The talk was not good to hear, for as these wretches grew more drunken, they began to boast of their past exploits in various parts of the country. One man told how he had kidnapped and tortured an Indian who had offended him; another, how he had murdered a woman of whom he was jealous; and the third, of the successful robbing of a coach-load of travellers, and their subsequent butchery by the driving of the coach over the edge of a precipice. All these stories, however, were as milk to brandy compared to those that Don Smith, the Americano, growing confidential in his cups, poured forth one after the other, till the señor, unable to bear them any longer, affected to sink into a tipsy doze.
All this while I sat at the little table where my dinner had been served, saying nothing, for none spoke to me, but within hearing of everything that passed. There I sat quiet, my arms folded on my breast, listening attentively to the tales of outrage, wrong, and murder practised by these wicked ones upon my countrymen.
To them I was only a member of a despised and hated race, admitted to their company on sufferance in order that I might be robbed and murdered in due course, but in my heart I looked on them with loathing and contempt, and felt far above them as the stars, while I watched and wondered how long the great God would suffer his world to be outraged by their presence.
Some such thoughts seemed to strike others of that company, for presently Don Smith called out,—
“Look at that Indian rascal, friend, he is proud as a turkey-cock in springtime: why, he reminds me of the figure of the king in that ruin where we laid up last year waiting for the señora and her party. You remember the señora, don’t you, José? I can hear her squeaks now,”—and he laughed brutally, and added, “Come, king, have a drink.”
“Gracias, señor,” I answered, “I have drunk.”
“Then smoke a cigar, O king.”
“Gracias, señor, I do not smoke to-night.”
“My lord cacique of all the Indians won’t drink and won’t smoke,” said Don Smith, “so we will offer him incense,”—and, taking a plate, he filled it with dry tobacco and cigarette-paper, to which he set fire. Then he placed the plate on the table before me, so that the fumes of the tobacco rose into the air about my head.
“There, now he looks like a real god,” said the Americano, clapping his hands; “I say, José, let us make a sacrifice to him. There is the girl who ran away last week, and whom we caught with the dogs——”