“They–they are Don Rodrigo’s affairs, not mine.”
“Enough yours for you to be anxious to deliver the goods safely, I think. But the rate on that class of stuff is rather high. Now what do you suppose, my esteemed compadre, Don Rodrigo would say if we had to confiscate the consignment?”
But Don Anastasio did not need to suppose. “How much?” he whimpered.
“Well, with the American––”
“Fires of hell consume the American! Collect your tolls from him yourself. He’s no affair of anybody’s.”
The vaqueros laughed. “We’ll throw in the American for nothing,” said Don Tiburcio generously. “Besides, to look at him, he may not be very–tollable. But delicate dress goods now, there’s a heavy duty on them. I should say a hundred apiece.” And without any seeming reference to this revenue statement, the toll taker placed the tip of an index finger under each ear, then pointed them lower down against his throat, then lower again, and at the last the two fingers met in an acute angle, significantly acute, under his chin, while the half-veiled black bead in the outer corner of his eye had a sheen unutterably merry and malignant.
The pantomime bore a money value, for Murguía stifled his wrath, again drew out the belt, and more Napoleons changed hands. Murguía was then for remounting, leaving the flask of brandy with the two imperialist emissaries, as had become his custom. But the jovial Tiburcio stopped him. “What must you think of us, Don Anastasio?” he exclaimed contritely. “We haven’t offered you a drink yet.” Murguía dared not refuse, and he paused for the return of hospitality from his 73own bottle. At last he was on his horse, when Tiburcio again called.
“I say, Don Anastasio, if you want a big return for your money”–Don Anastasio halted instantly–“if you do, well, we ought not to say it, being devoted to Maximiliano. But no matter, I will tell you this much, poor old man–look after your daughter! Look after her, Don Anastasio! We’ve just come from up there.”
A half cry escaped the father as he jerked back his horse. He demanded what they meant. He pleaded. But they waved him to go on, and rode away indifferently, taking a cross trail through a stretch of timber.
Rigid, motionless, Murguía looked after them until they had disappeared. But when they were gone, a frenzy possessed him. He turned and galloped to his caravan, which was again moving. He did not stop till he reached the American. “You owe me two hundred dollars,” he cried. Thus his decent emotion concerning his daughter found vent. “Two hundred, I tell you!”