FullReads

Inocencio corrected his recent employer, but without show of the slightest heat:

“I am no nigger, senor; I am Haytian. She is San Blas Indian. My father was not even so dark as me. Black men have thick heads and you have to beat them, but nobody ever beat me, not even a white man. When those niggers sleep I lie awake and study; I make schemes. That is why I left Hayti.”

“Do you understand that you’ve got me into a hell of a fix? I’ve got to take a trip down there myself to square things.”

Inocencio lighted a black cigarette and blew the smoke through his nose. Evidently other people’s troubles did not concern him. Recognizing the futility of reproach or indignation, the former speaker continued:

“But see here, now! This girl! You can’t keep her.”

“Eh? Who’s going to take her away?” interrogated the Haytian, quickly. “Bah! One man tried that, and–I killed him with my machete.” His thin lips drew back at the memory, and for an instant his yellow face showed a hint of what had made his reputation.

“She won’t stay with you.”

“Oh yes, she will. She was wild, very wild at first, but–she will stay.”

“And how about her people? They’re bad hombres. Even the government lets them alone–fortunately for you.”

“They won’t make no trouble about that Markeena. He is quite dead, I think.”

“By Jove! You’re a cold-blooded brute!”

“Senor! You told me once that nobody had ever married a San Blas female, eh?”

“Yes. Even the old Spaniards tried it, but the blood is clean, so far; something unusual, too, in this country.”

Inocencio began to laugh silently, as if at a joke. “Some day, maybe, you will see a San Blas half-breed playing in the streets of Colon,” said he.

“I don’t believe it.”

“I’ll bet you my wages–two hundred pesos. Come! I’ll show you.”

“You get out of here,” said the American, roughly. “That’s something I don’t allow anybody to joke about.” And, when the mulatto had gone, he continued aloud: “By Heaven! this is sure a tough country for a white man!”

Inocencio strode through the streets toward the swamp that lies behind the town, oblivious to the grilling midday heat that smote him from above, from the concrete walks beneath, and from the naked walls on every side. It was before the days of the American occupation, and the streets were nothing more than open cesspools, the stench from which offended sorely. Buzzards flapped among the naked children at play in the mire beside the sewer ditches.

The place was filled with everything unhealthy, and had long been known as the earth’s great festering sore. Neither the Orient nor the farthest tropics boasted another spot like Colon, or Aspinwall, as it had been called, with its steaming, hip-deep streets and its brilliant flowering graveyards. So hateful had it proved, in fact, that when seamen signed articles binding themselves to work their ships into any corner of the globe they inserted a clause exempting them from entering Aspinwall.

Now, however, the town was lively, for this was the dry season, when the fever was at its lowest, and the resorts were filled with the flotsam and jetsam of a tropic world. It was a polyglot town, moreover, set upon a fever-ridden mangrove isle serving as one terminus of the world’s short cut, and in it had collected all the parasites that live upon the moving herd.

The French work of digging had but served to augment the natural population by a no less desperate set from overseas, and now from the open doors of their cubbyholes women of every color greeted the passer-by.

Inocencio, whose last exploit was already a thing of gossip, received unusual attention, there being no color line in Colon town. White, yellow, and black women fawned upon him and bade him tarry, but he merely paused to listen or to fan their admiration by a word, then idled onward, pleased at the notice he evoked.