And then Fectnor came.
The date of the election was drawing near, and a new sheriff was to be
jockeyed into office by the traditional practice of corralling all the
male adult Mexicans who could be reached, and making them vote just so.
The voice of the people was about to be heard in the land.
It was a game which enjoyed the greatest popularity along the border in
those years. Two played at it: the opposing candidates. And each built him
a corral and began capturing Mexicans two or three days before the
election.
The Mexicans were supposed to have their abodes (of a sort) in Maverick
County; but there was nothing conservative in the rules under which the
game was played. If you could get a consignment of voters from Mexico you
might do so, resting assured that your opponent would not hesitate to fill
his corral with citizens from the other side of the river.
The corrals were amazing places. Dispensers of creature comforts were
engaged. Barbecued meat and double rations of _mezcal_ were provided. Your
Mexican voters, held rigorously as prisoners, were in a state of collapse
before the day of the election. They were conveyed in carryalls to the
polls, and heads were counted, and the candidate got credit for the full
number of constituents he had dumped out into the sunshine.
And then your voter disappeared back into the chaparral, or over the Rio
Grande bridge, and pondered over the insanity of the _gringos_.
It will be seen that the process touched upon was less pleasant than
simple. Among the constituents in the corrals there was often a tendency
to fight, and occasionally a stubborn fellow had a clear idea that he
wanted to be in a different corral from the one in which he found himself.
There was needed a strong-handed henchman in these cases. Jesus Mendoza
was the henchman for one faction, but the other faction needed a henchman,
too.
And so Fectnor came.
He had the reputation of knowing every Mexican in Maverick County and in
the territory immediately contiguous thereto. Many of them had been
members of his gangs when he had contracts in the neighborhood of Eagle
Pass. He knew precisely which of them could be depended upon to remain
docile under all manner of indignity, and which of them had a bad habit of
placing a sudden check on their laughter and lunging forward with a knife.
They knew him, too. They feared him. They knew he could be coldly
brutal--an art which no Mexican has ever mastered. The politicians knew
that getting Fectnor was almost equivalent to getting the office. It was
more economical to pay him his price than to employ uncertain aids who
would have sold their services much more cheaply.
Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their balcony the second night before
the election. A warm wind had been blowing and it was quite pleasant out
of doors.
One of the corrals lay not far from the house on the Quemado Road. Mounted
Mexicans had been riding past the house and on into the town all day, and,
contrary to usual custom, they were not to be seen later in the day
returning to the chaparral. They were being prepared to exercise their
suffrage privileges.
As Harboro and Sylvia listened it was to be noted that over in the corral
the several noises were beginning to be blended in one note. The barbecue
fires were burning down; the evening meal had been served, with reserved
supplies for late comers. _Mezcal_ and cheap whiskey were being dispensed.
A low hum of voices arose, with the occasional uplifting of a drunken song
or a shout of anger.
Suddenly Harboro sat more erect. A shout had arisen over in the corral,
and a murmur higher and more sinister than the dominant note of the place
grew steadily in intensity. It came to a full stop when a pistol-shot
arose above the lesser noises like a sky-rocket.
"He's getting his work in," commented Harboro. He spoke to himself. He had
forgotten Sylvia for the moment.
"He? Who?" inquired Sylvia.
He turned toward her in the dusk and replied--with indifference in his
tone now--"Fectnor."
She shrank back so that her face would be out of his line of vision.
"Fectnor!" she echoed.
"A fellow they've brought up from the interior to help with the election.
A famous bad man, I believe."
There was silence for a long interval. Harboro supposed the matter did not
interest her; but she asked at length: "You know him, then?"
"Only by reputation. A fellow with a lot of bluff, I think. I don't
believe very much in bad men. He's managed to terrify the Mexicans somehow
or other." He had not noticed that her voice had become dull and low.
"Fectnor!" she breathed to herself. She rocked to and fro, and after a
long interval, "Fectnor!" she repeated.
He hitched his chair so that he could look at her. Her prolonged silence
was unusual. "Are you getting chilly?" he asked solicitously.
"It does seem chilly, doesn't it?" she responded.
They arose and went into the house.