“I counted three hundred and sixty-eight half-bales,” said 71he of the crossed eye, with a head cocked sideways and tilted. The evidence was against it, but Murguía knew well enough that the sinister crescent was fixed on himself. “Three-sixty-eight, at half a peso each, that makes one hundred and eighty-four pesos which Your Mercy owes us, Don Anastasio. Add on collection charges, ten per cent.–well, with your permission, we’ll call it two hundred flat.”
Don Anastasio manifested an itch for argument.
“Oh leave all that,” he of the crimson serape broke in. “Why go over it again? We are loyal imperialists, and only our lasting friendship for you holds us from informing His Majesty’s Contras how you contribute to that arch rebel, Rodrigo Galán.”
“But,” weakly protested Murguía, “but who believes that Don Rodrigo turns any of it over to the Liberal–to the rebel cause?”
“A swollen-lunged patriot like your Don Rodrigo–of course he does, every cent,” and the cross-eye took on a jocular gleam.
“Now, Señor Murguía,” he of the same eye continued, “the favor of your attention. See that ‘T’ on my sombrero? That’s ‘Tiburcio.’ See that ‘M’? That’s ‘Maximiliano.’ And that sword? That’s ‘Woe to the Conquered,’ at least the sombrero maker said so. Well, Don Anastasio––” and he ended with a gesture that the poor trader saw even in his dreams, the unctuous rubbing of fingers on the thumb.
Sadly Don Anastasio unstrapped a belt under his black vest, and counted out in French gold the equivalent of two hundred Mexican dollars.
Don Tiburcio took the money, and observed, as in the nature of pleasant gossip, that Don Anastasio had quite an unusual outfit this time.
Murguía took alarm immediately. “Not so large as usual, Don Tiburcio. The crops up there––”
72“Crops? No, I don’t mean your cotton. I mean fine linen and muslin, and silks, and laces–petticoats and stockings, Don Anastasio.”