Бруно Травен: The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

“Is that the correct brand?” the uncle called to the men near the burros.

“No, compadre.”

“Right, I was mistaken, excuse me, it must be the heat, and I’m sure tired.” Miguel became rather foggy. He thought his knees would give way. “Now, strike me, how could I ever forget it? Of course the brand is a cross with a circle around it.”

“Is that correct, amigos?” the uncle asked his men.

“No, compadre. It is a C and a—”

“I know now,” Miguel interrupted in great haste; “it is a C and an R, that’s what it is.” He breathed in relief.

“What do you say over there, hermanitos?” the uncle asked, undisturbed.

“I was mistaken, compadre,” one of them answered; “perdone, on looking closer I find it was not a C at all, and the second is not an R, not even the third seems to be either a C or an R. It can’t be even a bad B. Excuse me, compadre.”

All the villagers laughed. It was a great show. A few shouted: “Hey, compadre, you’d better go to school again to learn what a C is when you see a Z.”

The uncle, after the merriment had died down, asked in a loud voice: “Listen, all you ciudadanos de nuestro pueblo, all you citizens of this community, have you ever met in all your life with a man who wanted to sell you burros which he claimed were his and who didn’t even know their correct brands? Tell me of a single case if you can. Come on.”

The only answer was hearty laughter.

When the people were quiet again, the uncle went on: “I know where the burros came from and to whom they belong.”

Miguel looked round at his partners. They knew what he meant; they also were looking for a hole by which to escape.

“The burros were bred by dona Rafaela Motilinia in Avino, the widow of the late don Pedro Le6n. I know his ranch and I know his brand. His brand is an L and a P. The P is set with its back against the L. AsI correcto, hombres? Is that right, you men?” the uncle asked.

And the men standing by the burros shouted back: “SI, don JoaquIn, that is the brand.”

The uncle turned his head as if he wanted to find a certain individual. When he saw him he called: “Don Chuncho, come here!”

An Indian, simply dressed like all the other men and wearing only sandals on his feet, strode up, a shotgun in his hands and a cheap gun in a holster on his hip. He took his place near the uncle.

The uncle turned to the three rascals. “My name is JoaquIn Escalona, constitutionally elected alcalde or mayor of this community, elected by all the citizens of this place and its vicinity, and legally recognized by the state legislature. This man here at my side is my police commissioner and his name is don Asuncion Macedo.”

The three thieves on hearing this official statement knew why it was spoken so solemnly and what it meant when voiced on such an occasion. It was their last chance now to run away. No longer were they eager to talce along their burros and their packs. They were willing to sell the whole lot for one peso, had anybody offered that much, and permission to leave the village. But they found now the men were closing in on them.

Miguel reached back to his holster to pull his gun, the one that had once been Dobbs’s, intending to try to shoot his way out.

To his surprise, he found the holster empty and his gun already in the hands of don Chuncho, who handed itto his deputy.

“What the hell do you want of us?” Miguel raged.

“Until now nothing,” don JoaquIn, the uncle, answered, his voice calm. “We are most astonished that you want to leave us in such a hurry, without taking your burros and your packs with you. Why, friends? We haven’t harmed you. We are here to trade for your burros.”

Miguel, who understood the cold irony of the mayor, shouted: “We may do what we like with our burros. We may take them with us or leave them here and give them away for one peso if we want to.”

Don Joaquin smiled at Miguel. “With your burros you may, of course, do as you like. But these are not your burros. I know the whole story of these animals. Dona Rafaela sold them some ten or eleven months ago to three Americans who went into the Sierra to hunt big game.”

Miguel detected a hole by which he hoped to get out. He grinned and said: “That’s right, quite right, senor alcalde. Those are the three Americans we bought the burros from.”

“At what price, may I ask?”

“Twelve pesos apiece.”

“And you are so rich that you want to sacrifice these animals for four pesos apiece?”

The villagers broke into roaring laughter.

Don Joaquin went on with his cross-examination with all the shrewdness of an intelligent Mexican farmer. He proved that the citizens of the community were wise when they elected him for their alcalde.

“You told me only a halfhour ago that you have owned these animals for a long time. Isn’t that so?”

“Sure, senor.”

“How long would you say?”

Miguel thought for a few seconds, then blurted out: “Four months, I would say.” He remembered that not so long ago he had said that they had worked in a mine and that since then they had made a long journey.

Dryly the alcalde spoke. “Four months? Huh! This is certainly a very strange story. I might say it is even almost a sort of miracle. The Americans crossed the Sierra only a few days ago. Farmers out hunting and others working in their milpas saw them and reported them to me. When they were seen only a few days ago, they still had all the burros with them—the same burros you bought from them four months ago.”

Miguel tried his smart confidential smile again. “To tell you the truth, por el alma de mi madre, and cross my heart, senor alcalde, we bought the burros only two days ago from those Amencanos.”

“That looks better.”

Miguel shot his partners a triumphant glance. They ought to be proud to have such a great leader.

Don JoaquIn, however, did not let him get out of his net. “But there cannot have been three Americans, because I know that one of them is staying in a village on the opposite slope of the Sierra. He is a great doctor and medicine-man.”

“The fact is, senor alcalde, we bought the burros from one American only.” Miguel scratched his head and looked at his partners for assistance.

“Where did you buy the burros?”

“In Durango, senor, in a fonda where the American stopped for the night.”

“That seems rather unbelievable. The American could hardly have been in Durango when you were there to buy the burros. Not with these heavy packs and not plodding up the steep trails back up here, as you had to do. You can’t very well have met him in Durango and then already reached here again.”

“We marched the whole night through, senor. Didn’t we, companeros?”

His two partners vehemently admitted this.

“What I cannot understand,” the alcalde said, searching the faces of the three, “is that this American should have sold you his burros while he was in Durango, where he could find enough buyers and could wait a few days until he could get the price he expected. In Durango he would not have had to sell such good animals for twelve pesos.”

Nacho, who wanted to show his cleverness and perhaps even to outsmart Miguel, came close to the mayor. “How do we know the reason why that goddamned gringo sold us the burros and didn’t want to trade with anybody else?”

Said Miguel: “Yes, how can we know? Gringos are funny that way, they sure are. They don’t act at all as we do. They are often cracked in their brains, see?”

“All right. If the American sold you the burros, where is the bill of sale? You must have it with the brands of the animals written in, the sex, the color, and the name they are called by, if any. If you have no bill of sale dona Rafaela may at any time claim the burros as her own, since they carry the registered brand of her ranch.”