The Treasure OfThe Sierra Madre

At last morning came with rosy cheeks. In the bright light of the early day everything around them looked absolutely natural— not so very different, it seemed to them, from an abandoned orchard in Alabama. Even the ground beneath them looked not at all so gruesome as at night, when the flickering light of matches gave it such a ghastly impression.

Hardly fifty feet away a green pasture was seen through the trees. It spread out under the morning sun almost like a lawn in the home town. All the imaginings and visions they had had during the night appeared ridiculous by daylight.

The three sat down and had a smoke. The Indian opened his bast bag and produced half a dozen dry tortillas, which he in brotherly fashion divided with the Americans for breakfast.

While sitting there chewing the tortillas, which under these conditions tasted none too good, the three suddenly stopped, held their breath, stiffened their bodies, and listened. Clearly, without any doubt, they heard again the curious steps and the suppressed growling or mumbling they had heard during the night. These peculiar and unmistakable noises had settled in their memory so firmly that for the rest of their lives they would never forget them; they would recognize these sounds anywhere and any time. These were the same steps and sounds they had heard during the night. It was strange that a tiger should come out of his lair in bright daylight to attack men.

On hearing the sounds again, they jumped up together. They Stared between the trees in the direction from which these steps and sounds came now, as they had also come during the night.

Their glance fell upon the green pasture. And there was the tiger. The tiger was stepping lazily around and eating grass, at times letting off a sort of a grunt out of sheer content. The tiger was a very harmless one; he was a burro, in fact, an ordinary ass tied to a tree by a long lasso, the property, doubtless, of a peasant in the next village, which certainly could not be far away. Where a simple burro could pass the night and survive, there surely could be no tiger near; otherwise the peasants would not leave their animals overnight in the bush.

Dobbs looked at Moulton, and Moulton at Dobbs. Just as Moulton started to open his lips for a hearty laugh, Dobbs said to him harshly: “Listen, you, if you don’t want me to sock you, don’t laugh. What’s more, if you ever tell anybody one word about this night and make both of us the joke of the port, I— bigawd, I’ll murder you in cold blood and throw your carcass to the pigs.”

“All right by me, buddy,” Moulton said; “if you take it that way I’ll keep quiet. But I think it’s the best joke I ever heard.” As could be seen from the contortion of his face he did all in his power to keep from exploding with laughter.

Dobbs looked at him and said: “Brother, you are warned. Don’t play any tricks on me. Even the faintest smile will cost you a smashed nose.”

It was at this moment that the Indian thought it proper to speak up. He did not accept defeat. So he said: “Por Madre SantIsima and by all the saints in heaven, senores, this is not the tiger. But around us last night was un tigre real y muy grande, it was a royal tiger of the biggest sort.”

“Aw, shut up!” Dobbs interrupted him.

“You, caballeros, may think what you may. But I know mi tierra, my country where I was born, and I know well what is a tiger and what is not. I can smell it. Besides I saw his glowing greenish eyes glaring at us. And they were not the eyes of a burro.” The Indian sure was smarter than the two Americans; he knew how to stick to a good story and to avoid being laughed at.

The big village of which the Indians had spoken last night was hardly fifteen minutes away.

“Now, didn’t I tell you last night that these Indians don’t lie?” Dobbs asked when they reached the village.

“But they said it was only a short hour’s distance.”

“Well, that’s just the matter with these people, they have no conception of time and distance. They say it is one hour away, but they don’t tell you if they mean an hour run by a Tarnhumare, or walked or crawled, or an hour’s ride on a good horse. That’s what you have to figure out when an Indian peasant tells you how far away the next town is. You can’t blame those Indians of last night. They told us the truth in their own way, and that makes all the difference.”

In this village the three found fine hospitality. They had breakfast, consisting of tortillas, black beans, and tea brewed from lemon leaves.

The same day they came to the first oilcamp. No work.

The manager told them that they might stay there a day or two and have their meals, but more he could not do for them.