The Treasure OfThe Sierra Madre (32 page)

Curtin and Dobbs were not in good humor. The pass across the highest mountain range was still far off, and the trail leading to this high pass had become so difficult that the two partners became near senseless from desperation.

They no longer spoke to each other in the usual manner. They bellowed at each other, howled like wild beasts, and cursed themselves and the rest of the world for the hard job they had undertaken. And most bitterly of all they cursed the absent Howard. While they had to drive his burros, to load and unload his packs, and to take care of all his belongings, he was most probably now enjoying himself, with a pretty Indian hussy sitting on his knees and another brown wench hanging on his neck and before him a swell meal of roast turkey and a bottle of tequila. And here his two partners had to slave for him and die for him on that goddamned hell of a funking trail, put there by the Lord for no other reason than to make you suffer for all the dirty sins fifty generations of your forefathers committed.

“Why the hell did we offer to take along the packs of that son of a skunk? As if he couldn’t take them by himself, or with the help of those goddamned Indians, who, of all the people in the world, had to come to get that goddamned boy of theirs out of hell, where he was already being well cared for and where he properly belonged!”

“And isn’t it always his burros that, goddamn it, won’t march in line, and stray off and smash their packs against the trees, trying to get them off their funking backs?”

“He knew, that goddamned story-teller did, why he wanted us to take along his packs. They are the heaviest of all and the most carelessly packed. Gawd knows, his burros are the laziest that were ever born anywhere under heaven, and the most stubborn. Hell, how I wish they would break off the trail and drop down the three thousand feet of the gorge and crash their bones! What would I care? To hell with him and all he has!”

It was lucky for them that heaven was too high above to hear them and lay half a hundred broken trees across the trail and soak the narrow path with so much water that the burros would sink into the mud up to the saddles, so that for once they would learn what a really tough trail on the Sierra Madre is like when hell and heaven are against the traveler. What they encountered was in fact nothing, if you would ask a hard-boiled arriero whose business it is to bring pack_trains of mules across the Sierra Madre at any time of year.

Of course, it would have meant much to have one more man at hand on trails like this one. A pack which has come off the animal’s back can only be properly replaced by two men, and while these two are loading, another man is needed to look after the rest of the pack-burros, so that they will not break loose and stray off and enter dead trails.

No sooner did the two realize that it was ridiculous to curse the old man than they started quarreling, and yelling and shouting at each other.

The burros did not mind, because they had more sense and besides had been raised on a better philosophical system.

All of a sudden Dobbs halted, wiped the sweat from his face with an angry gesture, and said: “I stop here for the night. If you want to go on, it’s okay by me. Only leave my packs and my burros here. I am no goddamned nigger slave. Get me?”

“It’s only three o’clock. We might still make four miles more.” Curtin saw no reason for camping so early.

“No one has ordered you to camp here. If you want to march twenty miles more, what the hell do I care?” Dobbs stood before Curtin as if he were ready to spring at him.

“Ordered? You?” Curtin asked. “You don’t mean to say you are the boss of this outfit?”

“Perhaps you are. Just say it. I’m waiting.” Dobbs’s face became redder.

“All right, if you can’t do any more—”

“Can’t do any more? What do you mean by that crack?” Dobbs seemed to go mad. “Don’t make me laugh. I can do four times as much as a mug like you and kick half a dozen of your size both sides of your pants. Can’t do any more? And how is your grandmother? It’s simple; I don’t want any more, if you must know, mug.”

“What’s the good of hollering?” Curtin stayed calm enough. “We’ve started; now we have to stick it out, like it or not. All right, then, let’s camp here.”

“That’s what I said long ago. Here is water, and very good water. It’s a good place for camping, isn’t it?”

“Right you are. Not likely we’d find any water during the next three hours.”

“So what’s the arguing about?” Dobbs began to unload the burro standing next to him. Curtin came close and gave him a hand at the job.

The burros unloaded, quarreling started again. Who was to cook, who was to look for fuel, who was to care for the burros, who repair the pack-saddles? There had never been any disputing about these jobs as long as Howard had been with them. Now it seemed as if they had lost the capacity for sound and simple reasoning. They were overtired, their nerves quivering like telegraph wires in the open country. They couldn’t agree any longer on who had to do this job and who that. When the meal was finally cooked and ready, Curtin found that he had done most of the work—three times his share. He didn’t mind, and said nothing. He put up with Dobbs’s bad humor. Something during the march today, the climate, the growing altitude, a fall, the hot sun, a sting from a reptile, a bite of an insect, a scratch of a poisonous thorn, whatever it was, must, so it appeared to Curtin, be responsible for Dobbs’s strange behavior.

2

Eating usually conciliates people. So also here in the loneliness of the Sierra the meal Curtin and Dobbs had together softened their feelings toward each other. It calmed their nerves. They came to speak with less yelling and with more sense than they had done during the last six hours.

“I wonder what the old man is doing now,” Curtin said.

“I’m sure he’s having a swell time with these Indians,” Dobbs replied. “His meal will be better than ours, sure.”

At mention of the old man, Dobbs looked casually at Howard’s packs, which lay close to where Dobbs was sitting and filling his pipe. For a minute his looks were fixed on these packs, and in his mind he tried to figure out how much they might be worth in dollars and cents.

Curtin misjudged Dobbs’s expression, for he said: “Oh, I think we can manage his packs all right. This was the first day we had to handle everything without his help. Tomorrow it will be lots easier, once we get the real go of it and are used to being one hand short.”

“How far from the railroad do you think we are now?” Dobbs asked.

“As the crow flies, it wouldn’t be so far. Since we aren’t crows, it will take us quite some time. Days, perhaps a week more. These mountain trails make the way ten times longer, winding round and round and going up and down as if they would never end; and if in the evening you look behind, it seems as if you can almost spit at the place you left in the morning. The worst isn’t over yet. One of the guys we met near the village told me we’ll have stretches where we will hardly make six miles during the whole day, loading and unloading a dozen times when the animals can’t take the steep ravines. I figure we can make the high pass in two days more. Then three or four days more to go before we actually reach the railroad. But it may be more still. Any sort of difficulties may come our way any time.”

To this Dobbs said nothing. He stared into the fire. Then he filled his pipe once more and lighted it. It was as though he could not take his eyes off the packs; his glance wandered from the fire to them and back again very often.

Yet Curtin took no notice of it.

3

Unexpectedly Dobbs pushed Curtin in the ribs and laughed in a curious way.

Curtin felt uneasy. Something was wrong with Dobbs. He was not himself any longer. To cover his growing anxiety Curtin tried to laugh, his eyes resting on Dobbs’s face.

As if keyed up by Curtin’s nervous laugh, Dobbs broke out into bellowing laughter which made him almost lose his breath. Curtin became still more confused. He did not know what to make of it. “What’s the joke? Won’t you let me in on it, Dobby?”

“In on it? I should say I will.” He roared with laughter and had to hold his belly.

“Well, spill it.”

“Oh, sonny, my boy, isn’t that too funny for words?” He had to stop for breath, for his laughter became hysterical.

“What’s so funny?” Curtin’s face was turning gray with anxiety. Dobbs acted no longer sane.

Dobbs said: “This old jackass of a boneheaded mug hands over all his pay to us and lets us go off with it like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“I don’t quite understand.”

“But, man, can’t you see? It’s all ours now. We drag it off and where can he look for us? We don’t go back to the port at all. Sabe? We go straight up north and leave that ass flat. Let him marry an Indian hussy. What do we care?”

Curtin was now all seriousness. “I simply can’t get you, Dobby. What the hell are you talking about? You must be dreaming.”

“Aw, don’t be such a sap. Where did you grow up? Under the canvas of a revival show or what? Well, to make it plain to a dumbhead like you, we take the load and go off. What is there so very special about that? Nothing new to you, I should say.”

“I begin to see through it now.”

“Long distance, was it?” Dobbs giggled.

Curtin rose. He moved around as if to get his bearings. He could not believe his ears. There must be something wrong.

He came back to the fire, but did not squat down. He looked around, gazed up at the clear sky, and then said: “Now, get this straight, Dobby; if you mean to lift the goods of the old man, Count me out. And what is more, I won’t let you do it.”

“And who else? Just come and tell pop.”

“As I said, as long as I am around and on my feet, you won’t take a single grain from the old man’s pay. I think I’ve made myself clear enough, or have I?”

Dobbs grinned. “Yes, you have, sweety. Sure you have. I can see very plainly what you mean. You want to take it all for yourself and cut me off. That’s the meaning.”

“No, that is not the meaning. I’m on the level with the old man exactly as I would be on the level with you if you weren’t here.”

Taking up his pouch, Dobbs filled another pipe. “Mebbe I don’t need you at all. I can take it alone. I don’t need no outside help, buddy.” He laughed while lighting his pipe.

Curtin, still standing, looked Dobbs over from head to foot. “I signed that receipt.”

“So did I. And what of it? I’ve signed many receipts in my life.”

“Doubtless. I’ve signed lots of things too, which I forgot about as soon as the ink was dry. This case I think is different. The old man hasn’t stolen the goods. They’re his honestly earned property. That we know only too well. He didn’t get that money by a lousy cowardly stick-up, or from the races, or by blackmailing, or by the help of loaded bones. He’s worked like a slave, the old man has. And for him, old as he is, it was a harder task than for us, believe me. I may not respect many things in life, but I do respect most sincerely the money somebody has worked and slaved for honestly. And that’s on the level.”

“Hell, can your Bolshevik ideas. A soap-box always makes me sick. And to have to hear it even out here in the wilderness is the goddamned limit.”

“No Bolshevik ideas at all, and you know that. Perhaps it’s the aim of the Bolsheviks to see that a worker gets the full value of what he produces, and that no one tries to cheat a worker out of what is honestly coming to him. Anyway, put that out of the discussion. It’s none of my business. And, Bolshevik or no Bolshevik, get this straight, partner: I’m on the level, and as long as I’m around you don’t even touch the inside of the old man’s packs. That’s that, and it’s final.”

Having said this, Curtin squatted down by the fire, took out his pipe, filled it, and puffed lustily. He soon looked as if he had forgotten the whole affair—as if it had been only another of the many silly talks they had had during the long months when there was never anything new to talk about and they talked only for the sake of talking.

Dobbs watched him for many minutes. Then he chuckled. “Uhhuh! You are a fine guy. I’ve always had my suspicions about you. Now I know that I’ve been right, brother. You can’t befuddle me. Not me, smarty.”

“What suspicions are you talking about?”

“Easy, my boy, hold it! Get this and weep. You can’t hide anything from me, brother. I know that for some time you’ve had it in mind to bump me off at your earliest convenience and bury me somewhere out here in the bush like a dog, so that you can make off not only with the old man’s stuff, but with mine into the bargain. Then having reached the port safely, you’ll laugh like the devil to think how dumb the old man and I were not to have seen through your hellish schemes. I’ve known for a long time what was brewing. I’m wise to you, honey.”

4

The pipe dropped out of Curtin’s fingers. His eyes had widened as Dobbs talked. He couldn’t think straight. His head ached and he felt dizzy in a strange way. When, after a while, he succeeded in getting command of his thoughts again, he saw for the first time a great opportunity to enrich himself as Dobbs had suggested. This struck him as alien because never before had he had any idea of the kind. He was in no way scrupulous in life. Far from being that, he could take without remorse anything that was easy to pick up. He knew how the big oil-magnates, the big financiers, the presidents of great corporations, and in particular the politicians, stole and robbed wherever there was an opportunity. Why should he, the little feller, the ordinary citizen, be honest if the big ones knew no scruples and no honesty, either in their business or in the affairs of the nation. And these great robbers sitting in easy chairs before huge mahogany tables, and those highwaymen speaking from the platforms of the conventions of the ruling parties, were the same people who in success stories and in the papers were praised as valuable citizens, the builders of the nation, the staunch upholders of our civilization and of our culture. What were decency and honesty after all? Everybody around him had a different opinion of what they meant.