TOLL-TAKING IN THE HUASTECA
"And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin asked him courteously,
'O, hast thou any money to spare,
For my merry men and me?'"
--_Robin Hood._
For all his campaigner's instincts, the first of Driscoll's expected
troubles came and was gone before he knew that it was trouble. It
arrived so naturally, and was so well behaved! With a stop for a bowl of
coffee at a roadside fonda, they had been traveling for perhaps five
hours, when Driscoll saw the heads of two horses and their riders over
the brush, and at a turn in the trail he found that they were coming
leisurely toward him. He observed them suspiciously, and wistfully. The
wild tropics around him had quite won his heart as peculiarly adapted to
violent amusements of a desperate tinge, far more so really than his own
Missouri woodlands. Yet thus far the uneventful tameness had depressed
him as a shameful waste of environment.
To boot all, here was this brace of villainous, well-armed Mexicans not
giving the least promise of entertainment. There was nothing to
distinguish them from the usual sun-baked rancheros of the Huasteca,
unless it were the first man's straw sombrero, the heavy silver mounting
of which must have been worth in bullion alone a fair pocketful of
pesos. There was a cord of silver hanging over the broad brim, and there
was a silver "T" on one side of the sugar loaf, an "M" on the other
side, and a Roman sword in front, and all three were linked together in
fanciful silver scrolls. But the rest of the man was wretched. His feet
were encased in the guaraches, or sandals, of a peon. One of his eyes
was so crossed that hardly more than a baleful crescent was ever
visible. The other vaquero, his companion, had no relieving trait at
all, either luxurious or strikingly evil. His breeches of raw leather
flapped loosely from the knee down, and at the sides they were slit,
revealing the dirty white of cotton calzoncillos beneath. Though the
April morning was hot, a crimson serape covered his shoulders. Both men
had pistols, and each also had a long machete two inches wide hanging
with a lariat from his saddle.
They lifted their sombreros, and he of the gorgeous one inquired if that
were Don Anastasio's outfit coming up behind. A civil answer was merest
traveler's courtesy, and Driscoll reluctantly took his cob pipe from his
mouth to reckon that they were pretty nearly correct. He might have
loaned them a thousand dollars, to judge from their gratitude, and they
made way for him by drawing off the trail entirely. Here they halted
till all the burros and horses had gone by. The muleteers in passing
them, confusedly touched their hats. Murguia, who was then in the rear,
stopped when he saw the two strangers. Driscoll looked back, but judged
from the greetings that the three were old acquaintances. The
assiduously respectful bearing of the timorous old man was to be counted
as only habitual. And when he saw one of Don Anastasio's mozos bring a
bottle and glasses, he was completely reassured, and rested like the
others of the caravan some little distance ahead.
Murguia dismissed the mozo, himself poured the cognac, and begged the
honor of drinking health and many pesetas to his two "friends." They
craved a like boon, and the clinking of the copitas followed
ceremoniously.
"I counted three hundred and sixty-eight half-bales," said he of the
crossed eye, with a head cocked sideways and tilted. The evidence was
against it, but Murguia knew well enough that the sinister crescent was
fixed on himself. "Three-sixty-eight, at half a peso each, that makes
one hundred and eighty-four pesos which Your Mercy owes us, Don
Anastasio. Add on collection charges, ten per cent.--well, with your
permission, we'll call it two hundred flat."
Don Anastasio manifested an itch for argument.
"Oh leave all that," he of the crimson serape broke in. "Why go over it
again? We are loyal imperialists, and only our lasting friendship for
you holds us from informing His Majesty's Contras how you contribute to
that arch rebel, Rodrigo Galan."
"But," weakly protested Murguia, "but who believes that Don Rodrigo
turns any of it over to the Liberal--to the rebel cause?"
"A swollen-lunged patriot like your Don Rodrigo--of course he does,
every cent," and the cross-eye took on a jocular gleam.
"Now, Senor Murguia," he of the same eye continued, "the favor of your
attention. See that 'T' on my sombrero? That's 'Tiburcio.' See that 'M'?
That's 'Maximiliano.' And that sword? That's 'Woe to the Conquered,' at
least the sombrero maker said so. Well, Don Anastasio----" and he ended
with a gesture that the poor trader saw even in his dreams, the unctuous
rubbing of fingers on the thumb.
Sadly Don Anastasio unstrapped a belt under his black vest, and counted
out in French gold the equivalent of two hundred Mexican dollars.
Don Tiburcio took the money, and observed, as in the nature of pleasant
gossip, that Don Anastasio had quite an unusual outfit this time.
Murguia took alarm immediately. "Not so large as usual, Don Tiburcio.
The crops up there----"
"Crops? No, I don't mean your cotton. I mean fine linen and muslin, and
silks, and laces--petticoats and stockings, Don Anastasio."
"They--they are Don Rodrigo's affairs, not mine."
"Enough yours for you to be anxious to deliver the goods safely, I
think. But the rate on that class of stuff is rather high. Now what do
you suppose, my esteemed compadre, Don Rodrigo would say if we had to
confiscate the consignment?"
But Don Anastasio did not need to suppose. "How much?" he whimpered.
"Well, with the American----"
"Fires of hell consume the American! Collect your tolls from him
yourself. He's no affair of anybody's."
The vaqueros laughed. "We'll throw in the American for nothing," said
Don Tiburcio generously. "Besides, to look at him, he may not be
very--tollable. But delicate dress goods now, there's a heavy duty on
them. I should say a hundred apiece." And without any seeming reference
to this revenue statement, the toll taker placed the tip of an index
finger under each ear, then pointed them lower down against his throat,
then lower again, and at the last the two fingers met in an acute angle,
significantly acute, under his chin, while the half-veiled black bead in
the outer corner of his eye had a sheen unutterably merry and malignant.
The pantomime bore a money value, for Murguia stifled his wrath, again
drew out the belt, and more Napoleons changed hands. Murguia was then
for remounting, leaving the flask of brandy with the two imperialist
emissaries, as had become his custom. But the jovial Tiburcio stopped
him. "What must you think of us, Don Anastasio?" he exclaimed
contritely. "We haven't offered you a drink yet." Murguia dared not
refuse, and he paused for the return of hospitality from his own bottle.
At last he was on his horse, when Tiburcio again called.
"I say, Don Anastasio, if you want a big return for your money"--Don
Anastasio halted instantly--"if you do, well, we ought not to say it,
being devoted to Maximiliano. But no matter, I will tell you this much,
poor old man--look after your daughter! Look after her, Don Anastasio!
We've just come from up there."
A half cry escaped the father as he jerked back his horse. He demanded
what they meant. He pleaded. But they waved him to go on, and rode away
indifferently, taking a cross trail through a stretch of timber.
Rigid, motionless, Murguia looked after them until they had disappeared.
But when they were gone, a frenzy possessed him. He turned and galloped
to his caravan, which was again moving. He did not stop till he reached
the American. "You owe me two hundred dollars," he cried. Thus his
decent emotion concerning his daughter found vent. "Two hundred, I tell
you!"
"Will you," asked Driscoll, "take 'em now, or after you tell me what I
owe 'em for?"
Murguia wavered. The simple question brought him to his senses. But he
had gone too far not to explain. Besides, his insane device for
reimbursing himself appealed to him as good. "Because--don't you know,
senor, that travelers here must pay toll? You don't? But it's true,
and--and I've just paid out two hundred pesos on Your Mercy's account."
The trooper's brown eyes flashed. "Which way did those thieves go?" he
demanded. "Quick! Which way?"
Murguia's avarice changed to trembling. He feared to tell. Driscoll
caught his bridle. "Which way, or by--by--Never mind, you'll pay toll to
me, too! I'll just learn this toll-taking trade myself."
Murguia saw a six-shooter sliding out. "You also!" he cried.
"Also?" laughed Driscoll. "There, I knew it, they were robbers."
He wheeled and rode back with the fury of a cavalry charge, heedless of
Murguia's cries to stop by all the saints, heedless of the saints too.
Murguia did not care what happened to his guest, but he cared for what
might happen to himself, afterward, at the hands of Don Tiburcio and
partner. He frantically called out that he was jesting, that Driscoll
owed him nothing. But Driscoll had already turned into the side trail,
and was following the hoof prints there. Murguia could hear the furious
crackling of twigs as he raced through the timber. But in a little while
he heard and saw nothing.
"He's a centaur, that country boy," observed Jacqueline critically. "The
identical break-neck Centaur himself. Really, Berthe, I think we shall
have to dub him Monsieur the Chevalier. Why Berthe, how pale you are!"
"I? Oh, mademoiselle, is there any danger?"
"Danger, child? Nonsense!"
"But what made him do that, that way?"
"Poor simple babe! That was a pose. Our mule driver knows he can ride,
but we did not. And there you are."
"But the little monsieur, he looks like a ghost?"
Jacqueline laughed. "That, I admit, is not a pose. With the little
monsieur, it's become--constitutional."
A half-hour later they heard an easy canter behind them, and Din
Driscoll reappeared, flushed and happy as a boy pounding in first from a
foot race. His left hand covered the bowl of his cob pipe from the wind,
the other held his slouch hat doubled up by the brim. As for bridle
hand, old Demijohn needed none. Driscoll seized Murguia's silk tile and
poured into it from the slouch a shimmering stream of coin and a mass of
crumpled paper.
"To be robbed while I'm along, now that makes me _mad_," he said.
"You won't tell anybody, will you, Murgie?"
The old man did not hear. His palsied hands were dipping down, dipping
down, bathing themselves in the deep silk hat. The hat was heavy with
gold and silver pesos, and foaming with bills.
"Greenbacks, Confederate notes," he mumbled. "Some I've paid
before--only, lately, the rascals won't take anything but coin."
"Why's that, Murgie?"
"Why, because these green things are not worth much now, while these
gray ones"--he fingered them contemptuously--"would not, would not buy a
drunkard's pardon from our cheapest magistrate."
The slur on Mexican justice only emphasized his scorn of the Confederate
notes.
"Give 'em here!" Driscoll snatched them from the yellow, desecrating
fingers. "These here are promises," he muttered, "and we've been
fighting for four years to make them good. For four years, even the
children and old men, and--yes, and the women folks back of us!"
The impulsive mood carried him further. He counted and pocketed the
despised notes. Then from an humble tobacco pouch he sorted out a number
of British sovereigns, and flung them into Murguia's hat.
"Prob'bly my last blow for them promises," he murmured to himself.
Meantime a burro back of them had become possessed of an idea, which for
some reason necessitated his halting stock still directly across the
trail to think it over. The caravan behind stopped also, while the
arrieros snorted "Ar-re!" and "Bur-ro!" through their noses, and prodded
the beast. Jacqueline lost patience. She touched her horse, which
bounded out of the trail and galloped past the outfit almost to Driscoll
and Murguia. So she had seen the exchange of money and she had heard.
She looked thoughtfully at the trooper's straight line of back and
shoulder.
"Monsieur the Chevalier," she murmured softly, as though trying the
sound of the words for the fast time. She would have supposed that none
but a Frenchman could have done that.
As to Don Anastasio, the Quixotic redemption in specie was beyond him
entirely. He gave it up. The counting of discs was more tangible to his
philosophy. His rusty black tile, so wondrously become a cornucopia of
wealth, had by that same magic upset the old fellow into a kind of
hysterical gaiety, which was most elfish and uncanny. He motioned
Driscoll to ride faster.
"Ai, ai, mi coronel," he cackled, when they were gone out of hearing,
"you talk of bandits! Ai, ai, Dios mio, _you_ have robbed
_them_!"
"What the devil----"
"Si senor, robbed _them_! A-di-o-dio-dios! here's more than they
took from me!"
"N-o?" said Driscoll in dismay. "Gracious, I hadn't any time to count
money when I searched 'em!"
"You!--searched Don Tiburcio?"
"Why not? Isn't he a thief?"
"But--he permitted----"
"W'y yes, they both let me, I had the drop. But they got indignant and
called me a thief--I believe they'd of called a policeman if there'd
been one handy, or even---- Now what," he exclaimed, "what ails the old
bare-bones now?"
The senile mirth had left the trader's face, and his olive skin was
ashen. "Next time," he moaned, "next time, Santa Maria, they will be in
force and they--they will take the very horse from under me!"
"Tough luck," Driscoll observed.
Murguia darted at him a look in which there was all the old hate, and
more added. But it disturbed the trooper as little as ever. "Come," he
said, "own up. You knew we were going to meet those fellows?" Murguia
said nothing. "Of course you knew. But why didn't you change your route,
seeing you're too high-minded to fight?--What's that?--Oh that voice!
Dive for it, man!"
"I, I couldn't change on account of my passport."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"In the passport I declare the route I take."
"I see, and you can't change it afterward?"
"No."
"Now look here, Murgie, have you got any more of these dates on?--Yes?
No?--Murgie, if you don't dive, by----"
Murguia dove, and denied with eagerness that he had any further
toll-paying appointments. But Driscoll reckoned that he was lying.
"And," he added, "we are going to change our route, passport or no
passport. We'll take--let's see--yes, we'll take the very next
crosstrail going in the same general direction."
Murguia's alarm at the proposal belied his former denial. The law
required him to follow the course laid down in his passport, but he
feared the law less than the disappointment of road agents. Don
Tiburcio's receipt protected him from those controlled by Don Tiburcio.
But Tiburcio was not powerful, except in blackmail. Murguia paid him
lest he inform the government of tribute also paid to Don Rodrigo. Now
Rodrigo Galan was powerful. His band infested the Huasteca. He called
himself a Liberal and a patriot, and he really believed it too. But he
also declared that the tolls he collected went to the revolutionary
cause, which declaration, however, even he could hardly have believed.
Don Rodrigo gave receipts, and his receipts were alleged guarantee
against other molestation, since he controlled the highway more
thoroughly than ranger patrols had ever done. But lately a competitor
had appeared in the brush, and he was that humorous scoundrel, Don
Tiburcio of the crossed eye. Goaded near to apoplexy by the double
tolls, Murguia had once ventured to upbraid Don Rodrigo with breach of
contract. There was no longer immunity in the roadmaster's receipts, he
whined. Then the robber chief had scowled with the brow of Jove, and
hurled dreadful oaths. "You pay an Imperialista!" he stormed in lofty
indignation. "You give funds to put down your struggling, starving
compatriots! So, senor, this is the love you bear your country!"
It was a touching harangue, and the remorse-stricken trader ever after
denied that he even saw Don Tiburcio, at which times a queer smile would
supplant Don Rodrigo's black frown.
It was this same Don Rodrigo who had been reported as slain by
Jacqueline's Fra Diavolo. But Driscoll, not having heard of his death,
was quite ready to expect more brigands. He insisted, therefore, on
changing trails.
"The Senor Coronel is most valiant," sneered Murguia.
"So darned much so, Murgie, that I want to dodge 'em."
But his struggle against temptation was evident. He glanced back at the
two women and again denounced the unfamiliar feminine element in men's
affairs. To avoid the brigandage encounter took more of manhood than Don
Anastasio might imagine in a lifetime.
But they had not followed their new route five minutes before Murguia
was again at the trooper's side. An "I-told-you-so" smirk hovered on his
pinched visage. "Segundino has gone," he announced.
"So Segundino has gone?" Driscoll repeated. "Well, and who's Segundino?"
"He's one of my muleteers, but now I know he is a spy too. He will tell
the bri--if there are brigands--where to meet us." Murguia was thinking,
too, of their reproachful increase on collection charges for the extra
trouble.
"Then," said Driscoll, "we'll go back to our old trail," which they did
at once. Soon after he was not surprised to hear from Murguia that "this
time it was Juan who had disappeared."
"Didn't I tell you to set a close watch?"
"Y-e-s, but what was the use? He slipped into the brush, and," the
trader complained, "I can't spare any more drivers."
"Don't need to. We'll just keep this trail now."