"I wish he thought so. I hoped it would make him appreciate me, but he just sneered. Do you want to see him sneer? He does it beautifully. Watch." Doan leaned close to Carstairs and said in a stickily coy voice: "Who is Doansie-woansie's cutesy-wutesey 'itty puppy doggy?"
Carstairs looked up slowly and ominously. He raised one side of his upper lip. His eyes glowed golden-yellow and savage.
"I was only fooling," Doan said quickly.
Carstairs watched him warningly for a moment and then slowly lowered his head to Janet's lap again.
"He can sneer!" she said. "Horribly!"
"That was one of his milder ones," Doan told her.
"Do you ever punish him?"
"I tried it once," Doan said.
"What happened?"
"He knocked me down and sat on me for three hours. He weighs about a ton. I didn't enjoy myself at all, so I gave up the idea. Anyway, he has better manners than I have."
The Henshaws had seated themselves at the front of the bus, and Henshaw turned around wearily now and called:
"Say, when did that bird with the double-talk tell us we were going to start? Or is this trip just a rumor?"
"Here he comes," said Janet.
Bartolome trotted down the terrace steps and leaned in the door. "Starting instantly in a few moments. Have the kindness of patience in waiting for the more important passengers."
"Who are they?" Henshaw demanded, interested.
"The lady of incredible richness with the name of Patricia Van Osdel and her parasites."
"No fooling!" Henshaw exclaimed. "You hear that, Doan? Patricia Van Osdel. She's the flypaper queen. Her old man invented stickum that flies like the taste of, and he made fifty billion dollars out of it"
"Is she married?" Mrs. Henshaw asked suspiciously.
"That is a vulgarness to which she would not stoop," said Bartolome. "She has a gigolo. They come! Prepare yourselves!"
A short, elderly lady as thin as a pencil, dressed all in black that wrinkled and rustled and glistened in the sun, came out on the terrace and down the steps. She had a long, sallow face with a black wart on one cheek and teeth that popped out of ambush when she opened her mouth.
Henshaw had his hands cupped against the window, peering eagerly. "She sure has aged a lot, or else her pictures flatter her."
The elderly lady poked Bartolome in the chest with a stiff, bony forefinger. "One side!" She swished through the door into the bus, sniffed twice calculatingly, and then took a perfume atomizer from somewhere in her capacious skirt and squirted it in all directions vigorously. She selected a seat and dusted it with quick, irritated flicks of a silk dustcloth.
"Hey," said Henshaw. "Are you Patricia Van Osdel?"
"I am not," said the elderly lady. "I am Maria, her personal maid. Kindly turn around and mind your own business."
"Okay," said Henshaw amiably. He cupped his hands and peered through the window. "Hey! Here she comes! Get a load of this, Doan. Whee!"
The manager appeared, bowing and nodding and waving his hands gracefully in front of a girl who was as fair and fragile looking as a Dresden china doll. She was wearing a long white cloak, and her hair floated like spun gold above it. Her mouth was pink and petulant, but instead of being blue her eyes were a deep, calculating green. Her bearing and her manner and her features were all rigidly aristocratic.
A young man lounged along sullenly a step behind her. He was as magnificently dark as she was fair. He had black curly hair and an incredibly regular profile. He wore white slacks and a white pullover sweater with a blue silk scarf at his throat. He had a pencil-line mustache and long, slanted sideburns.
He stopped on the steps and pointed a forefinger at the bus. "Are we going in that thing?"
"Yes, Greg," said Patricia Van Osdel gently.
"I won't like it," Greg warned. "You know that, don't you?"
"Now, Greg," Patricia Van Osdel chided. "This is the democratic way, you see. This is the way we do things in America. We don't have any rigid class distinctions."
"It stinks," said Greg. "I mean the bus and Mexico and the United States and your democracy. I tell you that quite frankly because it's true."
"Get in the bus, Greg," said Patricia Van Osdel. "Don't be difficult."
"I don't approve of this," Greg said, getting in. "I'm warning you."
The manager and Bartolome handed Patricia Van Osdel gently through the door.
"You will enjoy yourself most exquisitely," the manager promised. "Bartolome, you cretin, point all the most beautiful views and do not hit any bumps. Not one bump, do you understand?"
Greg had seated himself and was glowering out a window. Maria ushered Patricia Van Osdel carefully to the seat she had selected and dusted.
The stir of movement floated some of the perfume to the back of the bus, and Carstairs sneezed and then sneezed again, more emphatically.
Maria jumped and glared. "That!" she said imperiously. "Out!"
"It is only a dog," the manager said quickly.
"A dog of the most intelligent marvelousness," Bartolome added.
"Please!" said Maria.
"Oh, no!" the manager denied, horrified.
"Emphatically never!" Bartolome seconded. "It is a dog of the most delicate and refined nature."
"It's quite all right," Patricia Van Osdel told her. She smiled at Doan and Janet. "I like dogs. They have so much character. Don't they, Greg?"
"No," said Greg.
Henshaw cleared his throat. "My name is Henshaw--"
"Who cares?" Greg inquired coldly.
"Greg," said Patricia Van Osdel, "now please be pleasant. Mr. Henshaw, I'm very glad to know you. And this is your wife and little boy? What a nice family group you make! I'm sure you all know who I am. This lady is my maid, Maria. And this is my refugee friend, Gregor Dvanisnos." She turned graciously toward the back of the bus. "And your names?"
"Doan," said Doan. "And this is Miss Janet Martin. On the floor, here, is Carstairs."
"Carstairs!" Patricia Van Osdel repeated, smiling. "What an amusing name for a dog!"
Carstairs opened one eye and looked at her and mumbled malignantly under his breath.
"Now!" said Patricia Van Osdel brightly. "We all know each other, don't we? We can all be friends having a pleasant day's excursion together, and that's the way it should be. That's the American tradition of equality. Although, in a way you are really all my guests."
"In what way?" Doan asked.
Patricia Van Osdel moved her shoulders gracefully. "It's really nothing. There was some silly hitch, some petty regulation--The hotel was going to cancel this trip to Los Altos until I persuaded them not to."
"How did you persuade them?" Doan inquired.
"Well, Mr. Doan, to be frank I bribed them. Money is a bore, but it's useful sometimes, isn't it?"
"So they tell me," said Doan. "Why did you bribe them?"
"Because I was determined to see Los Altos, of course. You've surely read about it, or you wouldn't be going there. A peaceful, picturesque village of stalwart peasants isolated deep in the mountains--happy in their primitive and peaceful way--unspoiled by the brutalizing forces of civilization. Why, until just recently, since the new military highroad was opened, there was no way to get there except by mule back. The village is famous for its peaceful, archaic atmosphere."
"Is that the only reason you bribed them to put on the trip?" Doan asked. "Just because you wanted to see the peaceful, peaceful peasants at play?"
"You're awfully curious, Mr. Doan, aren't you?"
"He's a detective," said Henshaw. "All them guys do is make trouble and ask questions."
Patricia Van Osdel's voice was sharp suddenly. "A detective? Are you a customs spy?"
"No," said Doan. "Why? Are you going to smuggle some jewelry into the United States?"
Patricia Van Osdel was still smiling, but her eyes narrowed just slightly. "Mr. Doan, I know you're joking, but you shouldn't suggest such a thing even in fun. You
know that the very existence of our great country depends on all of us--rich and poor, wellborn and humble--obeying the exact letter of every law. Naturally I wouldn't dream of defrauding the government by not declaring any small jewels I may purchase."
"Oh," said Doan. "Well, I just asked."
"Yeah," said Henshaw. "And I'm just asking when we start this grand tour, if ever?"
"On schedule with preciseness," said Bartolome. "Instantly as printed. As soon as I consult with the tires, oil and gasoline."
"Species of a mumbling moron!" the manager snarled. "In! Start! Now!"
Chapter 2
IN LOS ALTOS, THERE HAD BEEN A RUMOR GOING THE rounds that some rich tourists from the United States who were staying at the Hotel Azteca outside Mazalar were going to make the bus trip up to Los Altos. It was obvious, of course, that this rumor wasn't entirely to be trusted. Anyone with any brains or a radio knew that the people from the United States were too busy raising hell up and down the world to have any time to look at scenery except through a bombsight.
But tourists of any brand had been so remarkably scarce of late that the mere hint of their impending arrival was enough to touch off a sort of impromptu fiesta. The inhabitants of Los Altos shook the mothballs out of their serapes, mantillas, rebozas and similar bric-a-brac and prepared to look colorful at the drop of a sombrero. They gathered in the marketplace with their pigs and chickens and burros and dogs and children, and slept, argued, bellowed, squealed, cackled or urinated on the age-old pavement according to their various natural urges.
All this was very boring to a man who, for the time being, was named Garcia. He sat and drank beer the general color and consistency of warm vinegar, and glowered. He had a thin, yellowish face and a straggling black mustache, and he was cross-eyed. He should really have been more interested in the tourists coming from the Hotel Azteca, because in a short time one of them was going to shoot him dead. However, he didn't know that, and had you told him he would have laughed or spat in your eye or perhaps both. He was a bad man.
He was sitting now in the Dos Hermanos, which was according to its brotherly proprietors, a cafe very high class. It was one door off the marketplace on the street running north. Since it was early and no one yet had any money to get drunk on and Garcia looked mean, he was the only customer. One of the proprietors was sleeping with his head on the bar while flies explored gingerly in the dark and gusty cavern of his mouth. Garcia could look out the open front of the cafe and see kitty-corner across the marketplace, but it was hard for anyone outside to see him.
Private Serez of the Mexican Army had found that out some time ago. He was in the abandoned building directly across the street from the cafe. He was lying on his stomach on some very rough boards peering out and down through a high, glassless window. His rifle, bayonet attached, lay beside him. He was very tired, and his eyes ached, and his elbows were sore. He wanted a cigarette, a beer, and a siesta in that order, but he didn't really think he was going to get any of them for a long time to come.
The reason for this pessimism was a sergeant by the name of Obrian, also of the Mexican Army. Sergeant Obrian had inherited a red mustache and a violent temper from his Irish grandfather, and he was very sticky about having his commands obeyed literally. He had ordered Private Serez to lie right where he was and keep out of sight and watch Garcia with all due vigilance. Private Serez knew he had better do just that and keep on doing it until he got some further orders.
Even as he was thinking drearily about the prospect, he heard a board creak in the hall outside the closed door of his watch-room. That would be Sergeant Obrian with his bad disposition and worse vocabulary coming around to check up. Private Serez wiggled himself higher on his sore elbows and looked out the window in as soldierly and alert a manner as possible.
The heavy, wrought-iron door hinges creaked just slightly, and then something hit the floorboards beside Private Serez with a heavy thud. He looked back over his shoulder. The door was closing again very gently, but Private Serez didn't even notice it.
He was staring in paralyzed horror at what had made the thud. That was a diamondback rattlesnake five feet long and thicker around the middle than a man's doubled biceps.
The snake had had its rattles clipped off and had been submitted to other indignities that hadn't improved its temper. It whipped back into a coil--all lithely sinister muscle--and struck. It missed Private Serez's leg by half an inch.
He yelled--loudly. He could no more have helped that than he could have helped breathing. He scrambled frantically on the floor, grabbing for his rifle, trying to get back out of range of the next strike. There was no furniture in the room. The snake was between Private Serez and the door. He jumped for the only other place that promised temporary refuge. He climbed right up into the window.
Garcia heard the yell. He looked up, and he saw Private Serez in the window. His yellowish face showed neither shock nor fear, but his lips peeled back thinly from his teeth, and he drew a thick, nickel-plated revolver from his coat pocket. He got up from his table, watching the proprietor. The proprietor mumbled and rolled his head on the bar, faintly disturbed by the yell, but luckily for him he didn't wake up. Garcia went quietly to the back of the room, opened the door there and went down a short passageway past a kitchen that smelled abominably. At the end of the passageway he opened another door and stepped out into a small, high-walled patio paved with garbage and less mentionable refuse.
He was halfway across the patio, heading for the side door, when a soldier stood up behind the back wall. Garcia and the soldier stared at each other, rigid with surprise, for the space of two heartbeats, and then Garcia whipped up his revolver and fired.
The report was a flat, ragged crash, and the bullet hit the soldier just under his chin. He clapped both hands to his throat and flopped backwards out of sight. Garcia opened the side door and looked at the butcher who owned the shop next to the cafe .
The butcher had been interrupted in the process of carving up a skinny cow with the aid of three cats and one million flies. He opened his mouth to yell, but he didn't, because Garcia hit him on top of the head with the revolver and knocked him flat. The cats went in three directions, and the flies droned up in an angry swarm and then settled back on the beef and the butcher indiscriminately.
Garcia didn't hurry. He went cautiously along the alley in the direction of the marketplace, sliding along one wall with the revolver thrust out ahead of him. He reached the alley-mouth and peered out. The people in the marketplace were beginning to stir and wonder uneasily.
Sergeant Obrian stood up on the roof of a building two doors away and leaned over the parapet, peering down to see what was happening. Garcia raised his revolver and aimed carefully at him. He was shooting up at an angle and against the sun. He missed by six inches. The bullet slapped a silvery blob of lead against the adobe. Instantly Sergeant Obrian dropped back out of sight behind the parapet.
In the same split second, Private Serez managed to spear the rattlesnake with his bayonet. He didn't know exactly what to do with it now that he had it, so he pitched it out the window into the marketplace. The snake, still writhing, fell across the nose of a burro below. The burro kicked out backward with both heels and hit its master squarely in the stomach. He fell down and screamed and flailed the ground with his arms.
The burro stamped on the snake and then ran away, and the butcher woke up and yelled, and the whole marketplace went off like a time bomb. All the people decided they would go somewhere else right away and, if possible, take their various dependents, human and animal, along with them. The confusion was something terrific, and Garcia stepped right into the middle of it and disappeared.
Chapter 3
THE ROLLED GRAVEL ROAD WAS LIKE A CLEAN white ribbon laid in graceful loops along the side of the mountain that towered red and enormous up into the thin, clear blue of the sky. Heat waves shimmered and wiggled above bare rock, and the dust from the bus's passage drifted back in a lazy plu
me. The engine burbled and muttered to itself in quiet protest over the steepness of the grade.
"This is a pretty sizeable rock pile," Henshaw volunteered, trying to look out the window and up toward the summit.
"Kindly do not waste the astonishment," Bartolome ordered. "This is not yet the magnificence. This is called 'La Cabeza,' the head, because that is its name. The scenery here is only ordinarily wonderful." Janet Martin's eyes were shining. "It's the beginning of the middle range," she said in a low voice to Doan. "One of Cortez's lieutenants discovered it. He thought the whole length of the range looked like a sleeping woman. He saw it first from the other side of Azela Valley--a hundred and ten miles from here"
"What was the guy's name?" Doan asked.
The Essential Works of Norbert Davis Page 8