The Desert Trail
"Gee, what a burg!" raved Phil. "Say, there's some class to this – what? If I mistake not, we'll be able to find a few congenial spirits here to help us spend our money. Talk about a company town! I'll bet you their barroom is full of Americans. There's the corral down below – let's ride by and leave our horses and see what's the price of drinks. They can't faze me, whatever it is – we doubled our money at the line."
Financially considered, they had done just that – for, for every American dollar in their pockets they could get two that were just as good, except for the picture on the side. This in itself was a great inducement for a ready spender and, finding good company at the Fortuna hotel bar, Phil bought five dollars' worth of drinks, threw down a five-dollar bill, and got back five dollars – Mex.
The proprietor, a large and jovial boniface, pulled off this fiscal miracle with the greatest good humor and then, having invited them to partake of a very exquisite mixture of his own invention, propped himself upon his elbows across the bar and inquired with an ingenuous smile:
"Well, which away are you boys traveling, if I may ask?"
"Oh, down below a ways," answered De Lancey, who always constituted himself the board of strategy. "Just rambling around a little – how's the country around here now?"
"Oh, quiet, quiet!" assured their host. "These Mexicans don't like the cold weather much – they would freeze, you know, if it was not for that zarape which they wind about them so!"
He made a motion as of a native wrapping his entire wardrobe about his neck and smiled, and De Lancey knew that he was no Mexican. And yet that soft "which away" of his betrayed a Spanish tongue.
"Ah, excuse me," he said, taking quick advantage of his guess, "but from the way you pronounce that word 'zarape' I take it that you speak Spanish."
"No one better," replied the host, smiling pleasurably at being taken at his true worth, "since I was born in the city of Burgos, where they speak the true Castilian. It is a different language, believe me, from this bastard Mexican tongue. And do you speak Spanish also?" he inquired, falling back into the staccato of Castile.
"No, indeed!" protested De Lancey in a very creditable imitation; "nothing but a little Mexican, to get along with the natives. My friend and I are mining men, passing through the country, and we speak the best we can. How is this district here for work along our line?"
"None better!" cried the Spaniard, shaking his finger emphatically. "It is of the best, and, believe me, my friend, we should be glad to have you stop with us. The country down below is a little dangerous – not now, perhaps, but later, when the warm weather comes on.
"But in Fortuna – no! Here we are on the railroad; the camp is controlled by Americans; and because so many have left the country the Mexicans will sell their prospects cheap.
"Then again, if you develop a mine near-by, it will be very easy to sell it – and if you wish to work it, that is easy, too. I am only the proprietor of the hotel, but if you can use my poor services in any way I shall be very happy to please you. A room? One of the best! And if you stay a week or more I will give you the lowest rate."
They passed up the winding stairs and down a long corridor, at the end of which the proprietor showed them into a room, throwing open the outer doors and shutters to let them see the view from the window.
"Here is a little balcony," he said, stepping outside, "where you can sit and look down on the plaza. We have the band and music when the weather is fine, and you can watch the pretty girls from here. But you have been in Mexico – you know all that!" And he gave Phil a roguish dig.
"Bien my frien', I am glad to meet you – " He held out his hand in welcome and De Lancey gave his in return. "My name," he continued, "is Juan de Dios Brachamonte y Escalon; but with these Americans that does not go, as you say, so in general they call me Don Juan.
"There is something about that name – I do not know – that makes the college boys laugh. Perhaps it is that poet, Byron, who wrote so scandalously about us Spaniards, but certainly he knew nothing of our language, for he rimes Don Juan with 'new one' and 'true one'! Still, I read part of that poem and it is, in places, very interesting – yes, very interesting – but 'Don Joo-an'! Hah!"
He threw up his hand in despair and De Lancey broke into a jollying laugh.
"Well, Don Juan," he cried, "I'm glad to meet you. My name is Philip De Lancey, and my pardner here is Mr. Hooker. Shake hands with him, Don Juan de Dios! But certainly a man so devoutly named could never descend to reading much of Don Joo-an!"
"Ah, no," protested Don Juan, rolling his dark eyes and smiling rakishly, "not moch – only the most in-teresting passages!"
He saluted and disappeared in a roar of laughter, and De Lancey turned triumphantly on his companion, a self-satisfied smile upon his lips.
"Aha!" he said; "you see? That's what five dollars' worth of booze will do in opening up the way. Here's our old friend Don Juan willing, nay, anxious, to help us all he can – he sees I'm a live wire and wants to keep me around. Pretty soon we'll get him feeling good and he'll tell us all he knows. Don't you never try to make me sign the pledge again, brother – a few shots just gets my intellect to working right and I'm crafty as a fox.
"Did you notice that coup I made – asking him if he was a Spaniard? There's nothing in the world makes a Spaniard so mad as to take him for a Mexican – on the other hand, nothing makes him your friend for life like recognizing him for a blue-blooded Castilian. Now maybe our old friend Don Juan has got a few drops of Moorish blood in his veins – to put it politely, but – " he raised his tenor voice and improvised —
"Jest because my hair is curlyDat's no reason to call me 'Shine'!""No," agreed Bud, feeling cautiously of the walls, "and jest because you're happy is no reason for singing so loud, neither. These here partitions are made of inch boards, covered with paper – do you get that? Well, then, considering who's probably listening, it strikes me that Mr. Brachamonte is the real thing in Spanish gentlemen; and I've heard that all genuwine Spaniards have their hair curly, jest like a – huh?"
But De Lancey, made suddenly aware of his indiscretion, was making all kinds of exaggerated signs for silence, and Bud stopped with a slow, good-natured smile.
"S-s-st!" hissed De Lancey, touching his finger to his lips. "Don't say it – somebody might hear you!"
"All right," agreed Bud; "and don't you say it, either. I hate to knock, Phil," he added, "but sometimes I think the old man was right when he said you talk too much."
"Psst!" chided De Lancey, shaking his finger like a Mexican. Tiptoeing softly over to Bud, he whispered in his ear: "S-s-st, I can hear the feller in the next room – shaving himself!"
Laughing heartily at this joke, they went downstairs for supper.
VI
If the Eagle Tail mine had been located in Arizona – or even farther down in Old Mexico – the method of jumping the claim would have been delightfully simple.
The title had lapsed, and the land had reverted to the government. All it needed in Arizona was a new set of monuments, a location notice at the discovery shaft, a pick and shovel thrown into the hole, and a few legal formalities.
But in Mexico it is different. Not that the legal formalities are lacking – far from it – but the whole theory of mines and mining is different. In Mexico a mining title is, in a way, a lease, a concession from the general government giving the concessionaire the right to work a certain piece of ground and to hold it as long as he pays a mining tax of three dollars an acre per year.
But no final papers or patents are ever issued, the possession of the surface of the ground does not go with the right to mine beneath it, and in certain parts of Mexico no foreigner can hold title to either mines or land.
A prohibited or frontier zone, eighty kilometers in width, lies along the international boundary line, and in that neutral zone no foreigner can denounce a mining claim and no foreign corporation can acquire a title to one. The Eagle Tail was just inside the zone.
But – there is always a "but" when you go to a good lawyer – while for purposes of war and national safety foreigners are not allowed to hold land along the line, they are at perfect liberty to hold stock in Mexican corporations owning property within the prohibited zone; and – here is where the graft comes in – they may even hold title in their own name if they first obtain express permission from the chief executive of the republic.
Not having any drag with the chief executive, and not caring to risk their title to the whims of succeeding administrations, Hooker and De Lancey, upon the advice of a mining lawyer in Gadsden, had organized themselves into the Eagle Tail Mining Company, under the laws of the republic of Mexico, with headquarters at Agua Negra. It was their plan to get some Mexican to locate the mine for them and then, for a consideration, transfer it to the company.
The one weak spot in this scheme was the Mexican. By trusting Aragon, Henry Kruger had not only lost title to his mine, but he had been outlawed from the republic. And now he had bestowed upon Hooker and De Lancey the task of finding an honest Mexican, and keeping him honest until he made the transfer.
While the papers were being made out there might be a great many temptations placed before that Mexican – either to keep the property for himself or to hold out for a bigger reward than had been specified. After his experience with the aristocratic Don Cipriano Aragon y Tres Palacios, Kruger was in favor of taking a chance on the lower classes. He had therefore recommended to them one Cruz Mendez, a wood vender whom he had known and befriended, as the man to play the part.
Cruz Mendez, according to Kruger, was hardworking, sober, and honest – for a Mexican. He was also simple-minded and easy to handle, and was the particular man who had sent word that the Eagle Tail had at last been abandoned. And also he was easy to pick out, being a little, one-eyed man and going by the name of "El Tuerto."
So, in pursuance of their policy of playing a waiting game, Hooker and De Lancey hung around the hotel for several days, listening to the gossip of Don Juan de Dios and watching for one-eyed men with prospects to sell.
In Sonora he is a poor and unimaginative man indeed who has not at least one lost mine or "prospecto" to sell; and prosperous-looking strangers, riding through the country, are often beckoned aside by half-naked paisanos eager to show them the gold mines of the Spanish padres for a hundred dollars Mex.
It was only a matter of time, they thought, until Cruz Mendez would hunt them up and try to sell them the Eagle Tail; and it was their intention reluctantly to close the bargain with him, for a specified sum, and then stake him to the denouncement fees and gain possession of the mine.
As this was a commonplace in the district – no Mexican having capital enough to work a claim and no American having the right to locate one – it was a very natural and inconspicuous way of jumping Señor Aragon y Tres Palacios's abandoned claim. If they discovered the lead immediately afterward it would pass for a case of fool's luck, or at least so they hoped, and, riding out a little each day and sitting on the hotel porch with Don Juan the rest of the time, they waited until patience seemed no longer a virtue.
"Don Juan," said De Lancey, taking up the probe at last, "I had a Mexican working for me when we were over in the Sierras – one of your real, old-time workers that had never been spoiled by an education – and he was always talking about 'La Fortuna,' I guess this was the place he meant, but it doesn't look like it – according to him it was a Mexican town. Maybe he's around here now – his name was Mendez."
"José Maria Mendez?" inquired Don Juan, who was a living directory of the place. "Ricardo? Pancho? Cruz?"
"Cruz!" cried De Lancey. "That was it!"
"He lives down the river a couple of miles," said Don Juan, "down at Old Fortuna."
"Old Fortuna!" repeated Phil. "I didn't know there was such a place."
"Why, my gracious!" exclaimed Don Juan de Dios, scandalized by such ignorance. "Do you mean to say you have been here three days and never heard about Fortuna Vieja? Why, this isn't Fortuna! This is an American mining camp – the old town is down below.
"That's where this man Aragon, the big Mexican of the country, has his ranch and store. Spanish? Him? No, indeed —mitad! He is half Spanish and half Yaqui Indian, but his wife is a pure Spaniard – one of the few in the country. Her father was from Madrid and she is a Villanueva – a very beautiful woman in her day, with golden hair and the presence of a queen!
"No, not Irish! My goodness, you Americans think that everybody with red hair is Irish! Why, the most beautiful women in Madrid have chestnut hair as soft as the fur of a dormouse. It is the old Castilian hair, and they are proud of it. The Señora Aragon married beneath her station – it was in the City of Mexico, and she did not know that he was an Indian – but she is a very nice lady for all that and never omits to bow to me when she comes up to take the train. I remember one time – "
"Does Cruz Mendez work for him?" interjected De Lancey desperately.
"No, indeed!" answered Don Juan patiently. "He packs in wood from the hills – but as I was saying – " and from that he went on to tell of the unfailing courtesy of the Señora Aragon to a gentleman whom, whatever his present station might be, she recognized as a member of one of the oldest families in Castile.
De Lancey did not press his inquiries any further, but the next morning, instead of riding back into the hills, he and Bud turned their faces down the cañon to seek out the elusive Mendez. They had, of course, been acting a part for Don Juan, since Kruger had described Old Fortuna and the Señor Aragon with great minuteness.
And now, in the guise of innocent strangers, they rode on down the river, past the concentrator with its multiple tanks, its gliding tramway and mountains of tailings, through the village of Indian houses stuck like dugouts against the barren hill – then along a river-bed that oozed with slickings until they came in sight of the town.
La Fortuna was an old town, yet not so old as its name, since two Fortunas before it had been washed away by cloudbursts and replaced by newer dwellings. The settlement itself was some four hundred years old, dating back to the days of the Spanish conquistadores, when it yielded up many mule-loads of gold.
The present town was built a little up from the river in the lee of a great ridge of rocks thrust down from the hill and well calculated to turn aside a glut of waters. It was a comfortable huddle of whitewashed adobe buildings set on both sides of a narrow and irregular road – the great trail that led down to the hot country – and was worn deep by the pack-trains of centuries.
On the lower side was the ample store and cantina of Don Cipriano, where the thirsty arrieros could get a drink and buy a panoche of sugar without getting down from their mounts. Behind the store were the pole corrals and adobe warehouses and the quarters for the peons, and across the road was the mescal still where, in huge copper retort and worm, the fiery liquor was distilled from the sugar-laden heads of Yuccas.
This was the town, but the most important building – set back in the shade of mighty cottonwoods and pleasantly aloof from the road – was the residence of Señor Aragon. It was this, in fact, which held the undivided attention of De Lancey as they rode quietly through the village, for he had become accustomed from a long experience in the tropics to look for something elusive, graceful, and feminine in houses set back in a garden. Nothing stirred, however, and, having good reason to avoid Don Cipriano, they jogged steadily on their way.
"Some house!" observed Phil, with a last, hopeful look over his shoulder.
"Uh," assented Bud, as they came to a fork in the road. "Say," he continued, "let's turn off on this trail. Lot of burro tracks going out – expect it's our friend, Mr. Mendez."
"All right," said De Lancey absently. "Wonder where old Aragon keeps that bee-utiful daughter of his – the one Don Joo-an was telling about. Have to stop on the way back and sample the old man's mescal."
"Nothing doing!" countered Hooker instantly. "Now you heard what I told you – there's two things you leave alone for sixty days – booze and women. After we cinch our title you can get as gay as you please."
"Oo-ee!" piped Phil, "hear the boy talk!" But he said no more of wine and women, for he knew how they do complicate life.
They rode to the east now, following the long, flat footprints of the burros, and by all the landmarks Bud saw that they were heading straight for the old Eagle Tail mine. At Old Fortuna the river turns west and at the same time four cañons come in from the east and south. Of these they had taken the first to the north and it was leading them past all the old workings that Kruger had spoken about. In fact, they were almost at the mine when Hooker swung down suddenly from his horse and motioned Phil to follow.
"There's some burros coming," he said, glancing back significantly; and when the pack-train came by, each animal piled high with broken wood, the two Americans were busily tapping away at a section of country rock. A man and a boy followed behind the animals, gazing with wonder at the strangers, and as Phil bade them a pleasant "Buenos días!" they came to a halt and stared at their industry in silence. In the interval Phil was pleased to note that the old man had only one eye.
"Que busca?" the one-eyed one finally inquired. "What are you looking for?"
And when Phil oracularly answered, "Gold!" the old man made a motion to the boy to go on and sat down on a neighboring rock.
"Do you want to buy a prospect?" he asked, and Bud glanced up at him grimly.
"We find our own prospects," answered Phil.
"But I know of a very rich prospect," protested Mendez; "very rich!" He shrilled his voice to express how rich it was.
"Yes?" observed Phil. "Then why don't you dig the gold out? But as for us, we find our own mines. That is our business."
"Seguro!" nodded Mendez, glancing at their outfit approvingly. "But I am a poor man – very poor – I cannot denounce the mine. So I wait for some rich American to come and buy it. I have a friend – a very rich man – in Gadsden, but he will not come; so I will sell it to you."
"Did you get that, Bud?" jested Phil in English. "The old man here thinks we're rich Americans and he wants to sell us a mine."
Bud laughed silently at this, and Mr. Mendez, his hopes somewhat blasted by their levity, began to boast of his find, giving the history of the Eagle Tail with much circumstantiality and explaining that it was a lost padre mine.
"Sure," observed Phil, going back to his horse and picking up the bridle, "that's what they all say. They're all lost padre mines, and you can see them from the door of the church. Come on, Bud, let's go!"
"And so you could this," cried Mendez, running along after them as they rode slowly up the cañon, "from the old church that was washed away by the flood! This is the very mine where the padres dug out all their gold! Are you going up this way? Come, then, and I will show you – the very place, except that the Americano ruined it with a blast!"
He tagged along after them, wheedling and protesting while they bantered him about his mine, until they finally came to the place – the ruins of the old Eagle Tail.
It lay spraddled out along the hillside, a series of gopher-holes, dumps, and abandoned workings, looking more like a badly managed stone-quarry than a relic of padre days. Kruger's magazine of giant powder exploded in one big blast, had destroyed all traces of his mine, besides starting an avalanche of loose shale that had poured down and filled the pocket.
Added to this, Aragon and his men had rooted around in the débris in search of the vein, and the story of their inefficient work was told by great piles of loose rock stacked up beside caved-in trenches and a series of timid tunnels driven into the neighboring ridges.
Under the circumstances it would certainly call for a mining engineer to locate the lost lead, and De Lancey looked it over thoughtfully as he began to figure on the work to be done. Undoubtedly there was a mine there – and the remains of an old Spanish smelter down the creek showed that the ground had once been very rich – but if Kruger had not told him in advance he would have passed up the job in a minute.
"Well," he said, turning coldly upon the fawning Mendez, who was all curves in his desire to please, "where is your prospecto?"
"Aqui, señor!" replied the Mexican, pointing to the disrupted rock-slide. "Here it was that the Americano Crooka had his mine – rich with gold —much gold!"
He shrilled his voice emphatically, and De Lancey shrilled his in reply.
"Here?" he exclaimed, gazing blankly at the hillside, and then he broke into a laugh. "All right, my friend," he said, giving Bud a facetious wink; "how much do you want for this prospect?"
"Four hundred dollars," answered Mendez in a tone at once hopeful and apologetic. "It is very rich. Señor Crooka shipped some ore that was full of gold. I packed it out for him on my burros; but, I am sorry, I have no piece of it."
"Yes," responded De Lancey, "I am sorry, too. So, of course, we cannot buy the prospecto since you have no ore to show; but I am glad for this, Señor Mendez," he continued with a kindly smile; "it shows that you are an honest man, or you would have stolen a piece of ore from the sacks. So show us now where the gold was found, the nearest that you can remember, and perhaps, if we think we can find it, we will pay you to denounce the claim for us."
At this the one good eye of Cruz Mendez lighted up with a great hope and, skipping lightly over the rock-piles with his sandaled feet, he ran to a certain spot, locating it by looking across the cañon and up and down the creek.
"Here, señores," he pronounced, "is where the mouth of the old tunnel came out. Standing inside it I could see that tree over there, and looking down the river I could just see the smelter around the point. So, then, the gold must be in there." He pointed toward the hill.
"Surely," said De Lancey; "but where?"
The old Mexican shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"I do not know, señor," he answered; "but if you wish to dig I will denounce the claim for you."
"For how much?" inquired De Lancey guardedly.
"For one hundred dollars," answered Mendez, and to his delight the American seemed to be considering it. He walked back and forth across the slide, picking up rocks and looking at them, dropping down into the futile trenches of Aragon, and frowning with studious thought. His pardner, however, sat listlessly on a boulder and tested the action of his six-shooter.
"Listen, my friend," said De Lancey, coming back and poising his finger impressively. "If I should find the ledge the one hundred dollars would be nothing to me, sabe? And if I should spend all my money for nothing it would be but one hundred dollars more. But listen! I have known some false Mexicans who, when an American paid them to denounce a mine, took advantage of his kindness and refused to give it over. Or, if it turned out to be rich, they pulled a long face and claimed that they ought to be paid more. Now if – "
"Ah, no, no, señor!" clamored Mendez, holding up his hand in protest. "I am a poor man, but I am honest. Only give me the hundred dollars – "
"Not a dollar do you get!" cried De Lancey sternly; "not a dollar – until you turn over the concession to the mine. And if you play us false – " he paused impressively – "cuidado, hombre– look out!"
Once more Cruz Mendez protested his honesty and his fidelity to any trust, but De Lancey silenced him impatiently.