During the rest of the day, while the train rolled and rattled and
jolted its slow way over the heated face of the desert, the
correspondents stewed with Bull in their own juices in semi-darkness. At
intervals there would come a stop. With the mad, blind selfishness of
panic the _brigada_ Gonzales had burned the watering-tanks as they
passed. So those that followed had to draw for the engine with buckets
from wells. Also there were occasional rails to be replaced which, with
equal selfishness, they tore up again the moment the train passed over.
When the sun finally set in a fiery conflagration and dusk brought some
cess of the heat the conductor came in with tales of wholesale
desertions from the _brigada_ Gonzales, and shortly thereafter began the
dispersion of their own men. As they approached familiar country, or
tempted by tales of rich loot to be taken from near-by _haciendas_, they
began to drop off in fives, fifties, tens. Of those that had kept the
corrugated-iron roof beating like a drum with their stampings and
shufflings throughout the afternoon, there remained only a single
solitary figure when, after dark, Bull climbed up on top to air his
choked lungs.
As he sat down on the running-board the figure looked up, then moved
closer. "It is thee, señor?"
Peering, Bull made out the face. It was the sentry who had spoken to him
at Valles's door. As his mind associated what the "dean" had said with
the recognition he spoke quickly. "The señor Benson? Didst thou see--"
"Si, señor." His head moved in the gloom. In the rambling _peon_ fashion
he ran on: "'The close mouth admits no flies,' said Matador. 'Keep thine
shut and we shall make thee a captain to-morrow.'"
"A captain of what, señor? Of ghosts? For I was not deceived. He that
was sentry when they killed the German? He became a captain? Also they
that helped to roast the Spaniard till he told where he had hidden his
gold? And the three that killed el presidente for Huerta? Captains and
majors and colonels were they--of the dead. Si, among the _revueltosos_
it is become a saying, 'Be not a captain till thou hast grown
lieutenant's spurs.' Si, I knew that I should be dead before the eve of
another day, so I fled my guard, señor, and came straight to thee."
Though he was on fire to hear, Bull knew better than to bring his crude
thought into confusion by interruption. While the train ambled along he
let the narrative take its own course.
"'A captain?' said Matador!" His eloquent shoulders quivered in the
gloom. "Better to be a live mozo at the tail of Don Miguel's horses in
Las Bocas."
From a second pause he ran on: "He came to the cuartel general, the
señor Benson, while I was sentry of the second watch at the door of my
general. He was in there, Valles, with a girl. I had seen her go
in--such a girl! tall and straight, with eyes misty as twin nights,
teeth white as bleached bone, hair thick and black as the pine forests
that clothe the Sierra Madras! Santisimo, señor! such a girl as one may
have when he has combed a country and taken first pick of its women! I
could hear her laughing in there when the señor Benson came striding up
the stairs.
"I saw, when he drew near, that his face was flushed, but there was no
smell of liquor upon him. 'Twas the red of the great anger that burned
in his veins, kept his head shaking like that of a tormented bull. When
I barred the way he looked at me with eyes that snapped like living
sparks, shoved me aside into the corner with one sweep of his arm,
before I could stop him had opened the door and walked in--walked in,
señor, through the anteroom into the private office where Valles was at
play with the girl!
"El Matador himself had warned me, 'Let no man pass!' But when I had
picked myself out of the corner and followed in, there he stood in front
of Valles, who had dropped the girl and leaped to his feet. Surprise and
fear showed on his face--the fear of bullet, knife, and poison that dogs
him everywhere. But it changed at once to a grin--the terrible grin his
people fear. His glance at me said, 'Stay!' and as I stood, waiting in
fear and trembling, he spoke with a voice that cut like a knife.
"'It is my amigo, the señor Benson.'
"Señor, I have seen his generals tremble when he spoke like that. Even
el Matador, tiger that he is, would slink before him like a whipped cat.
For all the pesos in all the world I would not have taken his place. Yet
that great Englishman stood before him solid and square as a stone;
answered with a voice of a hacendado in speech with a _peon_.
"'I came to tell you, Valles'--just like that he spoke, señor, without
even a 'my general'--'I came to tell you that I do not take my answers
from secretaries. The offer I made you this morning was fair and square
and good business for both of us. It deserved more than a threat of
'requisitions.' You'll never get my horses that way--if I have to cut
their throats. If you want them, say so--yes or no.'
"He got it, the 'no,' quick and hard. Then the great anger that was in
him burst forth like a river in flood. Like bear and tiger they
quarreled, the señor threatening Valles with the power and vengeance of
his government, Valles snarling defiance, their passions feeding each
other as brands burn together in a fire.
"One other thing, and you will have a picture of it, señor--the two at
their furious talk, the girl against the wall behind Valles, one hand
held out, fear in her great eyes, and a fourth; for as they wrangled
there came a stir behind me. So quietly that I, whom he touched in
passing, did not hear, el Matador came into the room. One second he
stood, watching them from narrow eyes, then, slowly and quietly as a
snake slipping through grass, he drew up behind the señor. I have shot
men in this war. At home in Las Bocas I have drawn the knife in passion.
But the cold glittering of his eyes, slow snake crawl, chilled the blood
of me.
"He had gained knifing distance when the señor roared in disgust. 'Bah!
Why do I waste words on a _peon_? My general, is it? I have had such
generals whipped on my place! General? A bandit _peon_ who steals horses
in place of the chickens with which he began his thieveries!'
"'Bandit _peon_? Stealer of chickens?' This, señor, to Valles that had
killed a hundred men with his own hand before the wars ever began? The
yellow eyes of him seemed to leap out of his face. At the sight of him,
frothing like a mad tiger in lust to kill, the girl screamed, hiding her
face! At his belt hung pearl-jeweled pistols, the best of their kind.
But with the instinct of his old trade the hand of the butcher flew to
his knife.
"They say that the señor tried to kill him. It is a lie! Even when the
knife flashed in his eyes he still stood at his distance, shaking his
big fist, growling his threats, angry but unafraid; so big, strong,
masterful, that Valles, even in his fury, hesitated. But not el Matador!
Looking back as she ran out of the room, the girl saw as I saw; screamed
aloud as the knife passed, once! twice! with a hiss and 'heigh!
splitting the backbone, piercing the heart."
With that strong sense of the dramatic which makes the _peon_ a born
story-teller he stopped. For a moment the flash of a match lifted the
brown, hard face from the gloom under a tattered _sombrero_, lighting
the faded red of his blanket serape. Then they faded again into a dim,
huddled figure that swayed with the rack and swing of the cars.
Bull had unconsciously suspended his breath. Now it expired in a sigh.
"His disposal. Know you aught of that?"
The shrug quivered again in the darkness. "There is little more that I
saw. Across the body el Matador looked at me, and I chilled with the
sure knowledge that I should never see my niñas again. He even stepped,
then Valles spoke.
"'This is a good hombre. He will help thee with--that!' He followed the
girl into the next room.
"Between us, el Matador and I, we rolled the señor in serapes, binding
them with cords so that the face should not be seen by them that carried
him out to the secret place; and it was then that he spoke of my
captaincy.
"'Go now to thy quarters, señor.' He clapped me on both shoulders. 'And
dream of the stars the morning sun will see flashing here.'
"But lest I sleep too well, señor, I came from the cuartel here."
For a full minute, while Bull chewed the bitter cud of remorse, the cars
racked on through the night. Then he spoke. "There is one in El Oro, the
consul Ingles, that would have given many pesos--not the currency of
Valles, but real pesos of silver and gold--for thee to set thy name to
this!"
"Si!" His cigarette glowed in the midst of a shrug. "Of what use pesos,
even silver and gold, when the sight is darkened and the mouth shut?
When one may no longer see the niñas at play, watch the dancing of
girls? When the taste of good food is gone from the mouth, the feel of
warm liquor from the throat? He that betrays Valles will have no more
use of these."
"But in El Paso," Bull urged, "one would be beyond the reach of his
hand. There, also, is a consul Ingles."
"One's pais? The rise and set of sun across the desert beyond Las Bocas;
the chatter of the women at their washing by the stream; the soft
laughter of girls; one's children watching at dusk for the return--these
are not to be bought with pesos. One's pais is one's pais. To it one
always returns."
"Si," Bull acknowledged the call, the most powerful in the feeling of a
Mexican. "But from El Paso one could go by the ferrocarril Americano. In
one day he could cross from El Paso to Nogales, thence south to Las
Bocas and live in plenty beyond the reach of Valles. And one's woman and
niñas--would smile the sweeter at the sight of a bulging pocket."
The cigarette glowed again, this time without the shrug. "There is
something in that. Si, señor, I will do it!--go to the consul Ingles in
El Paso."
Just then the Chinaman called for Bull to come down to supper. He was
not hungry, but he had food handed up for the man, who, after eating it,
rolled up in his serape and went to sleep. Then, while he snored and the
train racked slowly along the chain of fires, each a station that lay
like red beads on the desert's dark breast, Bull lay suffering agonies
of shame and remorse that grew more vivid as the miles lessened between
him and home.
It was long after midnight before he fell into troubled sleep. When he
woke, at gray dawn, the revolutionist was gone.
"Homesick and scared out!" Bull shrugged--and what did it matter? That
which was done was done!
Nor was he the only deserter. All through the night the train had
dribbled away its evil freight in trickles that would spread through the
land till it was inundated with a flood of carnage, robbery, rape. Of
the clustering brown swarm on the roof there remained only a few dozens
scattered in heavy sleep throughout the train's length.
Across the brightening east the mountains now laid a familiar pattern.
Beyond--the _patio_ and compound of Los Arboles were lying still and
gray under the dawn. Bull saw, with the distinctness of vision, the
sheet across Lee's doorway quiver under the breath of dawn. Then it
faded, gave place to the Mills _rancho_, equally still, equally silent;
its warm gold walls pale gray, the clustering bougainvilleas dark as
clotted blood.
That feeling analogous to the chill of death which envelops a sleeping
house held him in thrall. While he gazed, there appeared on the veranda
the familiar vision. But he shut it out, tightly closing the eyes of his
mind. He turned his face to a dark dot, walls of the burned station,
that appeared to be moving toward him across the desert's grays.
Climbing down over the end, he passed through the Chinaman's kitchen
into the car.
It was still dusk in there, but he could hear the deep breathing of
correspondents, sleeping heavily after the exhaustion of the hot night.
Quietly he gathered his belongings, had shoved open the door
sufficiently to pass out, when a whisper came from behind:
"Adios, Diogenes!"
Turning, he saw the correspondent leaning out of his bunk.
"Don't take that little slip too seriously, old man," he whispered as
they shook hands. "Try again. If it wasn't for this"--he tapped his
knee--"I'd have helped you to get out your girl. But you'll make it all
right. Only don't dally. There's going to be hell to pay."
The engine was whistling for the station. Though it did not stop, Bull
jumped and, if a bit shaken, landed unhurt. He was watching the train
recede, his hand still tingling, heart warmed by the strong pressure of
his friend's hand, when his name was called.
"It is you, señor Perrin?"
Drowsy and heavy-eyed from lost sleep, the Mexican agent stood in the
doorway of his box-car station. Anxiety and fear shadowed his face.
"Wicked times, señor. Up and down the line they are robbing and
murdering, Valles's defeated soldados. Many gringos have been slain.
Early in the night a company of fifty dropped off here and are gone, mad
with hate, to loot the gringo haciendas."
Appalled, Bull stared at the distant mountains.