The Mystery of The Barranca

  CHAPTER XVI

  "Really, I don't know what to make of it. That last car load ofmachinery rusted for a month in the damp heat of the Tehuantepec tropicsbefore we got it traced. It has happened so often now that I'm almosttempted to suspect a design."

  Seyd's complaint to Peters, the agent, nearly a year later summed theexasperating experiences which had retarded the building of the newsmelter. Beginning before the end of the last flood, the failure indeliveries had multiplied as the work of construction proceeded, untilit seemed to Seyd that his material had been distributed on a thousandside tracks by an impartial hand. While two high-priced Americanmechanics had spent their expensive leisure shooting and fishing he hadspent most of his own time tracing the shipments, and now, with therains almost due again, another month would be required to finish thework.

  "You have sure had your share of bad luck." While sympathizing with him,Peters discouraged the idea of premeditation. "You don't know theseMexican roads. Our charter calls for the employment of sixty-five percent. of Mexican help, and, if you'll believe me, that means six hundredper-cent. of inefficiency. Take this _mozo_ of mine. He's been with mesix years. But, though I show him the correct way to do a thing athousand times, the moment my back is turned he'll go at it in some foolwrong-headed way of his own. The wonder to me is not, that your freightgoes wrong, but that it ever arrives. Nevertheless, you've had, as Isay, your fill of bad luck. If I were you I'd just jump the uptrain--she's due in twenty minutes--and call on the general trafficmanager in Mexico City. He can do more for you in five minutes than Ican in ten days."

  It was sound advice. Quick always to perceive advantage, Seyd answered,"Give me a ticket."

  Because of his isolation, the agent's wells of speech were alwaysbrimming, and while waiting for the train he delivered himself ofseveral pieces of news. "By the way, Don Luis went up yesterday to lodgea protest with the government against the dam a gringo company isbuilding across the valley fifty miles north of San Nicolas. It islocated just below the Barranca de Tigres, a canon that drains all thewatershed west of the volcano. They have cloudbursts up there, and whenone lets go--well, old Noah's deluge isn't in it. When I was huntingjaguar in the canon a couple of years ago I saw watermarks a hundredand fifty feet up the mountainside. Boulders big as churches were piledup in the bed of the stream like pebbles, and if that dam was built ofsolid concrete instead of clay they'd go through it like it was dough.Though I'd be the last man to go back on my own folks, I'm bound toconfess that we do carry some things with a bit too high a hand. If thatdam ever breaks, the wave will sweep the barranca clean between itswalls. But, Lordy! that won't cut any figure with the paint-eaters thathedge in Diaz. To secure a rake-off they'd see all Guerrero drown, andI'm doubting that the General's kick will do any good."

  Seyd nodded. "No, the times are against him--both in this and his otherefforts to hold back civilization. So far, he and Sebastien havesucceeded pretty well in checking it here in Guerrero. But it iscreeping in around them--some day will flow over their heads. They mightas well stand in the path of a barranca flood."

  The naming of Sebastien brought the second piece of news. "That remindsme--you almost had him for a fellow traveler. I forwarded a cablemessage last night that his mother had died in France. I rather thoughtthat he'd be in for this train."

  "Then she is coming back?"

  Seyd meant Francesca. But Peters misunderstood. "Yes, they've shippedher by a German line that runs to Havana and Vera Cruz. By mistake thecable was sent to another Rocha somewhere up in Sinaloa, and, being aMexican, he slept on it a week before replying that his mother wasthere, quite lively and frisky at home. So it arrived here ten dayslate--long enough to put Miss Francesca and her mother into Vera Cruz.Yes, the senora was there--had just joined them--luckily, for death istoo grim a thing for a young girl to face by herself." Just then thetrain drew into the station, and as Seyd climbed on, he added: "If youcould find time to pass the word on to Don Luis he'd surely appreciateit. He puts up at the Iturbide."

  Seyd's nod was purely automatic, for the news had loosed once morebitter tides which had lain dormant these last few months under theweight of his business cares. Unconscious, too, of the import thatevents would presently give to such apparently trivial consent, henodded again when Peters asked permission to look through a batch ofAmerican papers which had come for him by yesterday's mail.

  For that matter, it would have been difficult to discern anythingunusual or alarming in the spectacle of Peters as he sat in his officeafter the departure of the train, heels on the table and chaircomfortably tilted, while he slit, one after the other, the covers ofSeyd's papers. Yet while he smoked and read his way down through thepile he unconsciously but surely prepared the way for the event whichwas approaching at the top speed of Sebastien's horse. Had he read, orSebastien ridden, a little faster or slower things had gone differently.But, just as though it had been predoomed and destined, eyes and hoofskept perfect time. Just as Peters opened Seyd's Albuquerque paperSebastien walked in.

  "Left--an hour ago." Yawning, Peters laid down the Albuquerque paper ontop of the pile, and as the train usually ran from two to twelve hourslate three hundred and sixty-five days in the year he lent a sympatheticear to Sebastien's vitriolic curses.

  "I can wire for a special," he suggested. "They could send an engine andcar down from Cuernavaca in little more than an hour."

  "If you will be so kind, senor."

  In all Guerrero, Peters was the one gringo with whom Sebastien was onspeaking terms, and he now accepted both a cigar and a paper to whileaway the time. After one glance had shown it to be a gringo sheet hewould have cast it aside, but the one word "Mexico!" in scare headscaught his eye. Setting forth the international complications that werelikely to come from the lynching of a Mexican in Arizona, it held hisinterest. He not only read it to the bottom of the column, but followedover to the next page, upon which heavy ink lines had been scored arounda local article.

  As the heading caught his eye he started, looked again, then bent overthe paper and read to the end. For a few seconds thereafter he satthinking. A stealthy glance showed Peters at the key clicking off thecall for the special. Quietly folding the paper, he slid it beneath hiscoat.