Читать книгу The Mesa - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 8

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Strange emotions were assailing Valdez. The death threat had sounded in his ears, and he anticipated nothing less than facing a firing squad whenever Don Pedro willed. By all the traditions of the country and his experience in such affairs, he had no right to expect any other fate. Yet, somehow, he was not depressed by the prospect. Something had happened to him. Something subtle, insidious, was stealing over him. Whatever it was, it was so elusive that his senses could not grasp it, though it welled up inside of him, slowly, gradually, filling him with a tingling sensation of pleasure and gratification.

As he sat there watching Don Pedro he was puzzled and amazed, and yet he was half angry with himself because he was not able to understand his feelings. It was not until Don Pedro’s eyes narrowed and twinkled that he knew.

He liked Don Pedro!

Ai! Even though Don Pedro had promised him a firing squad, he liked him!

A miracle? Well, so it was. In such a short time; only while he had been sitting here, the emotion had stolen upon him. The gross figure, the heavy head, were pleasurable in his sight.

Yet, no! It went deeper than that. It was all in Don Pedro’s manner, in his eyes, in the curve of his lips, in that imponderable and elusive thing called personality.

Don Pedro exuded something besides the odour of garlic. A something that, like a faint and delicious perfume, permeated the atmosphere around the man and enveloped you, held you. You were at first repelled by the fat cheeks, the prehensile upper lip, the knotty nose. You thought, decided Valdez, that so gross a man must have gross thoughts; that basically he must be a beast.

And then, just as it had happened to Valdez, you discovered charm behind the grossness.

Valdez had discovered something more. He was certain that Don Pedro was reluctant to shoot him. He did not know how he had obtained that knowledge, but it had grown slowly upon him until now it was more than a half-formed conviction. Perhaps Don Pedro’s voice had something to do with it; it was possible that the twinkle in Don Pedro’s eyes might be responsible.

To be sure, men had been shot at Don Pedro’s orders, and undoubtedly more would be shot; but for just this once, Valdez was certain, Don Pedro had decided to be merciful.

“Señor Valdez,” said Don Pedro, “do you know my daughter, the Señorita Juana Bazan?”

“Si, señor.”

“And what is your opinion of her, Señor Valdez?”

“She is beautiful beyond expression, Señor Magnífico!”

Don Pedro beamed, but his eyes were full of guile.

“Señor Valdez, I perceive you are a remarkable man. You do not confine yourself to comparisons, lest they bring confusion upon you. You do not say that her colour rivals that of the poppy, for you might discover that I detest poppies; you do not compare her to any other flower, because you do not know which flower I favour or dislike. Like the wise man you are, you say neither too much nor too little. Yes, señor, you are a wise man, but you were not wise when you tried to steal my horses!”

Valdez was silent.

“But the Señorita Juana adds lustre to her father’s fame, Señor Valdez?”

“Si, señor.”

“And you have found that fame extensive?”

“Men bend the knee when your name is mentioned, Magnífico.”

Don Pedro drew a deep breath.

“You will show me how they do it, señor,” he said.

Valdez rose and made a bow by doubling a leg under him.

“That low, Señor Valdez?”

“Even lower, Magnífico. I could not properly accomplish it, for I am weak from fasting and confinement.”

“You shall be well fed presently,” promised Don Pedro. “They bend low, do they? Well, that is proper, to be sure. For not one in the country, save perhaps his excellency Porfirio Diaz, is greater than I. You have remarked the extensiveness of my possessions, Señor Valdez? And you are aware with what cleverness and wisdom I rule my domains?”

“It is everywhere recognized, Señor Magnífico.”

“Philippe, a goblet of Benicarlo for Señor Valdez!”

Don Pedro refilled his own glass. He drank, smiling afterward when he observed how Valdez licked his lips.

“And you, yourself, Señor Valdez, how do you account for my greatness?”

“It is almost impossible to say, Señor Magnífico.”

Don Pedro frowned.

“That is to say,” went on Valdez quickly, “that no one ingredient makes a food we like acceptable to the taste. It is a combination of ingredients that make a perfect whole. And who is there that can say which one spoils the food when it is omitted?”

“Ai.” Don Pedro meditated. “Then I am a food that the people like, Señor Valdez? And I am to understand that no one particular trait of character accounts for my greatness.”

“You have many, Señor the Magnificent.”

“Name the foremost, señor!”

“It is your mercifulness, Señor Magnífico.”

Don Pedro frowned, and Valdez perceived that he had made a mistake.

“And your greatness of heart.”

“Ai!”

“But I perceive I embarrass you, Señor Magnífico.”

“So you do, Valdez. Already I am blushing! The wine never flushes me this way, Valdez; so you must know that I am deeply moved through learning from you what the people think of me.”

His face now assumed a woeful expression, and it was plain to Valdez that thoughts of gravest importance were in his mind.

“Now he will order the firing squad!” decided Valdez. “He has heard all he cares to hear and is wearied. He will have me shot immediately! Madre de Dios!”

Don Pedro continued his meditations, and Valdez slumped to the bench and continued to watch him, stealthily making the sign of the Cross.

“I much regret it,” finally said Don Pedro.

“Yes?” Valdez’s voice was very eager.

But Don Pedro did not volunteer to mention what he regretted.

Valdez waited for a time, and then, thinking that he had better keep Don Pedro’s mind centred upon the immediate subject, he asked softly:

“You regret my capture, Magnífico? I assure you that I also——”

“Ai,” softly said Don Pedro, as though he had not heard Valdez, “it is too late!”

“Yes, too late,” echoed Valdez, still hoping.

“Too late to do anything. The execution must take place. The pronunciamento does not take effect until the day after to-morrow. And you are to be shot at dawn.”

“The pronunciamento?” queried Valdez, all eagerness and curiosity. “What pronunciamento, Señor the Magnificent?”

“Mine,” answered Don Pedro. “La Fiesta del Sanctuaire. You have not heard? Pero, mas, of course not. For I have told no one. My riders have gone forth to bear the news of the pronunciamento. I shall read it to you, Señor Valdez, that you may know what a pity it is that you did not postpone your raid on my horses for at least one day.”

Don Pedro drew a great sheet of folded paper from a pocket of the blue military coat he wore, opened it, and gazed over the top of it at Valdez, who watched him with open mouth and new hope.

“You are aware, Señor Valdez, that I am relentless in the prosecution of wars against my enemies. I am known as a just though ruthless antagonist. Men tremble when my wrath is turned against them. My passions are the passions of a demon, and when I am aroused there is none who can withstand the fury of my onslaught. Singly and alone I have done deeds that have brought awe to my enemies. I do not recount them to you in detail for I dislike boasting in any form. Yet note this: in all my battles no adversary has succeeded in giving me a wound. I bear no scars!

“Yet, though I love to fight, I weary of it. I am not bloodthirsty, and of late I have been wondering if I have not been too energetic in warring upon my enemies. In other words, Señor Valdez, I have had an impulse of mercy. And not desiring to be selfish, I have declared an all-embracing truce. But you shall hear! Listen.”

He then proceeded to read from the paper.

For a time after the reading of the pronunciamento both captor and captive were silent. Don Pedro gazed at Valdez above the edge of the paper, while Valdez sat with bowed head staring at the red sandstone of the courtyard.

At last Valdez sighed.

“Los muertos,” he groaned hollowly. Which, interpreted, means “the dead one.”

“Yes,” said Don Pedro, “you will undoubtedly be dead. It cannot be changed. My riders are at this moment bearing the news abroad. The date cannot be altered. And having already set the hour of your execution, I cannot set it forward or back. My word once given is final. Señor Valdez, you are unfortunate.”

Valdez groaned again. Then he glanced rather wildly around, as though wondering if he could escape.

Don Pedro interpreted the glance and smiled grimly.

“It is useless, Señor Valdez,” he warned. “You would be shot before you had taken ten steps. A squad of my vaqueros is concealed, watching you.”

“Mercy, Magnífico!” begged Valdez.

Don Pedro shook his head.

“You should have thought of that before you tried to steal my horses, Señor Valdez. You shall be well fed to-night, but to-morrow at dawn you shall be shot. Yet I promise that on the first day of the feast I shall have Father Pelayez say a mass for your soul.”

“Los Diablos!” breathed Valdez.

“Que es eso?” asked Don Pedro, who had not caught the low-uttered words.

“I was thanking you for your thoughtfulness, Señor Magnífico,” answered Valdez. “Yet I would much prefer that my soul and body remain as they are.”

“That is an insolence, Señor Valdez!” reproved Don Pedro.

He now motioned to Philippe, who had been standing near. At a signal, some vaqueros appeared and Valdez was led away, toward the barred windows he disliked.

Don Pedro sat at the table and watched his vaqueros and Valdez until they turned a corner. Then, in the sudden dead silence which descended upon him, he poured himself another goblet of wine, drank slowly and steadily until he could see the sun through the bottom of the glass, placed the glass upon the table, and fell to spreading the fingers of his hands on the table edge. He seemed interested in the movement of the muscles which guided the fingers wherever his mind willed them.

“Marvellous!” he declared. “Perfect! To-morrow Valdez will have no control over his fingers. It is a pity!”

Late that night, in the shadows of the azoteas, along the prickly pear hedges, under the broad palms where the giant leaves rustled in the cool night breeze, around the eroded bases of the crumbling sandstone colonnades, and stealing perilously close to the peppers strewn about the courtyard by the girl who had flashed a brilliant smile from her black eyes at Valdez, went a gigantic figure. There was a slight metallic clinking, and the barred door of Valdez’s cell swung open.

Valdez stepped shrinkingly into the moonlight. He saw Don Pedro, still arrayed in his military clothing, standing just outside the door, the big keys in his hands, looking at him.

Valdez was about to speak when Don Pedro motioned him to silence. And when Don Pedro motioned for Valdez to follow him and began to walk away, toward the courtyard, the prisoner followed him, amazed, incredulous. For Valdez could see no guards about, and there had been one, who had been sitting for hours on the bench which was placed immediately in front of the barred door of the cell.

There was a heavy silence in the courtyard. The grinding of the dead sand under the feet of the two men was the only sound that Valdez heard.

Don Pedro led Valdez to the table where in the afternoon Don Pedro had dined.

The table, Valdez observed with a sort of dazed astonishment, was loaded with food and wine.

Don Pedro motioned Valdez to a chair. He sat down opposite his prisoner.

“Eat and drink!” he commanded.

Don Pedro sat for some minutes watching Valdez while the latter ate and drank.

“It is midnight, Señor Valdez,” said Don Pedro. “In a few hours you will have no further use for food. It is because I dislike to see a man die on an empty stomach that I have brought you here.”

“Diablo!” gasped Valdez, almost choking over a mouthful of food. “Why torture me? You bid me dine, and as I eat you remind me of what approaches. Peste! My appetite is with me no longer! I choke with emotion!”

“Ai,” said Don Pedro silkily; “now you admit that when you became aware that I was bringing you here to eat you had hopes that I would release you?”

Valdez was silent.

“Behold the feast that an honest man is able to set before you, Valdez,” said Don Pedro. “And mark how a man of wisdom shows you that there is no profit in crime. So long as freedom and life are beckoning to you, you have a remarkable appetite. But just as soon as I mention quite casually that you are to die at dawn, the thought of food repulses you. By being honest you could not, perhaps, have such food as this. But even plain food is better than death, Señor Valdez. And appetite! How many dead men enjoy the flavour of pulque and manioc, Señor Valdez?”

Valdez had ceased attempting to eat.

“Take me out and shoot me this minute,” he begged. “Madre de Dios! I had rather be shot instantly than be tortured like this!”

Don Pedro laughed.

“Thoughts of death and eternity are not pleasing, eh, Señor Valdez? It is when we begin to realize that we shall wake to no more dawns that remorse and dread begin to annoy us! No more shall we thrill to the thought of a well-cooked dinner, eh, Valdez? No more eager looks at the wine flagons? No more of filling our eyes with pretty girls? No more of lying in the shade on some remote hillside enjoying the beauties of nature and wondering about ourselves—where we shall go when death overtakes us—why we were put here in the first place—what is the basis of the scheme of things? No more of anything! That is the thought that awes us, eh, Valdez?”

Valdez hid his face in his hands and groaned.

“That is a picture, eh? At any rate, it is the only one we are able to see. And after the dawn comes you will not even be able to see that. Do you know why, Señor Valdez? It is because you are able to comprehend only the material things. You drink, you eat, you sleep, you love, you hate, you envy, you steal. You attempt to satisfy appetite. I eat, Señor Valdez, and likewise I drink. And yet I thrill to thoughts of the mysteries beyond this life. I do not fear to die. I am wise and powerful, and yet I observe the work of the Infinite Being in the petals of a flower.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Valdez, driven to desperation by his thoughts. “I begin to understand you. I begin to realize why you are called the Magnificent and the Glorious. It is because you are a magnificent fool, a glorious fool!”

“A while ago you were growing to like me, Señor Valdez. I observed it in your eyes!”

“I like you no longer!” declared Valdez. “I hate you! You are a gross monster! Call your minions and have me shot this minute! I shall die cursing you!”

Don Pedro laughed.

“And yet this gross monster gives you your life, Señor Valdez. This vile being whom you would die cursing gives you once more to the sunlight and freedom. Go you right this instant to your horse. He stands in the shadows of the palms at the far corner of the courtyard. He is saddled and bridled. A better horse than the grulla you rode when you entered my potrero. Go! Take your life and your freedom to your friends and tell them what a gross creature is Don Pedro Bazan. I taunted you——”

But Don Pedro got no further.

Valdez was on his knees before the gross figure, abasing himself, kissing the booted feet. He shivered when Don Pedro laid a hand softly upon his head, and when he spoke there was a great quaver in his voice.

“Ai, Señor the Glorious!” he exclaimed, “may I die proclaiming your greatness!”