Ricardo Guzman did not return from Romero. When two days had passed
with no word from him, his sons became alarmed and started an
investigation, but without the slightest result. Even Colonel Blanco
himself could not hazard a guess as to Guzman's fate; the man had
disappeared, it seemed, completely and mysteriously. Meanwhile, from
other quarters of the Mexican town came rumors that set the border
afire.
Readers of this story may remember the famous "Guzman incident," so
called, and the complications that resulted from it, for at the time it
raised a storm of indignation as the crowning atrocity of the Mexican
revolution, serving further to disturb the troubled waters of diplomacy
and threatening for a moment to upset the precariously balanced
relations of the two countries.
At first the facts appeared plain: a citizen of the United States had
been lured across the border and done to death by Mexican soldiers--for
it soon became evident that Ricardo was dead. The outrage was a casus
belli such as no self-respecting people could ignore; so ran the
popular verdict. Then when that ominous mailed serpent which lay coiled
along the Rio Grande stirred itself, warlike Americans prepared
themselves to hear of big events.
A motive for Ricardo Guzman's murder was not lacking, for it was
generally known that President Potosi had long resented Yankee enmity,
particularly as that enmity was directed at him personally. A
succession of irritating diplomatic skirmishes, an unsatisfactory
series of verbal sparring matches, had roused the old Indian's anger,
and it was considered likely that he had adopted this means of
permanently severing his relations with Washington.
Of course, the people of Texas were delighted that the long-delayed
hour had struck; accordingly, when the State Department seemed
strangely loath to investigate the matter, when, in fact, it manifested
a willingness to allow Don Ricardo ample time in which to come to life
in preference to putting a further strain upon international relations,
they were both surprised and enraged. Telegraph wires began to buzz;
the governor of the state sent a crisply sarcastic message to the
national capital, offering to despatch a company of Rangers after
Guzman's body just to prove that he was indeed dead and that the
Mexican authorities were lying when they professed ignorance of the
fact.
This offer not only caught the popular fancy north of the Rio Grande,
but it likewise had an effect on the other side of the river, for on
the very next day General Luis Longorio set out for Romero to
investigate personally the rancher's disappearance.
Now, throughout all this public clamor, truth, as usual, lay hidden at
the bottom of its well, and few even of Ricardo's closest friends
suspected the real reason for his murder.
Jonesville, of course, could think or talk of little else than this
outrage, and Blaze Jones, as befitted its leading citizen, was loudest
in his criticism of the government's weak-kneed policy.
"It makes me right sore to think I'm an American," he confided to Dave.
"Why, if Ricardo had been an Englishman the British consul at Mexico
City would have called on Potosi the minute the news came. He'd have
stuck a six-shooter under the President's nose and made him locate Don
Ricardo, or pay an indemnity and kiss the Union Jack." Blaze's
conception of diplomacy was peculiar. "If Potosi didn't talk straight
that British consul would have bent a gun-bar'l over the old ruffian's
bean and telephoned for a couple hundred battle-ships. England protects
her sons. But we Americans are cussed with notions of brotherly love
and universal peace. Bah! We're bound to have war, Dave, some day or
other. Why not start it now?"
Dave nodded his agreement. "Yes. We'll have to step in and take the
country over, sooner or later. But--everybody has the wrong idea of
this Guzman killing. The Federal officers in Romero didn't frame it up."
"No? Who did?"
"Tad Lewis."