The commandeering of the horses at the English ranch shocked
Strawbridge; when the cavalcade set forth on the march again, the
heat and glare of the llanos aggravated his mental disturbance. As he
sweltered in the center of a vast shimmering horizon, he kept repeating
mentally, at unexpected intervals, the epithet "horse-thieves." Each
time these words bobbed up in his mind he put them down, rather
like a man who is trying to keep some buoyant object under water,
"horse-thieves ... horse-thieves ... horse-thieves ..." over and over.
His thinking did not progress much farther than that. What made the
buoyant object so difficult to control was the fact that he himself was
riding one of Tolliver's horses. The very rhythm of the fine animal
between his legs was a reminder and a reproach.
Sweat trickled into the drummer's eyes and stung them. He blinked
through the quivering heat, with screwed-up lids, and wondered what
he could have done about the horse. When Coronel Saturnino insisted
that he take one of the best of the English mounts, he could not have
said, "No, I am a decent American salesman, and I won't ride a stolen
horse." He could not have said such a thing as that in the face of the
colonel's polite consideration.
On the other hand, the damning thought that he was riding a stolen
horse gnawed at the drummer with the persistence of a rat. It gave him
a faint, ghastly feeling in the pit of his stomach, where, perhaps, is
located the genuine seat of conscience with us all.
Presently Strawbridge noted a surprising thing. Looking back over the
cavalcade, he observed Father Benicio riding one of the confiscated
horses. The good father jogged along in his dusty black cassock and his
little round hat, with the sacred emblems dangling from his pommel, and
he was riding a stolen horse. His questionable mount had not changed
the priest's face at all. It was the same thin, ascetic face with
its look of passionate spirituality burning through the repression,
almost the mortification of the flesh. Strawbridge wondered what
mental attitude Father Benicio assumed toward his horse in order to
preserve so eremitic an expression. He felt the holy father must have
some inward justification which he, himself, did not possess. Almost
involuntarily he picked his way among the troopers, to the priest's
side. As he came near he observed that Gumersindo was riding beside the
father. The negro editor's face was covered with dust, and he looked
queer because the dust settling in the furrows of his forehead made
whitish lines against his black skin.
The black man waved the American a grave salute.
"Do you know, Señor Strawbridge," he called above the wide noise of
the horses' feet, "that this is the same sort of expedition Bolivar
led against Montillo when he freed this continent? They had beaten the
_Libertador_ everywhere else, but when they threw him back upon these
interminable llanos, he drew fresh strength, like Antæus, and struggled
on."
Strawbridge nodded wearily.
"Sure, sure...." He looked at the priest, a little doubtful how
to proceed. The negro journalist continued talking, in a sort of
exaltation:
"I never start on an expedition of this kind that I do not think,
'Perhaps to-day I am making history.' That is a wonderful thought,
Father Benicio--history! Think! Perhaps this very moment is historic!
Perhaps it will be embalmed in the memory of the future. It is just
as if we should march forever through the mind of mankind! Other
deedless generations will rise up and vanish as unremarked as the
succeeding harvests of llano grass, but perhaps what we do to-day will
be painted, carved in marble, sung in song, and told in story as long
as civilization lasts! I say it is possible!"
Such a dithyramb from a negro among a band of horse-thieves moved
Strawbridge with a certain disgust. He drew a handkerchief and wiped
his sweaty, gritty face.
"I guess you're making history for that English ranch," he satirized;
"a record of these horses will appear in their profit-and-loss column."
Gumersindo looked around at the drummer, and suddenly began to laugh.
"_Caramba!_ He's thinking about the dollars and cents of this
adventure!"
This was just the fillip needed to set the drummer off. He straightened
in his saddle.
"Well, by God, it's not dollars and cents, either; it's just
plain honesty. I don't know how you fellows feel, but I'm damned
uncomfortable riding a horse we stole from Tolliver!"
Both editor and priest were staring at him.
"What a disturbance over a detail!" ejaculated the black man.
"How do you feel about your mount, Father Benicio?" asked Strawbridge.
The priest's ascetic face relaxed into a rather pleasant smile.
"I feel it is much more comfortable than the mule I rode, my son."
The drummer was amazed.
"Don't you think it's wrong?"
"Our action is directed toward a great and noble end, my son. Venezuela
is sick to death. If confiscating these horses rids the country of a
dictator, surely the end justifies the means!"
"But look here!" cried Strawbridge. "The English company is not in on
this. They are the innocent bystander who gets the bullet through the
heart."
"They are already shot through the heart, señor," answered Father
Benicio, patiently; "their horses and cattle are worth nothing to them,
on account of unjust legislation."
"But their property still belongs to them," cried the drummer. "That
doesn't justify us in stealing it!"
"Did God create these horses simply to live and die without being of
use to any one?"
"That's up to the company. It's their horses."
The priest looked at the drummer oddly. Gumersindo interposed:
"Father, let me explain Señor Strawbridge to you. I said, a while ago,
he had reduced this to dollars and cents. So he has. You must remember
that property is a fetish in America. Americans do not possess their
property, they are possessed by it. In America the prime factor of
civilization is property; in Venezuela the prime factor is Man."
Strawbridge was hot enough to grow angry instantly.
"Look here," he cried, "let me nail that lie right now, while I got
my hammer out! We Americans spend our money just as free as you
Venezuelans, and a damn sight freer!"
"But, Señor Strawbridge," returned the editor, politely, "that has
nothing to do with my analysis. In America all your social framework is
built around money. Rich men are respected, and poor men are not. It
would be better to say that in America property is respected and men
are not."
"That's impossible!" cried Strawbridge, steadily growing angrier.
"Not at all. When an American loses his money, he loses the friendship
and respect of his fellow Americans. The man who acquires the former
rich man's fortune, acquires also the respect that goes with it."
Gumersindo made a gesture. "_Pues_, do you recall, Señor Strawbridge,
that the first draft of the American Declaration of Independence read
in this fashion: 'All men are born free, and are equally entitled to
life, liberty, and the pursuit of property'? The word 'happiness,'
substituted by Jefferson, was merely an American euphemism for
'property'; it means the same thing in America."
"Why--by God!--I recall nothing of the kind!" shouted Strawbridge, with
the American conviction that if one denied history in a loud voice it
would cease to exist. "No, that's just a damn lie some damn Venezuelan
started on Americans!"
"Certainly I am no expert in American history," agreed the editor,
smoothly. "You doubtless know the history of your country better than I
do."
"Well, I hope I do!" grumbled Strawbridge, feeling for the moment that
because he was an American he necessarily knew more of American history
than Gumersindo, who was not an American.
"So, dropping the historical statement--which may be false, although I
discovered it in some research work in your own Congressional Library
at Washington--dropping that, pure inductive reasoning will tell you
Americans do respect property, and that they do not respect human
beings.
"Remember, your country is populated mainly by immigrants who came to
the New World to seek their fortunes. Most of these newcomers were
without culture and without any feeling for human values. They were
poor, and, never having had any money, they naturally thought that
money must contain all value. Therefore they transposed the value of
a man's fortune to the man himself. They thought any man who became
wealthy must have great value, and they called him a success. They
thought any painting which commanded a high price must be a great
painting; they thought any piece of jazz music which sold a million
copies must be a great piece of music. They thought that any house
which cost a million dollars must necessarily be finer than one that
cost only five thousand dollars. Now Americans think that."
The drummer peered hard at the negro editor.
"Well, by God, that's a fact," he declared vigorously. "Nobody denies
that, do they? Don't you know a million-dollar house would be finer
than a five-thousand-dollar house?"
Even Father Benicio joined Gumersindo in the laughter this article of
faith evoked.
"_Pues_," placated the priest, the next moment, "that is the reason,
my son, why we ride our horses without compunction, and why your horse
annoys you. And I must observe that your scruples honor you. I respect
your frankness and your point of view."
Strawbridge rode some farther distance with the two men, but he
was uncomfortable. He knew they were amused at him, and it was not
pleasant. Presently he returned to the head of the column.