Pedro could still see the ambassadors' slaves spreading their mats, heaping up these treasures, while the ring of bearded Spaniards elbowed each other for a better view.
Aguilar, the interpreter, and Doiia Marina had informed Cortes that Montezuma sent his gifts and greetings and bade the white teules keep away from his dominions. That was funny. There had been a big laugh about that around the campfires. Send nuggets of gold to prospectors and invite them kindly not to visit the mines. These gifts made possible the bribe to Spain, made inevitable the march across the mountains.
"Friends," Cortes had argued, urging the sacrifice of the treasure, "do you think that this prince has stripped himself for our benefit, that he hasn't a thousandfold more where this came from? By my beard, gentlemen, these are but scraps and samples. And, mark you, he fears us or he would not have sent them. Now certainly we must visit him. Shall we cling to trifles which will bulk large in Spain, when we can help ourselves to this dog's treasury? Authorized by His Majesty and with a free hand here, we'll count an empire cheap at a hundred thousand pesos."
Risk all to gain all—it was like Cortes. Pedro remembered the beggarly money box he had guarded in Trinidad, and the General's promises. They had come true in part. Here was more gold beneath his nose than Pedro had ever dreamed of. But somehow he had still no share in it. His gold, as always, lay somewhere else in the future, beyond the mountains.
The trouble was that others in the army, not so willing to accept birds in the bush, looked greedily at the bird in hand. The Velasquez faction was still active. Therefore the need of a strong guard. Pedro had a mastiff with him, one of the war dogs used against the Indians; and a couple of foot soldiers, armed to the teeth, stood outside.
"One large wheel of gold" (ran the inventory), "with figures of strange animals on it, and worked with tufts of leaves; weighing three thousand, eight hundred ounces."
Pedro eyed the chest which contained it, the prize of the collection, a solid, round disc forty inches across. More than the weight of a heavy man. Dofia Marina, who had learned some Spanish by now, informed him that it represented the sun, and she had thrilled over the beauty of the workmanship. But to Pedro it represented twenty thousand pesos. Twenty thousand in that one item!
The same box contained also "five large emeralds of fine water and cutting." They were of immense value and were especially designed to take the eye of His Majesty. A doeskin pouch, embroidered with feather-and-gold work, contained them. De Vargas took pride in the thought that he was guarding crown jewels. If the duty of protecting the funds of the army had once been creditable, it was now of great importance and honor. It showed clearly where he stood in the estimation of the General.
Strolling to the doorway, he stood looking out across the courtyard. It was a wide rectangle several hundred yards across, and the unbroken line of one-story buildings, which surrounded it and from which the temple attendants had been ousted, easily contained the army.
Standing in the center and dominating everything else, towered the mass of the truncated pyramid, the teocalli proper, with its steep line of steps broken by terraces, and the broad platform, with the shrines of the gods and the altar of sacrifice, on top. Dark in the moonlight, like a narrow runner from platform to base along the steps, showed a band of bloodstains left by the bodies of countless victims, who had been hurled down after sacrifice to be eaten.
A sickening taint of stale blood haunted the place. It was this, no doubt, that kept the Spanish mastiffs restless and savage. But tonight it was somewhat deadened by the smell of burning, where a heap of ashes still smoldered at the base of the pyramid. They marked the remains of the wooden idols which had been rolled down from the shrines that day by the Spaniards in their work of conversion. Tomorrow, what with fresh plaster and whitewash, a cross, and the image of the Blessed Virgin, the air would be purer. Pedro shared with everybody else the satisfaction in thus saving souls and promoting the kingdom of heaven, while at the same time pursuing fortune. Had not Saint Paul himself declared that "if we have sown unto you spiritual things, is it a great thing if we shall reap your carnal things."
To Pedro's right, at some distance, he could see the entrance gate with the cannon posted in front of it, and he could see the gleam of the match in the gunner's hand. A sentry walked back and forth. Cem-poala was a friendly city, indeed an ally; but, with Indians, Cortes never took chances. Besides, there had been some trouble that day about the burning of the idols. The Cempoalans, impressed by the weakness of their gods, were inclining towards the True Faith. Still, one never knew; and woe to the sentinel that night who neglected his watch! On pain of death, no Spaniard could pass the gate without special order.
Otherwise, the courtyard hummed with festivity. Eight Indian girls, the daughters of chiefs, had been presented to the principal captains to cement the alliance, and quasi-bridal parties were under way. The girls had all been baptized and from now on would have the title of dona. They each represented a dowry in lands and villages; and, as harraganas or accepted concubines of the cavaliers, their position was thoroughly respectable. Indeed, the blood of some of them would finally mingle with the noblest in Spain. From now on, ties of marriage would bind the coastal tribes to the army and help to guarantee its rear when it advanced inland.
From one comer, a lute twanged; the giggle of women and laughter of men sounded. In another direction, a fifer squeaked out some pop-
ular tune. Cups clashed and clattered over a toast. A good deal of pulque was flowing tonight. It might not taste like wine, but it got the same results. About the enclosure, men strolled from party to party; some natives were present, kinsfolk of the brides.
De Vargas eyed the come-and-go a trifle glumly. To be sure, he did not rank as a captain yet, but Cortes had promised him a cacica with a fat dowry on the first occasion and had conveniently forgotten it. He regretted the dowry, if not the girl, as he listened to the bridal celebrations. Being on duty, he was even cut out of the fun. Cursed bad luck, which the honor of guarding the treasure hardly made up for.
In the shadow of the pyramid, an obscure scuffling started and gradually approached until he could make out Humpback Nojara and a man called Gallego. They were in rollicking high spirits and had some scarecrow of a creature between them, whom they were dragging along in a sort of rough-and-tumble. Pedro could see that it was a native, but whether man or woman he couldn't tell. They came to a momentary stop beneath the stone platform upon which the treasure room opened.
Glad of diversion, Pedro barked down at them, "Hola, you! Don't you know the orders? Do you want to be flogged? You don't remember that the General promises fifty lashes to any man's son who touches an Indian, eh?" ("And those are the promises he keeps," Pedro added to himself.) "Lay off, I tell you!"
Like schoolboys caught in a lark, the two soldiers blinked back at him, but they kept a grip on the native. It was a nightmare figure dressed in a black robe, and with long, matted hair—evidently one of the temple priests. Pedro could see the rolling white of his eyes and the flash of teeth. He kept up a babble, which had the sound of very strong language.
"Now, now, Your Worship," soothed Nojara, with proper respect for Cortes's equerr)', "orders don't apply to this cockroach. What's he doing, oozing around in the dark, casting spells, by God? Blubbering, like a baby, because his devil, Witchywolves, got burned. When his mates have had the sense to turn Christian! He's a butcher all right. Stinks like hell. You can smell him from there."
"Besides, we aren't touching him. Your Worship," Gallego put in. "Not what you mean. We're reasoning with him. Aren't we, hijo?" He gave the Indian a clap between the shoulders. "We're working on him in spite of his stink—saving his soul, by God, and may the saints credit it to us! You can't say no to that. Your Worship."
"Why don't you take him to Fray Bartolome?"
"His Reverence is at the General's party. This chinche isn't worth disturbing him for. I hope you don't think we aren't Christian enough to deal with a bug
like this, ha?"
They had had more than enough of pulque. Their high spirits might change to murder at the batting of an eye. Moreover, Pedro had no love for the priests, who cut out helpless people's hearts and splashed blood on the temple walls.
"What're you going to do with him?"
"First get barber Lencero to shear his mane off. It's stiff with blood as a board. Then we'll take a currycomb to him. Then we'll scrub him and souse the sin off him. After that, he'll want to be baptized."
"Well," grinned Pedro, "don't make too much noise about it is my advice. I'd hate to see you flogged. Quien lava la caheza at asno pierde el jabon y el tiempo. At least keep quiet."
"Quiet as hush, Your Worship. Buenas noches. Come on, you"
Pedro exchanged comments with the two sentries that shared his watch. Silence fell for a while; then roars of laughter broke from the men's quarters. But it was good laughter. The Indian dog might be having a rough conversion, but he'd be all right.
Other merrymakers passed with a shout cf greeting. Sandoval and Cristobal de Olea sauntered up. They were on the top of the world.
"Ha, Redhead! Ha, Nino!—Navarro!" (Drunk or sober, Sandoval never overlooked the private soldiers.) "Cristobal and I have been making the rounds. Just come from the General's. 'Struth, that's a sight. Redhead. There's something to jog your liver—the Dofia Cata-lina. What a bride she is! Bravest deed Hernan Cortes ever faced. Seen her?"
"Not close."
"That's close enough." Sandoval made wide, curving movements. "Ugly as sin, color of mud. And there sits the General looking politic, with a fixed smile on. You know how he looks. Gad's my life!"
Sandoval's sides shook. He planted his fists on them.
"I said to him, 'Senor, is there anything you won't do in the service of the Sovereigns and this company?'
"And he said, 'What do you think? But here's another good reason,' he said, 'for marching across the mountains, and that quickly. Anyway we leave a solid backing behind us.'
" 'Solid is right,' I said. 'Cry Santiago tonight when you charge, and the luck of Paladin Roldan God grant you mercifully!'
"So he cast his eyes up, like Saint Lawrence on the gridiron, and cried sharne for mocking a public-spirited man. ... Now we're heading for Puertocarrero's. Wish you were along."
"I'll be along in an hour, Pedro grunted. "Save me some pulque.
Olea said, "By the way, I thought Bull Garcia didn't drink."
"He doesn't."
"Like hell! We looked in at Juan Veldsquez de Leon's and there was the Bull chnking cups with Escudero, tossing it down lie a friar. "Water vou mean?"
"Water nothing. He's been keeping something from us."
They walked off. "Hey!" cried Pedro. But Sandoval had burst into a tuneless bellow, meant for a song, and Olea joined in.
Pedro stared after them. Garcia drinking. He couldn't believe it. In all his year together, on march and shipboard, he had never once yielded to his dangerous temptation. Then why should he be drinking now? Above all, why should he drink with Juan Escudero whom he hated as the leader of the Velasquez faction? The report left Pedro thoughtful and uneasy. Cortes did not tolerate brawling, and he dealt a swift, merciless justice--not to speak of the danger to Garcia from his fellow soldiers if he went beserk. Pedro would have given a good deal to go over to Velasquez de Leon's quarters and take a lookfor himself; but, until relieved, he was chained to his post by the strictest of all rules in the army.
The night seemed quieter and more oppressive. He listened anxiously but heard nothing unusual. After a time camethe measured tread of theofficer of the watch making his rouuds to inspect the sentries. It was Cristobal de Olid. Pedro could hear the challenge of those at the gate, Olid's reply, and the grounding of pikes in salute. It came Pedro's turn. Olid clanked on. In view of suspense about Garcia, Pedro was grateful that Cortes's cacia preoccupied him, for he was apt to patrol the camp himself.
Then, not an outburst of noise, but the sound of running. Instantly alert,Pedro was at the edge of the platform when a man panted up. He made out the scared face of Lazarillo Varela, one of the foot soldiers.
"For God's sake, Senor de Vargas--if you can do anything. Garcia's gone mad ... He tried to kill Captain Velasquez de Leon. He's like a wild beast in a corner. ... no one can go near him ... Velasquez sent for a crossbowman, vow's he'll have him shot. Lord Almighty! Hurry! If you can do anything ..."
Turning to the door of the treasure room, Pedro drew it shut; and, closing the padlock with which it had been newly equipped, he put the key in his wallet. The mastiff was inside; Nino and Navarro, two absolutely trusted men, were on guard. To hell with army rules under the circumstances! He could think only of Garcia
"Look alive!" he said to the soldiers. "It'll be all right. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Hurry!" urged Varela.
XXX
As THEY raced toward the far comer of the courtyard on the other side of the pyramid, Varela babbled something of what had happened Escudero baited him for a water drinker. But he kept on the polite side. Diego Cermefio, the pilot, joined in. Stood up for Garcia, as if he needed somebody to take his part. Which looks funny because Cer-meno and Escudero are thick together. That got under the Bull's skin He drank to show them, then kept on. They sHpped out before trouble started. Garcia went crazy between breaths, turned the table over let drive at Velasquez—" '
The platform in front of Captain Velasquez's quarters was crowded with a muttering throng, elbowing and craning for a glimpse through the vaguely lighted doorway. Sympathy was evident, because everyone liked Garcia and sensed tragedy in what was happening. At sight of Fedro, they made way, as if for the near relative of a man at the point of death.
Beyond the threshold stood a group of tense, anxious-looking men among whom the burly, red-bearded Velasquez stood out. He had a cut on his forehead, at which he was dabbing with a napkin, while he counted slowly in a harsh voice. Beside him stood a crossbowman bolt in place and stock to shoulder. The room looked a wreck—trestles for the table planks overturned, stools and Indian mats shoved about a smashed pulque jar on the floor. '
Against the opposite wall, Garcia stood at bay, his face beet-red eyes glassy, a trace of foam at his lips. The man's gigantic shoulders were hunched forWard as if he were about to attack. He wore no doublet Somehow he had got hold of a heavy, two-handed sword, which he held stretched out in front of him, its point tapping the floor.
I d rather tackle Beelzebub," someone was muttering. "The Cao-tam got off lucky."
"Five—six," Velasquez counted.
Pedro braced himself. Evidently Velasquez had given Garcia a certain time in which to surrender, but he was calling numbers to a deaf man.
"Seven. . . . Damn you, Garcia, I'll not have our fellows murdered by a maniac. Don't make me give the order. You can't stop a steel bolt. I don't want to kill you, you fool. Drop that sword!"
Velasquez de Leon might be a good soldier, but he was no psychologist. In a voice Pedro had never heard, Garcia raged back: "Damn you and your obscenity bolts! I don't give a piece of dung for 'em. I'll slit your blasted throats in the name of God. Indian dogs! Dirty man-eaters! I'll give your hearts to Seiior Witchywolves, by'r Lady!"
He started a slov/, menacing advance. His delusion was plain, but Velasquez had no time for argument.
"Eight—nine. Ready, Sanchez?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ten!"
Knocked up of a sudden, the weapon discharged its bolt into the ceiling.
"The devil!" roared Velasquez. "What in hell—"
Disregarding him, Pedro stepped forward to meet Garcia.
"Cuidado!" hissed a voice from behind. "Look out!"
Pedro paid no attention.
"Don't you know me, Juan? Come! You haven't forgotten Pedrito?"
"Look to yourself, Indian!"
The sword wheeled back, but at the top of its arc, it wavered, stopped. Garcia stood like an axman delaying the downstroke. The glazed eye
s quickened slightly.
Pedro stood motionless. "Companero" he said.
The blade sank slowly. Garcia drew a hand across his face. "You're not an Indian," he growled. "Why, you're—"
He dropped the sword, threw his arms around Pedro. "Lord, boy! I knew I could count on you. This cursed jungle . . . lost my way . . . about spent. Damn savages! They'll not take us to the sacrifice. Shoulder to shoulder now!"
He flung loose, staring at the group in front of the door.
"They're friends, Juan."
"Where's the sword?" Garcia was looking blindly around him. . . . "Your arm!" he said thickly. "I'm spent." His face had gone white.
Pedro caught him around the waist. He collapsed unconscious on the floor.
"Holy saints!" said Velasquez, mopping his forehead. "That was
close. YouVe got nerve, Redhead. I'm grateful to you. It would have been a shame to kill him. But what the deuce! He was bent on murder."
The onlookers trooped in, gathered round; voices were loud in contrast to the previous hush. A bucket of water was brought.
"No," said Pedro. "Let him sleep it off. He'll be all right."
Velasquez, eager to make amends, helped carry Garcia into a corner of the room and stuck a mat under his head. "He can stay here tonight," he added. "And leave that bucket near him. He'll have fire in his mouth when he comes to."
Pedro drew off Garcia's boots. He found his hands trembling. Now that the danger was past, he felt almost weak from relief. Then he remembered that the danger wasn't altogether past.
Facing the others, he said: "A word, senores. You've known Juan Garcia as a sober man and good comrade. Because two crackpots found out his weakness and made a joke of it is no cause for scandal. Will you favor him and me by keeping this to yourselves? If the General heard of it, he'd have to take measures. Understand?"
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