Hearts of Three by Jack London Chapter X
WHILE Francis and the peon hurried up the ravine-trail in safety, the ravine itself, below where the oil flowed in, had become a river of flame, which drove the Jefe, Torres, and the gendarmes to scale the steep wall of the ravine. At the same time the party of haciendados in pursuit of the peon was compelled to claw back and up to escape out of the roaring canyon.
Ever the peon glanced back over his shoulder, until, with a cry of joy, he indicated a second black-smoke pillar rising in the air beyond the first burning well.
"More," he chuckled. "There are more wells. They will all burn. And so shall they and all their race pay for the many blows they have beaten on me. And there is a lake of oil there, like the sea, like Juchitan Inlet it is so big."
And Francis recollected the lake of oil about which the haciendado had told him that, containing at least five million barrels which could not yet be piped to sea transport, lay open to the sky, merely in a natural depression in the ground and contained by an earth dam.
"How much are you worth?" he demanded of the peon with apparent irrelevance.
But the peon could not understand.
"How much are your clothes worth all you've got on?"
"Half a peso, nay, half of a half peso," the peon admitted ruefully, surveying what was left of his tattered rags.
"And other property?"
The wretched creature shrugged his shoulders in token of his utter destitution, then added bitterly:
"I possess nothing but a debt. I owe two hundred and fifty pesos. I am tied to it for life, damned with it for life like a man with a cancer. That is why I am a slave to the haciendado."
"Huh!" Francis could not forbear to grin. "Worth two hundred and fifty pesos less than nothing, not even a cipher, a sheer abstraction of a minus quantity without existence save in the mathematical imagination ol man, and yet here you are burning up not less than millions of pesos' worth of oil. And if the strata is loose and erratic and the oil leaks up outside the tubing, the chances are that the oil-body of the entire field is ignited say a billion dollars' worth. Say, for an abstraction enjoying two hundred and fifty dollars' worth of non-existence, you are some hombre, believe me."
Nothing of which the peon understood save the word "hombre."
"I am a man," he proclaimed, thrusting out his chest and straightening up his bruised head. "I am a hombre and I am a Maya."
"Maya Indian you?" Francis scoffed.
"Half Maya," was the reluctant admission. "My father is pure Maya. But the Maya women of the Cordilleras did not satisfy him. He must love a mixed-breed woman of the tierra calient e. I was so born; but she afterward betrayed him for a Barbadoes nigger, and he went back to the Cordilleras to live. And, like my father, I was born to love a mixed breed of the tierra calient e. She wanted money, and my head was fevered with want of her, and I sold myself to be a peon for two hundred pesos. And I saw never her nor the money again. For five years I have been a peon. For five years I have slaved and been beaten, and behold, at the end of five years my debt is not two hundred but two hundred and fifty pesos."
And while Francis Morgan and the long — suffering Maya half-breed plodded on deeper into the Cordilleras to overtake their party, and while the oil fields of Juchitan continued to go up in increasing smoke, still farther on, in the heart of the Cordilleras, were preparing other events destined to bring together all pursuers and all pursued Francis and Henry and Leoncia and their party; the peon; the party of the haciendados; and the gendarmes of the Jefe, and, along with them, Alvarez Torres, eager to win for himself not only the promised reward of Thomas Regan but the possession of Leoncia Solano.
In a cave sat a man and a woman. Pretty the latter was, and young, a mestizo, or half-caste woman. By the light of a cheap kerosene lamp she read aloud from a calf-bound tome which was a Spanish translation of Blackstone. Both were barefooted and bare-armed, clad in hooded gabardines of sack-cloth. Her hood lay back on her shoulders, exposing her black and generous head of hair. But the old man's hood was cowled about his head after the fashion of a monk. The face, lofty and ascetic, beaked with power, was pure Spanish. Don Quixote might have worn precisely a similar face. But there was a difference. The eyes of this old man were closed in the perpetual dark of the blind. Never could he behold a windmill at which to tilt.
He sat, while the pretty mestizo, read to him, listening and brooding, for all the world in the pose of Bodin's "Thinker." Nor was he a dreamer, nor a tilter of windmills, like Don Quixote. Despite his blindness, that ever veiled the apparent face of the world in invisibility, he was a man of action, and his soul was anything but blind, penetrating unerringly beneath the show of things to the heart and the soul of the world and reading its inmost sins and rapacities and noblenesses and virtues.
He lifted his hand and put a pause in the reading, while he thought aloud from the context of the reading.
"The law of man," he said with slow certitude, "is to-day a game of wits. Not equity, but wit, is the game of law to-day. The law in its inception was good; but the way of the law, the practice of it, has led men off into false pursuits. They have mistaken the way for the goal, the means for the end. Yet is law law, and necessary, and food. Only, law, in its practice to-day, has gone astray, udges and lawyers engage in competitions and affrays of wit and learning, quite forgetting the plaintiffs and defendants, before them and paying them, who are seeking equity and justice and not wit and learning.
"Yet is old Blackstone right. Under it all, at the bottom of it all, at the beginning of the building of the edifice of the law, is the quest, the earnest and sincere quest of righteous men, for justice and equity. But what is it that the Preacher said? "They made themselves many inventions.' And the law, good in its beginning, has been invented out of all its intent, so that it serves neither litigants nor injured ones, but merely the fatted judges and the lean and hungry lawyers who achieve names and paunches if they prove themselves cleverer than their opponents and than the judges who render decision."
He paused, still posed as Bodin's "Thinker," and meditated, while the mestizo, woman waited his customary signal to resume the reading. At last, as out of a profound of thought in which universes had been weighed in the balance, he spoke:
"But we have law, here in the Cordilleras of Panama, that is just and right and all of equity. We work for no man and serve not even paunches. Sack-cloth and not broadcloth conduces to the equity of judicial decision. Eead on, Mercedes. Blackstone is always right if always rightly read which is what is called a paradox, and is what modern law ordinarily is, a paradox. Bead on. Blackstone is the very foundation of human law but, oh, how many wrongs are cleverly committed by clever men in his name!"
Ten minutes later, the blind thinker raised his head, sniffed the air, and gestured the girl to pause. Taking her cue from him, she, too, sniffed:
"Perhaps it is the lamp, Just One," she suggested.
"It is burning oil," he said. "But it is not the lamp. It is from far away. Also, have I heard shooting in the canyons."
"I heard nothing" she began.
"Daughter, you who see have not the need to hear that I have. There have been many shots fired in the canyons. Order my children to investigate and make report."
Bowing reverently to the old man who could not see but who, by keen-trained hearing and conscious timing of her every muscular action, knew that she had bowed, the young woman lifted the curtain of blankets and passed out into the day. At either side the cave-mouth sat a man of the peon class. Each was armed with rifle and machete, while through their girdles were thrust naked-bladed knives. At the girl's order, both arose and bowed, not to her, but to the command and the invisible source of the command. One of them tapped with the back of his machete against the stone upon which he had been sitting, then laid his ear to the stone and listened. In truth, the stone was but the out— jut of a vein of metalliferous ore that extended across and through the heart of the mountain. And beyond, on the opposite slope, in an eyrie commanding the magnificent panorama of the descending slopes of the Cordilleras, sat another peon who first listened with his ear pressed to similar metalliferous quartz, and next tapped response with his machete. After that, he stepped half a dozen paces to a tall tree, half-dead, reached into the hollow heart of it, and pulled on the rope within as a man might pull who was ringing a steeple bell.
But no sound was evoked. Instead, a lofty branch, fifty feet above his head, sticking out from the main-trunk like a semaphore arm, moved up and down like the semaphore arm it was. Two miles away, on a mountain crest, the branch of a similar semaphore tree replied. Still beyond that, and farther down the slopes, the flashing of a hand-mirror in the sun heliographed the relaying of the blind man's message from the cave. And all that portion of the Cordilleras became voluble with coded speech of vibrating ore-veins, sun-flashings, and waving tree-branches.
While Enrico Sola-no, slenderly erect on his horse as an Indian youth and convoyed on either side by his sons, Alesandro and Kicardo, hanging to his saddle trappings, made the best of the time afforded them by Francis' rearguard battle with the gendarmes, Leoncia, on her mount, and Henry Morgan, lagged behind. One or the other was continually glancing back for the sight of Francis overtaking them. Watching his opportunity, Henry took the backtrail. Five minutes afterward, Leoncia, no less anxious than he for Francis' safety, tried to turn her horse about. But the animal, eager for the companionship of its mate ahead, refused to obey the rein, cut up and pranced, and then deliberately settled into a balk. Dismounting and throwing her reins on the ground in the Panamanian method of tethering a saddle horse, Leoncia took the back trail on foot. So rapidly did she follow Henry, that she was almost treading on his heels when he encountered Francis and the peon. The next moment, both Henry and Francis were chiding her for her conduct; but in both their voices was the involuntary tenderness of love, which pleased neither to hear the other uttering.
Their hearts more active than their heads, they were caught in total surprise by the party of haciendados that dashed out upon them with covering rifles from the surrounding jungle. Despite the fact that they had thus captured the runaway peon, whom they proceeded to kick and cuff, all would have been well with Leoncia and the two Morgans had the owner of the peon, the old-time friend of the Solano family, been present. But an attack of the malarial fever, which was his due every third day, had stretched him out in a chill near the burning oilfield.
Nevertheless, though by their blows they reduced the peon to weepings and pleadings on his knees, the haciendados were courteously gentle to Leoncia and quite decent to Francis and Henry, even though they tied the hands of the latter two behind them in preparation for the march up the ravine slope to where the horses had been left. But upon the peon, with Latin-American cruelty, they continued to reiterate their rage.
Yet were they destined to arrive nowhere, by themselves, with their captives. Shouts of joy heralded the debouchment upon the scene of the Jefe's gendarmes and of the Jefe and Alvarez Torres. Arose at once the rapid-fire, staccato, bastard-Latin of all men of both parties of pursuers, trying to explain and demanding explanation at one and the same time. And while the farrago of all talking simultaneously and of no one winning anywhere in understanding, made anarchy of speech, Torres, with a nod to Francis and a sneer of triumph to Henry, ranged before Leoncia and bowed low to her in true and deep hidalgo courtesy and respect.
"Listen!" he said, low-voiced, as she rebuffed him with an arm movement of repulsion. "Do not misunderstand me. Do not mistake me. I am here to save you, and, no matter what may happen, to protect you. You are the lady of my dreams. I will die for you yes, and gladly, though far more gladly would I live for you."
"I do not understand," she replied curtly. "I do not see life or death in the issue. We have done no wrong. I have done no wrong, nor has my father. Nor has Francis Morgan, nor has Henry Morgan. Therefore, sir, the matter is not a question of life or death."
Henry and Francis, shouldering close to Leoncia, on either side, listened and caught through the hubble-bubble of many voices the conversation of Leoncia and Torres.
"It is a question absolute of certain death by execution for Henry Morgan," Torres persisted. "Proven beyond doubt is his conviction for the murder of Alfaro Solano, who was your own full-blood uncle and your father's own fullblood brother. There is no chance to save Henry Morgan. But Francis Morgan can I save in all surety, if-"
"If?" Leoncia queried, with almost the snap of jaws of a she-leopard.
"If… you prove kind to me, and marry me," Torres said with magnificent steadiness, although two Gringos, helpless, their hands tied behind their backs, glared at him through their eyes their common desire for his immediate extinction.
Torres, in a genuine outburst of his passion, though his rapid glances had assured him of the helplessness of the two Morgans, seized her hands in his and urged:
"Leoncia, as your husband I might be able to do something for Henry. Even may it be jpossible for me to save his life and his neck, if he will yield to leaving Panama immediately."
"You Spanish dog!" Henry snarled at him, struggling with his tied hands behind his back in an effort to free them.
"Gringo cur!" Torres retorted, as, with an open backhanded blow, he struck Henry on the mouth.
On the instant Henry's foot shot out, and the kick in Torres' side drove him staggering in the direction of Francis, who was no less quick with a kick of his own. Back and forth like a shuttlecock between the battledores, Torres was kicked from one man to the other, until the gendarmes seized the two Gringos and began to beat them in their helplessness. Torres not only urged the gendarmes on, but himself drew a knife; and a red tragedy might have happened with offended Latin-American blood up and raging, had not a score or more of armed men silently appeared and silently taken charge of the situation. Some of the mysterious newcomers were clad in cotton singlets and trousers, and others were in cowled gabardines of sackcloth.
The gendarmes and haciendados recoiled in fear, crossing themselves, muttering prayers and ejaculating: "The Blind Brigand! ""The Cruel Just One! "' They are his people I" "We are lost."
But the much-beaten peon sprang forward and fell on his bleeding knees before a stern-faced man who appeared to be the leader of the Blind Brigand's men. From the mouth of the peon poured forth a stream of loud lamentation and outcry for justice.
"You know that justice to which you appeal?" the leader spoke gutturally.
"Yes, the Cruel Justice," the peon replied. "I know what it means to appeal to the Cruel Justice, yet do I appeal, for I seek justice and my cause is just."
"I, too, demand the Cruel Justice!" Leoncia cried with flashing eyes, although she added in an undertone to Francis and Henry: "Whatever the Cruel Justice is."
"It will have to go some to be unfairer than the justice we can expect from Torres and the Jefe," Henry replied in similar undertones, then stepped forward boldly before the cowled leader and said loudly: "And I demand the Cruel Justice."
The leader nodded.
"Me, too," Francis murmured low, and then made loud demand.
The gendarmes did not seem to count in the matter, while the haciendados signified their willingness to abide by whatever justice the Blind Brigand might mete out to them. Only the Jefe objected.
"Maybe you don't know who I am," he blustered. "I am Mariano Vercara e Hijos, of long illustrious name and long and honorable career. I am Jefe Politico of San Antonio, the highest friend of the governor, and high in the confidence of the government of the Republic of Panama. I am the law. There is but one law and one justice, which is of Panama and not the Cordilleras. I protest against this mountain law you call the Cruel Justice. I shall send an army against your Blind Brigand, and the buzzards will peck his bones in San Juan."
"Remember," Torres sarcastically warned the irate Jefe, "that this is not San Antonio, but the bush of Juchitan. Also, you have no army."
"Have these two men been unjust to any one who has appealed to the Cruel Justice?" the leader asked abruptly.
"Yes," asseverated the peon. "They have beaten me. Everybody has beaten me. They, too, have beaten me and without cause. My hand is bloody. My body is bruised and torn. Again I appeal to the Cruel Justice, and I charge these two men with injustice."
The leader nodded and to his own men indicated the disarming of the prisoners and the order of the march.
"Justice! I demand equal justice!" Henry cried out. "My hands are tied behind my back. All hands should be so tied, or no hands be so tied. Besides, it is very difficult to walk when one is so tied.
The shadow of a smile drifted the lips of the leader as he directed his men to cut the lashings that invidiously advertised the inequality complained of.
"Huh!" Francis grinned to Leoncia and Henry. "I have a vague memory that somewhere around a million years ago I used to live in a quiet little old burg called New York, where we foolishly thought we were the wildest and wickedest that ever cracked at a golf ball, electrocuted an
Inspector of Police, battled with Tammany, or bid four nullos with five sure tricks in one's own hand."
"Huh!" Henry vouchsafed half an hour later, as the trail, from a lesser crest, afforded a view of higher crests beyond. "Huh! and hell's bells! These gunny-sack chaps are not animals of savages. Look, Henry! They are semaphoring! See that near tree there, and that big one across the canyon. Watch the branches wave."
Blindfold for a number of miles at the last, the prisoners, still blindfolded, were led into the cave where the Cruel Justice reigned. When the bandages were removed, they found themselves hi a vast and lofty cavern, lighted by many torches, and, confronting them, a blind and white-haired man in sackcloth seated on a rock-hewn throne, with, beneath him, her shoulder at his knees, a pretty mestiza woman.
The blind man spoke, and in his voice was the thin and bell-like silver of age and weary wisdom.
"The Cruel Justice has been invoked. Speak! Who demands decision and equity?"
All held back, and not even the Jefe could summon heart of courage to protest against Cordilleras law.
"There is a woman present," continued the Blind Brigand. "Let her speak first. All mortal men and women are guilty of something or else are charged by their fellows with some guilt."
Henry and Francis were for withstraining her, but with an equal smile to them she addressed the Cruel Just One in clear and ringing tones:
"I only have aided the man I am engaged to marry to escape from death for a murder he did not commit."
"You have spoken," said the Blind Brigand. "Come forward to me."
Piloted by sackcloth men, while the two Morgans who loved her were restless and perturbed, she was made to kneel at the blind man's knees. The mestiza girl placed his hand on Leoncia's head. For a full and solemn minute silence obtained, while the steady fingers of the Blind One rested about her forehead and registered the pulse-beats of her temples. Then he removed his hand and leaned back to decision.
"Arise, Senorita," he pronounced. "Your heart is clean of evil. You go free. Who else appeals to the Cruel Justice?"
Francis immediately stepped forward.
"I likewise helped the man to escape from an undeserved death. The man and I are of the same name, and, distantly, of the same blood."
He, too, knelt, and felt the soft finger-lobes play delicately over his brows and temples and come to rest finally on the pulse of his wrist.
"It is not all clear to me," said the Blind One. "You are not at rest nor at peace with your soul. There is trouble within you that vexes you."
Suddenly the peon stepped forth and spoke unbidden, his voice evoking a thrill as of the shock of blasphemy from the sackcloth men.
"Oh, Just One, let this man go," said the peon passionately. "Twice was I weak and betrayed him to his enemy this day, and twice this day has he protected me from my enemy and saved me."
And the peon, once again on his knees, but this time at the knees of justice, thrilled and shivered with superstitious awe, as he felt wander over him the light but firm fingertouches of the strangest judge man ever knelt before. Bruises and lacerations were swiftly explored even to the shoulders and down the back.
"The other man goes free," the Cruel Just One announced. "Yet is there trouble and unrest within him. It one here who knows and will speak up?"
And Francis knew on the instant the trouble the blind man had divined within him the full love that burned in him for Leoncia and that threatened to shatter the full loyalty he must ever bear to Henry. No less quick was Leoncia in knowing, and could the blind man have beheld the involuntary glance of knowledge the man and woman threw at each other and the immediate embarrassment of averted eyes, he could have unerringly diagnosed Francis' trouble. The mestiza girl saw, and with a leap at her heart scented a love affair. Likewise had Henry seen and unconsciously scowled.
The Just One spoke:
"An affair of heart undoubtedly," he dismissed the matter. "The eternal vexation of woman In the heart of man. Nevertheless, this man stands free. Twice, in the one day, has he succored the man who twice betrayed him. Nor has the trouble within him aught to do with the aid he rendered the man said to be sentenced to death undeserved. Bemains to question this last man; also to settle for this beaten creature before me who twice this day has proved weak out of selfishness, and who has just now proved bravely strong out of unselfishness for another."
He leaned forward and played his fingers searchingly over the face and brows of the peon.
"Are you afraid to die?" he asked suddenly.
"Great arid Holy One, I am sore afraid to die," was the peon's reply.
"Then say that you have lied about this man, say that his twice succoring of you was a lie, and you shall live."
Under the Blind One's fingers the peon cringed and wilted.
"Think well," came the solemn warning. "Death is not good. To be forever unmoving, as the clod and rock, is not good. Say that you have lied and life is yours. Speak!"
But, although his voice shook from the exquisiteness of his fear, the peon rose to the full spiritual stature of a man.
"Twice this day did I betray him, Holy One. But my name is not Peter. Not thrice in this day will I betray him. I am sore afraid, but I cannot betray him thrice."
The blind judge leaned back and his face beamed and glowed as if transfigured.
"Well spoken," he said. "You have the makings of a man. I now lay my sentence upon you: From now on, through all your days under the sun, you shall always think like a man, act like a man, be a man. Better to die a man any time, than live a beast forever in time. The Ecclesiast was wrong. A dead lion is always better than a live dog. Go free, regenerate son, go free."
But, as the peon, at a signal from the mestiza, started to rise, the blind judge stopped him.
"In the beginning, O man who but this day has been born man, what was the cause of all your troubles?"
"My heart was weak and hungry, Holy One, for a mixed-breed woman of the tierra caliente. I myself am mountain born. For her I put myself in debt to the haciendado for the sum of two hundred pesos. She fled with the money and another man. I remained the slave of the haciendado, who is not a bad man, — but who, first and always, is a haciendado. I have toiled, been beaten, and have suffered for five long years, and my debt is now become two hundred and fifty pesos, and yet I possess naught but these rags and a body weak from insufficient food."
"Was she wonderful? this woman of the tierra caliente?" the blind judge queried softly.
"I was mad for her, Holy One. I do not think now that she was wonderful. But she was wonderful then. The fever of her burned my heart and brain and made a taskslave of me, though she fled in the night and I knew her never again."
The peon waited, on his knees, with bowed head, while, to the amazement of all, the Blind Brigand sighed deeply and seemed to forget time and place. His hand strayed involuntarily and automatically to the head of the mestiza, caressed the shining black hair and continued to caress it while he spoke.
"The woman," he said, with such gentleness that his voice, still clear and bell-like, was barely above a whisper. "Ever the woman wonderful. All women are wonderful … to man. They love our fathers; they birth us; we love them; they birth our sons to love their daughters and to call their daughters wonderful; and this has always beefa and shall continue always to be until the end of man's time and man's loving on earth."
A profound of silence fell within the cavern, while the Cruel Just One meditated for a space. At the last, with a touch dared of familiarity, the pretty mestiza touched him and roused him to remembrance of the peon still crouching at his feet.
"I pronounce judgment," he spoke. "You have received many blows. Each blow on your body is quittance in full of the entire debt to the haciendado. Go free. But remain in the mountains, and next time love a mountain woman, since woman you must have, and since woman is inevitable and eternal in the affairs of men. Go free. You are half Maya?"
"I am half Maya," the peon murmured. "My father is a Maya."
"Arise and go free. And remain in the mountains with your Maya father. The tierra caliente is no place for the Cordilleras-born. The haciendado is not present, and therefore cannot be judged. And after all he is but a haciendado. His fellow haciendados, too, go free."
The Cruel Just One waited, and, without waiting, Henry stepped forward.
"I am the man," he stated boldly, "sentenced to the death undeserved for the killing of a man I did not kill. He was the blood-uncle of the girl I love, whom I shall marry if there be true justice here in this cave in the Cordilleras."
But the Jefe interrupted.
"Before a score of witnesses he threatened to his face to kill the man. Within the hour we found him bending over the man's dead body that was yet warm and limber with departing life."
"He speaks true," Henry affirmed. "I did threaten the man, both of us heady from strong drink and hot blood. I was so found, bending over his dead warm body. Yet did I not kill him. Nor do I know, nor can I guess, the coward hand in the dark that knifed out his life through the back from behind."
"Kneel both of you, that I may interrogate you," the Blind Brigand commanded.
Long he interrogated with his sensitive, questioning fingers. Long, and still longer, unable to attain decision, his fingers played over the faces and pulses of the two men.
"Is there a woman?" he asked Henry Morgan pointedly.
"A woman wonderful. I love her."
"It is good to be so vexed, for a man unvexed by woman is only half a man," the blind judge vouchsafed. He addressed the Jefe. "No woman vexes you, yet are you troubled. But this man "indicating Henry "I cannot tell if all his vexation be due to woman. Perhaps, in part, it may be due to you, or to what some prompting of evil may make him meditate against you. Stand up, both men of you. I cannot judge between you. Yet is there the test infallible, the test of the Snake and the Bird. Infallible it is, as God is infallible, for by such ways does God still maintain truth in the affairs of men. As well does Blackstone mention just such methods of determining the truth by trial and ordeal."