Читать книгу The Mesa - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 5

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Thirty-five miles southwestward from Cananea, the terminus of the C. Y. R. & P., Daniel Dean, engineer in charge of the construction work which would ultimately link the new railroad with the Sonora Line, stood in the doorway of the corrugated iron shack which answered as his temporary headquarters and gravely contemplated the result of his efforts. He also did some careful calculating. He finally decided that at the rate the work was going forward he would still have to remain for something more than a year in Mexico.

The prospect was not inviting. He had been accustomed to something vastly different. Right now he was longing for green fields, placid rivers whose waters ran over moss-covered rocks; cities where a man could renew acquaintance with a bathtub and drink things from thin glasses that tinkled with little chunks of ice.

“Ice!” he ejaculated. “Lord! I wonder if it still freezes anywhere?”

On the vast level across which he gazed a white-hot sun was baking the surface of what seemed to Dean to be a dead planet. There seemed to be no atmosphere such as a planet should have swirling around it. The sky was cloudless; not in months had a spot the size of a man’s hand floated between the sun and the earth. There was dust which seemed to have been floating in the air for centuries—a dun-coloured dust which incessantly hovered, night and day. It glittered in the sunlight like a great yellow curtain shot through with particles of gold, and at night it formed a dusky pall through which the stars shone hazily.

Dean gazed through the shimmering heat waves at the Mexican labourers who were stolidly working on the right of way a mile or so southwestward. They seemed not to mind the sun or the heat or the dust. And Dean had observed that they drank very little water.

As for the last, he did not blame them, for he himself drank as little as possible. But while the Mexicans appeared to be flourishing, Dean was convinced that he was rapidly drying up. He had lost weight amazingly, and though he was lean and brown and rugged, and knew he could work all day in the sun with no ill effect, he was continually tortured by thoughts of various cooling drinks.

“If a man’s never had them he won’t miss them, of course,” he decided as he stood in the doorway. “But if he has had them he’ll never quit longing for them.”

Dean was thirty and unmarried. He had no serious love affairs to haunt his leisure moments; no girl’s picture was among his effects. He had carefully avoided committing himself, because, until he got something “big” at home he would not be able to support a wife. Yet there were several faces that occasionally flashed into Dean’s memory, and he was beginning to look eagerly forward to the completion of the present job.

Dean made an attractive picture as he stood in the doorway. His chin was that of a man who feels the urge of ambition and who has the tenacity of purpose necessary to achieve it; his mouth was rather large but firm; his nose was distinguished with a rather high bridge, and his eyes, gray and clear, were set under brows that arched but very little. Dean was a man who was accustomed to being obeyed. He knew how to use the heavy revolver that reposed in the black holster that hung at his right hip.

Standing in the doorway of the corrugated iron shack, he observed two riders leave the group of Mexican workers on the right of way and start toward him.

A short time before, a lone rider had appeared from out of the dust haze. The rider had halted near where the Mexicans had been working, and within a few minutes the workers had all grouped around him. They appeared to be listening to him.

Now the first rider and another were coming toward the shack.

Dean knew the second rider was Bill Carey, his assistant, for he could recognize Carey as far as he could see him.

Also, Dean felt that the first rider must either be a man of importance or was the bearer of news of importance. For the Mexicans had not resumed their work but were still grouped and gesticulating.

Dean’s lips tightened. Such interruptions would delay the completion of the work still more. Dean decided that he would have something to say to the rider who was coming toward him with Carey.

Yet, as the two riders continued to approach, Dean was conscious of a growing curiosity. For the rider was a gaily arrayed vaquero, and he rode a horse that was magnificently proportioned.

When the two riders drew close it was Carey who spoke. The vaquero sat quietly in the saddle smiling at Dean as though certain of his reception.

Carey was short and heavily built. His hair was the colour of a cock’s comb, and unruly. His face was freckled and his eyes challenging.

“This hombre is a rider for a man named Don Pedro Bazan,” he told Dean. “Ever hear of him?”

“Yes,” answered Dean. “He’s rich and powerful. He owns the Rancho Paloma on the Altar.”

“H’m,” said Carey. “I thought at first that this guy was talking tall and wide. But if you know his boss I guess it’s all right. He’s got the gang milling. Says he’s got a note from Don Pedro. It’s in Spanish, or Mexican. He read it to the gang, and they’re all wanting to quit for a week. So I brought him to see you.”

He waved a hand at the vaquero and the latter urged his horse closer to Dean. He dismounted, bowed, and presented Dean with a paper.

As Dean read, the expression of his face changed. A new interest gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled faintly.

“The feast is to be held this week, beginning this morning,” he said. “And while the feast is in progress everyone is granted immunity. Tell me, señor,” he continued, looking at the Mexican, “what is the nature of this feast?”

“No comprehend, señor,” smiled the vaquero.

“What happens?” asked Dean, in the Mexican at his command.

“Ai, señor, everysing,” smiled the vaquero.

“Everything, eh,” said Dean. “It has a diverting sound. And the Mesa Del Angeles is between the two forks of the Altar?”

“Si, señor.”

“Well,” mused Dean. “I have never yet known a Mexican who could resist a feast. If I don’t agree to let the gang off, they’ll sneak. Tell them to vamos, Carey.” His eyes twinkled. “We’ll shut up shop and trail along. Maybe Don Pedro will have some ice!”