IX
He was still with us when Eustace and I set out upon the last stage of our railway journey to Mazatlán.
So, incidentally, was the soap-salesman.
The train brought us to the end of the long stretch of desert that extended from Sonora far down into Sinaloa. An occasional palm tree rose among the cactus. Adobe huts gave way to structures of cane and thatch. A delicious balminess in the air heralded the approach of the tropics. A tang of salt came from the Pacific breezes, and the sea itself loomed presently before us, a glorious blue beneath a cloudless sky.
The little General leaned from the window, his eyes shining.
“Home! Home at last, señores!”
Then the eyes darkened, with a somber melancholy that came at times into their depths. I suspected, as often I had suspected, that he was playing his dramatic rôle to gain our sympathy.
“You are worrying about the authorities?” I asked.
But he spoke without effort at effect:
“There is danger. I have informed them of my coming. But I can prove that Villa took me prisoner—that I could not help myself.”
“The girl will be waiting for you, of course?”
“I have not informed her. It will be a surprise! Such a surprise, señores!”
He did not know that she had already married a rival. He never did know. Somewhere at the edge of the desert, the train stopped, and a party of federal soldiers came aboard. A Carranzista officer walked quickly up the aisle, scanning the faces of the passengers. Before the little General, he paused.
“Ramón Vásquez?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Come with me.”
The General rose. He was strangely calm. He seemed suddenly to have gained in stature. There was a quiet pride in his bearing—a poise—a distinction. He shook hands with each of us, even with the American who had insulted him.
“There is an army post here, señores. I had hoped to go home to-night to see the girl. But it is better, perhaps, that the investigation come first. Remember, señores, in Mazatlán my house is your house.”