CIVILISED SOCIETY

The young man sat at the bar of the darkened restaurant overlooking the harbour of Vera Cruz, the drink he had been nursing for more than an hour, barely touched, rivulets of condensation from his glass pooled on the counter in front of him. Above him, the noisy, overhead fan fought a valiant but losing battle against the engulfing humidity of this Mexican port.

Head down, lost in thought, his shabby appearance marking him out as a person down on his luck, he was oblivious to everything: the evil eye being cast his way by the bartender and, as a new customer entered the building, the shaft of bright sunlight that momentarily infiltrated the gloom before, just as quickly, being snuffed out as the restaurant door swung shut.

The new arrival shuffled across the plank floor to a table, one of the many that stood vacant. Still, the man hugging the bar did not look up. Even the cringing screech of timber against timber as the newcomer pulled his chair out from the table, elicited no reaction. Only as he heard the stranger’s voice ordering food did he look up sharply before rising and, tentatively, approach the stranger’s table.

“You’re American?”

“Last time I looked”.

“May I?”

The seated man was smaller and older and a look of undisguised annoyance crossed his face.

“Listen, kid. I’m just killing time ’til my ship leaves, see? I ain’t got no time for any panhandlers”.

“I’m no beggar, sir. I was kinda hoping, as a fellow American, you might see your way to helping me out with the cost of a telegram. My folks’ll wire money and I’ll be able to pay you back…”

The older American scrutinised the face of the younger man, then, against his better instincts, indicated for him to take a seat.

“Okay, let’s hear it”.

Introducing himself as Bart Henderson out of South Carolina, the man breathlessly explained that he had been prospecting for gold in the mountains, had amassed a small fortune, but had been ambushed by bandidos, escaping with his life, thanks only to the Olmec Indian that had been his guide.

As he listened, the newcomer, a New Yorker, name of Murphy, at first sceptical, became slowly more interested. If this bum was telling the truth, he reasoned, he had left the mountains with close to five thousand dollars worth of gold but had made the mistake of not disguising his presence or his intentions, standing out like a beacon in that mountainous region, a prime target for the desperadoes that preyed on those weaker than them; a harsh lesson learnt.

As a waiter brought Murphy’s order, he took note of the ravenous look in the younger man’s eyes and slid the plate across the surface of the table, a look of incredulous gratitude briefly crossing Henderson’s face before he fell upon the food. Murphy felt momentary disgust that a traveller from his own country could allow himself to fall so low. Not that he, himself, was faring any better in this country but a man from the U.S. had certain standards to maintain; had to, at least, look the part; show these Chicanos how much more cultured folks from the US of A were.

“Say, uh, what would it take to give it another crack?”

Between mouthfuls, Henderson eyes lit up. Could this stranger be offering him a second chance to make his fortune?

“Well, a burro, tools, scales, food…would you be interested, sir?”

“Kid, I’m shipping out for Cuba. Tried my luck in this godforsaken place now I figure on a change of scenery. I’m told things are a lot easier over there, casinos and such…”

“Well, you figured wrong, sir. I hear they’re in the middle of a revolution. Fellow by the name o’ Castro…”.

Murphy absorbed this news stoically but Henderson could see he was shaken. After a moment’s silence, he spoke.

“Well, I guess that does change my plans some”.

Sensing an opportunity, Henderson pressed the advantage.

“For just a hundred dollars, we could outfit ourselves. Sancho, my guide, can get us back to the same place I struck gold but, this time, by a circuitous route so nobody would even know we were there”.

The New Yorker was sorely tempted. He’d tramped across this country trying his luck at pretty much everything without any luck. Maybe, just maybe, though he had never had a partner in his life, he had happened to come across this southerner at just the right time. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime; a fresh start. Only one problem.

“Well, there’s the rub, kid. See, I ain’t got no hundred bucks”.

Henderson’s face fell momentarily but lit up once more as Murphy pulled something from his pocket.

“But I do have this. Passage for Havana, third class. Cash this and we’ve got ourselves our stake but you’d better be telling the truth, kid, that’s all I can say”.

Two days later, after an arduous and circuitous climb, avoiding any villages, the three men reached the point at which Henderson claimed to have struck it rich just weeks before: Mesa de Orizaba; the Table of the Star Mountain. As they had ascended, Murphy had griped non-stop and, several times, his fellow American had found himself ruing his choice of prospecting partner. Now, Murphy grouched at having to bed down in a cave even though, as Henderson patiently explained, this would allow them to light a fire without giving away their position to any would be robbers.

But Murphy’s main invective had been reserved for Sancho, their guide, who spoke no English but could communicate with Henderson through a crude form of sign language. The young man had explained, back in Vera Cruz, how key the Indian was to their project, his intimate knowledge of the mountain crucial. His role would be to keep watch as the two Americans prospected, his keen eyes able to scan the mountainside like a bird of prey.

Once a week, it was Sancho who would descend the slopes to buy provisions, an Indian’s presence in a mountain village not likely to raise suspicions. For this, the guide would earn an equal share of any find, something that Murphy struggled to come to terms with. Murphy distrusted anybody who wasn’t American. For that matter, he showed disdain for anybody from south of the Mason-Dixon line and, even forming a partnership with the South Carolinian had been trying enough. He had no intention of hiding his anathema towards this Olmec tribesman and used every opportunity to persuade Henderson to his way of thinking.

“All I’m saying is he ain’t like us, see. He’s a savage. It’s in his blood, see”.

As early as the third day, they hit their first strike: a handful of precious metal that glittered brightly in the sun. For a minute or two, even Murphy’s carping was silenced by his euphoria as he watched Henderson weigh their find.

“How much is it worth?”

“Maybe a hundred bucks…”

“A hundred bucks? That don’t even cover the cost o’…”

“We’re just getting started, for Pete’s sake. You ever hear of the word patience?"

Every day, the stream from the snow-capped summit poured down thunderously like an express train but slowed considerably on the flat top mesa and, by using timber to divert the flow to a culvert, the two could sift through the alluvial deposits for the gold, standing knee deep in the freezing water for as long as each could take it before needing time out so that the blazing overhead sun could warm their blood and free their cramped muscles once more. Despite his inexperience, Murphy’s natural greed and lust for riches soon made him as adept as his partner though his moaning continued unabated.

“How come the injun don’t have to spend hours in this freezing water but still gets an equal share?”

“That’s not the deal and you know it. He’s our guide and guard. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today. Can you just quit bellyaching, for crying out loud? ”

But, unrelenting, day after day, Murphy found something else to bleat about regarding Sancho.

“How do we know we can trust this injun? He don’t even eat with us. He could rob us blind when we’re sleeping, slit our throats and vamoose”.

His patience exhausted, many times Henderson had to use maximum control to prevent himself from striking out at the older man. At night, wrapped in his bedroll, he plotted on how best to do away with his curmudgeonly racist of a partner, hating himself for these dark thoughts but, simultaneously, revelling in visions of the kind of life he could have with Murphy’s share added to his own. But, come morning, somehow, he always found the strength of mind to hide his feelings and soldier on with their labour, having patiently explained, yet again, that it was Sancho’s way to eat alone out of deference to the white men and that the Olmecs were an honourable people known for their loyalty but nothing he said made any difference; his words falling on deaf ears.

But, as their time on the mountain progressed and their hard earned wealth accumulated, Henderson, too, began to be suspicious of his fellow prospector, wondering if, as he, himself, had done, Murphy, too, harboured the same thoughts of malice and avarice towards him. As they bedded down, after each long day of hard graft, while Murphy was watching the Olmec, he, in turn, was being covertly watched by Henderson, neither of them getting the sleep their exhausted bodies craved, paranoia twisting the nerves of both ever tauter.

One night when, as was normal, Sancho added mule dung to the fire, Murphy lambasted the Indian and Henderson was forced to intervene, pointing out, yet again, that it made the flames burn brighter for longer and gave off greater warmth, supplementing the firewood which was, in any case, scarce and difficult to gather in this mountainous region.

“It’s ain’t civilised, is all”.

“Mister, if it’s civilisation you want, you can call it a day anytime you like but, while you stay here, I want no more of your constant bitching, you hear? If’n I hear another o’ your complaints I’ll…”

Henderson did not finish his threat, wondering if, in fact, if push came to shove, he could actually dispose of his fellow countryman, concluding that, such was his loathing for this miserable excuse for a business partner, he surely could. However, for a day or so, Murphy seemed to have absorbed the unspoken threat and kept his thoughts to himself.

But, just as a leopard cannot dispose of its spots, a downtrodden Yankee, born and bred in the pre-war years of the great depression, mistrustful of everyone and everything, could not divest his heart of the dark thoughts that lay within though, wary of the bigger, younger man, he began to mutter his feelings rather than speak them outright, as if he, himself, was his own sole audience.

Each time the Olmec climbed down the mountain to replenish supplies, Murphy was convinced that he would not return or would alert bandits to their location, never wavering in his distrust and, though Sancho proved him wrong, constantly, by his timely returns with supplies, nothing dissipated the older man's suspicions.

“He’s just waiting for the right moment, see; when we’ve got enough gold. But I ain’t stupid. No, sir. Not Uriah Murphy”.

Henderson was glad enough, not having to endure the perpetual complaints, that he took little notice of the mumbled whispering that Murphy had now adopted and the two worked on but, as their stash grew larger by the day, so, too, did the tension between the two Americans and, finally, the ultimate trigger came when, Sancho having, once again, departed to fetch coffee and flour, Murphy, out of the blue, demanded his share of the gold so far collated, kept in Henderson’s saddlebag.

“I ain’t taking no more risks, see. What’s mine is mine. That injun might rob you but he ain’t getting any of my gold”.

Henderson alarmed, stared at Murphy in the firelight. For more than a fortnight, ever since he had come close to striking his partner, the New Yorker had refrained from speaking out loudly. Both men, after three months hard labour in squalid conditions, looked ragged: clothes dirty, hair and beards long and scraggly but Murphy’s eyes now had a wild intensity that Henderson recognised: fever. Gold fever!

In vain, he tried to use logic with this man he had come to detest but the New Yorker was, he could see, beyond reasoning with. In the dim light of the fire, he could see Murphy reaching for something, probably a weapon so he, too, felt behind him for his knife, bile rising, teeth grinding in cold fury. He wished he’d done away with this old fool weeks before.

“It’s mine, see. Mine! If it wasn’t for me, you and that injun wouldn’t even be here, today. Why, now I think of it, you and the injun are working together, planning to rob me. Yeah, I can see it now. You and him and your fancy signals. You think I don’t notice but I do. I want my gold, see. Don’t make me have to take it, kid”.

“You’re crazy, old man and I warned you what would happen if you kept on with your poisonous talk. You’ll get your share but not ’til Sancho returns. We’ve got more than enough now, anyhow, and we can split things three ways and go our separate ways…”

As he spoke, Henderson’s hand wrapped, with relief, around his knife but Murphy, eyes ablaze, mouth sneering, lunged for Henderson’s knapsack and the two men fought, rolling over the fire as they wrestled. Though the younger man was stronger, the madness inflaming Murphy allowed him to gain the upper hand and, reaching for a rock, he brought it down upon Henderson’s head… again and again, the sounds of splintering bone echoing in the dank chamber, blood flowing as the stricken southerner lay motionless.

“Say, all I wanted was what’s…Hey, no need for us to fall out, kid. Hey, wake up. Come on”.

But the South Carolinian was dead and this realisation tipped Murphy, finally, over the edge into full blown insanity. He began to laugh hysterically, impulsively reaching for the saddlebag, unaware of the black threat lurking beneath it; Centruroides noxius, the most venomous of Mexican scorpions.

Sancho entered the cave and, in a single glance, understood what had occurred in his absence. Though, outwardly emotionless, internally, his heart bled for the tragedy that had befallen his young friend and, as he went about the mountain for hours, gathering wood, he chanted a mournful dirge. Eventually, he had accumulated enough timber to build a large pyre within the cave upon which he placed the blood soaked body of his amigo, Henderson. Then he dragged the blackened and swollen body of the gringo, Murphy, a man he’d disliked from the outset but, according to tribal tradition, must be granted proper burial rites, and placed it, too, on the funereal mound before igniting the base, praying, all the time, for the spirits of both men.

Finally, as the dry timber began to burn, the Indian took the saddlebag containing the gold and, emptying the contents out onto the ground, divided the precious metal into three, roughly equal piles. The first, Henderson’s, he scattered onto the flames as they began to rise, all the time intoning his lament. The second, Murphy’s, he took to the cave entrance and scattered into the Mexican wind. The third, he placed in a pouch; his rightful share, one that would ensure that the people of his village could survive the coming winter, and the one after that. Satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty with honour, according to the binding laws of his tribe, he left that place of death. Never once had it occurred to him to take any more than his fair portion, for this was not the way of the Olmec, the most civilised of tribes.