Not until the day following his escape from the subterranean river, did
Torres reach San Antonio. He arrived on foot, jaded and dirty, a small
Indian boy at his heels carrying the helmet of Da Vasco. For Torres
wanted to show the helmet to the Jefe and the Judge in evidence of the
narrative of strange adventure he chuckled to tell them.
First on the main street he encountered the Jefe, who cried out loudly
at his appearance.
“Is it truly you, Senor Torres?” The Jefe crossed himself solemnly ere
he shook hands.
The solid flesh, and, even more so, the dirt and grit of the other’s
hand, convinced the Jefe of reality and substance.
Whereupon the Jefe became wrathful.
“And here I’ve been looking upon you as dead!” he exclaimed. “That Caroo
dog of a José Mancheno! He came back and reported you dead——dead and
buried until the Day of Judgment in the heart of the Maya Mountain.”
“He is a fool, and I am possibly the richest man in Panama,” Torres
replied grandiosely. “At least, like the ancient and heroic
conquistadores, I have braved all dangers and penetrated to the
treasure. I have seen it. Nay——”
Torres’ hand had been sunk into his trousers’ pocket to bring forth the
filched gems of the Lady Who Dreams; but he withdrew the hand empty. Too
many curious eyes of the street were already centered upon him and the
draggled figure he cut.
“I have much to say to you,” he told the Jefe, “that cannot well be said
now. I have knocked on the doors of the dead and worn the shrouds of
corpses. And I have consorted with men four centuries dead but who were
not dust, and I have beheld them drown in the second death. I have gone
through mountains, as well as over them, and broken bread with lost
souls, and gazed into the Mirror of the World. All of which I shall tell
you, my best friend, and the honorable Judge, in due time, for I shall
make you rich along with me.”
“Have you looked upon the pulque when it was sour?” the Jefe quipped
incredulously.
“I have not had drink stronger than water since I last departed from San
Antonio,” was the reply. “And I shall go now to my house and drink a
long long drink, and after that I shall bathe the filth from me, and put
on garments whole and decent.”
Not immediately, as he proceeded, did Torres gain his house. A ragged
urchin exclaimed out at sight of him, ran up to him, and handed him an
envelope that he knew familiarly to be from the local government
wireless, and that he was certain had been sent by Regan.
_You are doing well. Imperative you keep party away from New York
for three weeks more. Fifty thousand if you succeed._
Borrowing a pencil from the boy, Torres wrote a reply on the back of the
envelope:
_Send the money. Party will never come back from mountains where he
is lost._
Two other occurrences delayed Torres’ long drink and bath. Just as he
was entering the jewelry store of old Rodriguez Fernandez, he was
intercepted by the old Maya priest with whom he had last parted in the
Maya mountain. He recoiled as from an apparition, for sure he was that
the old man was drowned in the Room of the Gods. Like the Jefe at sight
of Torres, so Torres, at sight of the priest, drew back in startled
surprise.
“Go away,” he said. “Depart, restless old man. You are a spirit. Thy
body lies drowned and horrible in the heart of the mountain. You are an
appearance, a ghost. Go away, nothing corporeal resides in this illusion
of you, else would I strike you. You are a ghost. Depart at once. I
should not like to strike a ghost.”
But the ghost seized his hands and clung to them with such beseeching
corporality as to unconvince him.
“Money,” the ancient one babbled. “Let me have money. Lend me money. I
will repay——I who know the secrets of the Maya treasure. My son is lost
in the mountain with the treasure. The Gringos also are lost in the
mountain. Help me to rescue my son. With him alone will I be satisfied,
while the treasure shall all be yours. But we must take men, and much of
the white man’s wonderful powder and tear a hole out of the mountain so
that the water will run away. He is not drowned. He is a prisoner of the
water in the room where stand the jewel-eyed Chia and Hzatzl. Their eyes
of green and red alone will pay for all the wonderful powder in the
world. So let me have the money with which to buy the wonderful powder.”
But Alvarez Torres was a strangely constituted man. Some warp or slant
or idiosyncrasy of his nature always raised insuperable obstacles to his
parting with money when such parting was unavoidable. And the richer he
got the more positively this idiosyncrasy asserted itself.
“Money!” he asserted harshly, as he thrust the old priest aside and
pulled open the door of Fernandez’s store. “Is it I who should have
money—. I who am all rags and tatters as a beggar. I have no money for
myself, much less for you, old man. Besides, it was you, and not I, who
led your son to the Maya mountain. On your head be it, not on mine, the
death of your son who fell into the pit under the feet of Chia that was
digged by your ancestors and not by mine.”
Again the ancient one clutched at him and yammered for money with which
to buy dynamite. So roughly did Torres thrust him aside that his old
legs failed to perform their wonted duty and he fell upon the
flagstones.
The shop of Rodriguez Fernandez was small and dirty, and contained
scarcely more than a small and dirty showcase that rested upon an
equally small and dirty counter. The place was grimy with the undusted
and unswept filth of a generation. Lizards and cockroaches crawled along
the walls. Spiders webbed in every corner, and Torres saw, crossing the
ceiling above, what made him step hastily to the side. It was a
seven-inch centipede which he did not care to have fall casually upon
his head or down his back between shirt and skin. And, when he appeared
crawling out like a huge spider himself from some inner den of an
unventilated cubicle, Fernandez looked like an Elizabethan
stage-representation of Shylock——withal he was a dirtier Shylock than
even the Elizabethan stage could have stomached.
The jeweler fawned to Torres and in a cracked falsetto humbled himself
even beneath the dirt of his shop. Torres pulled from his pocket a
haphazard dozen or more of the gems filched from the Queen’s chest,
selected the smallest, and, without a word, while at the same time
returning the rest to his pocket, passed it over to the jeweler.
“I am a poor man,” he cackled, the while Torres could not fail to see
how keenly he scrutinised the gem.
He dropped it on the top of the show case as of little worth, and looked
inquiringly at his customer. But Torres waited in a silence which he
knew would compel the garrulity of covetous age to utterance.
“Do I understand that the honorable Senor Torres seeks advice about the
quality of the stone?” the old jeweler finally quavered.
Torres did no more than nod curtly.
“It is a natural gem. It is small. It, as you can see for yourself, is
not perfect. And it is clear that much of it will be lost in the
cutting.”
“How much is it worth?” Torres demanded with impatient bluntness.
“I am a poor man,” Fernandez reiterated.
“I have not asked you to buy it, old fool. But now that you bring the
matter up, how much will you give for it?”
“As I was saying, craving your patience, honorable senor, as I was
saying, I am a very poor man. There are days when I cannot spend ten
centavos for a morsel of spoiled fish. There are days when I cannot
afford a sip of the cheap red wine I learned was tonic to my system when
I was a lad, far from Barcelona, serving my apprenticeship in Italy. I
am so very poor that I do not buy costly pretties——”
“Not to sell again at a profit?” Torres cut in.
“If I am sure of my profit,” the old man cackled. “Yes, then will I buy;
but, being poor, I cannot pay more than little.” He picked up the gem
and studied it long and carefully. “I would give,” he began
hesitatingly, “I would give——but, please, honorable senor, know that I
am a very poor man. This day only a spoonful of onion soup, with my
morning coffee and a mouthful of crust, passed my lips——”
“In God’s name, old fool, what will you give?” Torres thundered.
“Five hundred dollars—but I doubt the profit that will remain to me.”
“Gold?”
“Mex.,” came the reply, which cut the offer in half and which Torres
knew was a lie. “Of course, Mex., only Mex., all our transactions are in
Mex.”
Despite his elation at so large a price for so small a gem, Torres
play-acted impatience as he reached to take back the gem. But the old
man jerked his hand away, loath to let go of the bargain it contained.
“We are old friends,” he cackled shrilly. “I first saw you, when, a boy,
you came to San Antonio from Boca del Toros. And, as between old
friends, we will say the sum is gold.”
And Torres caught a sure but vague glimpse of the enormousness, as well
as genuineness, of the Queen’s treasure which at some remote time the
Lost Souls had ravished from its hiding place in the Maya Mountain.
“Very good,” said Torres, with a quick, cavalier action recovering the
stone. “It belongs to a friend of mine. He wanted to borrow money from
me on it. I can now lend him up to five hundred gold on it, thanks to
your information. And I shall be grateful to buy for you, the next time
we meet in the pulqueria, a drink—yes, as many drinks as you can care to
carry—of the thin, red, tonic wine.”
And as Torres passed out of the shop, not in any way attempting to hide
the scorn and contempt he felt for the fool he had made of the jeweler,
he knew elation in that Fernandez, the Spanish fox, must have cut his
estimate of the gem’s value fully in half when he uttered it.
* * * * *
In the meanwhile, descending the Gualaca River by canoe, Leoncia, the
Queen, and the two Morgans, had made better time than Torres to the
coast. But ere their arrival and briefly pending it, a matter of moment
that was not appreciated at the time, had occurred at the Solano
hacienda. Climbing the winding pathway to the hacienda, accompanied by a
decrepit old crone whose black shawl over head and shoulders could not
quite hide the lean and withered face of blasted volcanic fire, came as
strange a caller as the hacienda had ever received.
He was a Chinaman, middle-aged and fat, whose moon-face beamed the
beneficent good nature that seems usual with fat persons. By name, Yi
Poon, meaning “the Cream of the Custard Apple,” his manners were as
softly and richly oily as his name. To the old crone, who tottered
beside him and was half-supported by him, he was the quintessence of
gentleness and consideration. When she faltered from sheer physical
weakness and would have fallen, he paused and gave her chance to gain
strength and breath. Thrice, at such times, on the climb to the
hacienda, he fed her a spoonful of French brandy from a screw-cap pocket
flask.
Seating the old woman in a selected, shady corner of the piazza, Yi Poon
boldly knocked for admittance at the front door. To him, and in his
business, back-stairs was the accustomed way; but his business and his
wit had taught him the times when front entrances were imperative.
The Indian maid who answered his knock, took his message into the living
room where sat the disconsolate Enrico Solano among his
sons—disconsolate at the report Ricardo had brought in of the loss of
Leoncia in the Maya Mountain. The Indian maid returned to the door. The
Senor Solano was indisposed and would see nobody, was her report, humbly
delivered, even though the recipient was a Chinese.
“Huh!” observed Yi Poon, with braggart confidence for the purpose of
awing the maid to carrying a second message. “I am no coolie. I am smart
Chinaman. I go to school plenty much. I speak Spanish. I speak English.
I write Spanish. I write English. See—I write now in Spanish for the
Senor Solano. You cannot write, so you cannot read what I write. I write
that I am Yi Poon. I belong Colon. I come this place to see Senor
Solano. Big business. Much important. Very secret. I write all this here
on paper which you cannot read.”
But he did not say that he had further written:
“_The Senorita Solano. I have great secret._”
It was Alesandro, the eldest of the tall sons of Solano, who evidently
had received the note, for he came bounding to the door, far
outstripping the returning maid.
“Tell me your business!” he almost shouted at the fat Chinese. “What is
it? Quick!”
“Very good business,” was the reply, Yi Poon noting the other’s
excitement with satisfaction. “I make much money. I buy—what you
call—secrets. I sell secrets. Very nice business.”
“What do you know about the Senorita Solano?” Alesandro shouted,
gripping him by the shoulder.
“Everything. Very important information——”
But Alesandro could no longer control himself. He almost hurled the
Chinaman into the house, and, not relaxing his grip, rushed him on into
the living room and up to Enrico.
“He has news of Leoncia!” Alesandro shouted.
“Where is she?” Enrico and his sons shouted in chorus.
Hah!—was Yi Poon’s thought. Such excitement, although it augured well
for his business, was rather exciting for him as well.
Mistaking his busy thinking for fright, Enrico stilled his sons back
with an upraised hand, and addressed the visitor quietly.
“Where is she?” Enrico asked.
Hah!—thought Yi Poon. The senorita was lost. That was a new secret. It
might be worth something some day, or any day. A nice girl, of high
family and wealth such as the Solanos, lost in a Latin-American country,
was information well worth possessing. Some day she might be
married—there was that gossip he had heard in Colon—and some later day
she might have trouble with her husband or her husband have trouble with
her——at which time, she or her husband, it mattered not which, might be
eager to pay high for the secret.
“This Senorita Leoncia,” he said, finally, with sleek suavity. “She is
not your girl. She has other papa and mama.”
But Enrico’s present grief at her loss was too great to permit
startlement at this explicit statement of an old secret.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Though it is not known outside my family, I adopted
her when she was a baby. It is strange that you should know this. But I
am not interested in having you tell me what I have long since known.
What I want to know now is: _where is she now_?”
Yi Poon gravely and sympathetically shook his head.
“That is different secret,” he explained. “Maybe I find that secret.
Then I sell it to you. But I have old secret. You do not know the name
of the Senorita Leoncia’s papa and mama. I know.”
And old Enrico Solano could not hide his interest at the temptation of
such information.
“Speak,” he commanded. “Name the names, and prove them, and I shall
reward.”
“No,” Yi Poon shook his head. “Very poor business. I no do business that
way. You pay me I tell you. My secrets good secrets. I prove my secrets.
You give me five hundred pesos and big expenses from Colon to San
Antonio and back to Colon and I tell you name of papa and mama.”
Enrico Solano bowed acquiescence, and was just in the act of ordering
Alesandro to go and fetch the money, when the quiet, spirit-subdued
Indian maid created a diversion. Running into the room and up to Enrico
as they had never seen her run before, she wrung her hands and wept so
incoherently that they knew her paroxysm was of joy, not of sadness.
“The Senorita!” she was finally able to whisper hoarsely, as she
indicated the side piazza with a nod of head and glance of eyes. “The
Senorita!”
And Yi Poon and his secret were forgotten. Enrico and his sons streamed
out to the side piazza to behold Leoncia and the Queen and the two
Morgans, dropping dust-covered off the backs of riding mules
recognizable as from the pastures of the mouth of the Gualaca River. At
the same time two Indian man-servants, summoned by the maid, cleared the
house and grounds of the fat Chinaman and his old crone of a companion.
“Come some other time,” they told him. “Just now the Senor Solano is
very importantly busy.”
“Sure, I come some other time,” Yi Poon assured them pleasantly, without
resentment and without betrayal of the disappointment that was his at
his deal interrupted just ere the money was paid into his hand.
But he departed reluctantly. The place was good for his business. It was
sprouting secrets. Never was there a riper harvest in Canaan out of
which, sickle in hand, a husbandman was driven! Had it not been for the
zealous Indian attendants, Yi Poon would have darted around the corner
of the hacienda to note the newcomers. As it was, half way down the
hill, finding the weight of the crone too fatiguing, he put into her the
life and ability to carry her own weight a little farther by feeding her
a double teaspoonful of brandy from his screw-top flask.
Enrico swept Leoncia off her mule ere she could dismount, so
passionately eager was he to fold her in his arms. For several minutes
ensued naught but noisy Latin affection as her brothers all strove to
greet and embrace her at once. When they recollected themselves, Francis
had already helped the Lady Who Dreams from her mount, and beside her,
her hand in his, was waiting recognition.
“This is my wife,” Francis told Enrico. “I went into the Cordilleras
after treasure, and behold what I found. Was there ever better fortune?”
“And she sacrificed a great treasure herself,” Leoncia murmured bravely.
“She was queen of a little kingdom,” Francis added, with a grateful and
admiring flash of eyes to Leoncia, who quickly added:
“And she saved all our lives but sacrificed her little kingdom in so
doing.”
And Leoncia, in an exaltation of generousness, put her arm around the
Queen’s waist, took her away from Francis, and led the way into the
hacienda.