The Concrete Truck

It was very hot in the deep hollow that pierced the mountain range behind
Santa Brigida on the Caribbean Sea. The black peaks cut against a glaring
sky and the steep slopes of red soil and volcanic cinders on one side of
the ravine were dazzlingly bright. The other was steeped in blue shadow
that scarcely seemed to temper the heat, and the dark-skinned men who
languidly packed the ballast among the ties of a narrow-gage railroad
that wound up the hill panted as they swung their shovels. At its lower
end, the ravine opened on to a valley that got greener as it ran down to
the glittering sea, on the edge of which feathery palms clustered round
Santa Brigida.

The old city, dominated by its twin, cathedral towers, shone ethereally
white in the distance, with a narrow fringe of flashing surf between it
and the vivid blue of the Caribbean. It was a thriving place, as the
black dots of steamers in the roadstead showed, for of late years
American enterprise had broken in upon its lethargic calm. The population
was, for the most part, of Spanish stock that had been weakened by
infusions of Indian and negro blood, but there were a number of Chinamen,
and French Creoles. Besides these, Americans, Britons, and European
adventurers had established themselves, and the town was a hotbed of
commercial and political intrigue. The newcomers were frankly there for
what they could get and fought cunningly for trading and agricultural
concessions. The leading citizens of comparatively pure Spanish strain
despised the grasping foreigners in their hearts, but as a rule took
their money and helped them in their plots. Moreover, they opened a
handsome casino and less reputable gambling houses with the object of
collecting further toll.