by B. TRAVEN
He gave orders to four of his men to take the train to his brother-in-law’s house in the pueblo where Howard was living, telling them that he and the white doctor would come a few days later as they were going after the soldiers.
When they were ready to start, one of the Indians who had come with the mayor said to Howard: “Oiga, señor doctor, listen, is it only about these little bags you want to ask the bandoleros?”
“Precisely, that’s it, amigo, nothing else. I only want to know what they’ve done with these little bags.”
“I can tell you, maybe, señor doctor, and then perhaps we won’t have to go after the soldiers.”
“Yes, go on, tell me, digale,” Howard urged.
“Mire, señor doctor, look here. I was one of the men that were ordered by our alcalde to guard the bandits while our alcalde and our head of police went to look for the body of your good companero who was murdered. Well, we were sitting there and talking in a friendly way. We even played cards with the bandoleros, because we didn’t know what to do all the time. We gambled for cigarettes for fun. And of course we talked a lot. The bandits told us about their life, where they had worked and in how many jails they had been and how many times they had escaped and all the nasty things they had done. They wanted to show us what great guys they really were.”
“Yes?” Howard knew that he must not press these people when they are telling stories. If they are interrupted, they become easily confused. He just listened with eager attention, even to those details which were of no interest to him. He knew the story-teller would finally come to the point. It was the same with his patients, who in explaining their sicknesses, usually began by telling how many sheep their grandfathers had owned.
“So they talked and we listened. Then they said that there were more thieves and bandits in the world than themselves, and that some of them look like honest, decent men. Pardon me, señor doctor, if I say this, I feel sorry to tell you, but by these ugly words he meant you and especially the American whose head they had cut off with a machete. They said that this man was as big and dirty a thief—excuse me again, señor doctor, for saying that about your good friend—yes, they said that this American was as dirty and stinking a thief as they were themselves. He was even worse. He had put among all the hides little bags filled with sand and dirt so as to cheat the poor man in Durango who was going to buy the hides late in the evening when he could not see well. The hides would not be opened; the buyer, trusting the American, would just look at the outside of them. Inside the hides there were hidden the little heavy bags with sand to increase the weight of the hides, which would be sold by weight, not separately. So when the bandits came to the woods, they opened the packs to see how much they had made, and when they saw that in these little bags there was only sand and dirt to cheat the honest tanners in Durango, they emptied the bags and scattered the sand all over the ground. I don’t know where this was done, and the wind will have carried the sand away anyhow. It lessened the weight of the packs, and so the burros, with less to carry, could get up here in the Sierra, where they hoped to sell the burros, more quickly. Now you know, señor doctor, what became of the bags, and perhaps there is no reason to follow the soldiers to ask the bandits about it, since the sand cannot be found—not even the place in the woods where it was poured out of the bags, for it was dark, and they had left the trail, for fear of meeting people.”
“Thank you, my friend, for your story,” Howard said, with a very sour face. “No, there is no longer any reason to go after them. They didn’t carry any of these little bags with them when they were arrested?”
“Not one,” the Indian replied. “They had only the boots of the man they had killed and his pants and a few centavos. It wasn’t much. And a pocket-knife. Everything else is still in the packs. They didn’t sell anything on their way up here to our village, for they met no one who could buy. So there is only very little lost, señor doctor. Everything is in the packs just as you packed it. Only the sand is gone, of course.”
“Yes, of course, only the sand is gone.” Howard meditated for a few seconds as though he wanted to get the whole affair well fixed in his mind. Then he let out such a roar of Homeric laughter that his companions thought him crazy.
“Well, amigos finos, don’t mind my laughing. This is the biggest and best joke I ever heard in all my life.” And he laughed again until his belly ached. The Indians, supposing he was overjoyed about something, fell in with him, laughing as heartily as he did, without knowing what it all was about.
5
“So we have worked and labored and suffered like galley-slaves for the pleasure of it,” Howard said to Curtin when he finished his story. “Anyway, I think it’s a very good joke—a good one played on us and on the bandits by the Lord or by fate or by nature, whichever you prefer. And whoever or whatever played it certainly had a good sense of humor. The gold has gone back where we got it?”
Curtin, however, was not so philosophical as Howard. He was in a bad mood. All their hard work and privations had been for nothing.
“The whole output of our mine could be had for a bag of tobacco, had we met the bandits in time and asked them for that sand.” Howard again burst out laughing.
“You make me sick with your foolish laughter,” Curtin yelled at him in anger. “I can’t understand how anybody in his right mind can laugh at such a silly thing!”
“If you can’t laugh at that, my boy, then I don’t know what humor is. This joke alone is worth ten months of labor and trouble.” He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Since I was robbed, I’ve been made into a great performer of miracles, a doctor whose fame is spreading all over the Sierra Madre. I have more successful cures to my credit than the best-paid doc in Los An. You’ve been killed twice and you are still alive, and will be, I hope, for sixty years to come. Dobbs has lost his head so completely that he can’t use it any longer. And all this for a certain amount of gold which no one can locate and which could have been bought for three packages of cigarettes, worth thirty centavos.” Howard couldn’t help it, he had to laugh again and again.
At last, Curtin also began to see the joke and broke out laughing. When Howard saw this he jumped up and pressed his hand over Curtin’s mouth. “Not you, old boy, don’t you try to imitate me, or you’ll burst your lungs. Better be careful about them, they aren’t yet entirely healed. We need your lungs to return to the port—to return as men who have owned and lost a million.”
Curtin became thoughtful. “I was just wondering what we can do in the port. We’ll have to look for a living some way.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing since I knew that the sand was gone. I might try to settle here for good as a medicine-man. I shall never run short of patrons, that’s one thing I know. We might run this business together. I could make you my junior partner. In fact, I need a good assistant. Often I don’t know where to go first, and, you know, one man can’t very well be in two different places at the same time.”
6
The partnership was never formed, for the simple reason that when Howard opened all packs, he found two bags still filled with sand. They had either been overlooked by the thieves or those rascals had been too lazy to open all the packs.
Howard held these two bags up to appraise their value.
“How much do you think they might be worth?” Curtin asked. “Do you think it might be enough to run a movie house in the port?”
“I’m afraid not. A movie house would cost us slightly more. What I was thinking is what about a grocery store, one of the better sort?”
“Where? In that port?”
“Where else did you figure? With that oil boom on, man, there’s always business.”
“Oil boom. Don’t make me laugh. There’s no boom any longer.” Curtin disapproved of this plan and explained why. “During the month before we left, I remember that four of the largest and best-stocked grocery stores in the port went broke and were closed. Don’t
you remember that, you smart promoter?”
“Yep, I admit it might be risky. You’re right, the boom is over. But it’s now more than ten months since that, and many things may have happened meantime to change the whole situation. What about giving luck a chance?”
“After all, your medicine business might be still better, old man. We’ll stay here for another two months. Here we always have three square meals a day, even five if we want them; we have a roof over our heads and frequently even a hearty drink, and there will be a dance Saturday night with other possibilities of avoiding loneliness. It’s a question whether we should have that much if we opened a grocery store.”
“You said it, Curty. And just take into consideration the plain fact that any damned fool may become a grocer, but not win fame among the Indians as a great doctor and be more highly respected than the president himself. To be a good medicine-man is not so easy as you might think. You can’t learn that profession in a university. A good medicine-man is born, not made. I’m a born medicine-man, I can tell you that. Just come over to the village where I have my headquarters. Yes, my boy, even you will take off your hat when you see how much respected I am there. Only the day before yesterday they wanted to make me their legislature—the whole legislature. I don’t know what they mean by that, but I figure it must be the greatest honor they can bestow.”
At this moment his host stepped into the hut where Curtin and Howard were talking.
“Señor doctor,” the host said, “I am sorry to ask you to leave your dear friend who is so sick. He will recover all right, don’t worry, for he has had your good medicine. We shall look after him and take the best of care of him. But I have to take you with me, señor doctor, back to our pueblo. A man on horseback who has just arrived from there says that so many people have come to our village to see the doctor that all our folks are anxious. They are not used to such crowds. So I beg you to hurry and go back home, so that the visitors may see you, get their medicine, and leave our village peacefully.”
“There you see, partner,” Howard said to Curtin, “what an important person I am, and I want you to respect me properly.”
“I certainly will, señor doctor.” Curtin laughed mockingly and shook hands with Howard.
“And hurry up, old boy, and get well.”
“I’m feeling fine already. I’m sure I will be okay inside of three days. As soon as I can sit in a saddle, I shall come over to your village to see the great doctor performing his miracles.”
Howard had no time to answer, for the Indians snatched him away from his pal, dragged him out, and lifted him on his horse. No sooner was he seated in the saddle than the Indians shouted, whipped their ponies into action, and hurried back home.
ALSO BY B. TRAVEN
Aslan Norval
The Death Ship
The Cotton-Pickers
Land of Springtime
The Bridge in the Jungle
The White Rose
The Carreta
Government
March to the Monteria
Trozas
The Creation of the Sun and the Moon
The Rebellion of the Hanged
General from the Jungle
The Night Visitor and Other Stories
Macario
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Little is known for certain about the life of B. Traven. He is thought to have been born somewhere in southern Germany circa 1882. He spent much of his adult life in Mexico, living and writing under several aliases.
During his lifetime Traven was variously (and incorrectly) identified as Jack London, Ambrose Bierce, and Mexican President Adolfo López Mateos. Evidence suggests that Traven was in fact an alter ego of the radical German newspaperman Ret Marut. An active anarchist during his youth, Marut was arrested in 1922 and sentenced to death for his involvement in the Bavarian Soviet Republic, but he managed to escape to England. There, he was briefly imprisoned by immigration authorities. He secured passage to Mexico by working as a fireman on a ship, like the hero of Traven’s novel The Death Ship. A competing theory identifies Traven as Otto Feige, a German involved in radical politics who disappeared in 1905.
Besides The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Traven is best known for the jungle novels, a series set during and after the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution. The novels reflect on the failures of the Revolution and, according to many scholars, express the political convictions of Ret Marut.
Few photographs of Traven exist. John Huston, who directed the film adaptation of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, dealt exclusively with a representative for Traven named Hal Croves. Huston and other members of the crew believed Croves to be Traven himself. Traven once said: “I shall always and at all times prefer to be pissed on by dogs than reveal who I am.”
B. Traven and Hal Croves (and possibly Ret Marut, Otto Feige, and other aliases unknown to us) died in 1969. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also by B. Traven
About the Author
Copyright
Picador
120 Broadway, New York 10271
Copyright © 1935 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., and B. Traven
Copyright © 1963 by B. Traven
All rights reserved
Originally published in the United States in 1935 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
First Farrar, Straus and Giroux paperback edition, 2010
First Picador paperback edition, 2020
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009933913
Picador Paperback ISBN 978-1-250-62517-5
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 9780374722609
First eBook edition: 2020
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