but for the moment his face was eloquent with such distress and misery that the heart of the young man, who was at peace with all the world, went instantly out to him.  The Spaniard was less sympathetic.  When he saw the khaki suit and the campaign hat he scowled, and ungraciously would have closed the door.  Chesterton, apologizing, pushed it open.  His pony, he explained, had gone lame, and he must have another, and at once.  The landlord shrugged his shoulders.  These were war times, he said, and the American officer could take what he liked.  They in Caguan were noncombatants and could not protest.  Chesterton hastened to reassure him.  The war, he announced, was over, and were it not, he was no officer to issue requisitions.  He intended to pay for the pony.  He unbuckled his belt and poured upon the table a handful of Spanish doubloons.  The landlord lowered the candle and silently counted the gold pieces, and then calling to him two of his fellow-villagers, crossed the tiny plaza and entered the corral.

“The American pig,” he whispered, “wishes to buy a pony.  He tells me the war is over; that Spain has surrendered.  We know that must be a lie.  It is more probable he is a deserter.  He claims he is a civilian, but that also is a lie, for he is in uniform.  You, Paul, sell him your pony, and then wait for him at the first turn in the trail, and take it from him.”

“He is armed,” protested the one called Paul.

“You must not give him time to draw his revolver,” ordered the landlord.  “You and Pedro will shoot him from the shadow.  He is our country’s enemy, and it will be in a good cause.  And he may carry despatches.  If we take them to the commandante at Mayaguez he will reward us.”

“And the gold pieces?” demanded the one called Paul.

“We will divide them in three parts,” said the landlord.