The white men talked, and Juan heard the syllables, the combinations of consonant and vowel sounds, but they meant nothing. He looked at the boots.
“With a belly full,” said the red headed man, “I can think. And I tell you, it looks good. What d’you think we’ve got there? How much cash?”
The booted man shrugged.
“No use guessing,” he said curtly. “Plenty.”
“It was a cache,” said the red headed man wisely. “We hit on the place where they stored ’em. We got the product of the mine for a couple of months, maybe. All ready to send down when old Pizarro seized the Inca and orders went out to cover all workings.”
The dark man stood up suddenly. He flung a word over his shoulder.
“Smokes.”
He advanced toward Juan. And Juan raised his eyes from the boots, and they traveled up the dark man’s ragged, dilapidated costume, and they penetrated the innumerable rents and tears—the white man’s clothes were even worse than Juan’s—and Juan’s eyes were not at all humble when they reached the white man’s face.
Juan veiled his eyes and sat stolidly still when the white man went into the hut. He remained motionless when the white man came out bearing a handful of Juan’s precious native-made cigarros and the jug of chicha from which Juan had just drunk twice.
And he watched while the three white men lighted his cigarros and smoked with avid enjoyment, and while they drank his chicha with the intense pleasure of men who have been deprived of the luxury of any stimulant whatever for a very long time. In every gesture, in every sign, they acted like beggars suddenly possessed of plenty. Even the man with the boots was smoking with a fierce satisfaction.