Riding steadily and hard, Bull made the railroad just as the sun dipped
and hung like a smoky lamp on the smoldering horizon. From a distance he
had spied Benson leaning in the doorway of the box-car which served the
Mexican agent for a telegraph station. The Englishman called to him
across the tracks.
"There's a battle pending down the line. Troop-trains have been
streaking through all day carrying Valles's reserves from Chihuahua. Don
Pedro, here, says another is due to stop for water in half an hour. If
we hand the comandante a few compliments, he may take us along."
"Half an hour?" Bull snorted. "That means half the night an' then some.
We'll have time for supper an' a sleep."
But for once the railroad went back on all precedents. Just as the
crimson tip of the sun slid down behind a black-velvet mountain, the
train came puffing in loaded with the usual picturesque rag-and-bobtail
of brown soldiers, women, and children clustered like hiving bees on
top.
"Must be yesterday's train a bit overdue," Bull defended his theory, as
the cars clicked by with slowing rhythm. "The comandante'll be in the
passenger-coach ahead. We'd better to mosey along an' brace him."
But their passage was much more easily gained. A man who sat with legs
dangling from the open doorway of a box-car emitted a whoop.
"Ole! Diogenes! Como le va! What of our matrimonial venture? How did it
pan out?"
It was Naylor, the correspondent, Bull's friend and Cupid's aide. As his
car rolled slowly up, there hove in sight placards that announced the
titles of certain American papers in dignified Spanish that their oldest
subscribers would never have recognized. But there was nothing foreign
in the half-dozen of friendly faces that filled the doorway. From the
dignified visage, with its short, gray beard and trim mustache, of their
dean, down to the boyish face of a field photographer, all joined in a
composite welcoming grin.
"Weekes, Mason, Martin, Roberts, Cummings." The correspondent breezily
ran off the names. "There were more before Santos-Coy, Valles's chief of
staff, stuck us all up against a wall the last time our government
clapped one of its hit-and-miss embargoes on munitions. Valles saved us,
but after that most of the fellows skipped out. So we have lots of room.
Come right up."
A partition divided the car into kitchen and living-quarters. Bunks rose
in a tier of four at the end of the latter. Four more could be slept on
long lockers at each side of the table which was being set for supper by
the Chinese cook. From the oldest to the youngest, the correspondents
were on edge for the approaching battle. At supper their talk ran on its
possibilities.
"If Valles is beaten again," Weekes, the gray-haired dean, summed the
conversation, "our government will throw another of its silly flip-flops
and turn him down. And then--"
"--this corresponding job won't make good insurance."
"And then--" the dean began again.
"We'll hit for El Paso before Santos-Coy grabs us again."
"And then"--the dean triumphed over interruptions--"God pity the poor
gringos in northern Mexico."
Bull's friend nodded. "Valles's army will scatter into bands that will
rake the country with fine-tooth combs for the least bit of plunder. You
had better get your girl and her fellow, Diogenes, and come out with
us."
Later, when they had all climbed up on the roof and sat watching the
oil-smoke from the laboring locomotive whirl and twist, then float away
and lay its great sable plumes against the rich reds and golds of the
evening sky, they gave expert opinion on Benson's mission.
"If Valles wins, so do you," the dean opined. "He needs horses worse
than money, and, as you say, has slathers of it in the El Paso banks.
But if he loses--hit for the border at once. I saw him the other day
after the first defeat, and hell couldn't produce his equal. He was
crazy; a maniac; a tiger gone stark, staring, frothing mad.
"And lose he will. How do I know?" He answered a challenge. "It's a mere
problem of mathematics, the first equation of which was worked out in
the battle the other day. Given two men of equal military ability, the
one with a trained mind is bound to win. The other fellow, as you know,
is a college man--a college man against a bandit." He turned to Bull and
Benson. "It's a cinch that he'll win. If I were you, gentlemen, I'd wait
the event."
Benson shook his head. "If we see Valles now and strike a bargain, we
can get our cattle across the border before he's all in."
"Good enough reasoning," the dean admitted. "But--ever since the first
defeat he's been in one of his towering rages. Even his own generals
hardly dare go near him."
Benson shrugged; with British obstinacy he clung to his point. "It won't
be the first time I've seen him in his rages. He may be dangerous--to
Americans, but John Bull looks after his people and even Valles is
careful of how he flies in the old fellow's face. I shall go to see him
at once, and if he refuses--well"--his voice grew harsh and
menacing--"he'll hear the truth about himself."
Not knowing him, the correspondents received it in silence. While they
smoked Benson went on in his hard, rough voice. "I tell you, amigos,
that your people have made a sad mess of this whole Mexican business.
For three years, now, you have been trying to apply the principles of
your Declaration of Independence to a race which won't have evolved to a
point where it has the faintest understanding of them for a thousand
years to come. You stand on your Monroe doctrine, but refuse to take up
its obligations and give alien nationals the protection you will not
allow their own government to extend. While your statesmen prattle about
the sacred right of revolution and Mexico's ability to settle her own
affairs, the country is overrun with bandits and mobs of pelados who are
killing off the decent people and destroying billions in property they
never created.
"Bah!" he snorted his disgust. "Don't talk to me of republics. Do you
suppose that either England or Germany would have stood for the anarchy
which rules here? For centuries John Bull has been ruling brown peoples
and he knows his job. 'Be good and you'll be happy!' he tells them. If
they're not--they get it, hot and heavy, on the spot where it will do
most good. The brown man is all right in his place--which isn't on top
of the white man--but your government, so far, has failed to perceive
it."
He went on from a pause: "Republics are incapacitated by nature in any
case for the job. They are too divided in their counsels--swayed to-day
by capital that will accept any dishonor rather than jeopardize its
revenues; to-morrow by sentimentalists who hold up hands of horror at
the very thought of war; governed most of the time by a ridiculous
yellow press. Individually, you Yanks are good people, but taken
collectively, as represented by your government and papers, you are
hypocritical, weak, hysterical, sentimental, without dignity or force.
You are grown fat with wealth, soft with luxury, too lazy and
indifferent to undertake your responsibilities abroad, and if you were
not, you lack the first essentials--centralized federal authority and
military strength to enforce your will. If you do anything here it will
be accidental--such as when the blowing up of the _Maine_ aroused one of
your periodical brainstorms, stung you into action. But in the mean time
the destruction of Mexico will be complete. There will be nothing left
of the civilization built up at such enormous pains by Diaz and which it
was your duty to maintain."
Silence followed, the uncomfortable silence that attends the digestion
of unpalatable truth. While they talked, the cars had resolved into dim
masses that swayed and swung through hot dusk that was splashed, here
and there, with the red glow of charcoal cooking fires. On those
immediately ahead and behind, dim sombreroed figures still loomed in
half-gloom. The flash of a match occasionally set a dark face out in
startling relief. The tinkle of a guitar accompanying a high, nasal
_peon_ chant, mingled with the roar and rattle of wheels. For some time
its whine rose under the stars before the voice of the dean broke the
silence.
"What you say is true--most of it. We have been tried in the balance and
found wanting. We've neglected our duty to the Mexicans and our own
people--that's the hell of it! But nations, like individuals, learn
their lessons through painful mistakes. We've had bad leadership and
worse counsels--so much of it that it would almost seem that we were
irrevocably stamped as incapable. But it's only a phase. Under it all
the heart of the people still beats sound and true. Sooner or later its
voice will be heard. And when it is--the bleating of the sentimentalists
will be drowned in the tramp of marching men."
"You bet you!" It rolled out in chorus.
"In the mean time," a voice added, "what's the matter with a little
drink?"
Instantly the recumbent figures rose in a shadowy mass, and as its units
made their way down over the edge of the swaying car, the correspondent
jogged Bull's elbow. "Come along, Diogenes!"
But though a flame, sudden and fierce, had leaped within him; though he
trembled under the intensity of his desire, he shook his head. "Thanks,
I'm not drinking."
"Why--Diogenes? Whatever is the matter? If parental responsibilities do
this, damned if I know whether I'll ever dare to hook up--providing my
San Francisco girl ever consents. Is this straight?"
"Straight."
Warned, perhaps, by a certain earnestness, the other answered: "All
right, old man--only--if you change your mind, come on down."
Bull made no answer, could not, for as he lay there, huge bulk stretched
out on the running-board, face turned up to the stars, every ounce of
his energy, even the bit that would have been used up in speech, was
consumed in the fight against the furious desire that brought the sweat
starting on his brow, shook him like a leaf. Out of the rack and bang of
the swinging cars, click and roar of the wheels, his ear presently
picked the clink of glasses. Out through the lamp-lit doorway floated
Benson's rough voice.
"Well, here's to Uncle Sam! wishing him better counselors and quicker
understanding!"
Bull heard no more, for he had rolled over, buried his face in his arms
to hide from his snuffing nostrils whiffs of spirits. Once he half rose,
looking toward the ladder. But, strengthening his resolution, there rose
in his mind just then a picture of Betty and her mother as he had seen
them at parting--her hands on the child's shoulders, stooped in slight
dejection, yet radiating faith and trust.
Lying down again, he lay, hands clasped under his head, gazing up at the
fire of stars, while his mind traveled back to the _rancho_, lived over
and over again the slow, sweet hours of last night. Below, an undertone
to the roar of the speeding train, he now caught the hum of talk. But he
took no heed--even when it ceased. He dreamed on till a hand shook his
foot.
"Aren't you coming down to bed?"
"No; I reckon I'll lay out here. It's cooler." He did not acknowledge to
himself his fear of sniffing the spirituous odors.
"All right, only don't roll off." The correspondent paused on his way
back to the ladder. "Say! did your friend mean what he said? Or was it
just talk?"
When Bull answered with a sketch of Benson's violent temper, illustrated
by a few instances, the correspondent shook his head. "Well, don't let
him see Valles alone." Going down the ladder, he called back, "If you
should change your mind about the drink, you'll find the jug on the
table."
Instantly it materialized in Bull's vision, a round stone jug and
glasses, as solid and real as though it stood within the reach of his
hand. Nor could he shut out the vision, as he had the odor, by burying
his face. With the cars swinging and swaying through the night, shut
out, it stood forth clearer than ever. He saw himself snatching out the
cork; felt the burning liquid coursing down his throat.
"My God! why did I come? I'll never be able to stan' it!"
The thought of the temptation, ever present, growing more powerful
through the coming days, gaining in strength while he grew weaker,
brought out of him a cry of dismay: "I'll never be able to stan' it!"
Then, very quickly, "I'll have to! If I don't--then I'm no fit man for
her!"
The thought brought her face again in all its sweet wholesomeness.
Through the warm dusk, as it were beside him, he saw her hand fluttering
like a homing dove into his. He felt it lifting, raising him above his
temptation. The memory of its soft pressures strengthened and comforted.
Presently his fingers relaxed their convulsive grip on the
running-board. Exhausted, he fell asleep.