XXVII: AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
Riding steadily and hard, Bull made the railroad just as the sun dippedand hung like a smoky lamp on the smoldering horizon. From a distance hehad spied Benson leaning in the doorway of the box-car which served theMexican agent for a telegraph station. The Englishman called to himacross the tracks.
"There's a battle pending down the line. Troop-trains have beenstreaking through all day carrying Valles's reserves from Chihuahua. DonPedro, here, says another is due to stop for water in half an hour. Ifwe 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 thecrimson tip of the sun slid down behind a black-velvet mountain, thetrain came puffing in loaded with the usual picturesque rag-and-bobtailof brown soldiers, women, and children clustered like hiving bees ontop.
"Must be yesterday's train a bit overdue," Bull defended his theory, asthe cars clicked by with slowing rhythm. "The comandante'll be in thepassenger-coach ahead. We'd better to mosey along an' brace him."
But their passage was much more easily gained. A man who sat with legsdangling from the open doorway of a box-car emitted a whoop.
"Ole! Diogenes! Como le va! What of our matrimonial venture? How did itpan out?"
It was Naylor, the correspondent, Bull's friend and Cupid's aide. As hiscar rolled slowly up, there hove in sight placards that announced thetitles of certain American papers in dignified Spanish that their oldestsubscribers would never have recognized. But there was nothing foreignin the half-dozen of friendly faces that filled the doorway. From thedignified visage, with its short, gray beard and trim mustache, of theirdean, down to the boyish face of a field photographer, all joined in acomposite welcoming grin.
"Weekes, Mason, Martin, Roberts, Cummings." The correspondent breezilyran off the names. "There were more before Santos-Coy, Valles's chief ofstaff, stuck us all up against a wall the last time our governmentclapped 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 rosein a tier of four at the end of the latter. Four more could be slept onlong lockers at each side of the table which was being set for supper bythe Chinese cook. From the oldest to the youngest, the correspondentswere on edge for the approaching battle. At supper their talk ran on itspossibilities.
"If Valles is beaten again," Weekes, the gray-haired dean, summed theconversation, "our government will throw another of its silly flip-flopsand 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 poorgringos in northern Mexico."
Bull's friend nodded. "Valles's army will scatter into bands that willrake the country with fine-tooth combs for the least bit of plunder. Youhad better get your girl and her fellow, Diogenes, and come out withus."
Later, when they had all climbed up on the roof and sat watching theoil-smoke from the laboring locomotive whirl and twist, then float awayand lay its great sable plumes against the rich reds and golds of theevening sky, they gave expert opinion on Benson's mission.
"If Valles wins, so do you," the dean opined. "He needs horses worsethan 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 dayafter the first defeat, and hell couldn't produce his equal. He wascrazy; a maniac; a tiger gone stark, staring, frothing mad.
"And lose he will. How do I know?" He answered a challenge. "It's a mereproblem of mathematics, the first equation of which was worked out inthe battle the other day. Given two men of equal military ability, theone 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 andBenson. "It's a cinch that he'll win. If I were you, gentlemen, I'd waitthe event."
Benson shook his head. "If we see Valles now and strike a bargain, wecan get our cattle across the border before he's all in."
"Good enough reasoning," the dean admitted. "But--ever since the firstdefeat he's been in one of his towering rages. Even his own generalshardly dare go near him."
Benson shrugged; with British obstinacy he clung to his point. "It won'tbe the first time I've seen him in his rages. He may be dangerous--toAmericans, but John Bull looks after his people and even Valles iscareful of how he flies in the old fellow's face. I shall go to see himat once, and if he refuses--well"--his voice grew harsh andmenacing--"he'll hear the truth about himself."
Not knowing him, the correspondents received it in silence. While theysmoked 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 ofyour Declaration of Independence to a race which won't have evolved to apoint where it has the faintest understanding of them for a thousandyears to come. You stand on your Monroe doctrine, but refuse to take upits obligations and give alien nationals the protection you will notallow their own government to extend. While your statesmen prattle aboutthe sacred right of revolution and Mexico's ability to settle her ownaffairs, the country is overrun with bandits and mobs of pelados who arekilling off the decent people and destroying billions in property theynever created.
"Bah!" he snorted his disgust. "Don't talk to me of republics. Do yousuppose that either England or Germany would have stood for the anarchywhich rules here? For centuries John Bull has been ruling brown peoplesand he knows his job. 'Be good and you'll be happy!' he tells them. Ifthey're not--they get it, hot and heavy, on the spot where it will domost good. The brown man is all right in his place--which isn't on topof the white man--but your government, so far, has failed to perceiveit."
He went on from a pause: "Republics are incapacitated by nature in anycase for the job. They are too divided in their counsels--swayed to-dayby capital that will accept any dishonor rather than jeopardize itsrevenues; to-morrow by sentimentalists who hold up hands of horror atthe very thought of war; governed most of the time by a ridiculousyellow press. Individually, you Yanks are good people, but takencollectively, as represented by your government and papers, you arehypocritical, weak, hysterical, sentimental, without dignity or force.You are grown fat with wealth, soft with luxury, too lazy andindifferent to undertake your responsibilities abroad, and if you werenot, you lack the first essentials--centralized federal authority andmilitary strength to enforce your will. If you do anything here it willbe accidental--such as when the blowing up of the _Maine_ aroused one ofyour periodical brainstorms, stung you into action. But in the mean timethe destruction of Mexico will be complete. There will be nothing leftof the civilization built up at such enormous pains by Diaz and which itwas your duty to maintain."
Silence followed, the uncomfortable silence that attends the digestionof unpalatable truth. While they talked, the cars had resolved into dimmasses that swayed and swung through hot dusk that was splashed, hereand there, with the red glow of charcoal cooking fires. On thoseimmediately ahead and behind, dim sombreroed figures still loomed inhalf-gloom. The flash of a match occasionally set a dark face out instartling relief. The tinkle of a guitar accompanying a high, nasal_peon_ chant, mingled with the roar and rattle of wheels. For some timeits whine rose under the stars before the voice of the dean broke thesilence.
"What you say is true--most of it. We have been tried in the balance andfound wanting. We've neglected our duty to the Mexicans and our ownpeople--that's the hell of it! But nations, like individuals, learntheir lessons through painful mistakes. We've had bad leadership andworse counsels--so much of it that it would almost seem that we wereirrevocably st
amped as incapable. But it's only a phase. Under it allthe heart of the people still beats sound and true. Sooner or later itsvoice will be heard. And when it is--the bleating of the sentimentalistswill 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 littledrink?"
Instantly the recumbent figures rose in a shadowy mass, and as its unitsmade their way down over the edge of the swaying car, the correspondentjogged Bull's elbow. "Come along, Diogenes!"
But though a flame, sudden and fierce, had leaped within him; though hetrembled under the intensity of his desire, he shook his head. "Thanks,I'm not drinking."
"Why--Diogenes? Whatever is the matter? If parental responsibilities dothis, damned if I know whether I'll ever dare to hook up--providing mySan Francisco girl ever consents. Is this straight?"
"Straight."
Warned, perhaps, by a certain earnestness, the other answered: "Allright, old man--only--if you change your mind, come on down."
Bull made no answer, could not, for as he lay there, huge bulk stretchedout on the running-board, face turned up to the stars, every ounce ofhis energy, even the bit that would have been used up in speech, wasconsumed in the fight against the furious desire that brought the sweatstarting on his brow, shook him like a leaf. Out of the rack and bang ofthe swinging cars, click and roar of the wheels, his ear presentlypicked the clink of glasses. Out through the lamp-lit doorway floatedBenson's rough voice.
"Well, here's to Uncle Sam! wishing him better counselors and quickerunderstanding!"
Bull heard no more, for he had rolled over, buried his face in his armsto hide from his snuffing nostrils whiffs of spirits. Once he half rose,looking toward the ladder. But, strengthening his resolution, there rosein his mind just then a picture of Betty and her mother as he had seenthem at parting--her hands on the child's shoulders, stooped in slightdejection, yet radiating faith and trust.
Lying down again, he lay, hands clasped under his head, gazing up at thefire of stars, while his mind traveled back to the _rancho_, lived overand over again the slow, sweet hours of last night. Below, an undertoneto the roar of the speeding train, he now caught the hum of talk. But hetook no heed--even when it ceased. He dreamed on till a hand shook hisfoot.
"Aren't you coming down to bed?"
"No; I reckon I'll lay out here. It's cooler." He did not acknowledge tohimself his fear of sniffing the spirituous odors.
"All right, only don't roll off." The correspondent paused on his wayback to the ladder. "Say! did your friend mean what he said? Or was itjust talk?"
When Bull answered with a sketch of Benson's violent temper, illustratedby a few instances, the correspondent shook his head. "Well, don't lethim see Valles alone." Going down the ladder, he called back, "If youshould change your mind about the drink, you'll find the jug on thetable."
Instantly it materialized in Bull's vision, a round stone jug andglasses, as solid and real as though it stood within the reach of hishand. Nor could he shut out the vision, as he had the odor, by buryinghis face. With the cars swinging and swaying through the night, shutout, it stood forth clearer than ever. He saw himself snatching out thecork; 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 powerfulthrough 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 forher!"
The thought brought her face again in all its sweet wholesomeness.Through the warm dusk, as it were beside him, he saw her hand flutteringlike a homing dove into his. He felt it lifting, raising him above histemptation. The memory of its soft pressures strengthened and comforted.Presently his fingers relaxed their convulsive grip on therunning-board. Exhausted, he fell asleep.
Over the Border: A Novel Page 27