The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

by B. TRAVEN

  “Naturally,” one said.

  Another asked: “Are you alone?”

  Dobbs hesitated, but not wishing to give the impression that he had no answer ready, he said: “Oh no, I’m not alone. How could I be? Two of my friends are coming on horseback; they’ll be here any minute now.”

  “That’s strange, don’t you think so, Miguel?” one of the men said to another, who was watching Dobbs with glittering eyes, while his mouth was an open slit in which the point of his tongue could just be seen.

  “Yes, that’s strange, very strange, very,” Miguel answered, licking his lips. “Strange indeed. This man is all by himself on a dangerous road and with a long train and his friends are coming behind on horseback, pleasure-riding. Strange, I should say, muy raro.”

  “Do you see the friends on horseback coming, Pablo?” asked the one who seemed the laziest of all.

  Pablo rose slowly, went over to the road and looked toward the mountains, came back indolently, and said with a grin on his thick lips: “Naw, these two friends are still far behind. Far back, an hour or more. I can’t even see a pinch of dust swirling up from their horses.”

  “So you lied to us. Well, well!” Miguel said, his tongue playing about his lips. “Well, well! And what is it you have in the packs, pal? Let’s have a look at the goods.” He rose heavily, as if it were too much work to get up from the ground, walked over to one of the burros, and with his fist pushed and poked the packs. “Seems to me like hides.”

  “It is hides, you are right.” Dobbs felt more uneasy every minute and was anxious to get away as quickly as possible.

  “Tigre real, royal tiger?”

  “Yes, tiger and a few lions.”

  “Bring quite a little bit of dough.”

  “I hope so.” Dobbs said it casually to hide his growing uneasiness. He went to one of the burros and tightened the straps. Then he walked over to another and rattled the packs to see if they were still holding fast. Then he tightened his own belt and pulled his pants higher up, indicating that he was ready to make off.

  “Well, boys, I figure I’ll have to beat it now. Only stopped for a bit of cool breeze under these trees anyway. Have to be in town long before evening.” He knocked his pipe against the heel of his left high boot. “Now, which of you is willing to come along with me and help handle the bestias—the burros, I mean?” He glanced at the three men, at the same time circling the donkeys so as to keep them together.

  None of the three answered. They merely looked at each other.

  Dobbs caught one of these glances. He understood, and his breath stopped for a second. It flashed through his mind that he had seen many a movie in which the hero was trapped in a situation like this. But he realized at the same time that he could not remember one single picture in which the producer had not done his utmost to help the trapped hero out again to save the girl from the clutches of a bunch of villains. Before he could think of any of the tricks he had seen in the pictures by which the hero finally escaped, he felt, with a strange bitterness in his mouth, that this situation here was real. And whatever is real is different. No smart film-producer was on hand to open the trap with a good trick.

  Dobbs kicked the nearest burro in its hams until it took the lead and set out on its way toward town. Another followed slowly. The rest continued to nibble at the meager grass growing under the trees. Dobbs rounded them up and tried to get them all started on their way.

  5

  The three tramps stood up and, as if they meant to tease a bit, edged in among the burros that still lingered behind. The animals, used to marching with the rest of the pack-train, became restless and tried to break past the men and reach their fellows.

  At this the three men endeavored openly to prevent the remaining burros from following the others. They grasped the ropes and held on to the saddles to keep the burros from moving on.

  Dobbs, ten feet away, shouted: “Get away from my burros!”

  “Who? And just what?” Miguel sneered. “We can sell those burros as well as you can. They won’t be any worse if we sell them. What do you think, muchachos?” he asked his companions.

  “Away from those burros I tell you!” Dobbs yelled, his face red with fury. He jumped farther back and drew his gun.

  Miguel, seeing this move, failed to show either fear or surprise, as Dobbs had expected.

  “With that chingando iron of yours you can’t frighten even a sick louse,” he chuckled sarcastically. “Not us, you dirty funking cabrón. You can only shoot one. And whoever you bump off won’t mind much, because the Federals are after him anyway, and if they catch him he won’t live another half-hour. So what with your gat? We take that chance.”

  Once more Dobbs yelled at the top of his voice: “Get back there from my burros!” Without waiting for the men to move, he aimed at the one nearest him. It was Miguel. But the gun clicked cold. Twice, three times, five times the gun clicked without making even the pfish of a toy gun.

  Dobbs stared at his gun in amazement. So did the three thieves. They were so surprised at the failure of that gun that they forgot to laugh or to sneer or to say a single word or utter an exclamation.

  One of them bent slowly down and picked up a heavy stone.

  A short second followed, filled with such tension that Dobbs thought the whole world would explode. And in this second Dobbs remembered as clearly as if he were living it over once more why it came about that his gun would not fire. Curtin had disarmed Dobbs to prevent being killed. Curtin had unloaded the gun and put it in his own belt for safe keeping. When Dobbs the following night disarmed Curtin, he had shot him with Curtin’s gun. Then he had taken his own gun back, but in the excitement in which he had lived during the last few days, he had forgotten to reload his gun, and he had thrown Curtin’s gun, after he had shot him for the second time, upon the body to let the discoverer of the body figure out what had happened and how.

  Still before this same second came to an end, Dobbs’s mind worked intensely to think of another means of defense. His glance fell upon a machete tied to the saddle of the nearest burro. This weaponlike tool was for use in cutting a new trail when fallen trees blocked the way or the underbrush had grown too dense for the burros to pass. He grasped the haft of this machete, but before he could pull it out of its sheath, the stone one of the thieves had taken up crashed against his forehead. He fell. Before he could rise to his feet, Miguel, who had noted Dobbs’s move toward the machete, jumped close up. With the sure grip of an expert he had the machete out in an instant. Tigerlike he sprang at the fallen Dobbs, and with a short powerful stroke he cut off Dobbs’s head. A mighty gush of blood rushed forth from the body.

  More startled than frightened, the three men looked at the body, which was still quivering. The head lay only an inch from the neck. The eyelids blinked two or three times rapidly and then became fixed, but only partly closed. Several times the hands spread wide open and then cramped into fists, finally closing more gently as life fled away and the nerves stiffened.

  “You did that, Miguel,” Pablo said in a low voice, coming nearer.

  “Aw, shut up, you damned yellow dog! Why didn’t you do it? Afraid of that funking son of a bitch by a stinking gringo, hey? I know who did it and bumped him. And I tell ye, get away from me, both of you chingando cabrones and que chinguen los cabrones a las matriculas. Do I need your stinking advice, you puppies? Out of my way, you make me sick looking at you, you dirty rats.”

  He stared at the machete. There was not much blood on it. He wondered why. But the stroke had been that of a master hand. He did not realize how good he was, how great an expert. He stepped to the nearest tree, rubbed the machete clean against the bark, then, wetting his fingers with his tongue, tested the edge and, satisfied with his inspection, pushed the machete back into its scabbard.

  24

  Dogs often show a real interest in what men do, even when the men in question are not their masters. Dogs even like to meddle in the affairs of men. Burros are less in
terested in men’s personal doings; they mind their own business. That’s the reason why donkeys are thought to have a definite leaning toward philosophy.

  So it came about that the burros, paying no heed to what was happening, marched off, taking the way to town.

  In their excitement the thieves forgot the burros while they were busily stripping the body of Dobbs and eagerly searching the pockets for money. Without any hesitation, while the clothing was still warm and wet from the dead man’s sweat, they put it on after they had thrown away their own rags. Dobbs’s boots and his other clothes had been in daily use for the last ten months and were badly worn. To these tramps they were still luxuries.

  Only the shirt found no claimant, although the shirts they wore were in tatters.

  “Why don’t you want to put on the shirt, Nacho?” Miguel asked. “You would look like a dude, like a fine caballero, with such a shirt on your stinking carcass.” He kicked at the body on the ground, naked except for the well-worn khaki shirt. Everything else had found a new owner.

  “It isn’t worth very much,” Nacho answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You’ve got a swell reason to say so, you filthy dog.” Miguel looked at him, drawing one corner of his mouth down almost to the chin. “Compared with yours, it’s a gent’s silk shirt. No decency and no feeling for good things in you, that’s the trouble with a pig like you.”

  Nacho turned away. “I’m not hot for it, that’s all. Besides, it’s too close to the neck. Why don’t you take it yourself? Your own isn’t so grand, either.”

  “Me?” Miguel frowned as if he had heard an insult. “Me wear a shirt still warm from such a dirty son of a gringo dog! Not me. I still have some pride left.”

  The truth was that for Miguel, also, the shirt was too close to the neck of the dead man. It had only a few red spots near the collar, because Dobbs had worn it open, to get all the air he could. While it looked better than any of the shirts the thieves had on, all refused to have it. It was not superstition, it was only an uneasy feeling that made them anxious not to have it on their own body.

  “I am sure that cabrón has more shirts in the packs,” Pablo remarked.

  “You wait until I’ve examined these packs, and then we’ll see,” Miguel replied.

  “You mean to tell us that you are the boss here?” Nacho’s eyes narrowed and he stepped nearer to Miguel. He was still furious that he had got only Dobbs’s pants, while Miguel had the boots, which he himself wanted.

  “Boss? Who’s asking me? A fly like you?” Miguel roared. “Boss or no boss, I’ll tell what’s what here. What have you done so far, hey?”

  “Wasn’t it me that stoned him? Without me stoning him first, you would never have dared to go near him, you yellow skunk. That’s what you are, yellow, and a filthy son of a stinking cabrón.”

  “Huh! Don’t make me laugh right out. You with your little stone. It was just like a toothpick. A stone? Who ever heard of using a stone for bumping off a guy? Only cowards do that, únicamente cobardes y cabrones. Which of you rats would have come out and given him the final works? You are just low-down thieves and swindlers and liars. And don’t you forget for one minute I can use this machete a second time. And a third time as well. I won’t come and ask your permission if I no longer need you. I can do all the work alone and be better off, get me?” Miguel turned to examine the packs.

  “Be cursed and damned in hell! Where the devil are these malditos burros, los chingados bestias? Gone to hell!” He was so surprised that he forgot to roar.

  2

  The burros were well on their way to town.

  “Now, hustle up, you bandits,” Miguel commanded. “We must get these burros back here, all of them. If even one of them reaches town without a driver, the cops will get busy and smell a dead rat in the parlor. Then they come out here and we’ll be in a hell of a mess. Hurry and get them. Rustle your bones.”

  He himself started after the burros, followed by the other two. The animals were half-way to town already. As there was no roadside grass for them to nibble, they had traveled rather livelily to get to town, where experience told them they would get water, food, and a much needed rest. What was more, in the vicinity of the town lay the ranch where they had been brought up.

  It took the men over an hour to get the animals all back under the trees once more.

  “We’d better get busy and bury this carcass before the buzzards find it. Someone coming this way may investigate to see what the vultures are after, and then somebody else will be after us.” Miguel tied the burros to the trees to prevent them from walking off again.

  It was hard work to break the ground and bury the body. And work was not what these men wanted.

  Nacho came up with his idea. “Why bury that heathen? He isn’t even a Christian, only a godless and god-damned Protestant. If he is found, what then? He can’t tell who plugged him.”

  “Wise guys!” Miguel sneered at the two. “If this carcass is found here and the burros and the packs are found with us, then there won’t be any court proceedings, you know that. We’ll be shot the very hour they get us.”

  “Aw, hell, shut up! We don’t need your bedtime stories,” Pablo said, with lips twisted into an ugly grin.

  Miguel was the real boss. No doubt about that. The little brain he could afford he used. “You’re a smart guy, too smart to be a dirty rat. That’s what you think. But let me tell you something. Por Jesucristo y la Madre Santísima, can’t the hell you mugs see that if they find the burros with us, but not the body, they can do nothing? They have to prove first that the gringo has been killed. As long as they haven’t found his carcass, they can’t even prove that he’s dead. We bought the burros from him, and we are not his guardians, to watch out for his safety. Well, I won’t listen to any more argument from you two guys. Get to work, and be quick about it. Someone might come this way any time now and take a look at this outfit. Get at it and get it done.”

  The men pulled a spade from a saddle and began to dig a hole. It was the same spade which Dobbs, only a few days ago, had taken from the same saddle one morning and thrown across his shoulder when he went into the thicket to bury Curtin.

  The body was buried in no time. The thieves did not bother to make a good job of it. The undertakers of nature would come and do the rest. Why worry?

  Right after this they started the train back toward the Sierra. Believing that Dobbs might have told the truth and that two partners of his were coming this way, they turned off the trail Dobbs had followed and went back into the mountains by another trail.

  3

  When they reached the bush at the base of the Sierra, their curiosity could no longer be restrained. They were eager to know how big the booty was and how much each of them could expect for his share.

  It was dark, and the woods made the night still darker, but they did not light a fire. If soldiers or the Rurales were after them, it would be wise to have no fire to guide their pursuers.

  They got busy. The burros were unloaded and then the packs were opened. A pickpocket could not have been more excited to learn the contents of a pocketbook or a lady’s handbag than these men were while untying the bundles.

  There were more pants, but they were none too good. The few shirts they found were practically rags—hardly better than the ones they had on. There were two pairs of light shoes, which belonged to Howard and Curtin. There were pans and dishes, and two aluminum pots for coffee and tea. Nothing was good enough to sell, even to the poor, as everything was battered and covered with a thick crust of greasy, hardened soot.

  “Looks like that scoundrel really spoke the truth,” Nacho said disappointedly. “Not a cent, save the few pennies he carried in his pants. Seventy-four centavos! All the money we get out of it.”

  Pablo was inspecting other things. “The hides are not of the best sort. Very poor. All shot to pieces. A lot of holes make them of hardly any value. Funny sort of a hunter he must have been. Careless in shooting, and he had no i
dea what to shoot or how to get good hides. Worst of all, they are badly dried up. They are stinking and full of maggots. All the hair is coming off already. We’re lucky if we get twenty pesos for the whole lot. And we won’t get the twenty with a smile either. Maybe no one will take them even as a present.”

  Miguel was working about a pack he had opened. He held in his hands a few little bags made of rags and old sackcloth. “I can’t figure what in hell that guy had these funny little bags for.”

  He poured the contents into his open hand. “Sand. Nothing but plain sand. Now, what did he carry this sand for?”

  The darkness in the bush, lighted slightly by the new moon, made it difficult for the men to examine the sand more closely and recognize what it really was. Even had they known something about gold dust they would not have thought this particular sand of real value, not at this moment, when all their thoughts were occupied in other directions. They were looking for money and for things they could sell easily. As they examined the packs in darkness, trusting to the feel of their fingers and so missing even the faint glitter this dust sometimes shows, it is not strange that they failed to discern its value.

  Miguel, the most experienced of the three, had worked in the mines for a few years. He brought forth an explanation: “I see through it all now. He was a sort of mining engineer, that rascal was. He was working for some mining company. Claro, he went exploring for that company and was bringing back with him these samples of dust, sand, ground rocks, and all that, to be examined later by the chemists of his company. If they find something in these samples, then they buy the land and open a mine. Such sand has no value for us. If we took it to a company, we’d have to tell where it was found. What is still worse, it would make them suspicious and they might investigate how we got it. See?”

  “Then it’s no good?” Nacho asked.

  “Can’t you understand plain Spanish, you mug?” Pablo shouted at him. “Miguel knows. He has worked in mines. He knows more than all these gringo engineers. And you heard what he said. It might easily give us away. Throw it away as quick as you can. It’s hot, too hot for us. My bags are already cleared of that dirt. What’s more, the packs will be less heavy, and so we can get away easier. Get rid of it.”