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 70other 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. MurguÍa, 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.

MurguÍa 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 71he of the crossed eye, with a head cocked sideways and tilted. The evidence was against it, but MurguÍa 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 GalÁn.”

“But,” weakly protested MurguÍa, “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, SeÑor MurguÍa,” 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.

MurguÍa took alarm immediately. “Not so large as usual, Don Tiburcio. The crops up there––”

72“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 MurguÍa stifled his wrath, again drew out the belt, and more Napoleons changed hands. MurguÍa 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.” MurguÍa dared not refuse, and he paused for the return of hospitality from his 73own 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, MurguÍa 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?”

MurguÍa 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, seÑor, 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?”

MurguÍa’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.”

74MurguÍa 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 MurguÍa’s cries to stop by all the saints, heedless of the saints too. MurguÍa 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. MurguÍa 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 MurguÍa’s silk tile and poured into it from the slouch a shimmering stream of coin and a mass of crumpled paper.

75“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 MurguÍa’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 76and MurguÍa. 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 seÑor, 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 MarÍa, they will be in force and they–they will take the very horse from under me!”

“Tough luck,” Driscoll observed.

77MurguÍa 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?” MurguÍa 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––”

MurguÍa 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.”

MurguÍa’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. MurguÍa paid him lest he inform the government of tribute also paid to Don Rodrigo. Now Rodrigo GalÁn 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 78highway 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, MurguÍa 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, seÑor, 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 SeÑor Coronel is most valiant,” sneered MurguÍa.

“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 MurguÍa 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.” 79MurguÍa 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 MurguÍa 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.”