that--no resistance whatever from her, as there had been none from his
father. Was it always like this--when one was sure of himself?
‘I have work to do, too,’ she told him at the window. ‘We’ll know all
about everything, when the time comes.’
XVI
THOROUGHBREDS ENTER
‘Cuando sali de la Habana,
Valgame Dios--’
WEEKS afterward in old Mexico. He hadn’t moved straight down toward
Nacimiento and San Pasquali, where Monte Vallejo was last heard of,
but had followed the Border west, leaving the main highway, sinking
himself into the country. He was taking it easy, learning the language
from the voices in the daytime and his Spanish book at night. Days
of learning--getting to know the feel of the people, learning Mamie,
and that was not all--learning himself. No more leather-store; he
wasn’t dreaming. An old fear that something was wrong about him, even
anatomically wrong, in relation to a saddle, had pretty well died out.
Sometimes he even fancied that Mamie answered his rein, as if it were
old man Leadley’s velvety touch.
‘Era la que me miraba
Diciendo adios’
That song was like an ever-continued story. A woman’s voice with
guitar, this time, and the old wistfulness came over Elbert--the same
that he had felt in the Plaza of Los Angeles. Here he was in a little
native plaza--far from travel-lines, not even sure of the name of the
town, yet he had to stop and think that all he had wanted so restlessly
a while back, had come to pass. At least, he was working out the old
dream day by day, Sonora at her sleepiest and dustiest now, days
interminably long and changelessly hot.
Though the fierce daylight had faded out the shine from her bright bay
coat, Mamie was hardening to the road, and the man was coming to know
some of her movements and whims, if not all. Gradually Elbert perceived
also that she was aware of many of his. He never tethered her at night,
yet she never strayed. He hadn’t been able to learn the lip-and-finger
call, the way Bob Leadley had shown him, but there was a whistle in the
handle of the sheath-knife he carried, and a blast from that brought
the mare in from the sweetest herbage.
He liked the nights in the open, Mamie grinding at her forage the
last thing--drowsiest sound in the world to him. And her early call;
out of the deepest sleep he would hear that. But by the time his eyes
were open, the mare was merely to be seen feeding at a distance, her
head turned away. If he dozed again, a more peremptory summons would
sound, but Mamie was apparently calling to the hazy hills, her farthest
concern to do with him.
One morning he didn’t doze a second time, but covertly watched. About
ten minutes after first call, the mare stopped feeding and came toward
him, her hind feet lifting high and quickly, like a race horse, under
the big blanket. Suddenly she stopped, blatted her loudest toward
Elbert’s partly covered head, but wheeled on the instant and was
cropping again.... Fearless and winsome, a walk-trot mare, ready to
go, ready to keep on, invariably increasing the pace as his hand idled
at the reins, or his thoughts roamed away. Often Elbert would come to
himself finding Mamie in a full ten-mile trot, when he had not been
paying attention for several minutes. The pace seemed to steal upon
her, and would end in a run if he did not bring her down.
One day it occurred to him that she never dropped into a walk from a
trot, or back into a trot from a gallop, unless pulled up. There was no
exception that he could remember. But the black night at San Pasquali
had left a double-died complex at the core of Mamie’s emotional self.
The sound of a motor car made her unreasonable at once. She would have
been glad to do the day’s work over again any night, to get away from a
town where machines had penetrated. Her one other deranging influence
was an oil derrick. One of these attenuated triangles spoiled her whole
horizon, like a finger of doom.
Gradually his rides took him farther south and west. Plenty to hear of
Monte Vallejo, the bandit, of whom the peons of some districts were
passionately fond. But never a word of a possible white man who rode
with him. It would be a matter of luck, Elbert often thought, that
would bring him up with Bart, if that ever happened. What he needed
now, more than knowledge of Spanish, or anything else, and he came
to know this very well, was sheer patience to carry on. It wasn’t
possible to ask questions about Monte Vallejo, without the people
becoming suspicious at once. They thought he was somehow interested
in helping the rurales, who did much of the hard work in keeping the
districts in order, and yet were disliked as a matter of course by the
people. Elbert often wondered what he could ever do single-handed,
when the rurales for years had failed to bring in the bandit. Also
General Cordano, who commanded the military of the whole country-side,
was Vallejo’s sworn enemy for political reasons, and yet with all his
soldiers had been unable to put a stop to the activity of the bandit.
Everywhere it was related that the notorious Monte had the best horses
in Sonora. Elbert was in a way to hear much of this, because the people
seemed inevitably reminded of the point by his own coming to their
different towns. It wasn’t himself who attracted the people, however,
nor held their eyes. It was Mamie whom they gathered to see, looking
her over, even bringing lanterns in the evening, ever drawing near and
saying to each other:
‘Monte Vallejo would like that mare,’ or, ‘Monte Vallejo rides a horse
like that.’
Many weeks passed before his task became actual. He had been as far as
a hundred and fifty miles southwest, and had made a big circle north
again toward the Border, when word sped from town to town that Monte
Vallejo had held up a westbound Yuma Pacific train in the San Isidro
Gorge, not primarily to loot the passengers--that was incidental--but
to relieve two express coaches of a string of thoroughbreds en-route to
the running meeting at Tia Juana.
At this very time, Elbert was in the little town of San Isidro, less
than twenty miles from the scene of the hold-up.
Southwest with his new saddle-stock, the master of the road and his
band were said to be galloping with three troops of rurales beating
the trail behind--the latter stung and aroused as never before. Gold
bar couldn’t have challenged the mounted police like this theft of
bang-tails.
Elbert got it all as straight as he could in his mind that night, and
the next morning before full light, he filled his saddle-bags with what
provisions he could procure in San Isidro and rode out, following the
trail which a northern squad of rurales had taken after the bandit. He
tried not to appear in too much of a hurry, but Mamie unquestionably
felt the force of this fresh clue and the excitement in the air. Sonora
was really wrought up. The entire body of rurales had taken the road to
make a sure job of it this time. Meanwhile the people kept it a secret
where the bandit’s picket lines were stretched, and fixed their faces
for a great laugh at the expense of the mounted police.
But the hour had evidently arrived for an astonishing turn of affairs.
The second day out from San Isidro, Elbert became aware of a persistent
rumor to the effect that Monte Vallejo was having trouble covering
ground with his new string of horses. They were sprint-bred, but few of
them took to steady distance work, so important in the present flight.
On the third day, the most incredible of all announcements shocked
Sonora--that Monte Vallejo and seven of his men had been captured a few
miles beyond Arecibo; that they had been brought back to that town, and
were being held there under a guard of rurales, as well as watched over
by the little garrison of Cordano’s soldiers located at that point.
No trial; only an order from General Cordano was awaited, it was said.
Upon the receipt of this, Monte and his seven, without reservation,
would be put to death in el cuartel at Arecibo. ‘A mere formality,’ the
natives moaned, intimating that supplying the paper would be a pleasant
task for General Cordano. This ‘mere formality’ sunk into Elbert’s
head. Later the news reached him that another wing of Monte’s band had
been taken. The rurales were having their turn of luck at last.
XVII
THE ART OF DYING WELL
ARECIBO was thirty-five miles away, when Elbert received this news.
He did fifteen miles more that day, and the next mid-afternoon when
he was close to the town where Monte Vallejo was said to be held, a
most inviting level stretch of turf showed ahead. Mamie did not miss
the fact. She had been well rested in San Isidro; her fitness brought
to a fine point, which two full days’ work had not dulled. She was
teasing at the man’s arm, at this very moment, and rising under him, as
a small boat in open sailing after the drag of a breakwater. She took
the gallop and Elbert wasn’t so hard to persuade, as she stretched out,
loosening her mouth from the restraint of his hand.
There was a laugh on his lips, as he let her go. These were some of
their best moments together, and this particular dash promised to be a
jewel among them--only in the lee of a big boulder as he flicked round
a bend, stood one of the rurales at ‘raise pistol,’ and a snapping bark
to halt from his throat.
It took nearly a hundred yards for Mamie to slow down. Elbert turning
her about at length, perceived the native trooper riding his way--one
of Sonora’s finest--gunned, spurred, saber-sheathed on one side,
carbine-booted on the other, a heavy cartridge-belt flung over left
shoulder and under right arm. Around the mustacios was a restless,
uncertain look.
‘Magnificent horse you ride, Señor.’
‘She’s a good mare--just trying her out.’
‘Had her long?’
‘Oh, yes--’ but that didn’t seem to go with ‘just trying her out.’
The rurale was sizable for a Mexican; not so tall, but thick in
proportion; heavy wrists, bulging forearms, thick, straight back. His
pony looked small and desperate compared to Mamie, but kept going with
outstretched head.
‘And where does the Señor travel?’
‘The next town--Arecibo.’
‘I also go to Arecibo.’
Mamie was now being regarded with even more than customary interest,
back and forth, up and down, the rurale’s eye roving, so that it was
with difficulty that he kept his mind upon conversation at this time.
Still Elbert was used to this sort of thing, having frequently found
himself judged as a caballero of some great and elaborate house by the
horse he rode.
‘I have heard that the notorious Vallejo is being held in Arecibo,’ he
began with sociable impulse.
‘Yes?’ questioned the trooper in return.
Elbert wondered at the curious tone. This man had reservations.
‘I have been on the road for two days and possibly am misinformed,’
Elbert added carefully.
‘On the road--from where, Señor?’
‘From San Isidro--’
The other’s hand jerked at his bridle-rein.
Now Elbert began to realize that San Isidro was hardly a town to
mention--so close to the gorge of the same name where the recent
hold-up had taken place.
The Mexican slowly pulled himself together to reply. ‘Monte Vallejo is
not being held in Arecibo. In purgatorio, at this hour, so I trust. Ah,
it was magnificent!’
Mamie was now forgotten. Transformation in the rurale was to be
witnessed, moreover, at this point. The man seemed higher, rising in
his saddle with enthusiasm. Here was one of the pride of the Republic,
indeed, having banished all present care, in the thought of the
recent exploits of his troop, and especially of the light-hearted and
inimitable courage of his chief, Ramon Bistula, el capitan, to whom the
bandit’s capture was largely due.
Tributes, dithyrambs, even--but no news.
‘You say Monte Vallejo is dead--already put to death?’
‘To-day. This very day, Señor.’
‘And by the hand of this famous captain of your troop?’
‘Si, Señor.’
‘Where is your captain now?’ Elbert asked at random.
‘In Arecibo--have no fear. The Señor will be welcomed by el capitan
Ramon, himself, who put the bullet in the head of the chief of the
bandits, Monte Vallejo!’
Elbert struggled with his own composure.
‘I do not understand about your captain’s bullet--if Monte was already
taken captive--surely he--’
‘This very day!’ exclaimed the rurale. ‘It was so, Señor--a most
charming thing! The great Vallejo had many wounds at the time--many
wounds, but would not fall. Laughing, he stood unbound--his head
uncovered, trying to light with wet fingers a second cigarette that
would not burn--’
‘I did not hear about the first. Please, not so fast,’ said Elbert. ‘My
Spanish is of the book--not so fast, please--’
‘Ah, Señor, your Spanish is quite--Castillano, quite. The Spanish of el
capitan Ramon is like that, also--’
And this was the story that Elbert heard, through many repetitions, as
they rode forward toward Arecibo:
‘... At daybreak this very day, seven men put to death in the patio
of el cuartel in Arecibo by the limping idiots of Cordano who call
themselves soldiers. Seven prisoners, bound and blindfolded, shot down
by the soldiers of Cordano, while Monte himself and el capitan, Ramon
Bistula, laughed and smoked and chatted together, until there were no
more prisoners standing, and it became time for Monte himself to stand
against the wall.
‘No bandage for the eyes--ah, no, not for such as he! No thongs for his
hands--he waved them away; then stepping carefully to avoid the dead
and shaking ones of his band, Monte took his place against the blank
wall--lighting another cigarette.’
Elbert felt a frightful closeness about it all--this very day, under
this very sun, the town where it happened, looming just ahead, the man
at his side, having witnessed it all. Moreover Elbert was enduring a
positive strain to know if one of the bodies Monte Vallejo stepped
over, as he took his place at the wall, was Bart Leadley. Not without
great difficulty, his pressure was so keen, did Elbert follow the
details of the trooper’s story, but the telling was folded over
and over again on itself. It appeared that as Vallejo lighted his
cigarette, taking his place against the wall, Ramon Bistula called to
the soldiers not to fire for a moment, until the chief of bandits had
taken one or two deep breaths of smoke.
‘... Such courtesy!’ exclaimed the enraptured rurale, pouring out the
rest. ‘And then it was, in a moment more, with a gesture of thanks to
my captain, Señor Vallejo bowed his head for death, but there was not
one of the soldiers who cared to put an end to such courage, and none
could fire straight in any case; so “boom-boom” from the volleys and
Monte Vallejo did not fall.’
Now the trooper swung his shoulders to the right and left--unsettling
the gait of his pony--in the way of portraying the manner the doomed
bandit kept his feet.
‘Several times--in the arms and legs, struck, Señor--yet smiling still
and trying to light his tobacco from which the fire had dropped--’
The trooper’s speech had become very rapid; his bridle-rein changed
from hand to hand, the ears of his mount cocking with the gestures.
Here, manifestly, was the climax of his narrative. Once he dropped the
bridle-rein entirely, needing both hands:
‘... Then it was that my captain, Ramon Bistula, hastened forward,
beckoning the soldiers back. He caught the reeling Vallejo in his own
hands. He held him still. From his own case he drew a cigarette. He
struck the match, lit it in his own lips. He placed it in the lips
of the other. This I heard, “I have the honor in a moment to end the
work of these frightened butchers. You are a brave man, Monte Vallejo!
Speak, when you would have me fire!”
‘And with that, such a beautiful look came into the eyes of the bandit
chief, as he said, “Gracias, Capitan, your words and your tobacco are
of one excellence!” And after that, “I will thank you now to put me to
sleep, Brother Ramon--”
‘It was then with his own hands--’
* * * * *
Florid life was closing in upon Elbert a bit too fast. Riding in
silence into Arecibo, he reflected upon the quiet life of the
leather-store, and upon the manner of life he was entering upon right
now. He couldn’t have chatted and smoked like Monte Vallejo. He
couldn’t have done the elegant butchery part of el capitan Ramon. It
was like the story of Red Ante--there just wasn’t the stuff in him to
endure certain phases of that, nor the sort of thing pulled off in el
cuartel, Arecibo, this very day.
In so many cases in this country, he reflected, one but arrived to the
estate of manhood, when he met death in violent form. And out of all
this death, what hope for Bart Leadley, and the rounding-out of that
old bitter tale?
Elbert felt very confused and inadequate.
The little plaza, with only one building of more than one story
surrounding, and that el cuartel, looked cold and forbidding to his
eyes that late afternoon; the little shops with dirt floors, where
old cheese and new rum struggled together to reproduce the flavor of
by-gone Spain, had lost their accustomed romance. It was not until
Mamie was safely cared for in a clean corral by herself; not, in fact,
until her master sat down to tortillas and huevos rancheros (the flavor
of garlic coming in from the open fireplace of the little fonda)--that
a certain wistful zest of life really began to stir again in his veins
once more. Black tobacco in the air, black coffee sweetened to a syrup.
‘If one could only live to enjoy all this,’ he reflected, leaning back.
Dusk was already in the room--candle-lights across the plaza, the first
strum of guitars. At this moment a young Mexican officer appeared;
elegantly dressed, and quite as Elbert might have pictured such an
entrance--whipping a riding crop against his polished boot.
‘May I humbly present myself, Señor--I, Ramon Bistula?’
XVIII
ONE SANG WITH GUITAR
ELBERT arose, but before he caught himself, his fascinated glance
had darted to the gloved right hand that had put the closing touch
to Monte Vallejo this very day. Not a bristling murderer of outlaws,
Ramon appeared, but a youth of cultured turn of thought--brown eyes and
boyish lips, a face whiter than his own ... uninterested apparently in
soldiers, rurales, even in bandits, but asking many questions regarding
America, the States and cities, the night life, and how long it took to
go from Chicago to San Francisco--
‘Not three days, Señor!’
‘Yes,’ said Elbert.
‘Not three days, at fifty miles an hour, night and day?’
Like a child--or, at least, a younger brother, was this aristocrat
who had taken the job of slaying out of the hands of the despised
soldiers of Cordano. How many others had this small gloved hand put
to death? Elbert certainly felt under a painful pull, as they chatted
and complimented. Secret stiffness was still upon him, as leisurely
together, they walked out of the fonda into the starlight.
‘Si a tu ventana llega una paloma--’ from the guitars, and by this time
the girls of Arecibo were moving softly by. It was their brief hour of
night, and they were abroad, eyes shining, under their mantillas; all
from seven to the great age of twenty-seven, passing by the beloved
captain and his friend, the American who came on the magnificent horse.
What did these soft-eyed girls think of the killing manner of life of
their men? Doubtless that it was all that life should be.
With his absorbing interest in America, the elegant Captain Ramon would
certainly have mentioned the detail--had there been an American among
the seven executed this day. Was Bart more Mexican than American? Was
he regarded as a native, pure and simple, by his fellow-bandits and the
rurales, or had he left Sonora altogether? These questions continually
hammered through Elbert’s consciousness. Meanwhile, since compliments
were the order in all conversation, he was with difficulty trying to
convey to Ramon Bistula how enthusiastic the trooper he had ridden with
in the afternoon, had expressed himself toward his captain.
‘Do all your men feel the same toward you?’ he inquired.
‘They are pleased with small things,’ lightly said Ramon. ‘To-morrow,
perhaps, you will see the rest of my troop.’
‘They are not all here in Arecibo then?’
‘Ah, no--a third party is due to report at this time. We look for
further captives with them. Six more of Vallejo’s men were brought in
to-day by a second squad.’
‘Six more prisoners here alive in Arecibo now?’
‘Yes, Señor, waiting death now in the patio of el cuartel yonder--a
mere formality--the paper from General Cordano--any moment.’
Elbert turned his head away. ‘Great night for guitars,’ he said.
‘Ah, to hear the bands of countless pieces in the great plazas of
America!’
Elbert heard his own voice reach out plaintively in the hush. ‘When do
these further executions--?’
‘To-morrow--next day--who can tell? We wait the order only. You care
for these things?’
‘I could hardly say that, Captain. I was only wondering at the manner
in which the prisoners face the end--if an American would act the same?’
‘Ah, doubtless Americans would accept with perfect composure--it is the
least a man can do--’
‘Are all these men calm?’
‘Again, please?’
‘Are they all calm?’
‘Calm. I had not thought of that! They are so-so. Why not come with me
now, and let us see if they are calm.’
The Captain explained that he was due to report at el cuartel at this
time, but that his personal quarters were in the fonda, the picket-line
of his own men being at the other side of town. El cuartel, it was to
be noted, was spoken of with faint scorn, as the home of Cordano’s
soldiers--a poor-house and prison combined.
The two strolled across the plaza and the heavy wooden gate of the
quarters swung wide. Only the front of the building had a second floor.
It was like a tunnel of clay they entered, wide and high enough for
a horseman to ride in, with a narrow door leading to the barracks on
one side and to an office on the other. Elbert smelled the earthiness
of the dried clay walls, as he passed through at the spurred heels of
Ramon Bistula. The suggestions of underground began to haunt him--the
presence of condemned men--this very day--the blank wall!
The passage opened to a large patio with low cells on all sides. The
cells were open, the prisoners and Cordano’s soldiers moving freely
together. Captain Ramon informed him that for a time in the cool of the
day like this the cells were unlocked, but the prisoners were returned
to their quarters at nine promptly. Small fires were here and there;
perhaps fifteen men in all, lounging about the fires, the guards mixed
freely among them, ponies feeding in far corners. Some of the men
gambled. All smoked; one sang with guitar. No sign of a face that might
be an American. At least, not for Elbert’s first fierce look. He noted
the inner blank wall of the barracks, but dusk covered what stains
might have been on the ground.
To-morrow, the next day--six more of these men to die--and they played
cards to-night. Tobacco was as good to them as ever; peace was abroad
... one boyish voice sang, but Elbert remembered the underground smell
of the long clay arch.
No American save himself in the prison court--no troubled thoughts save
his own apparently. He moved from knot to knot among the fires, Ramon
Bistula having excused himself to enter the office. The faces turned
up to him from the cards, from the interminable little match boxes and
papers of tobacco. The one with his guitar looked up with a gray thin
smile as he hummed, but did not lose a beat of his song....
Scarred, pocked, peaceful faces--they did not seem to know any more of
what was coming than the ponies in the farther shadow. There was one
with the luminous welt of a knife-wound, running down the side of his
throat and vanishing like the head of a worm under his collar ... boys
and men.
All smoked, and one sang with guitar.
Ramon Bistula approached, but only to excuse himself again. Round
and round among the little fires, Elbert moved. No, he was not as
they were. It was as if in passing the clay tunnel to the little
court, something had fallen from them--ghastly responsibility of
self-preservation--the very thing that choked his throat now.
He had paused a second time, before the feet of the boyish figure with
the guitar. The words of the song were of some curious provincial
Spanish, and slowly uttered. It was this that the youth sang: