VII
Frawley returned to consciousness to find himself in the hut of a half-breed Indian, who was forcing a soup of herbs between his lips.
Two days later he regained his strength sufficiently to reach a ranch owned by Englishmen. Fitted out by them, he started at once to return to El Paso; to take up the unending search anew.
In the late afternoon, tired and thirsty, he arrived at a shanty where a handful of Mexican children were lolling in the cool of the wall. At the sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shrieking for assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, his hand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled in the doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following her glance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. He took a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield.
At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry:
"Who's that?"
Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying:
"Hands up. It's me, Bucky, and I've got you now!"
"Frawley!"
"That's it, Bucky—Hands up!"
Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly.
"God, it is Frawley!" he cried, and fell back in a heap.
Inspector Frawley, advancing a step, repeated his command with no uncertain ring:
"Hands up! Quick!"
On the bed the distorted body contracted suddenly into a ball.
"Easy, Bub," Greenfield said between his teeth. "Easy; don't get excited. I'm dying."
"You?"
Frawley approached cautiously, suspiciously.
"Fact. I'm cashin' in."
"What's the matter?"
"Bug. Plain bug—the desert did the rest."
"A what?"
"Tarantula bite—don't laugh, Bub."
Frawley, at his side, needed but a glance to see that it was true. He ran his hand over Greenfield's belt and removed his pistol.
"Sorry," he said curtly, standing up.
"Quite keerect, Bub!"
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Nope."
Suddenly, without warning, Greenfield raised himself, glared at him, stretched out his hands, and fell into a passionate fit of weeping. Frawley's English reserve was outraged.
"What's the matter?" he said angrily. "You're not going to show the white feather now, are you?"
With an oath Greenfield sat bolt upright, silent and flustered.
"D—— you, Bub—show some imagination," he said after a pause. "Do you think I mind dying—me? That's a good one. It ain't that—no—it's ending, ending like this. After all I've been through, to be put out of business by a bug—an ornery little bug."
Then Frawley comprehended his mistake.
"I say, Bucky, I'll take that back," he said awkwardly.
"No imagination, no imagination," Greenfield muttered, sinking back. "Why, man, if I'd chased you three times around the world and got you, I'd fall on you and beat you to a pulp or—or I'd hug you like a long-lost brother."
"I asked your pardon," said Frawley again.
"All right, Bub—all right," Greenfield answered with a short laugh. Then after a pause he added seriously: "So you've come—well, I'm glad it's over. Bub," he continued, raising himself excitedly on his elbow, "here's something strange, only you won't understand it. Do you know, the whole time I knew just where you were—I had a feeling somewhere in the back of my neck. At first you were 'way off, over the horizon; then you got to be a spot coming over the hill. Then I began to feel that spot growin' bigger and bigger—after Rio Janeiro, crawling up, creeping up. Gospel truth, I felt you sneaking up on my back. It got on my nerves. I dreamed about it, and that morning on the trail when you was just a speck on any old hoss—I knew! You—you don't understand such things, Bub, do you?"
Frawley made an effort, failed, and answered helplessly:
"No, Bucky, no, I can't say I do understand."
"Why do you think I ran you into Rio Janeiro?" said Greenfield, twisting on the leaves. "Into the cholery? What do you think made me lay for this desert? Bub, you were on my back, clinging like a catamount. I was bound to shake you off. I was desperate. It had to end one way or t'other. That's why I stuck to you until I thought it was over with you."
"Why didn't you make sure of it?" said Frawley with curiosity; "you could have done for me there."
Greenfield looked at him hard and nodded.
"Keerect, Bub; quite so!"
"Why didn't you?"
"Why!" cried Greenfield angrily. "Ain't you ever had any imagination? Did I want to shoot you down like a common ordinary pickpocket after taking you three times around the world? That was no ending! God, what a chase it was!"
"It was long, Bucky," Frawley admitted. "It was a good one!"
"Can't you understand anything?" Greenfield cried querulously. "Where's anything bigger, more than what we've done? And to have it end like this—to have a bug—a miserable, squashy bug beat you after all!"
For a long moment there was no sound, while Greenfield lay, twisting, his head averted, buried in the leaves.
"It's not right, Bucky," said Frawley at last, with an effort at sympathy. "It oughtn't to have ended this way."
"It was worth it!" Greenfield cried. "Three years! There ain't much dirt we haven't kicked up! Asia, Africa—a regular Cook's tour through Europe, North and South Ameriky. And what seas, Bub!" His voice faltered. The drops of sweat stood thickly on his forehead; but he pulled himself together gamely. "Do you remember the Sea of Japan with its funny little toy junks? Man, we've beaten out Columbus, Jools Verne, and the rest of them—hollow, Bub!"
"I say, what did you do it for?"
"You are a rum un," said Greenfield with a broken laugh. The words began to come shorter and with effort. "Excitement, Bub! Deviltry and cussedness!"
"How do you feel, Bucky?" asked Frawley.
"Half in hell already—stewing for my sins—but it's not that—it's—"
"What, Bucky?"
"That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield—to go down and out on account of a bug—a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn't have done it if the desert hadn't put me out of business first! No, by God! I'm not downed so easy as that!"
Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to the dying man:
"I say, Bucky."
"Shout away."
"Wouldn't you like to go out, standing, on your feet—with your boots on?"
Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh.
"What's the matter, pal?" said Frawley, pausing in surprise.
"You darned old Englishman," said Greenfield affectionately. "Say, Bub."
"Yes, Bucky."
"The dinkies are all right—but—but a Yank, a real Yank, would 'a' got me in six months."
"All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?"
"H'ist away."
"Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?" said Frawley, raising him up.
This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsively over the butt, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbs contracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley, who heard him whisper again:
"A bug—a little—"
Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was soft and stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over one another, in grotesque attitudes.
Suddenly, as though in the breeze he had caught the sound of a step, Greenfield jerked almost free of Frawley's arms, shuddered, and fell back rigid. The pistol, flung into the air, twirled, pitched on the floor, and remained quiet.
Frawley placed the body back on the bed of leaves, listened a moment, and rose satisfied. He threw a blanket over the face, picked up the revolver, searched a moment for his hat, and went out to arrange with the Mexican for the night. In a moment he returned and took a seat in the corner, and began carefully to jot down the details on a piece of paper. Presently he paused and looked reflectively at the bed of leaves.
"It's been a good three years," he said reflectively. He considered a moment, rapping the pencil against his teeth, and repeated: "A good three years. I think when I get home I'll ask for a week or so to stretch myself." Then he remembered with anxiety how Greenfield had railed at his lack of imagination and pondered a moment seriously. Suddenly, as though satisfied, he said with a nod of conviction:
"Well, now, we did jog about a bit!"