Over the Border: A Novel

by Herman Whitaker

  XXIX: TEMPTATION

  Bull's eyes opened at dawn on a cloudless sky that lay like an invertedpink bowl over desert so level and vast that the customary borderingmountains showed only blue tips up above the horizon. He had been halfconscious 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 townenwrapping in their squalid embrace miles of troop-trains which stood inthe yards twelve deep and blocked the main line. Twenty thousand_revueltosos_, at least, heaped the roofs. As yet the men lay huddled intheir bright serapes. But already the women were astir, lighting thescene with a flash of brilliant skirts. From rude hearths built of earthwithin a circle of stones a myriad thin, violet columns uprose and hungstraight as strings in the crystal air.

  "'Morning, Diogenes!" The correspondent's cheerful face poked up fromunder the edge of the car. "Some picturesque, heigh? Who'd think, tolook at them sleeping so peacefully, that they were bent on thedestruction of another outfit like this less than ten miles away? Butthat's your Mexican. With us war is a stern necessity to be shoved to aquick conclusion. With him it is a pleasure. Day is to fight in, nightfor sleep, noon for siesta, and he arranges his warfare accordingly. Anight attack would be considered discourteous; not at all according tothe Mexican Hoyle. At noon they quit, on the advanced posts, even visiteach other and exchange gossip and cigarettes. Whereafter, with acheerful, 'Adios, senor, it is time to begin fighting!' they return totheir respective lines and go to it again. A cheerful people in themidst of their dirt and disorder." He added, thoughtfully, "I never seethem like this without thinking of them as a band of careless childrenshrieking with laughter over the destruction they are wreaking with thepowerful weapons we placed in their hands."

  "Picturesque? Yes," he went on, from a pause. "But it's mighty hard onthe common people. Look at that!"

  He was pointing at a shriveled old woman who, with bony fingers, wasclawing 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 menin Washington could only see that! Do you know what these armies aredoing? Riding the brood mares, eating the seed corn! _The seed corn andthe brood mares!_ You know what that means--famine! If I were a poet I'dtake her, that old hag scratching her living from the offal of Valles'swar horses--I'd take her for the symbol of Mexico--Mexico bleeding andbludgeoned, ravished, outraged, oppressed.

  "It was hard to swallow, what your friend said last night, but it'strue. While the Washingtonians prate of principles, this country is fastreturning to its original condition of nomadic tribes warringperpetually upon one another. Already--oh!" He descended to a homely butvital conclusion. "They make me sick. God send us a _man_! A man withsympathy and insight; understanding of this people's failings andnecessities. God send us another Lincoln!"

  "You bet it's hell!" In spite of the profanity Bull's laconic commentwas reverent in its essence as the most profound "Amen!"

  With a shrug Naylor threw off his earnestness; became again his cheerfulself. "I hear the Chinaman stirring. Come on down to breakfast."

  Stepping from the ladder, Bull's glance went, in spite of himself, tothe table. It was still there, just as he had pictured it, a squat stonejug with glasses; and though, seating himself on a locker, he turned hisback, he was still acutely conscious of its presence. He did not lookwhen the Chinaman carried it back into the kitchen. But he knew, and hissigh expressed more than relief. Moreover, both while he was eating andwhen, 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 indirty streams of khaki and _peon mantas_ splashed with the flash ofbrass, vivid reds, violets, and blues of soiled calico skirts, the lootof a hundred towns. From a hundred painted streets the streams pouredinto the plaza, the heart of the town, there to move and mass and meltand mass again, a sweating, sweltering jam of brown humanity topped witha scum of evil eyes, dark, unhealthy faces. In dribbles and trickles itsevil tide had flowed in from all over the land, and Benson's remark asthey 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, thiswould be a safer, cleaner land."

  Overpowering the stenches natural to a desert town, the sickening sweetodor of carrion hung thick in the air.

  "More Mexican efficiency," the dean shrugged. "After the last scrap outhere in the hills they made a stab at burning the bodies. They'd piletwenty or thirty in a heap, pour a bottle of kerosene over it, light thesoaked clothing, then walk off swelling with the consciousness ofhygienic duty well performed. Now when the wind blows this way--it'shard on a white man, though the Mexicans don't seem to mind. Appeals tothe natural vulture in them, I suppose."

  While they stood watching before crossing to the shaded promenade, thecrowd opened behind them to permit the passage of a dozen men underguard. All Spaniards, they ranged in age from the threescore and tenyears of a hawk-nosed old man to the twelve of his grandson. But onething they had in common, the dull, blue hue of mortal fear. In theextremity of his terror the boy repeatedly stumbled and fell--to bepicked up and prodded on by a rifle-barrel. Heads hanging, fearful, andhopeless, they shuffled through the crowd.

  "Ole, Enrico!" As they came opposite, Bull's friend hailed the officerin command.

  After walking a few feet with him, he came back. "They're Spanishstorekeepers on the way to 'the place designated,' which is arevolutionary euphemism for being shot. 'The place' is the cemeterywhere they will be stood up against the wall. A nice little Mexicanrefinement, eh, making a man's legs carry him to his own funeral? Theircrime? Respectability, most likely. They have either dallied incontributing to the 'Cause,' been caught hiding their goods, or perhapshave unreasonably refused some officer access to their daughters' beds.Even in this country"--he spoke with bitter irony--"there are still mento be found who draw the line at that. Or it may be simply that they areSpanish. God knows, it's enough. Valles never forgets that he is a_peon_. After the lapse of centuries he is visiting on their children'schildren the violences offered by the Spanish conquerors to his Aztecforebears. It may be poetic justice. A philosopher might find somejustification for it--if it were only a cause and effect. But"--hispitying glance followed the stumbling boy--"it is rotten hard to watch."

  It was only the beginning of a series of sights and events that, whilerunning the gamut from acute tragedy to grim humor, revealed in flashingglimpses the bandit tyrannies that were masquerading as government. Asthe Spaniards disappeared, there came marching in their wake a group ofCarranzista prisoners, mostly women, captured and brought in from aninterior town. As they filed through the jeering crowd, a _revueltoso_would reach and snatch away a woman that pleased him without a protestfrom the guards. Always she raised an outcry. But always she ceased atthe 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 strugglingdesperately with her captor. "She'll soon give in and dry her tears. Inone battle we took over five hundred women prisoners, and withintwenty-four hours they had all settled down to housekeeping withValles's soldiers. Four years of war whose fluctuations are recorded bya change of husbands is bound to breed philosophy. For their kind itdoesn't matter so much. They have ceased to care. But theothers--daughters of the upper classes, reared in luxury, refined, manyof them educated in Europe--well, during the sack of Durango forty girlsof the upper classes committed suicide."

  After crossing the plaza, Benson and Bull left the correspondents andturned down a side street where stood the British consulate. An oldSpanish mansion, with a great _patio_ and interior garden, its highwalls shut out even the murmur of the swarming humanity without. Theg
lass doors of the office opened upon a wide, tiled veranda beyond whichflowery paths ran under great trees that let down the brilliant sunblaze in a greenish rain of light. Its peace and beauty accentuated bycontrast the drama of human misery that was in course in its quietdemesne.

  As they sat waiting for the consul, they saw in the garden two nuns inearnest conversation with an old, black-robed priest.

  "More victims of the 'Cause.'" After he had greeted them, the consul, abluff Englishman, nodded toward the group. "Valles has robbed churches,seized their lands, shot the priests. He crowns it with--this. Lastspring he quartered one of his regiments in the nunnery of the order towhich these poor women belong. Now they are about to become mothers, andcame here to-day to ask the priest--who is himself a refugee whom Isaved from a mob that was stoning him to death outside--to askpermission for themselves and others to end their desecration bysuicide. One would think that such experiences would kill in any humanbeing the belief in a righteous God. But the old fellow is made of goodstuff. Sticks right to his guns."

  Through the open doorway, in confirmation, the voice of the priest camejust then out of the quiet garden. Old and quavery it was with theburden of his sorrow and years, yet firm in the faith: "The life He gavenone but He may take away. Why this terrible thing has befallen it isnot 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 wasnecessary to scandalize the world of good people and bring these wickedones 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 toattempt answer when He chooses to put our faith to the test. I havewished that He had seen fit to take me as I lay there under the stonesof the mob. But that was impious, a wicked thought. We can only waittill His brightness pierces the veil of our mortal vision."

  Poor brides of Christ! condemned to bear into that wicked world thechildren of furious lust! Yet, under their bitter sorrow, the leaven ofmother love had been at work. The younger, a sweet-faced girl of twentyfour or five, raised her pale, olive face. "And may we love them, ourbabes, when they come?"

  The humanity set its reflection in the smile that overflowed thewrinkled face with sympathy and understanding. "God is love, Sisters. Hewould not wish otherwise."

  In their hope and consolation their quick looks at one another werewonderfully revealing. Bending, they took his blessing, and walkedslowly away down the garden while he went back in the house.

  Bull had looked and listened with sympathy so acute as to be almostpain. And yet--even while his gaze followed the nuns slowly down thegarden, he was conscious of a tray of liquors and glasses that stood ona small side-table. On their way they had passed _cantina_ aftercantina, all thronged with half-drunken _revueltosos_, all exhaling athick reek of spirits that filled his thirsty nostrils, inflamed thedrink desire. Now, after refusing the consul's invitation, he walked outon the veranda, and not till the bottles were recorked did he return intime to hear the consul's conclusion on Benson's business.

  "As you say, he needs the horses, never more badly, but, again, he wasnever in worse humor than he has been since his defeat. It wouldn't helpany for me to go with you, for I've been fighting him on other accountsall this week. You know him, and I will provide you with a letter thatwill secure your admittance."

  On the way back Bull ran again the gantlet of the _cantinas_. Withinvisible hands they reached out to throttle his resolution. So powerfulwas 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 crowdthat blocked always the gates of Valles's headquarters--simple _peones_who waited patiently through the long, hot hours on the chance ofobtaining a glimpse of their hero, a _peon_ like themselves who hadabased the great _hacendados_, their taskmasters, confiscated theirlands, beaten their generals, trampled their pride in the dust. Thoughhe shouldered a path through for himself and Benson, he scarcely sawthem; had only a dim vision of a guard in the patio, of officers comingand going up a wide stone stairway. Not till they were met by asecretary, seated in an anteroom, and Benson spoke, did he awaken towhat was going on.

  "That's 'Matador' Fero, Valles's killer." Benson nudged him as a manlooked in through the open double doors of the next room and gave them asuspicious stare. "He shot two hundred Federal prisoners, one afternoon,in files of five, one bullet to a file, trying out a new high-powerrifle. 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 hiscolorless olive skin. Strolling back to his post behind Valles, whomthey could see sitting at a desk in the next room, he stood thereclosely watching, both the American correspondents who were rangedbefore the desk, and also the _revueltoso_ officers who lounged on thewindow 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 lessdangerous than his master. In the latter a towering forehead, massiveupper head, indicated genius of the highest constructive order. But histhick 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 thebandit _peon_, military dictator. He had stopped speaking when theyentered. Now he began again, and as he talked the heel of his handnervously 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, senores, the reverse of the other day wassustained by one of my generals. But to-morrow--you have seen myreinforcements, twenty thousand brought down from Chihuahua?--to-morrowI shall command. We shall drive the Carranzistas like dust before a hotwind. And you can tell them"--he observed a sinister pause--"you maytell them that I am not pleased with the countenance your government isnow giving the Carranzistas. So far I have been careful of Americanlives and property in the country I control, but if your governmentallies itself with my enemies--" His big fist struck the table withforce that emphasized the threatening flash of the darting eyes.

  Yet, pulsing with vindictive anger, the exhibition paled by contrastwith his furious attack on one of his own officers who came in as thecorrespondents filed out. The fact that he had been wounded and had goneon, alone, when his command refused to face a galling fire, made nodifference. Beast mouth stretched to a gorilla grin, every line of hisface writhing in an awful smile, Valles scored him with coarse insultand seething invective while his hand toyed thirstily with the hilt ofhis knife.

  Flushing and paling, the man stood with hanging head till an orderissued from the last furious burst. "Go, now, and shoot every tenth manin your command. I will teach them that I am more to be feared than thedamned Carranzistas!"

  In the midst of it Bull nudged Benson. "Don't you allow we better leavehim 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 quickappreciation of his bulk, then went off again on their suspiciousquesting. While Benson talked, he beat again a soft tattoo with the heelof his hand; then, rising, he walked off into another room.

  The secretary followed, and through the closed door they caught theharsh, throaty monotone. When it ceased the secretary came out.

  "My general says that all of your property is subject to requisition tobe paid for in legal currency issued by him as the chief of therepublican armies."

  "And he thinks we'll stand for that?" His eyes flashing under bentbrows, harsh face burning with anger, Benson stepped toward the door."I'll--"

  But as he moved the "Matador" stepped in between. Half a dozen loungingofficers, too, came hurrying
from the balconies.

  "It would do no good, senor." The secretary's shoulders rose in a shrug."Wait a more favorable time."

  Benson stared down upon him, big fists clenched, face purple withfurious passion. Thinking he was about to strike, Bull put out his hand.But, turning suddenly, Benson strode out of the room, throwing hisdefiance 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 thesecretary, he turned--then stood staring at the sentry on guard at thedoor, who returned a sheepish grin. Though the face seemed familiar, hedid not recognize the man for one of the raiders Lee had saved fromhanging till he spoke.

  "Ah, senor, 'tis fine to see an old face. The senorita, she that savedus from your just anger, she is well? Tell her that fine mercy wasdefeated by the _revueltosos_ who took us from her servants. Ask if shewill in her great kindness have the general set us free that we mayreturn to our wives and babes in Las Bocas."

  In spite of his own stress, Bull could not but grin. "Was the jefe ofLas Bocas a better master than Valles?"

  "A master is always a master." The man shrugged. "But one's pais isone's pais and the ninas, the flesh of one's body, blood of his blood,cannot be forgotten. Thou wilt speak to her, senor?"

  The tear that trickled down his villainous face earned him a civilanswer. Though he knew the futility of it, Bull nodded. "Si, I willspeak."

  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 takebetter 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 calledafter 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 theplaza. Already the drink desire was returned upon him. And as he satthere, in the grip of his mortal weakness, three soldiers seatedthemselves on the same bench and proceeded to pass a bottle of_tequila_.

  Before he even saw it Bull's mutinous nostrils snuffed the odor. Lookingaway, he tried to think, to recall the vision that strengthened andcooled him in his hour of torture last night. But now, the stronger forhis long abstinence, that enormous desire inflamed his brain; envelopedit in heated mists through which the pretty, wholesome faces loomed dimand indefinite. And then--

  After a curious glance up at the huge figure, the nearest soldier tappedhis arm. "You will drink with us, senor?"

  What it cost him to refuse and walk away! Men have gone down in historyas martyrs by the exercise of no more effort. But just as pressureenough will snap a bone, as persistent fatigue will paralyze a muscle,so the effort weakened his will, broke his resolution. Feeling curiouslyweak, 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 onepurple suffusion, he circled and recircled the plaza half a dozen timesbefore he stopped at the same spot again. In that time desire has noheight he did not reach; passion no heat, hell no torture, he did notendure. And while he stood watching the _cantina's_ roaring trade,reluctant but conscious in his soul that the end was come, a handdropped 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'sonly 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 abarrel of the thin Mexican stuff without knowing it--at least he felt hecould! But while, for an hour thereafter, they sat in a cool _patio_talking and sipping, the despised brew was still potent enough to loosethe 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'mhere."

  While they walked down the _patio_ and out through the bar into thestreet, 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!"