Dobbs went to one of the burros, took the water-bag from the saddle, rinsed his mouth of the dust which was grinding between his teeth, and then drank. He poured some water into his hands and wet his face and neck.
As he returned the water-bag to the saddle, he heard somebody say: “Tiene un cigarro, hombre? Have you got a cigarette?”
Dobbs started. This was the first human voice he had heard for days, and it came to his ears with a shock.
Although the words were spoken in Spanish, Dobbs thought first of Howard and Curtin, realizing at the same moment that they would not speak to him in this way.
Turning his head in the direction the voice had come from, he saw three ragged tramps lying in a hollow under one of the trees farthest away toward the field. They were mestizos, unwashed, uncombed, with ugly faces, types that are frequently met on the roads in the vicinity of cities, where they can sleep free of charge and wait for any opportunities the road may offer. Their look alone gave evidence that they had not worked for months and had reached the state where they no longer cared about finding a job, having tried in vain a thousand times. They were the human sweepings of the cities, left on the dumps of civilization, possibly escaped convicts, outlaws, fugitives from justice. They were the garbage of civilization with their headquarters near all the other garbage and junk a modern city spits out unceasingly day and night.
Seeing these three empty tin cans of modern civilization, Dobbs, once in his life having been one of them himself, knew immediately that he was in one of the toughest situations he would ever have to face. He realized that he had made a mistake in leaving the open road and turning to the trees. The road was only about fifty feet away, but screened by these trees many things could happen. And, of course, out on the road he might not have been much safer.
Dobbs had no plan. He could only try to gain time in the hope that someone might pass by whom he might hail. He might convince the thieves that he had no money and nothing of value, but this would not be easy; his packs and his burros were enough to induce them to commit any crime to get possession of them.
“I haven’t got a cigarette,” he answered, trying to be nonchalant. “In fact, I haven’t had a cigarette myself for more than ten months.”
He thought he had said something clever. He would show them that he was so poor that he could not even buy himself a package of cigarettes. He added: “But I’ve got a few pinches of tobacco, if that will do.”
“And paper to roll it in?” one of the men asked. “Or a few corn leaves?”
The three thieves were still lying on the ground, their faces turned toward Dobbs. They were so well shielded by the trees that they could not be seen from the road. Had Dobbs seen them, he would not have turned off the road, but would have driven the burros hard to escape. “It’s too late now,” Dobbs thought, with regret.
“I’ve got a bit of newspaper, if it will do.” He pulled out his pouch and produced a piece of paper, wet with the sweat from his body. He handed this to the man nearest him.
The three men divided the piece of paper, took the pouch, and rolled their cigarettes.
“Cerillos? Matches?” one asked, as if ordering Dobbs to wait on him. Dobbs ignored the insolence and handed them the box of matches. They lighted their cigarettes and returned the box.
“Going to Durango?” one asked.
“Yes, that’s my intention. I’m going to sell the burros. I need money. I haven’t got a red cent.” Dobbs thought this answer clever again.
“Money? Exactly what we need. Don’t we, partners?” one said.
“Do we need it?” another answered, and broke into laughter.
Dobbs leaned against a tree so that he could keep them in view. He filled his pipe and lighted it. He took his time, for he wanted to impress on these men that he was in no way worried or, worse, afraid. He was no longer tired. “I might hire them as drivers,” he reflected. “That would not look so suspicious as if I came into town alone with so many pack-burros. They might like to earn a peso or two without hard work. Then they’d have a good meal and a drink coming their way.” It was an excellent idea, he was sure.
“I could use a good mule-driver—even two or three.”
“Could you?” One of the men was laughing.
“Yes, I sure could. These burros make me trouble enough.”
“How much is the pay?”
“One peso.”
“One peso for us three?”
“No. Of course not. One peso for each one of you. Naturally I can’t pay in advance. I’ll pay when we get to town and I’ve got some cash.”
“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 list 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.