Soon the two men reached Villa Cuauhtemoc. This little town, situated on the shores of a large lagoon, and connected with the river and the port by a picturesque channel, on which a lively traffic of boats and launches is carried on, is in fact the ancient Indian principal town of this region. The Spaniards, after they had conquered this region, preferred to build their town on the other side of the river, as more convenient for shipping. The new town, the port, became more and more important and left the old town so far behind that the inhabitants of the port forgot its existence entirely; when they heard of it, they thought it located in the depths of the jungle and peopled by primitive Indians.
On reaching the last huts of the town opposite the lagoon, Dobbs and Moulton saw an Indian squatted by the road on the top of the hill. The Indian wore rather good cotton pants, and he had on, furthermore, a clean blue shirt, a high pointed palm hat, and on his feet huaraches—that is, sandals. On the ground before him was a bast bag filled with a few things which perhaps were all he owned in this world.
The two, being in a hurry, passed by the Indian without taking any special notice of him.
After a while Dobbs turned his head and said: “What the devil does that Indian want of us? He’s been trailing us for the last halfhour.”
“Now he’s stopping,” Moulton said. “Seems to be looking for something in the bush there. Wonder what he is after.”
They went on their way. Then, turning their heads, they noticed once more that the Indian was still on their heels.
“Did he carry a gun?” Moulton asked.
“Not that I saw. I don’t think he’s a bandit. He looks rather decent to me,” Dobbs said. “Anyway you can never be sure about that.”
“Looks a bit screwy to me.”
They marched on. Yet whenever they looked back, they saw the Indian following them, always keeping at a distance of about fifty feet. Whenever they stopped to catch their breath, the Indian stopped too. They began to get nervous.
There seemed no reason for being afraid of a poor Indian, but they began to feel sure that this single native was only the spy for a whole horde of bandits who were eager to rob the two strangers of the little they possessed.
“If I only had a gun,” Dobbs said, “I’d shoot him down. I’m cracking up. I can’t bear it any longer to have that brown devil on our heels waiting for his chance. I wonder if we could catch him and tie him to a tree and leave him there.”
“I don’t quite agree.” Moulton looked back at the man, trying to guess his intent. “Perhaps he’s a harmless guy after all. But I admit if we could get rid of him some way, it might be safer.”
“Let’s go on and then stop suddenly,” Dobbs suggested. “We’ll let him come up and ask him straight out what he wants.”
They stopped under a tree and looked up as if they saw something very interesting in its branches—a strange bird or fruit.
The Indian, however, the moment he noticed that the two Americans had halted, stopped also, watching them from a safe distance.
Dobbs played a trick to get the Indian to come near. He showed a growing excitement about what he pretended to see in the branches of the tree. He and Moulton pointed into the dense foliage and gesticulated like madmen. The Indian, as they expected, fell for it. His inborn curiosity got the better of him. Step by step he came nearer, his eyes fixed on the upper branches of the tree. When he finally stood beside the two, Dobbs made an exaggerated gesture and, pointing into the dense bush, yelled: “There, there he is, running away now.” He drew Moulton close to him as if he wanted to show him clearly the spot where some strange animal had disappeared. At the same moment he turned round and held the Indian by his arm so tightly that he could not escape.
“Listen, you,” he addressed him, “what do you want from us? Why are you trailing us?”
“I want to go there,” the Indian answered, pointing in the direction in which Dobbs and Moulton were going.
“Where to?” Moulton asked.
“Same place where you are going, senores.”
“How do you know where we are going?”
“I know where you are going,” the native said quietly. “You are going out to the oil-fields to look for work. That’s the same place I am going. Perhaps I can find some work there too. I have worked in the oilcamps before.”
Dobbs and Moulton smiled at each other, each silently accusing the other of being the bigger jackass and coward. No doubt what the native said was true. He looked like a camp worker and might well be after honest work exactly as they two were. Looked at closely, there was not a trace in his face or anywhere about him to remind one of a bandit.
To make absolutely sure, Dobbs asked: “Why don’t you go alone? Why do you follow us all the time?”
“To tell you the truth, caballeros,” the Indian explained, “I had been sitting by this road already three days, from sunrise to sunset, waiting there for some white men passing by with whom I might go to the camps.”
“Can’t you find your way alone?” Moulton asked.
“Yes, I could. Maybe. But the trouble with me is soy un gran cobarde, I am a big coward. I am afraid of going alone through the jungle. There are huge tigers, and snakes huger still.”
“We aren’t afraid of anything in the world, we aren’t,” Dobbs said with great conviction.
“I know you aren’t. That’s the reason why I was waiting for whites going the same way.”
“But whites may be eaten by tigers, too,” Moulton said.
“No, senor, there you are mistaken. Tigers and lions of our country don’t attack Americans; they attack only us, because we belong to the same country, we are sort of compatriots, and that’s why our tigers and lions prefer us and never bother an American. What is more, along the road to the camps there are also sometimes a lot of bandits sitting and waiting for someone to come along to rob. The shores of the Tamihua Lagoon is infested with these murderers.”
“It looks very promising,” Moulton said to Dobbs.
Dobbs replied: “What’s biting you now? What’s the joke?”
“I was just thinking how afraid we were of this pobre hombre here, this little piece of human being, and he was a hundred times more afraid of us.”
“Aw, shut up, you make me sick.” Dobbs wanted to forget.
“Besides,” Moulton continued, “sometimes it’s a good thing not to have a gun on your hip, or this poor devil would no longer be alive and we might find ourselves in a hell of a mess, for no one on earth would believe we acted in self-defense.”
From now on the Indian went along with them, hardly speaking a word, walking by their side or behind them, just as the road would permit.
Shortly before sunset they reached a little Indian village which consisted of only a few huts. The inhabitants, hospitable as they are at heart, were afraid of the strangers, owing to the many tales about bandits in the neighborhood. So with kind words and many excuses they persuaded the three men to go on and try to reach the next village, which, they stated, was bigger and had better accommodations—even a fonda, a little inn—and since the sun had not completely disappeared yet, they might reach that big village still with the last rays of daylight.
There was nothing else to do but go on. One mile they covered and there was no sign of a village. They marched another mile and there was still no village in sight.
By now it had become pitch-dark and they could no longer see the road. If they went on, they might easily get lost in the jungle.
“Those people in the village must have lied to us about that big place we were supposed to come across soon.” Moulton was angry. “We shouldn’t have left the village, but stayed there with or without their consent, even if we had to sleep in the open but still near the huts.”