At the precise spot where they had been first blindfolded by the
sackcloth men, the cavalcade halted. It was composed of a number of the
sackcloth men; of Leoncia, Henry, and Francis, blindfolded and mounted
on mules; and of the peon, blindfolded and on foot. Similarly escorted,
the haciendados, and the Jefe and Torres with their gendarmes, had
preceded by half an hour.
At permission given by the stern-faced leader, the captives, about to be
released, removed their blindfolds.
“Seems I’ve been here before,” Henry laughed, looking about and
identifying the place.
“Seems the oil-wells are still burning,” Francis said, pointing out half
the field of day that was eaten up by the black smoke-pall. “Peon, look
upon your handiwork. For a man who possesses nothing, you are the
biggest spender I ever met. I have heard of drunken oil-kings lighting
cigars with thousand dollar bank-notes, but here are you burning up a
million dollars a minute.”
“I am not a poor man,” the peon boasted in proud mysteriousness.
“A millionaire in disguise!” Henry twitted.
“Where do you deposit?” was Leoncia’s contribution. “In the Chemical
National Bank?”
The peon did not understand the allusions, but knew that he was being
made fun of, and drew himself up in proud silence.
The stern leader spoke:
“From this point you may now go your various ways. The Just One has so
commanded. You, senors, will dismount and turn over to me your mules. As
for the senorita, she may retain her mule as a present from the Just
One, who would not care to be responsible for compelling any senorita to
walk. The two senors, without hardship, may walk. Especially has the
Just One recommended walking for the rich senor. The possession of
riches, he advised, leads to too little walking. Too little walking
leads to stoutness; and stoutness does not lead to the woman wonderful.
Such is the wisdom of the Just One.”
“Further, he has repeated his advice to the peon to remain in the
mountains. In the mountains he will find his woman wonderful, since
woman he must have; and it is wisest that such woman be of his own
breed. The woman of the tierra caliente are for the men of the tierra
caliente. The Cordilleras women are for the Cordilleras men. God
dislikes mixed breeds. A mule is abhorrent under the sun. The world was
not intended for mixed breeds, but man has made for himself many
inventions. Pure races interbred leads to impurity. Neither will oil nor
water congenially intermingle. Since kind begets kind, only kind should
mate. Such are the words of the Just One which I have repeated as
commanded. And he has especially impressed upon me to add that he knows
whereof he speaks, for he, too, has sinned in just such ways.”
And Henry and Francis, of Anglo-Saxon stock, and Leoncia of the Latin,
knew perturbation and embarrassment as the vicarious judgment of the
Blind Brigand sank home. And Leoncia, with her splendid eyes of woman,
would have appealed protest to either man she loved, had the other been
absent; while both Henry and Francis would have voiced protest to
Leoncia had either of them been alone with her. And yet, under it all,
deep down, uncannily, was a sense of the correctness of the Blind
Brigand’s thought. And heavily, on the heart of each, rested the burden
of the conscious oppression of sin.
A crashing and scrambling in the brush diverted their train of thought,
as descending the canyon slope on desperately slipping and sliding
horses, appeared on the scene the haciendado with several followers. His
greeting of the daughter of the Solanos was hidalgo-like and profound,
and only less was the heartiness of his greeting to the two men for whom
Enrico Solano had stood sponsor.
“Where is your noble father?” he asked Leoncia. “I have good news for
him. In the week since I last saw you, I have been sick with fever and
encamped. But by swift messengers, and favoring winds across Chiriqui
Lagoon to Bocas del Toro, I have used the government wireless—the Jefe
of Bocas del Toro is my friend—and have communicated with the President
of Panama—who is my ancient comrade whose nose I rubbed as often in the
dirt as did he mine in the boyhood days when we were schoolmates and
cubicle-mates together at Colon. And the word has come back that all is
well; that justice has miscarried in the court at San Antonio from the
too great but none the less worthy zeal of the Jefe Politico; and that
all is forgiven, pardoned, and forever legally and politically forgotten
against all of the noble Solano family and their two noble Gringo
friends——”
Here, the haciendado bowed low to Henry and Francis. And here, skulking
behind Leoncia’s uncle, his eyes chanced to light on the peon; and, so
lighting, his eyes blazed with triumph.
“Mother of God, thou has not forgotten me!” he breathed fervently, then
turned to the several friends who accompanied him. “There he is, the
creature without reason or shame who has fled his debt of me. Seize him!
I shall put him on his back for a month from the beating he shall
receive!”
So speaking, the haciendado sprang around the rump of Leoncia’s mule;
and the peon, ducking under the mule’s nose, would have won to the
freedom of the jungle, had not another of the haciendados, with quick
spurs to his horse’s sides, cut him off and run him down. In a trice,
used to just such work, the haciendados had the luckless wight on his
feet, his hands tied behind him, a lead-rope made fast around his neck.
In one voice Francis and Henry protested.
“Senors,” the haciendado replied, “my respect and consideration and
desire to serve you are as deep as for the noble Solano family under
whose protection you are. Your safety and comfort are sacred to me. I
will defend you from harm with my life. I am yours to command. My
hacienda is yours, likewise all I possess. But this matter of this peon
is entirely another matter. He is none of yours. He is _my_ peon, in
_my_ debt, who has run away from _my_ hacienda. You will understand and
forgive me, I trust. This is a mere matter of property. He is _my_
property.”
Henry and Francis glanced at each other in mutual perplexity and
indecision. It was the law of the land, as they thoroughly knew.
“The Cruel Just One did remit my debt, as all here will witness,” the
peon whispered.
“It is true, the Cruel Justice remitted his debt,” Leoncia verified.
The haciendado smiled and bowed low.
“But the peon contracted with me,” he smiled. “And who is the Blind
Brigand that his foolish law shall operate on my plantation and rob me
of my rightful two hundred and fifty pesos?”
“He’s right, Leoncia,” Henry admitted.
“Then will I go back to the high Cordilleras,” the peon asserted. “Oh,
you men of the Cruel Just One, take me back to the Cordilleras.”
But the stern leader shook his head.
“Here you were released. Our orders went no further. No further
jurisdiction have we over you. We shall now bid farewell and depart.”
“Hold on!” Francis cried, pulling out his check book and beginning to
write. “Wait a moment. I must settle for this peon now. Next, before you
depart, I have a favor to ask of you.”
He passed the check to the haciendado, saying:
“I have allowed ten pesos for the exchange.”
The haciendado glanced at the check, folded it away in his pocket, and
placed the end of the rope around the wretched creature’s neck in
Francis’ hand.
“The peon is now yours,” he said.
Francis looked at the rope and laughed.
“Behold! I now own a human chattel. Slave, you are mine, my property
now, do you understand?”
“Yes, Senor,” the peon muttered humbly. “It seems, when I became mad for
the woman I gave up my freedom for, that God destined me always
afterward to be the property of some man. The Cruel Just One is right.
It is God’s punishment for mating outside my race.”
“You made a slave of yourself for what the world has always considered
the best of all causes, a woman,” Francis observed, cutting the thongs
that bound the peon’s hands. “And so, I make a present of you to
yourself.” So saying, he placed the neck-rope in the peon’s hand.
“Henceforth, lead yourself, and put not that rope in any man’s hand.”
While the foregoing had been taking place, a lean old man, on foot, had
noiselessly joined the circle. Maya Indian he was, pure-blooded, with
ribs that corrugated plainly through his parchment-like skin. Only a
breech-clout covered his nakedness. His unkempt hair hung in dirty-gray
tangles about his face, which was high-cheeked and emaciated to
cadaverousness. Strings of muscles showed for his calves and biceps. A
few scattered snags of teeth were visible between his withered lips. The
hollows under his cheek-bones were prodigious. While his eyes, beads of
black, deep-sunk in their sockets, burned with the wild light of a
patient in fever.
He slipped eel-like through the circle and clasped the peon in his
skeleton-like arms.
“He is my father,” proclaimed the peon proudly. “Look at him. He is pure
Maya, and he knows the secrets of the Mayas.”
And while the two re-united ones talked endless explanations, Francis
preferred his request to the sackcloth leader to find Enrico Solano and
his two sons, wandering somewhere in the mountains, and to tell them
that they were free of all claims of the law and to return home.
“They have done no wrong?” the leader demanded.
“No; they have done no wrong,” Francis assured him.
“Then it is well. I promise you to find them immediately, for we know
the direction of their wandering, and to send them down to the coast to
join you.”
“And in the meantime shall you be my guests while you wait,” the
haciendado invited eagerly. “There is a freight schooner at anchor in
Juchitan Inlet now off my plantation, and sailing for San Antonio. I can
hold her until the noble Enrico and his sons come down from the
Cordilleras.”
“And Francis will pay the demurrage, of course,” Henry interpolated with
a sly sting that Leoncia caught, although it missed Francis, who cried
joyously:
“Of course I will. And it proves my contention that a checkbook is
pretty good to have anywhere.”
To their surprise, when they had parted from the sackcloth men, the peon
and his Indian father attached themselves to the Morgans, and journeyed
down through the burning oil-fields to the plantation which had been the
scene of the peon’s slavery. Both father and son were unremitting in
their devotion, first of all to Francis, and, next, to Leoncia and
Henry. More than once they noted father and son in long and earnest
conversations; and, after Enrico and his sons had arrived, when the
party went down to the beach to board the waiting schooner, the peon and
his Maya parent followed along. Francis essayed to say farewell to them
on the beach, but the peon stated that the pair of them were likewise
journeying on the schooner.
“I have told you that I was not a poor man,” the peon explained, after
they had drawn the party aside from the waiting sailors. “This is true.
The hidden treasure of the Mayas, which the conquistadores and the
priests of the Inquisition could never find, is in my keeping. Or, to be
very true, is in my father’s keeping. He is the descendant, in the
straight line, from the ancient high priest of the Mayas. He is the last
high priest. He and I have talked much and long. And we are agreed that
riches do not make life. You bought me for two hundred and fifty pesos,
yet you made me free, gave me back to myself. The gift of a man’s life
is greater than all the treasure in the world. So are we agreed, my
father and I. And so, since it is the way of Gringos and Spaniards to
desire treasure, we will lead you to the Maya treasure, my father and I,
my father knowing the way. And the way into the mountains begins from
San Antonio and not from Juchitan.”
“Does your father know the location of the treasure?—just where it is?”
Henry demanded, with an aside to Francis that this was the very Maya
treasure that had led him to abandon the quest for Morgan’s gold on the
Calf and to take to the mainland.
The peon shook his head.
“My father has never been to it. He was not interested in it, caring not
for wealth for himself. Father, bring forth the tale written in our
ancient language which you alone of living Mayas can read.”
From within his loin-cloth the old man drew forth a dirty and
much-frayed canvas bag. Out of this he pulled what looked like a snarl
of knotted strings. But the strings were twisted sennit of some fibrous
forest bark, so ancient that they threatened to crumble as he handled
them, while from under the touch and manipulation of his fingers a fine
powder of decay arose. Muttering and mumbling prayers in the ancient
Maya tongue, he held up the snarl of knots, and bowed reverently before
it ere he shook it out.
“The knot-writing, the lost written language of the Mayas,” Henry
breathed softly. “This is the real thing, if only the old geezer hasn’t
forgotten how to read it.”
All heads bent curiously toward it as it was handed to Francis. It was
in the form of a crude tassel, composed of many thin, long strings. Not
alone were the knots, and various kinds of knots, tied at irregular
intervals in the strings, but the strings themselves were of varying
lengths and diameters. He ran them through his fingers, mumbling and
muttering.
“He reads!” cried the peon triumphantly. “All our old language is there
in those knots, and he reads them as any man may read a book.”
Bending closer to observe, Francis and Leoncia’s hair touched, and, in
the thrill of the immediately broken contact, their eyes met, producing
the second thrill as they separated. But Henry, all eagerness, did not
observe. He had eyes only for the mystic tassel.
“What d’you say, Francis?” he murmured. “It’s big! It’s big!”
“But New York is beginning to call,” Francis demurred. “Oh, not its
people and its fun, but its business,” he added hastily, as he sensed
Leoncia’s unuttered reproach and hurt. “Don’t forget, I’m mixed up in
Tampico Petroleum and the stock market, and I hate to think how many
millions are involved.”
“Hell’s bells!” Henry ejaculated. “The Maya treasure, if a tithe of what
they say about its immensity be true, could be cut three ways between
Enrico, you and me, and make each of us richer than you are now.”
Still Francis was undecided, and, while Enrico expanded on the
authenticity of the treasure, Leoncia managed to query in an undertone
in Francis’ ear:
“Have you so soon tired of ... of treasure-hunting?”
He looked at her keenly, and down at her engagement ring, as he answered
in the same low tones:
“How can I stay longer in this country, loving you as I do, while you
love Henry?”
It was the first time he had openly avowed his love, and Leoncia knew
the swift surge of joy, followed by the no less swift surge of mantling
shame that she, a woman who had always esteemed herself good, could love
two men at the same time. She glanced at Henry, as if to verify her
heart, and her heart answered yes. As truly did she love Henry as she
did Francis, and the emotion seemed similar where the two were similar,
different where they were different.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to connect up with the _Angelique_, most likely at
Bocas del Toro, and get away,” Francis told Henry. “You and Enrico can
find the treasure and split it two ways.”
But the peon, having heard, broke into quick speech with his father,
and, next, with Henry.
“You hear what he says, Francis,” the latter said, holding up the sacred
tassel. “You’ve got to go with us. It is you he feels grateful to for
his son. He isn’t giving the treasure to us, but to you. And if you
don’t go, he won’t read a knot of the writing.”
But it was Leoncia, looking at Francis with quiet wistfulness of
pleading, seeming all but to say, “Please, for my sake,” who really
caused Francis to reverse his decision.