The Treasure OfThe Sierra Madre

He said: “Friends, amigos y ciudadanos, here are tres forasteros, three strangers, who have come from the valley wishing to sell their burros.”

The strangers, so introduced, rose and greeted the villagers: “Buenas tardes, senores!”

“Buenas tardes a ustedes, senores!” came the answer.

The uncle then resumed: “The price for the burros is not high. The community could use them, or might rent them out to the poorer citizens for a little money, which, after the burros are paid for, would be of help for our school, since the kids in school need books and pencils.”

The speaker paused and then continued in a different tone: “The price is not high. We only wonder how it is possible that you men,” addressing the strangers, “can sell burros of this good quality for so little money.”

Miguel grinned. “Now, see here, senor, it is like this, we need ready cash, that’s all, and since we can’t make you pay more we will have to accept what you offer us.”

“Do the burros have a brand?”

“Naturally,” Miguel answered quickly. “They all have brands.” He looked round at the burros to read the brand, but found that the men had covered them all up.

“What is the brand?” the uncle asked quietly.

This question upset Miguel considerably. He looked round and noticed that his partners were also trying to get a look at the brands. He had to answer this uncomfortable question which had been hurled at him so unexpectedly. “The brand—well—the brand is—oh, you know that, it is a circle with a bar beneath it.”

“Is that the correct brand?” the uncle called to the men near the burros.

“No, compadre.”

“Right, I was mistaken, excuse me, it must be the heat, and I’m sure tired.” Miguel became rather foggy. He thought his knees would give way. “Now, strike me, how could I ever forget it? Of course the brand is a cross with a circle around it.”

“Is that correct, amigos?” the uncle asked his men.

“No, compadre. It is a C and a —”

“I know now,” Miguel interrupted in great haste; “it is a C and an R, that’s what it is.” He breathed in relief.

“What do you say over there, hermanitos?” the uncle asked, undisturbed.

“I was mistaken, compadre,” one of them answered; “perdone, on looking closer I find it was not a C at all, and the second is not an R, not even the third seems to be either a C or an R. It can’t be even a bad B. Excuse me, compadre.”

All the villagers laughed. It was a great show. A few shouted: “Hey, compadre, you’d better go to school again to learn what a C is when you see a Z.”

The uncle, after the merriment had died down, asked in a loud voice: “Listen, all you ciudadanos de nuestro pueblo, all you citizens of this community, have you ever met in all your life with a man who wanted to sell you burros which he claimed were his and who didn’t even know their correct brands? Tell me of a single case if you can. Come on.”

The only answer was hearty laughter.

When the people were quiet again, the uncle went on: “I know where the burros came from and to whom they belong.”

Miguel looked round at his partners. They knew what he meant; they also were looking for a hole by which to escape.

“The burros were bred by dona Rafaela Motilinia in Avino, the widow of the late don Pedro Le6n. I know his ranch and I know his brand. His brand is an L and a P. The P is set with its back against the L. AsI correcto, hombres? Is that right, you men?” the uncle asked.

And the men standing by the burros shouted back: “SI, don JoaquIn, that is the brand.”

2

The uncle turned his head as if he wanted to find a certain individual. When he saw him he called: “Don Chuncho, come here!”

An Indian, simply dressed like all the other men and wearing only sandals on his feet, strode up, a shotgun in his hands and a cheap gun in a holster on his hip. He took his place near the uncle.

The uncle turned to the three rascals. “My name is JoaquIn Escalona, constitutionally elected alcalde or mayor of this community, elected by all the citizens of this place and its vicinity, and legally recognized by the state legislature. This man here at my side is my police commissioner and his name is don Asuncion Macedo.”

The three thieves on hearing this official statement knew why it was spoken so solemnly and what it meant when voiced on such an occasion. It was their last chance now to run away. No longer were they eager to talce along their burros and their packs. They were willing to sell the whole lot for one peso, had anybody offered that much, and permission to leave the village. But they found now the men were closing in on them.

Miguel reached back to his holster to pull his gun, the one that had once been Dobbs’s, intending to try to shoot his way out.

To his surprise, he found the holster empty and his gun already in the hands of don Chuncho, who handed itto his deputy.

“What the hell do you want of us?” Miguel raged.