Part 12

“But we were talking of my youth. You asked how and when I first took up conjuring. To tell the truth, I can hardly remember. I was certainly very young, and the discovery of my powers was quite accidental. One of my first tricks was very simple; but perhaps it was most important of all. It lifted my people from a lower plane than any savage now occupies, to high civilization. Every person every day uses that little invention of mine—and 99 per cent of them without stopping to thank the inventor. By simply taking two sticks and rubbing them together—this way—I produced a substance which had never been seen on earth before, but which is now the first absolute necessity in every household. If it were abolished, the world’s progress would stop. It’s a very curious substance. The materials of which it is composed are invisible and intangible; but _it_ can be seen further and felt more than anything else in the world. You can’t touch it; and yet, here, if you could not sometimes _almost_ touch it you would perish. You have to feed it as carefully as you would a horse, and much oftener; and, unlike any other laborer I know of, it will never work between meals. But while it eats, it will work like mad. Another queer thing about it is that it would live forever if you fed it forever; but it dies as soon as it stops eating. But you can bring it to life again in a minute, strong and active as ever. It is terribly mischievous, too; if you give it proper attention, it cuts up no pranks; but if you are careless, it sometimes sneaks off and does more damage in one short romp than a hundred men could replace by a lifetime’s earnings. Then it’s curious what a hatred it has for a still commoner substance which I _didn’t_ invent. Bring the two together and there is a noisy and desperate fight, and one or other of the combatants is annihilated. Yet if you place them just near enough to each other, but so confined that they cannot grapple, they work together with an energy which I saw move a hundred buildings once—each building over thirty feet long. Ah, you wonder more at some of my other tricks, probably because you are less familiar with them; but I tell you that is just about the biggest single thing I ever did. There would have been neither geography nor history; we should never have heard of Cæsar or Napoleon or Washington or much of anybody else, if I hadn’t stumbled on that little secret of rubbing the sticks, while I was still what you might well call a green, awkward boy.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I guess, after all, your fire trick is about the greatest thing of all—though I hadn’t just looked at it in that light before. Really, about every single thing we depend on depends on that. And that was about your first turn in magic?”

“Ye-es, perhaps the first important one. It was a great start, too, for after that I advanced pretty rapidly in proficiency, until I became, as you know, able to do pretty nearly whatever I try.”

That is not putting it too strongly—he _can_ do almost anything he seriously turns his hand to. After what I have seen him accomplish, there are few things I would deem it hopeless for him to attempt. Our stage magicians are at their wits’ end to devise some new trick; but he invents a thousand a day—the poorest more wonderful than their masterpiece. Now there’s his own life preserver, for instance—a ridiculous little affair in something like thirty pieces; the simplest thing, yet of almost infinite uses. It is, among many other remarkable qualities, the greatest preservative known. An article so ephemeral that a breath of air would whisk it away, so perishable that not all the Arctic ice could save it, can by this means be kept a thousand years—aye, or ten thousand, for that matter—as good as new. Yes, a man’s very speech may become visible and eternal—all because my friend once did a little conjuring for a Greek, who raised most remarkable harvests from seed our florists never handle. I don’t know just where it _does_ come from nowadays—for we still see that sort of crop once in a while. Perhaps Cadmus himself was a politician, and the dragon’s teeth are an heirloom in the family.

Those early conjurings are not more astounding than the new ones he is constantly devising. Nowadays he can sit down in Washington or London or Berlin, and, by a few taps on a table, turn a million men into a machine for destruction. He will take your ear in New York and hold it to the lips of your friend in Chicago, and then make it as easy for the Chicagoan to hear what you say in reply. Your voice, which, so far as any ability of yours goes, is lost forever as soon as spilled, he can bottle up so perfectly that your great-grandchildren’s great-grandchildren shall listen to what you said two hundred years before they were born, and hear it in your very tones. You see, my friend is making life a good deal larger, and death a good deal smaller—and he is not done yet!

But I should be. There is simply no use trying to enumerate his magic, for it has no end. Besides, you can get a much better notion of his powers by watching him than thus at second hand from me. But how are you going to find him, when he doesn’t advertise? Why, of course! How stupid of me to have forgotten to tell you that his name is—Thought.

The Silver Omelet.

The Silver Omelet.

Doubtless you should not be blamed for a sniff of incredulity when I come to mention the size of it, though you certainly have not made as many omelets as I did in the years of keeping house on the frontier “all by my lonesome,” and though you probably could not turn one now by flapping it to within six inches of the ceiling and catching it, t’other side up, in the frying pan, as every fit frontiersman should. But blink as you will, it is a solemn truth that we are now sitting down to an omelet two feet and a half thick and a little matter of one hundred and ten feet across! And worth more than all the food your whole household could eat in a generation.

The worst of it was that the _chef_ was away. Don Ygnacio, who had served up these gigantic dishes for thirty years, and had the knack of them, was to-day in Dolores; and in charge of the range was a fuzzy-faced lad of eighteen who had never turned a Guanajuato omelet in his life.

Guanajuato, you must know, is one of the oldest and richest silver-mining districts in the world. Founded over three hundred and fifty years ago, this picturesque Mexican city has produced more than a billion dollars in bullion, and not tired yet. In 1527 a Spanish miner invented in Mexico the cheapest and simplest method yet known for reducing silver ores—the so called “patio process”—by which the great bulk of the silver of Mexico and Peru has been extracted for so many centuries. To this day the haciendas for patio reduction are among the most interesting features of the great silver camps of Spanish America. Each hacienda is a little walled city—with its strong ramparts, and corner towers loop-holed for muskets; its huge sheds for the primitive ore-grinding; its pleasant offices and home for the _administrador_; its quarters for employes; its stables for hundreds of mules; and its enormous stone skillets wherein the hugest omelets in the world are “cooked.”

_Torta_ in Spanish America is the usual word for omelet. It is literally a “cake,” and “of eggs” is implied. But the miners use it specifically for the omelet of wet-ground ore seasoned with the necessary chemicals to assemble the silver. In looks it is simply a stupendous mud pie.

In the hacienda of the Cypresses one of these omelets was even now cooking. Patient burro caravans had packed down from the wonderful old bonanza mine of the Valenciana enough _cargas_ of that broken gray rock to make forty-six “heaps” of 3200 pounds each. The ore had been fed to the great trundling _molina_, whose ponderous, upright, iron-bound wheel grudgingly followed the straining mules round and round its pivot, crunching the rock finer and finer, till the particles sifted through the screen to the bins below. Thence it had been shoveled into the wet-grinding _arrastras_—thirty big stone tubs, around which the mules circled with their “whims,” dragging granite blocks which scrubbed the wet gravel into fine paste. Then the mud went to the great _cajete_ (tank), where the surplus water was “wept away,” as they say; and finally to the stone-walled, stone-paved patio, to become a torta.

Almost anyone with eyes could crush rock, dry or wet; but when it came to sampling that precious mud, deciding precisely how much silver it carried to the ton and how refractory it was, and therefore just how much salt and just how much mercury must be put in for seasoning, why, then was no time for a greenhorn. Fifty thousand dollars is no joke, any way you look at it; and when you come to hunting for $50,000 by the invisible atom in a hundred and fifty tons of mud, it is as serious as anything well can be.

But Don Ygnacio had had to go, and with four of the trustiest servants, all armed; for in those days, a generation ago, the brigands were a fear on every highway of Mexico. And there was no one to leave in charge except Alberto, his nephew.

Luckily there had been time to set a recipe for the torta just turned into the pan. “So much salt and so much _azogue_,”[41] said Don Ygnacio; “that, I think, will suit. But watch it well; and if not, season it by the formula. Care, then, and much luck!”

Every day of the seventeen since then, Alberto had paced the flagging by the patio, and the passages of the great sheds where dry mill and wet mill were chewing their noisy mouthfuls for a new torta, now and again turning his eye covertly to the last room on the administrador’s porch, behind whose heavy door he had heaped the forty-pound bars of massy silver from the last omelet. The washing and concentration and smelting he had superintended without much difficulty, and had seen that $49,000 worth of metal safely stored.

So far as the present torta went, his assays indicated that Don Ygnacio’s hasty estimate had been precisely right. But he certainly hoped the old manager would be back in time to decide if the usual eighteen days had been enough “cooking”—and, doubly, to fix the seasoning for the next omelet. And in all, it was a heavy responsibility for a boy who had studied a hundred tortas, but never been charged with one before; and it was to be noticed that his shoulders were not quite so miraculously square as on the first day, nor his chest so thick, now that he came down from the arrastras to the patio.

In this quarter-acre mud omelet the beating and the cooking went on together. A score of barelegged men and grown boys waded thigh-deep in the mess, driving their mules (blindfolded, poor beasts, to protect their eyes), and holding down the drag-boards, to mix the mercury and its prey.

It was close to noon. In five minutes the wading mules would be done with their exhausting day’s work of six hours. Alberto walked down toward the well-tower beside the patio, and something drew his eyes to an overgrown lad slouching behind one white mule at the edge of the mud. Poor dullard! It was one thing to wade in mud at eighteen cents a day, and quite another to manage mud which was worth a comfortable year’s salary per ton.

“S-s-t!”

Alberto started. Surely it could not be! Well, it _was_! This perambulating mudlark was actually “s-s-t”-ing to him!

“Care!” whispered the Indian lad, as Alberto came alongside the stone curb. He looked only at his mule, hauling at the tired beast and scolding it for some imaginary offence, and between his objurgations dropping whispered “asides.”

“_Arre_, ill-said brute! (_Young Excellency, the bandits!_) For how long must I enshow thee to walk well? (_And some of those in the hacienda!_) Miserable! For what is the rein? (_They are making to rob—to-night!_) _Arre_, lazy-bones!”

The stolid face had not once changed; and now that another driver approached, he went sus-ushing off through the mud with never a sidelong glance.

Alberto felt himself grown suddenly pale; but he was no fool. He glanced at the intruder. It was a new man from the country—a tall, powerful fellow with a huge scar on his cheek, shifty eyes, and a beak which had already earned him the nickname of Narigudo—“Big Nose.” He in turn sent a sly, sharp look first at the young Indian ahead, then at the young manager. The latter was already walking quietly toward the well-house.

The silver bell in the old belfry clanged noon. The waders, of two legs and four, clambered out from the mud. In a moment blindfolds and harness lay on the flagging, and the mules, suddenly optimistic, went braying and scampering out through the great gate to bathe and drink by the highway in the little stream which has carried more precious burdens, doubtless, than any other brook on earth.[42] A moment later there was a more deafening clatter, as the hundred mules from the mills came gallopading down the flags in a very avalanche. _They_ would have to work six hours more; but they knew the noon hour. Resistless as a charge of cavalry, they swept around the corners and out of the gate in a jam which seemed sure to kill some of them.

Alberto had laughed a thousand times at this daily avalanche; but now he saw it with far-off eyes. He dipped his hand in a bucket of the pump-wheel and bathed his head, wherein a thousand or more little prickles snapped. It was enough to make anyone’s brain crackle—robbers all about, accomplices in the hacienda itself, nearly fifty thousand dollars in the room at the head of the corridor, and he alone!

This boy had been carefully reared. He was unused to danger and to responsibility; and now he was fearfully scared. And yet—well, he had inherited something from the men who conquered that wilderness so many centuries ago.

In five minutes the young _administrador_ was making his rounds as usual, now and then stopping to pick up a sample of ore and examine it with great apparent interest. Among the groups of laborers he passed at lunch he felt, with a little shiver, that some eyes were on him even more sharply than they are always on the _administrador’s_ back; but outwardly he gave no sign, as he figured away at very much the toughest problem he had ever dreamed of.

Suddenly he struck his head, and turned and walked down to the patio. In full view of the men he took a careful sample from the mud omelet here and there, scrutinized it critically, and carried it off to the assay-room. In ten minutes he was out again; and walking up among the laborers, he said: “A holiday for all, this afternoon. For to me the torta looks to be cooked, and Don Ygnacio should be here to-night, who will know. Go, then; but at dawn again.”

That was an end of lunch, of course. The men sprang up with “Infinite thanks, sir!” and were already making for the gate, except Narigudo and four others, who mumbled over their last enchilada, instead of throwing it away, and looked first at their mates and then at one another.

“Señor, I do not think it done,” broke out “Big Nose,” sullenly.

“Who gave thee a candle in this funeral?” Alberto retorted, coolly. “Answerest thou to the owner whether there be loss or gain?”

Narigudo said no more, but rose to follow his comrades as Alberto disappeared in the office. When the boy emerged, five minutes later, the place was deserted.

Rather simple, after all! Only five traitors, apparently; and for the present _they_ were gone. Now, just to lock and bar the big gate, and think what next.

In much more comfortable mind after bolting the only entrance to the walled hacienda, Alberto strolled up to the great shed, and halted a moment by the big trundle-mill, pondering. So far, so good; and now what? Leave the place locked, and ride up to the city to warn the authorities?

A sound that you might hardly call a sound, so faint was it, startled his tense nerves; and as he wheeled the blood went from his face. Fifteen feet away, barefoot, Narigudo stood in the door of the ore-shed, with an ugly smile.

“Young Excellency,” he drawled, insolently, “you have locked me in. Give me the keys to go!”

At this Alberto found his voice. “In this hacienda,” said he, steadily, “it is accustomed to obey the _administrador_, and not to command him. I will let you out when I go to the gate.”

“Ah, it’s the _administrador_, is it? Then give me the keys before I eat an _administrador_!” The tone had changed from insolence to rage, and the angry fellow sprang forward.

Alberto wavered in his tracks, and then straightened with a snap. The key of the bullion-room? Never!

He plucked the heavy keys from his belt and flung them fiercely, just as that big hand clutched his shoulder. Narigudo hurled him against the wheel-post with a curse, and sprawled forward in a desperate effort. But the keys, just eluding his fingers, clanked down into the deep drain.

“Only wait!” he roared. “I shall have it just the same, and you shall pay the trouble!”

He plunged into the opening with a backward glare that made Alberto’s heart stand still. It was no use to run—he was locked in, too. Just to wait to be murdered!

But then the boy leaped forward with a new light in his eyes. A big wooden trough stood there—uptilted upon one face. There was a muffled bellow; but he hunched his shoulder to the mass, and inched it forward, and sank upon it with a queer, sobbing laugh. A fine trap for the big rat!

But he had forgotten the difference between a strong boy’s strength and a powerful man’s. His seat heaved under him; clearly, if his weight were removed, Narigudo could lift it. The fellow had all his mighty back in play, and seemed like to overturn his prison door, jailer and all.

Alberto could not even groan. It was impossible to stay here, as great dangers were to be guarded against elsewhere. But he saw plainly that he could not get far before Narigudo would be out, and——! There was no weight nearer than the ore-sacks, and he dared not desert the trough long enough to go half-way to them. In a nightmare of terror he crouched on the trough, trying to make himself heavy, and praying to all the saints.

Suddenly he gave a wild shout. The whim! There stood the great vertical wheel; its pole, ten feet away, was two feet from the ground. _If—!_ Thank God, there was no ore in its path!

Alberto leaped up, dancing noisily on the trough. He sprang to the floor and back, ran off two strides, and rushed upon the trough again. _Now_ his head was clear as a bell.

In another dash he seized the ponderous pole and wrenched at it with all his force. The mill creaked and gave an inch or two. Back he pounced noisily upon the trough, and back again to the pole for another mighty tug; and again, and a dozen times again. Each time the reluctant wheel groaned a few inches forward upon its circle, and now the end of the pole barely overlapped the end of the trough.

All was quiet below. The prisoner, puzzled by these crazy antics overhead, was waiting for a clew to what it all meant. Now, indeed, he began to heave again; but Alberto, braced backward on the trough, was slowly, surely dragging the pole in. Another fierce jerk, and his task was done. The great horizontal stick overhung the very middle of the trough.

The boy rose with an effort and leaned against the wheel. A wan smile came on his lips as the trough rose with a jerk—just three inches. Then it thumped against the pole and went down with a bang. The trap was locked, and Alberto never stopped till he sank breathless on the office steps.

It was already turning dusk; there was no time to lose. Muskets plenty were in the armory, but Narigudo had the key. However, there was one gun in the office, and Alberto loaded it with nervous fingers. Then he climbed into the loop-holed turret which overhung the gate, and crouched, waiting. But another thought seemed to come, for he chuckled and ran down the court. When he came back to the tower, twenty minutes later, the stables were empty, and so was the office drawer from which Don Ygnacio distributed _cohetes_ on the eve of a feast-day. On the other hand, a hundred sleepy mules were huddled in the entrance, with a rope stretched taut behind them, and back of the rope a great many little heaps of small, red cylinders.

At nine o’clock there was a faint tap at the gate. “Narigudo!” someone whispered; and in a moment, louder and impatiently, “Narigudo! Art thou asleep? Open!”

Alberto almost laughed. Then he drew back his shoulders and said, sharply: “Not a shot till I say the word! As for you, stupids, you see the gate! And your Narigudo—he is well boxed up!”

There was a quick scuffling below. Evidently the bandits had run back under the bottom of the tower, puzzled by this turn of affairs. For half an hour there was a trying silence; then a sudden rush, and something smote the gate with a tremendous crash.

“Not yet!” cried Alberto. “Wait for the word!”

But the robbers were not to be fooled. If there were really defenders, they would have fired before now; and again the battering-ram made the great gate tremble.

Alberto’s finger itched on the trigger. Should he shoot? Before he could reload, they might have the gate down. And then——?

He leaned the long musket against the wall and crept down into the courtyard just as the thunderous crash came again. Evidently the gate was beginning to give.

Another smash, and a leaf of the gate began to creak with that ominous, growing creak that goes before a fall. Just then there was a little flash in the courtyard, and a queer _s-s-sizz-sizz_, pop! bang! _Bang!_ _B-b-b-b-ang!_ The gate reeled and fell outward, and with the roar of a landslide a hundred terrified mules burst through the gap, trampling and scattering like chaff the knot of bandits gathered to burst in.

And then from far up the cobble-paved highway came a stentorian yell, and pistol shots, and a new clamor of iron hoofs. Two minutes later Don Ygnacio and his men swept into the courtyard, where a collapsed young hero lay beside a vast litter of bursted firecrackers.

A Duel in the Desert.

A Duel in the Desert.