“In the passport I declare the route I take.”
“I see, and you can’t change it afterward?”
“No.”
“Now look here, Murgie, have you got any more of these dates on?–Yes? No?–Murgie, if you don’t dive, by––”
Murguía dove, and denied with eagerness that he had any further toll-paying appointments. But Driscoll reckoned that he was lying. “And,” he added, “we are going to change our route, passport or no passport. We’ll take–let’s see–yes, we’ll take the very next crosstrail going in the same general direction.”
Murguía’s alarm at the proposal belied his former denial. The law required him to follow the course laid down in his passport, but he feared the law less than the disappointment of road agents. Don Tiburcio’s receipt protected him from those controlled by Don Tiburcio. But Tiburcio was not powerful, except in blackmail. Murguía paid him lest he inform the government of tribute also paid to Don Rodrigo. Now Rodrigo Galán was powerful. His band infested the Huasteca. He called himself a Liberal and a patriot, and he really believed it too. But he also declared that the tolls he collected went to the revolutionary cause, which declaration, however, even he could hardly have believed.
Don Rodrigo gave receipts, and his receipts were alleged guarantee against other molestation, since he controlled the 78highway more thoroughly than ranger patrols had ever done. But lately a competitor had appeared in the brush, and he was that humorous scoundrel, Don Tiburcio of the crossed eye. Goaded near to apoplexy by the double tolls, Murguía had once ventured to upbraid Don Rodrigo with breach of contract. There was no longer immunity in the roadmaster’s receipts, he whined. Then the robber chief had scowled with the brow of Jove, and hurled dreadful oaths. “You pay an Imperialista!” he stormed in lofty indignation. “You give funds to put down your struggling, starving compatriots! So, señor, this is the love you bear your country!”
It was a touching harangue, and the remorse-stricken trader ever after denied that he even saw Don Tiburcio, at which times a queer smile would supplant Don Rodrigo’s black frown.
It was this same Don Rodrigo who had been reported as slain by Jacqueline’s Fra Diavolo. But Driscoll, not having heard of his death, was quite ready to expect more brigands. He insisted, therefore, on changing trails.
“The Señor Coronel is most valiant,” sneered Murguía.