Read At Play in the Fields of the Lord for Free Online Page B

his ease, had yelled out, jerking his thumb at Moon, “
Amigo mío
him also heap big
indio!
” The Comandante, who was not an
indio
, had gazed briefly at Moon, a gaze that made Moon coil and stiffen; he had not returned the papers, and meanwhile their bill at his hotel had mounted remorselessly.
    Now he pointed at Moon’s chair, as if Moon, standing, made him nervous.
    Moon remained standing, hands in pockets.
    The Comandante took note of this small rebellion; he lifted the glass, poured the liquor down his throat like a man filling a hole, and blew the air back out at Moon in a huge belch, as if to send him flying from his sight. The people in the bar sniggered expectantly, nudging one another. They watched the Comandante wipe his mouth with the back of one hand and with the other signal for another drink. Over the back of the wiping hand, which he held for a long time at his mouth, his eyes were hard as points.
    Inexplicably, Rufino Guzmán laughed: “Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
    “This is some terrible kind of a jungle
beast
,” Wolfie observed, sincerely impressed; he hitched forward in his chair to stare more closely at the Comandante.
    In this place, all but isolated from the world, the big pale man beneath the fan was the natural enemy, and their enmity was an old one; Moon reacted to his gaze with the clutched fear and hatred that he had once felt for the county sheriff. Though he kept his expression blank and casual, it was all he could do to face him. They had met on all the earth’s frontiers, in all its jungles; this was the strongman unrestrained, the incensed executor of his own law, swollen and jovial with power.
    The Comandante was a massive man, quite unlike the small brown halfbreeds of his town, a big thick man with a pale thick unshaven face. He had a coarse small crown of hair, more like a tuft, and a tight potbelly like a swallowed ball. Ever since Wolfie had boasted of Moon’s Indian blood, the Comandante had called Moon
piloto
with heavy sarcasm, in a way which suggested that Moon’s status as
señor piloto
was a tremendous joke. So intent was Guzmán on conveying disdain for Moon that he addressed all his remarks to Wolfie, even though Wolfie spoke almost no Spanish. In this way Moon was made to serve the white
caballeros
as interpreter. Wolfie was quite oblivious of this situation, and for the moment it amused Moon to pretend that he was oblivious of it also.
    “How long do you plan to be our guest in Madre de Dios then?” the Comandante said to Wolfie.
    “Bueno,”
Wolfie said. “Right, Lewis?” Behind his hand he said loudly, “I’m just kind of stringin this beast along.”
    “We will leave when you return our passports,” Moon said, after a moment. The United States had revoked their passports
in absentia
; there was no sign on the documents themselves.
    “But of course, and I will be delighted to return the passport of the
caballero
”—Guzmán bowed to Wolfie—“when the
caballero
regulates his accounts at the hotel. I am an understanding man. I do not even ask you why you have no visa for this country, or inquire where you have come from. On the other hand, I am not stupid. Your airplane is full of armaments. It has bullet holes in its wings. I
know
where you have come from. And I also know that if I send you back there …” He smiled broadly. “You chose the wrong side, no?”
    “Caramba!”
Wolfie said, judicious. “How’m I doin, Lewis?”
    Moon said, “We have no money, and apparently there is no work we can do here.”
    The Comandante nodded. “I much regret it, of course, but even if there was work that you could do, I am not empowered to issue work permits to foreigners. I am sure you understand my position.”
    “You own the hotel, you own this town. We are living at your expense; therefore we figure you have something in mind.”
    The Comandante sighed. “If you cannot regulate your accounts in a very short time, you will force me to confiscate your