The Mystery of The Barranca Part 18

CHAPTER XV

As a matter of fact, Don Luis knew even less than Seyd of the real reason behind his niece's departure. Like many another and much more important event, it was brought about by the simplest of causes, which went back to the afternoon when, on her arrival at San Nicolas, Francesca found Sebastien waiting there with the news of his mother's illness.

First in the sequence of cause and effect which sent her away stands Seyd's five-peso note; next, Pancho, Sebastien's _mozo_, for the conjunction of these two gave birth to the event. Ordinarily, that is, when in full possession of his simple wits, Tomas, Francesca's _mozo_, would have suffered crucifixion in her cause, and had he chosen any other than Pancho to a.s.sist in the trans.m.u.tation of Seyd's note into alcohol at the San Nicolas wine shop the process would have been accomplished without damage to aught but his own head. But when in the cause of their tipplings Pancho began to enlarge on the benefits that would follow to all from the blending of their respective houses by marriage Tomas began to writhe under the itch of secret and superior knowledge. From knowing winks he progressed to mysterious hints, and finally ended with a clean confession of all he had seen that afternoon.

"But this is not to be spoken of, _hombre_," he warned Pancho, with solemn hiccoughs, at the close. "By the grave of thy father, let not even a whisper forth."

As being less difficult to find in a country where parenthood is more easily traced on the feminine side, Pancho swore to it by the grave of his mother. But, though he added thereto those of his aunts, grandmother, and entire female line, the combined weight still failed to balance such astonishing news. Inflamed by thoughts of the prestige he would gain in his master's sight, he moderated his potations. After he had seen Tomas comfortably bestowed under the _cantina_ table he carried the tale straight to Sebastien's room.

In this, however, he showed more zeal than discretion, for in lieu of the expected prestige he got a blow in the mouth which laid him out in a manner convenient for the quirting of his life. Not until Sebastien's arm tired did he gain permission to retire, whimpering, to his straw in the stable; and next morning both he and Tomas trembled for their lives when Sebastien arraigned them before him.

"Listen, dogs!" He struck them with his whip across their faces. "For this piece of lying the tongues of you both should be pulled out by the roots. If I spare you it is because until now you have both been faithful servants. But remember!" He swore to it with an oath so frightfully sacrilegious that both shrank in antic.i.p.ation of a bolt from the skies. "But remember! If ever, drunk or sober, there proceeds out of either of you one further word 'twill surely be done."

Leaving them shaking, he pa.s.sed out and on upstairs to the patio where Francesca was sitting, with Roberta at her knees, in the shade of the _corredor's_ green arches. The drone of hummers, fluting of birds in the patio garden set her soft musings to pleasant music, and she looked up with sudden vexation at the jangle of his spurs.

"So this is the child that we have renamed in his honor?"

Last night they had parted better friends than usual, for out of the pity bred of her own realized love she had done her best to please him.

Love had also sharpened her naturally sensitive perceptions. Divining his knowledge from the concentrated anger of his look, she rose, instinctively nerving herself for the encounter.

"Just so." He divined, in turn, her feeling. "Between those who understand words are wasted. Send the child away."

As he said "understand" a surge of pa.s.sion wiped out the weary lines left by a night of hate. But while the child was pa.s.sing along the corridor he controlled it and became his usual sardonic self. He was beginning "Thanks to the excellent Tomas--" when she interrupted with an angry gesture.

"Then it _was_ he! I'll have him--"

"_Caramba!_" He shrugged. "What a heat! But easy--do not blame Tomas for your gringo's fault. What else could you expect from a peon that found himself enriched at a stroke? The wonder is that he did not proclaim his news from your topmost wall. Be content that he will never whisper one word again."

"You didn't--" she began, alarmed now for her servant.

"No. Pancho, to whom he told it, I flogged for the liar he now thinks Tomas, and Tomas--is trembling for his tongue. Except between us the matter is dead. Yet Tomas served his purpose. Thanks to him, we may now pa.s.s words and come to terms."

"Terms?" She faltered it after a silence.

"Terms!" he repeated, gravely. "That is, if you would save your gringo alive. Supposing this were to escape to the good uncle? Soft as he has been with these gringos of late, supposing that he were to hear of both this and that other night in the hut, how long, think you, would the man last?"

Her eyes told. After a pause her mouth opened with a small gasp.

"You--oh! you will not?"

"Not if you obey. Now see you, Francesca." He dropped into a tone of grave confidence which was really winning. "If I had not known that his death at my hands would place you forever beyond me the man had never seen the dawn of another day. Whether he sees its setting depends on you. If you will go with my mother to Europe--"

"_Si_--if--I--go?" It issued between pauses of pain after a long silence.

"He lives. I will even protect him till he arrives at the end of his fool's rope."

"And--then?"

"There will be no 'then.' I know these gringos. They will disappear like their vanishing gold."

Her slight flush indicated defiant unbelief. But knowing that this was in deadly earnest, that Seyd's life hung by a hair, she let him go on.

"Let there be no misunderstanding. I shall require your promise, on the word of a Garcia, not to attempt communication." He added, turning away, perhaps in pity for the misery of her face: "There is no hurry. Take time to think it over--an hour, two if you wish."

He could easily afford, too, the concession, for her love was playing into his hands. None knew better than she that a contrary answer would make of Seyd an Ishmaelite with every man's hand raised against his life. He could never escape. With that dread fact staring her in the face she could give but one answer; and while, later, she spent hours pacing her bedroom in restless strivings to find a way out, she reached her decision before he gained the end of the gallery.

"I will go."

CHAPTER XVI

"Really, I don't know what to make of it. That last car load of machinery rusted for a month in the damp heat of the Tehuantepec tropics before we got it traced. It has happened so often now that I'm almost tempted to suspect a design."

Seyd's complaint to Peters, the agent, nearly a year later summed the exasperating experiences which had r.e.t.a.r.ded the building of the new smelter. Beginning before the end of the last flood, the failure in deliveries had multiplied as the work of construction proceeded, until it seemed to Seyd that his material had been distributed on a thousand side tracks by an impartial hand. While two high-priced American mechanics had spent their expensive leisure shooting and fishing he had spent most of his own time tracing the shipments, and now, with the rains almost due again, another month would be required to finish the work.

"You have sure had your share of bad luck." While sympathizing with him, Peters discouraged the idea of premeditation. "You don't know these Mexican roads. Our charter calls for the employment of sixty-five per cent. of Mexican help, and, if you'll believe me, that means six hundred per-cent. of inefficiency. Take this _mozo_ of mine. He's been with me six years. But, though I show him the correct way to do a thing a thousand times, the moment my back is turned he'll go at it in some fool wrong-headed way of his own. The wonder to me is not, that your freight goes wrong, but that it ever arrives. Nevertheless, you've had, as I say, your fill of bad luck. If I were you I'd just jump the up train--she's due in twenty minutes--and call on the general traffic manager in Mexico City. He can do more for you in five minutes than I can in ten days."

It was sound advice. Quick always to perceive advantage, Seyd answered, "Give me a ticket."

Because of his isolation, the agent's wells of speech were always br.i.m.m.i.n.g, and while waiting for the train he delivered himself of several pieces of news. "By the way, Don Luis went up yesterday to lodge a protest with the government against the dam a gringo company is building across the valley fifty miles north of San Nicolas. It is located just below the Barranca de Tigres, a canon that drains all the watershed west of the volcano. They have cloudbursts up there, and when one lets go--well, old Noah's deluge isn't in it. When I was hunting jaguar in the canon a couple of years ago I saw watermarks a hundred and fifty feet up the mountainside. Boulders big as churches were piled up in the bed of the stream like pebbles, and if that dam was built of solid concrete instead of clay they'd go through it like it was dough.

Though I'd be the last man to go back on my own folks, I'm bound to confess that we do carry some things with a bit too high a hand. If that dam ever breaks, the wave will sweep the barranca clean between its walls. But, Lordy! that won't cut any figure with the paint-eaters that hedge in Diaz. To secure a rake-off they'd see all Guerrero drown, and I'm doubting that the General's kick will do any good."

Seyd nodded. "No, the times are against him--both in this and his other efforts to hold back civilization. So far, he and Sebastien have succeeded pretty well in checking it here in Guerrero. But it is creeping in around them--some day will flow over their heads. They might as well stand in the path of a barranca flood."

The naming of Sebastien brought the second piece of news. "That reminds me--you almost had him for a fellow traveler. I forwarded a cable message last night that his mother had died in France. I rather thought that he'd be in for this train."

"Then she is coming back?"

Seyd meant Francesca. But Peters misunderstood. "Yes, they've shipped her by a German line that runs to Havana and Vera Cruz. By mistake the cable was sent to another Rocha somewhere up in Sinaloa, and, being a Mexican, he slept on it a week before replying that his mother was there, quite lively and frisky at home. So it arrived here ten days late--long enough to put Miss Francesca and her mother into Vera Cruz.

Yes, the senora was there--had just joined them--luckily, for death is too grim a thing for a young girl to face by herself." Just then the train drew into the station, and as Seyd climbed on, he added: "If you could find time to pa.s.s the word on to Don Luis he'd surely appreciate it. He puts up at the Iturbide."

Seyd's nod was purely automatic, for the news had loosed once more bitter tides which had lain dormant these last few months under the weight of his business cares. Unconscious, too, of the import that events would presently give to such apparently trivial consent, he nodded again when Peters asked permission to look through a batch of American papers which had come for him by yesterday's mail.

For that matter, it would have been difficult to discern anything unusual or alarming in the spectacle of Peters as he sat in his office after the departure of the train, heels on the table and chair comfortably tilted, while he slit, one after the other, the covers of Seyd's papers. Yet while he smoked and read his way down through the pile he unconsciously but surely prepared the way for the event which was approaching at the top speed of Sebastien's horse. Had he read, or Sebastien ridden, a little faster or slower things had gone differently.

But, just as though it had been predoomed and destined, eyes and hoofs kept perfect time. Just as Peters opened Seyd's Albuquerque paper Sebastien walked in.

"Left--an hour ago." Yawning, Peters laid down the Albuquerque paper on top of the pile, and as the train usually ran from two to twelve hours late three hundred and sixty-five days in the year he lent a sympathetic ear to Sebastien's vitriolic curses.

"I can wire for a special," he suggested. "They could send an engine and car down from Cuernavaca in little more than an hour."

"If you will be so kind, senor."

In all Guerrero, Peters was the one gringo with whom Sebastien was on speaking terms, and he now accepted both a cigar and a paper to while away the time. After one glance had shown it to be a gringo sheet he would have cast it aside, but the one word "Mexico!" in scare heads caught his eye. Setting forth the international complications that were likely to come from the lynching of a Mexican in Arizona, it held his interest. He not only read it to the bottom of the column, but followed over to the next page, upon which heavy ink lines had been scored around a local article.

As the heading caught his eye he started, looked again, then bent over the paper and read to the end. For a few seconds thereafter he sat thinking. A stealthy glance showed Peters at the key clicking off the call for the special. Quietly folding the paper, he slid it beneath his coat.