Chapter 250: The Flawed Merchant

“Forget it, it doesn’t make sense to talk about the past. Let’s deal with what we have in front of us. Look—I think that’s the house of the man who discovered the clearing in this area.”

The soldiers turned their gaze toward a small house in the distance. A man was working the land, cursing under his breath as he drove his tool into the soil.

Krugger approached with measured steps and gave a small nod.

“Good afternoon, sir. I am Pedro, a humble merchant from Medellín, looking for places to sell flavored aguardiente from the region.”

The old man stopped his work. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand darkened by the soil of Las Pailitas and leaned against his hoe, observing the “merchant” in silence.

Something did not sit right.

Krugger stood too straight. His shoulders were not bent by the burden of travel, but held firm—like a man used to wearing armor rather than sacks. Even beneath the worn clothing, there was a rigidity to him, a presence that did not belong to a trader.

And the men behind him were no better.

They stood with a stillness too precise, too synchronized. Not one of them shifted weight casually, nor let their guard down. They watched everything.

“A merchant, you say?” the man replied, his voice rough, like dry husks rubbing together.

“I’ve seen merchants from Medellín, Bogotá, even from the coast… and none of them look like you.”

He stepped closer, examining him without hesitation.

“You carry yourself like a soldier.”

Then, frowning slightly, he added:

“You smell of gun oil… and old leather.”

His gaze moved to the guards.

“And your men… they stand ready to act at any moment. I barely took a step closer, and they were already watching me as if I were a threat.”

A pause.

“That is not how merchants behave.”

Krugger frowned slightly. He had corrected them many times, yet habit remained.

“Forgive them, sir,” he said, maintaining composure. “We are… former soldiers. Dismissed from service.”

He gestured calmly.

“I have family in New Granada, so I decided to try my luck here. These men served alongside me. The roads are dangerous, so I chose to travel with those I trust.”

The explanation was reasonable.

But his accent betrayed him.

The old man let out a short, dry laugh.

“Your tongue stumbles over our words like a horse in a swamp, foreign

,” he said bluntly.

“You are not from Medellín. You speak like a man used to giving orders, not trading goods.”

He pointed toward Krugger’s boots.

“And those… polished, even in this mud.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“A real merchant would already be offering his drink, not explaining his life story.”

A brief pause.

“So if you want something, say it clearly. I have no time for lies.”

Krugger froze for the briefest moment—a subtle reaction, but enough.

Behind him, the guards shifted instinctively, hands nearing their belts. He raised his hand immediately, stopping them without looking.

The air grew heavy, filled only with the sound of insects.

“I have gold,” Krugger said at last.

The tone changed—simpler, more direct.

“And I have the means to protect it.”

He stepped slightly closer.

“I have heard that you tried to inform the authorities about a clearing in this region. That you sought recognition… and were ignored.”

A faint pause.

“Perhaps dismissed as a drunkard.”

His gaze remained steady.

“But I am interested in that terrain.”

“I offer you one hundred pesos,” he continued, “in exchange for its location—and your silence.”

Another pause, more deliberate.

“Until we leave, you and your family will assist us with small tasks in our encampment.”

His voice remained calm.

“What do you say?”

The old man’s eyes flickered.

He had not expected that something so small—something he himself had nearly abandoned—would attract the attention of men like these. Men who spoke plainly of gold, and carried themselves with the quiet certainty of violence.

And deep down, he knew one thing clearly:

He could not risk his family.

If he went with them, he would be entirely at their mercy. If they chose to kill him, nothing would stop them. And if his family followed… then all would be lost at once.

His gaze shifted briefly toward his house, then back to Krugger.

“I can accept going personally,” he said at last. “And I can help you. But my family… they do not know the terrain. I never told them anything of it.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“If you allow them to remain here, protecting the land, I will go willingly. You cannot expect us to abandon the harvest as well. These lands are barely enough to feed us… and to sell a little besides.”

Krugger remained silent for a moment, weighing the proposal.

There was risk in it.

If the man’s sons knew anything, they could speak. But even then… with their father in his camp, they would hesitate. And if not—fear would do the rest.

The Spanish themselves might mistake the man for one of his own and deal with him accordingly.

In the end, the balance was acceptable.

“Very well,” Krugger said.

“But you will tell them only this—you have found work in Medellín. Nothing more.”

His gaze hardened slightly.

“If you wish to send word, any letter must be read by my men first.”

The old man gave a small shrug.

“I cannot write. Nor read,” he replied. “So you need not concern yourself with that. Even if I wished to send a letter, I would depend on your men to do it.”

Krugger nodded once, then motioned with his hand.

“Prepare yourself. Inform your family. We will gather further information from the surrounding houses.”

He paused briefly, then added:

“I will leave one of my men here… for protection.”

The old man understood the meaning well enough.

Protection.

Surveillance.

There was no difference now.

Still, he nodded, turning quickly and making his way toward the house, calling out for his family.

Krugger spent the following hours moving through the neighboring clearings.

His role as a merchant was thin—he knew it—and he did little to reinforce it. Instead, he asked direct questions: about patrol routes, about the movements of the Sub-delegate, about the flooding of the Zapatosa marsh, and the frequency of messengers traveling from Mompox.

The answers were always the same.

Uncertainty. Fear. Vague rumors of sickness spreading somewhere to the north. Complaints about rising prices—salt, in particular.

No one spoke with certainty.

The Spanish administration, in these lands, existed more as a distant shadow than a constant presence—appearing only when taxes were due.

By the time the sun began to fall behind the jagged silhouette of the Perijá mountains, the sky stained in bruised purples and deep orange, Krugger returned to the old man’s house.

The guard he had left behind stood exactly where he had been placed, unmoving, his hand never far from his flintlock.

The old man stepped out to meet him.

In his hands, he carried a small burlap sack. Behind him stood a woman—his wife—her eyes wide, her expression caught between fear and forced composure.

The story had been told.

A job in distant Medellín. A promise of gold. Enough to justify the risk… or at least to hide the truth.

“My family understands,” the old man said, though his voice lacked conviction. “They will remain. They will wait for word.”

He hesitated slightly.

“But… may I ask for part of the payment now? I would leave something for them before I go.”

Krugger did not hesitate.

“Of course.”

He reached into his coat and produced a pouch, handing it over without ceremony.

“Fifty pesos. Give them what you wish—but I would advise you to keep some for yourself. We do not yet know what may be required.”

The old man’s eyes widened the moment he saw the coins.

For a brief instant, all caution faded.

That amount… it was near a year’s labor.

With such money, his family could live more easily—at least for a time.

Enough to make the risk… almost acceptable.

“Th–thank you, sir. This will truly help my family… and myself.”

His voice carried a mixture of relief and unease.

Without wasting time, he turned toward his wife and pressed half of the coins into her hands. He leaned close, whispering something into her ear—low enough that neither Krugger nor the guards could hear it.

She nodded faintly, though the tension in her expression did not fade.

The old man kept the remaining coins for himself.

And though the fear had not disappeared entirely, the weight of gold had already begun to shift his trust—if only slightly—in Krugger.

They departed soon after.

The small settlement faded behind them, its scattered huts illuminated by the dim, flickering glow of candlelight. Within moments, even that fragile warmth was swallowed by the vastness of the jungle.

The path ahead was scarcely worthy of the name.

A narrow line of crushed ferns and damp soil twisted forward, winding between towering trunks that rose like pillars in a silent cathedral of green. The canopy above swallowed most of the light, leaving only fragments of dusk to filter through in uneven patches.

With every step, the air grew heavier.

Thick. Wet.

It carried the scent of stagnant water, rotting vegetation, and something older—something that seemed to linger beneath the surface, as if the land itself were in a slow state of decay.

The sounds of the settlement were gone now.

In their place remained only the low hum of insects, the distant call of unseen creatures, and the quiet rhythm of men moving carefully through unfamiliar ground.

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