Bull's eyes opened at dawn on a cloudless sky that lay like an inverted
pink bowl over desert so level and vast that the customary bordering
mountains showed only blue tips up above the horizon. He had been half
conscious of the cessation of movement during the night. Now silence,
the cool quiet of dawn, lay over the hot and drowsy earth.
Sitting up, he saw on each side the brown adobe skirts of a desert town
enwrapping in their squalid embrace miles of troop-trains which stood in
the yards twelve deep and blocked the main line. Twenty thousand
_revueltosos_, at least, heaped the roofs. As yet the men lay huddled in
their bright serapes. But already the women were astir, lighting the
scene with a flash of brilliant skirts. From rude hearths built of earth
within a circle of stones a myriad thin, violet columns uprose and hung
straight as strings in the crystal air.
"'Morning, Diogenes!" The correspondent's cheerful face poked up from
under the edge of the car. "Some picturesque, heigh? Who'd think, to
look at them sleeping so peacefully, that they were bent on the
destruction of another outfit like this less than ten miles away? But
that's your Mexican. With us war is a stern necessity to be shoved to a
quick conclusion. With him it is a pleasure. Day is to fight in, night
for sleep, noon for siesta, and he arranges his warfare accordingly. A
night attack would be considered discourteous; not at all according to
the Mexican Hoyle. At noon they quit, on the advanced posts, even visit
each other and exchange gossip and cigarettes. Whereafter, with a
cheerful, 'Adios, señor, it is time to begin fighting!' they return to
their respective lines and go to it again. A cheerful people in the
midst of their dirt and disorder." He added, thoughtfully, "I never see
them like this without thinking of them as a band of careless children
shrieking with laughter over the destruction they are wreaking with the
powerful weapons we placed in their hands."
"Picturesque? Yes," he went on, from a pause. "But it's mighty hard on
the common people. Look at that!"
He was pointing at a shriveled old woman who, with bony fingers, was
clawing the horse manure that had been pitched out of a car.
"She's picking out the undigested corn to grind for her tortillas. Man!"
Eyes flashing to the inspiration, he ran on in a flush: "If our wise men
in Washington could only see that! Do you know what these armies are
doing? Riding the brood mares, eating the seed corn! _The seed corn and
the brood mares!_ You know what that means--famine! If I were a poet I'd
take her, that old hag scratching her living from the offal of Valles's
war horses--I'd take her for the symbol of Mexico--Mexico bleeding and
bludgeoned, ravished, outraged, oppressed.
"It was hard to swallow, what your friend said last night, but it's
true. While the Washingtonians prate of principles, this country is fast
returning to its original condition of nomadic tribes warring
perpetually upon one another. Already--oh!" He descended to a homely but
vital conclusion. "They make me sick. God send us a _man_! A man with
sympathy and insight; understanding of this people's failings and
necessities. God send us another Lincoln!"
"You bet it's hell!" In spite of the profanity Bull's laconic comment
was reverent in its essence as the most profound "Amen!"
With a shrug Naylor threw off his earnestness; became again his cheerful
self. "I hear the Chinaman stirring. Come on down to breakfast."
Stepping from the ladder, Bull's glance went, in spite of himself, to
the table. It was still there, just as he had pictured it, a squat stone
jug with glasses; and though, seating himself on a locker, he turned his
back, he was still acutely conscious of its presence. He did not look
when the Chinaman carried it back into the kitchen. But he knew, and his
sigh expressed more than relief. Moreover, both while he was eating and
when, later, he walked with Benson and the correspondents into the town,
it went with him, occupied always a corner of his mind.
From the adobe outskirts the soldiers and their women were moving in
dirty streams of khaki and _peon mantas_ splashed with the flash of
brass, vivid reds, violets, and blues of soiled calico skirts, the loot
of a hundred towns. From a hundred painted streets the streams poured
into the plaza, the heart of the town, there to move and mass and melt
and mass again, a sweating, sweltering jam of brown humanity topped with
a scum of evil eyes, dark, unhealthy faces. In dribbles and trickles its
evil tide had flowed in from all over the land, and Benson's remark as
they came from a side street into the plaza was fully justified:
"If you could just sink it for half a day a mile under the sea, this
would be a safer, cleaner land."
Overpowering the stenches natural to a desert town, the sickening sweet
odor of carrion hung thick in the air.
"More Mexican efficiency," the dean shrugged. "After the last scrap out
here in the hills they made a stab at burning the bodies. They'd pile
twenty or thirty in a heap, pour a bottle of kerosene over it, light the
soaked clothing, then walk off swelling with the consciousness of
hygienic duty well performed. Now when the wind blows this way--it's
hard on a white man, though the Mexicans don't seem to mind. Appeals to
the natural vulture in them, I suppose."
While they stood watching before crossing to the shaded promenade, the
crowd opened behind them to permit the passage of a dozen men under
guard. All Spaniards, they ranged in age from the threescore and ten
years of a hawk-nosed old man to the twelve of his grandson. But one
thing they had in common, the dull, blue hue of mortal fear. In the
extremity of his terror the boy repeatedly stumbled and fell--to be
picked up and prodded on by a rifle-barrel. Heads hanging, fearful, and
hopeless, they shuffled through the crowd.
"Ole, Enrico!" As they came opposite, Bull's friend hailed the officer
in command.
After walking a few feet with him, he came back. "They're Spanish
storekeepers on the way to 'the place designated,' which is a
revolutionary euphemism for being shot. 'The place' is the cemetery
where they will be stood up against the wall. A nice little Mexican
refinement, eh, making a man's legs carry him to his own funeral? Their
crime? Respectability, most likely. They have either dallied in
contributing to the 'Cause,' been caught hiding their goods, or perhaps
have unreasonably refused some officer access to their daughters' beds.
Even in this country"--he spoke with bitter irony--"there are still men
to be found who draw the line at that. Or it may be simply that they are
Spanish. God knows, it's enough. Valles never forgets that he is a
_peon_. After the lapse of centuries he is visiting on their children's
children the violences offered by the Spanish conquerors to his Aztec
forebears. It may be poetic justice. A philosopher might find some
justification for it--if it were only a cause and effect. But"--his
pitying glance followed the stumbling boy--"it is rotten hard to watch."
It was only the beginning of a series of sights and events that, while
running the gamut from acute tragedy to grim humor, revealed in flashing
glimpses the bandit tyrannies that were masquerading as government. As
the Spaniards disappeared, there came marching in their wake a group of
Carranzista prisoners, mostly women, captured and brought in from an
interior town. As they filed through the jeering crowd, a _revueltoso_
would reach and snatch away a woman that pleased him without a protest
from the guards. Always she raised an outcry. But always she ceased at
the flash of a knife or as a heavy fist closed her mouth. Whereafter,
quietly sobbing, she would be dragged away by the hair or hand.
"That isn't quite so bad." The correspondent nodded at one struggling
desperately with her captor. "She'll soon give in and dry her tears. In
one battle we took over five hundred women prisoners, and within
twenty-four hours they had all settled down to housekeeping with
Valles's soldiers. Four years of war whose fluctuations are recorded by
a change of husbands is bound to breed philosophy. For their kind it
doesn't matter so much. They have ceased to care. But the
others--daughters of the upper classes, reared in luxury, refined, many
of them educated in Europe--well, during the sack of Durango forty girls
of the upper classes committed suicide."
After crossing the plaza, Benson and Bull left the correspondents and
turned down a side street where stood the British consulate. An old
Spanish mansion, with a great _patio_ and interior garden, its high
walls shut out even the murmur of the swarming humanity without. The
glass doors of the office opened upon a wide, tiled veranda beyond which
flowery paths ran under great trees that let down the brilliant sun
blaze in a greenish rain of light. Its peace and beauty accentuated by
contrast the drama of human misery that was in course in its quiet
demesne.
As they sat waiting for the consul, they saw in the garden two nuns in
earnest conversation with an old, black-robed priest.
"More victims of the 'Cause.'" After he had greeted them, the consul, a
bluff Englishman, nodded toward the group. "Valles has robbed churches,
seized their lands, shot the priests. He crowns it with--this. Last
spring he quartered one of his regiments in the nunnery of the order to
which these poor women belong. Now they are about to become mothers, and
came here to-day to ask the priest--who is himself a refugee whom I
saved from a mob that was stoning him to death outside--to ask
permission for themselves and others to end their desecration by
suicide. One would think that such experiences would kill in any human
being the belief in a righteous God. But the old fellow is made of good
stuff. Sticks right to his guns."
Through the open doorway, in confirmation, the voice of the priest came
just then out of the quiet garden. Old and quavery it was with the
burden of his sorrow and years, yet firm in the faith: "The life He gave
none but He may take away. Why this terrible thing has befallen it is
not for us to say. His purposes are closed in mystery, beyond our sight.
It may be that we had grown proud; were swollen with self-righteousness;
puffed up with the vanity of good works. Or it may be your sacrifice was
necessary to scandalize the world of good people and bring these wicked
ones to their proper end? It may be"--he paused, shaking his old head,
tears coursing down his furrowed cheeks--"but it is not for us to
attempt answer when He chooses to put our faith to the test. I have
wished that He had seen fit to take me as I lay there under the stones
of the mob. But that was impious, a wicked thought. We can only wait
till His brightness pierces the veil of our mortal vision."
Poor brides of Christ! condemned to bear into that wicked world the
children of furious lust! Yet, under their bitter sorrow, the leaven of
mother love had been at work. The younger, a sweet-faced girl of twenty
four or five, raised her pale, olive face. "And may we love them, our
babes, when they come?"
The humanity set its reflection in the smile that overflowed the
wrinkled face with sympathy and understanding. "God is love, Sisters. He
would not wish otherwise."
In their hope and consolation their quick looks at one another were
wonderfully revealing. Bending, they took his blessing, and walked
slowly away down the garden while he went back in the house.
Bull had looked and listened with sympathy so acute as to be almost
pain. And yet--even while his gaze followed the nuns slowly down the
garden, he was conscious of a tray of liquors and glasses that stood on
a small side-table. On their way they had passed _cantina_ after
cantina, all thronged with half-drunken _revueltosos_, all exhaling a
thick reek of spirits that filled his thirsty nostrils, inflamed the
drink desire. Now, after refusing the consul's invitation, he walked out
on the veranda, and not till the bottles were recorked did he return in
time to hear the consul's conclusion on Benson's business.
"As you say, he needs the horses, never more badly, but, again, he was
never in worse humor than he has been since his defeat. It wouldn't help
any for me to go with you, for I've been fighting him on other accounts
all this week. You know him, and I will provide you with a letter that
will secure your admittance."
On the way back Bull ran again the gantlet of the _cantinas_. With
invisible hands they reached out to throttle his resolution. So powerful
was the temptation, he walked like a man in a dream, blind to externals;
seeing, hearing nothing till they brought up on the edge of the crowd
that blocked always the gates of Valles's headquarters--simple _peones_
who waited patiently through the long, hot hours on the chance of
obtaining a glimpse of their hero, a _peon_ like themselves who had
abased the great _hacendados_, their taskmasters, confiscated their
lands, beaten their generals, trampled their pride in the dust. Though
he shouldered a path through for himself and Benson, he scarcely saw
them; had only a dim vision of a guard in the patio, of officers coming
and going up a wide stone stairway. Not till they were met by a
secretary, seated in an anteroom, and Benson spoke, did he awaken to
what was going on.
"That's 'Matador' Fero, Valles's killer." Benson nudged him as a man
looked in through the open double doors of the next room and gave them a
suspicious stare. "He shot two hundred Federal prisoners, one afternoon,
in files of five, one bullet to a file, trying out a new high-power
rifle. Looks it, doesn't he?"
He did. The hulking figure, gross jaw and mouth, small eyes, black,
piercing, cold as ice, all bespoke cruelty that was accentuated by his
colorless olive skin. Strolling back to his post behind Valles, whom
they could see sitting at a desk in the next room, he stood there
closely watching, both the American correspondents who were ranged
before the desk, and also the _revueltoso_ officers who lounged on the
window balconies. Not a hand stirred, foot moved, without his notice.
Fierce beast that the "Matador" was, Bull's keen knowledge of men,
developed by years of hazard to an instinct, still set him down as less
dangerous than his master. In the latter a towering forehead, massive
upper head, indicated genius of the highest constructive order. But his
thick lips, repulsive mouth, great amber eyes that were never at rest,
sent always their sharp, suspicious glances darting hither and thither,
told why it had been perverted to destructive ends; proclaimed the
bandit _peon_, military dictator. He had stopped speaking when they
entered. Now he began again, and as he talked the heel of his hand
nervously tapped the table. Now and then, with a gush of savage feeling,
it would rise and fall with a bang.
"You may tell your papers, señores, the reverse of the other day was
sustained by one of my generals. But to-morrow--you have seen my
reinforcements, twenty thousand brought down from Chihuahua?--to-morrow
I shall command. We shall drive the Carranzistas like dust before a hot
wind. And you can tell them"--he observed a sinister pause--"you may
tell them that I am not pleased with the countenance your government is
now giving the Carranzistas. So far I have been careful of American
lives and property in the country I control, but if your government
allies itself with my enemies--" His big fist struck the table with
force that emphasized the threatening flash of the darting eyes.
Yet, pulsing with vindictive anger, the exhibition paled by contrast
with his furious attack on one of his own officers who came in as the
correspondents filed out. The fact that he had been wounded and had gone
on, alone, when his command refused to face a galling fire, made no
difference. Beast mouth stretched to a gorilla grin, every line of his
face writhing in an awful smile, Valles scored him with coarse insult
and seething invective while his hand toyed thirstily with the hilt of
his knife.
Flushing and paling, the man stood with hanging head till an order
issued from the last furious burst. "Go, now, and shoot every tenth man
in your command. I will teach them that I am more to be feared than the
damned Carranzistas!"
In the midst of it Bull nudged Benson. "Don't you allow we better leave
him cool for a while?"
But the Englishman's obstinate jaw set hard. "I'm not afraid of him.
Besides"--the secretary stood again in the doorway--"it is too late."
A curt nod marked Valles's recognition of Benson as they followed in.
Then, as his tigerish eyes took in Bull, they lit with quick
appreciation of his bulk, then went off again on their suspicious
questing. While Benson talked, he beat again a soft tattoo with the heel
of his hand; then, rising, he walked off into another room.
The secretary followed, and through the closed door they caught the
harsh, throaty monotone. When it ceased the secretary came out.
"My general says that all of your property is subject to requisition to
be paid for in legal currency issued by him as the chief of the
republican armies."
"And he thinks we'll stand for that?" His eyes flashing under bent
brows, harsh face burning with anger, Benson stepped toward the door.
"I'll--"
But as he moved the "Matador" stepped in between. Half a dozen lounging
officers, too, came hurrying from the balconies.
"It would do no good, señor." The secretary's shoulders rose in a shrug.
"Wait a more favorable time."
Benson stared down upon him, big fists clenched, face purple with
furious passion. Thinking he was about to strike, Bull put out his hand.
But, turning suddenly, Benson strode out of the room, throwing his
defiance back over his shoulder.
"He can't bluff a British subject that way! He'll give me his answer
_himself_--and he'll give it _to-day_."
As Bull followed out a hand touched his shoulder. Thinking it was the
secretary, he turned--then stood staring at the sentry on guard at the
door, who returned a sheepish grin. Though the face seemed familiar, he
did not recognize the man for one of the raiders Lee had saved from
hanging till he spoke.
"Ah, señor, 'tis fine to see an old face. The señorita, she that saved
us from your just anger, she is well? Tell her that fine mercy was
defeated by the _revueltosos_ who took us from her servants. Ask if she
will in her great kindness have the general set us free that we may
return to our wives and babes in Las Bocas."
In spite of his own stress, Bull could not but grin. "Was the jefe of
Las Bocas a better master than Valles?"
"A master is always a master." The man shrugged. "But one's pais is
one's pais and the niñas, the flesh of one's body, blood of his blood,
cannot be forgotten. Thou wilt speak to her, señor?"
The tear that trickled down his villainous face earned him a civil
answer. Though he knew the futility of it, Bull nodded. "Si, I will
speak."
Below he found Benson shoving like an angry bull through the _peon_
crowd. On its outskirts he turned and shook his fist at the building.
"I'm going back to the consul--to tell him something that he'll take
better alone. Where shall I meet you?"
"Here?"
"No, I can't tell how long I may be. Make it after lunch at the car."
Bull nodded. Then remembering the correspondent's warning, he called
after him, "I'd like to be there when you tackle him again."
Nodding, Benson walked on. Left alone, Bull sat down on a bench in the
plaza. Already the drink desire was returned upon him. And as he sat
there, in the grip of his mortal weakness, three soldiers seated
themselves on the same bench and proceeded to pass a bottle of
_tequila_.
Before he even saw it Bull's mutinous nostrils snuffed the odor. Looking
away, he tried to think, to recall the vision that strengthened and
cooled him in his hour of torture last night. But now, the stronger for
his long abstinence, that enormous desire inflamed his brain; enveloped
it in heated mists through which the pretty, wholesome faces loomed dim
and indefinite. And then--
After a curious glance up at the huge figure, the nearest soldier tapped
his arm. "You will drink with us, señor?"
What it cost him to refuse and walk away! Men have gone down in history
as martyrs by the exercise of no more effort. But just as pressure
enough will snap a bone, as persistent fatigue will paralyze a muscle,
so the effort weakened his will, broke his resolution. Feeling curiously
weak, utterly exhausted, he stopped at the plaza corner and gazed at a
_cantina_ across the road.
Even then he did not give in. Hands writhing behind his back, face one
purple suffusion, he circled and recircled the plaza half a dozen times
before he stopped at the same spot again. In that time desire has no
height he did not reach; passion no heat, hell no torture, he did not
endure. And while he stood watching the _cantina's_ roaring trade,
reluctant but conscious in his soul that the end was come, a hand
dropped with a hearty slap on his back.
"Come on, Diogenes, you're just in time. We've discovered some beer,
good cold beer, down at the German Club. Counting the consul, there's
only two Dutchmen left in the town, but trust them to have their beer.
Don't waste time in astonishment. Come right along."
In his mortal weakness Bull snatched at the straw. He could drink a
barrel of the thin Mexican stuff without knowing it--at least he felt he
could! But while, for an hour thereafter, they sat in a cool _patio_
talking and sipping, the despised brew was still potent enough to loose
the mad rustler spirit that hearkened only to the voice of desire.
When the correspondents left to file their despatches, he remained.
"I'm waiting for Benson," he told them. "If you see him, tell him I'm
here."
While they walked down the _patio_ and out through the bar into the
street, he sat nervously making rings with his beer-glass. Then,
trembling with eagerness, he called the waiter.
"This stuff hasn't a kick in it. Bring me a bottle of whisky!"