Hearts of Three 29

Hearts of Three 29

The third expedition was Torres’ own, neither more nor less meager than

Leoncia’s, for it was composed only of himself and one, José Mancheno, a

notorious murderer of the place whom Torres, for private reasons, had

saved from the buzzards of San Juan. But Torres’ plans, in the matter of

an expedition, were more ambitious than they appeared. Not far up the

slopes of the Cordilleras dwelt the strange tribe of the Caroos.

Originally founded by runaway negro slaves of Africa and Carib slaves of

the Mosquito Coast, the renegades had perpetuated themselves with stolen

women of the tierra caliente and with fled women slaves like themselves.

Between the Mayas beyond, and the government of the coast, this unique

colony had maintained itself in semi-independence. Added to, in later

days, by runaway Spanish prisoners, the Caroos had become a hotchpotch

of bloods and breeds, possessing a name and a taint so bad that the then

governing power of Colombia, had it not been too occupied with its own

particular political grafts, would have sent armies to destroy the

pest-hole. And in this pest-hole of the Caroos José Mancheno had been

born of a Spanish-murderer father and a mestiza-murderess mother. And to

this pest-hole José Mancheno was leading Torres in order that the

commands of Thomas Regan of Wall Street might be carried out.

 

* * * * *

 

“Lucky we found him when we did,” Francis told Henry, as they rode at

the rear of the last Maya priest.

 

“He’s pretty senile,” Henry nodded. “Look at him.”

 

The old man, as he led the way, was forever pulling out the sacred

tassel and mumbling and muttering as he fingered it.

 

“Hope the old gentleman doesn’t wear it out,” was Henry’s fervent wish.

“You’d think he’d read the directions once and remember them for a

little while instead of continually pawing them over.”

 

They rode out through the jungle into a clear space that looked as if at

some time man had hewn down the jungle and fought it back. Beyond, by

the vista afforded by the clearing, the mountain called Blanco Rovalo

towered high in the sunny sky. The old Maya halted his mule, ran over

certain strings in the tassel, pointed at the mountain, and spoke in

broken Spanish:

 

“It says: _In the foot-steps of the God wait till the eyes of Chia

flash._”

 

He indicated the particular knots of a particular string as the source

of his information.

 

“Where are the foot-steps, old priest?” Henry demanded, staring about

him at the unbroken sward.

 

But the old man started his mule, and, with a tattoo of bare heels on

the creature’s ribs, hastened it on across the clearing and into the

jungle beyond.

 

“He’s like a hound on the scent, and it looks as if the scent is getting

hot,” Francis remarked.

 

At the end of half a mile, where the jungle turned to grass-land on

swift-rising slopes the old man forced his mule into a gallop which he

maintained until he reached a natural depression in the ground. Three

feet or more in depth, of area sufficient to accommodate a dozen persons

in comfort, its form was strikingly like that which some colossal human

foot could have made.

 

“The foot-step of the God,” the old priest proclaimed solemnly, ere he

slid off his mule and prostrated himself in prayer. “_In the foot-step

of the God must we wait till the eyes of Chia flash_——so say the sacred

knots.”

 

“Pretty good place for a meal,” Henry vouchsafed, looking down into the

depression. “While waiting for the mumbo-jumbo foolery to come off, we

might as well stay our stomachs.”

 

“If Chia doesn’t object,” laughed Francis.

 

And Chia did not object, at least the old priest could not find any

objection written in the knots.

 

While the mules were being tethered on the edge of the first break of

woods, water was fetched from a nearby spring and a fire built in the

foot-step. The old Maya seemed oblivious of everything, as he mumbled

endless prayers and ran the knots over and over.

 

“If only he doesn’t blow up,” Francis said.

 

“I thought he was wild-eyed the first day we met him up in Juchitan,”

concurred Henry. “But it’s nothing to the way his eyes are now.”

 

Here spoke the peon, who, unable to understand a word of their English,

nevertheless sensed the drift of it.

 

“This is very religious, very dangerous, to have anything to do with the

old Maya sacred things. It is the death-road. My father knows. Many men

have died. The deaths are sudden and horrible. Even Maya priests have

died. My father’s father so died. He, too, loved a woman of the tierra

caliente. And for love of her, for gold, he sold the Maya secret and by

the knot-writing led tierra caliente men to the treasure. He died. They

all died. My father does not like the women of the tierra caliente now

that he is old. He liked them too well in his youth, which was his sin.

And he knows the danger of leading you to the treasure. Many men have

sought during the centuries. Of those who found it, not one came back.

It is said that even conquistadores and pirates of the English Morgan

have won to the hiding-place and decorated it with their bones.”

 

“And when your father dies,” Francis queried, “then, being his son, you

will be the Maya high priest?”

 

“No, senor,” the peon shook his head. “I am only half-Maya. I cannot

read the knots. My father did not teach me because I was not of the pure

Maya blood.”

 

“And if he should die, right now, is there any other Maya who can read

the knots?”

 

“No, senor. My father is the last living man who knows that ancient

language.”

 

But the conversation was broken in upon by Leoncia and Ricardo, who,

having tethered their mules with the others, were gazing sheepishly down

from the rim of the depression. The faces of Henry and Francis lighted

with joy at the sight of Leoncia, while their mouths opened and their

tongues articulated censure and scolding. Also, they insisted on her

returning with Ricardo.

 

“But you cannot send me away before giving me something to eat,” she

persisted, slipping down the slope of the depression with pure feminine

cunning in order to place the discussion on a closer and more intimate

basis.

 

Aroused by their voices, the old Maya came out of a trance of prayer and

observed her with wrath. And in wrath he burst upon her, intermingling

occasional Spanish words and phrases with the flood of denunciation in

Maya.

 

“He says that women are no good,” the peon interpreted in the first

pause. “He says women bring quarrels among men, the quick steel, the

sudden death. Bad luck and God’s wrath are ever upon them. Their ways

are not God’s ways, and they lead men to destruction. He says women are

the eternal enemy of God and man, forever keeping God and man apart. He

says women have ever cluttered the foot-steps of God and have kept men

away from travelling the path of God to God. He says this woman must go

back.”

 

With laughing eyes, Francis whistled his appreciation of the diatribe,

while Henry said:

 

“Now will you be good, Leoncia? You see what a Maya thinks of your sex.

This is no place for you. California’s the place. Women vote there.”

 

“The trouble is that the old man is remembering the woman who brought

misfortune upon him in the heyday of his youth,” Francis said. He turned

to the peon. “Ask your father to read the knot-writing and see what it

says for or against women traveling in the foot-steps of God.”

 

In vain the ancient high priest fumbled the sacred writing. There was

not to be found the slightest authoritative objection to woman.

 

“He’s mixing his own experiences up with his mythology,” Francis grinned

triumphantly. “So I guess it’s pretty near all right, Leoncia, for you

to stay for a bite to eat. The coffee’s made. After that....”

 

But “after that” came before. Scarcely had they seated themselves on the

ground and begun to eat, when Francis, standing up to serve Leoncia with

tortillas, had his hat knocked off.

 

“My word!” he said, sitting down. “That was sudden. Henry, take a squint

and see who tried to pot-shoot me.”

 

The next moment, save for the peon’s father, all eyes were peeping

across the rim of the foot-step. What they saw, creeping upon them from

every side, was a nondescript and bizarrely clad horde of men who seemed

members of no particular race but composed of all races. The breeds of

the entire human family seemed to have moulded their lineaments and

vari-colored their skins.

 

“The mangiest bunch I ever laid eyes on,” was Francis’ comment.

 

“They are the Caroos,” the peon muttered, betraying fear.

 

“And who in——” Francis began. Instantly he amended. “And who in Paradise

are the Caroos?”

 

“They come from hell,” was the peon’s answer. “They are more savage than

the Spaniard, more terrible than the Maya. They neither give nor take in

marriage, nor does a priest reside among them. They are the devil’s own

spawn, and their ways are the devil’s ways, only worse.”

 

Here the Maya arose, and, with accusing finger, denounced Leoncia for

being the cause of this latest trouble. A bullet creased his shoulder and half-whirled him about.