And there they found him, very dead, but not with the wife of Pepe! Instead, his companion was the equally dead Andrés. They had evidently quarreled over the treasure, and then fought with machetes. Between the two was the wooden box, with copper bands. It was blood-covered, and the women of old Bendito wailed and crossed themselves as they looked upon it and the two men who had fought over it to the death. They hastily flung Bendito’s blanket over him, and, crossing themselves, started to flee.
Bendita, lingering to caress the old man, again noted the box. “It may be that it contains money,” she whispered, and picked it up, though her mother protested.
With rebosos closely drawn, the women scurried homeward, leaving the dead men alone where they had fallen. Heartless of them? Well, no, for in the tropics law and order sometimes mean little, and these women knew well that, if they gave the alarm, they would probably be suspected and convicted of the murder.
Stealthily opened, at midnight, the box proved to contain what old Juana and her daughter mistook for mere white, red, and green glass—no gold and no silver! The old woman, in a transport of rage, sorrow, and disappointment, spit upon the jewels. “Accursed things of mere glass,” she screamed, “to think that my poor Bendito died for such valueless things as you.”
There was great lamentation next morning when old Bendito was found and brought home to his alarmed family. They wept and wailed so that people were very sorry for them, and Padre Diego volunteered, in the goodness of his heart, to say fifty masses, “at a merely nominal price,” for the soul of the departed peon. Andrés, no one seemed to regret, and no masses were ever said over him, at bargain prices or otherwise. And so Andrés and Bendito passed away, by no means the first men to die for the sake of greed and riches.
While the widow and daughter of Bendito considered the “glass jewels” of no value, for all the world wore gold and silver trinkets, they were nevertheless afraid to speak or even hint of them, lest they be suspected of complicity in the murder. Therefore, the box was kept hidden in a secret place, and for a while the widow kept her mouth closed, though she dearly loved to gossip. But the custody of the box, and the consequent secrecy entailed upon her, were entirely too much for poor Juana. She sickened and began to pine for her country, as the Indians so quaintly call their birthplaces.
Wherefore, their belongings were disposed of, and the two women proceeded to their old home, many leagues distant. With them was carried the crumbling box of jewels. Not long after reaching her birthplace, Juana proceeded to die. Toward the last, she grew exceedingly nervous over the “glass jewels,” speculating much as to their value, and declaring that at the worst they might be pawned for a peso or two. And, still babbling of them, the old woman died, and was, in Biblical fashion, “buried with her fathers.”
While not of a superstitious disposition, Bendita began to experience some of her mother’s qualms about the box and its contents. Finally, for its safety, she secretly removed several tiles from the floor of her room, and concealed the jewels therein. Then, satisfied that no one would find them there, she gave no more thought to the matter, for of what avail were the baubles? “One can not eat or drink them,” she mused. “But for their sake my poor father died.”
At this time, Ponciana, the pretty daughter of Pancho, the cargador, returned from Mission school to her proud family. After her there trailed, later, her sweetheart, Amado. And after Amado, in turn, came the deluge. For untoward things began to occur. First was the falling in love of poor homely Bendita. This, of course, was all right; any woman can fall in love with any man, if she so elects. But ordinary decency demands that she at least restrain her passion when the betrothed of another woman is concerned. And it was Amado, Ponciana’s novio, upon whom Bendita needs must cast eyes. Of course, it was absurd. For Bendita was square, fat, and flat (if you can figure to yourself such a combination), while Ponciana was exceedingly sweet and pretty. Besides, she had been taught in Mission school, knew some English and much quaint slang, and was a fascinating little Indian maiden.
“La Ponciana, she knows much,” had been Amado’s glowing description to that potent personage, his mother. “She plays the piano and guitar well, and sings, aye, as do the birds! And she dances in a manner entirely exquisite—and sews and embroiders.”