VENING drew down upon the Valley of Mercy, and Dick Hampton, after bathing in the lower creek, found himself entering into the life of the damned under the guardianship of the brother he had come so far to seek—El Bobo, the fool.
The first shock of anguish and horror past, he steeled himself to accept the inevitable and to endure in silence, as he followed his brother and the squeaking carts from the creek along the rude cañon trail toward the rows of adobe buildings. It was growing dark now, here in the valley, and work was over for the day. The overseer's whip cracked, one unfortunate wretch howled aloud, and the others hastened to unhitch the mules.
From different directions men came toward the adobe bunk-houses—weary, ragged, sodden men, with here and there the crack of a whip to hasten some unfinished labor. They came from the fields, from the lower valley toward the sea, from the upper cañon; here and there rifle-armed guards were in evidence, though these had separate quarters higher along the valley wall. The slave-quarters were not all large. Some were small adobe shacks, with women and children in sight, and the smoke of cooking fires went up into the late afternoon coolness.
As he dragged himself along after the shambling figure of his brother, Hampton scrutinized these other figures coming in from all sides. Here and there he discerned a bowed American, shaggy and ragged like the others yet marked by a certain surly defiance that still lingered in their hopeless and scarred features; he knew none of them. There were a few Chinamen, sleek and mud-spattered figures from the fields, who bunked apart by themselves, and in the buzz of voices that arose Hampton caught a few oaths in German or French, and heard one little cockney whining over a gashed arm. The great majority of these slaves, however, were Mexicans of Spanish strain. Very few of them showed any Indian blood, while on the contrary all the guards and overseers were either pure Indians or mestizos.
Hampton followed his brother to where a pot was slung over a fire, and crowded in among the mass of men. A stumpy little Mexican woman handed out bowls of stew, with tortillas. As Hampton got his share and turned away, he found at his elbow a red-bearded American, stooped and broken, who greeted him with weary recognition.
“Hello, another Yank, eh? You're a new one, ain't you? Didn't know a ship was in. Where you from, and who roped you in?”
“My name's Hampton. I came up from Panama.”
“To see the country, hey?” The other grinned and wolfed his tortilla. “I'm Pap Hoskins, from Car-lina; started to dig gold, and got hooked. If I wasn't tougher'n most, I'd be gone now. We done buried the last o' that Massachusetts crowd day 'fore yesterday. Softies.”
“What crowd?” asked Hampton, with a flicker of interest.
“Bunch come up with Dias. Got hooked, I reckon. Sho', though, lots of 'em ain't hooked. Them chinks are here on contract—work so long, then get sent to 'Frisco. Well, better not talk. Lot o' spies in this gang of greasers. See ye later, Yank. Anytime ye need a drink o' cactus licker, go down to the mill. All ye want free. Helps recruit the greasers, too.”
The red-bearded man from Carolina sauntered away, following a steady stream of men that was headed for the creek, where a small pulque mill was in full blast. Hampton was not slow to comprehend the diabolic ingenuity of Dias in thus furnishing the deadly juice of the big cactus leaves. It was a potent factor in breaking down such men as Pap Hoskins, who might otherwise be dangerous, and it served to keep the Mexicans in a more or less continual state of drunken stupor.
Watching the men around him, Hampton swiftly realized that his brother Eli occupied a position far above the average; and this favored lot was undoubtedly due to his mental state. El Bobo replenished his own bowl thrice, while those who begged a second helping were repulsed angrily by the women cooks; he could talk or jest among the guards with impunity, a liberty denied to the others. Yet with his fellow-slaves he was obviously popular enough, and he could chatter Spanish like a native.
Hampton's heart ached for the haggard, witless creature, so terribly changed from the sturdy young fellow whom he had left at home. Not a spark of recognition had awakened in that dull and vacuous countenance, even the mention of Hampton's name had evoked no response. The savage cruelty of Dias must have been satisfied to the full in that moment of meeting.
When Eli now approached him, Hampton took a desperate mental brace, faced the unhappy man, took him in his arms.