East and northeast he had plodded; at first in a daze and guided only by the homing instinct.
Leaving General Scott’s headquarters, he had delayed not a minute in beginning his homeward march. Afoot in a land where all save the meanest rode, he had shaped his course without conscious effort.
Dawn had found him far beyond the American lines. After that, for a time, dawn and noon and sunset had been one to him. Thirst—the terrible thirst that follows upon a pulque debauch—had gripped him with agonizing pains.
And he had found himself stopping at cisterns and even at roadside puddles.
Late at night his legs had given way as he breasted a hill. He had fallen forward and slept where he fell; to stagger stiffly onward at dawn. From a peon vender he had bought a great stack of tortillas and a bundle of tamales on the second day, and had stuffed them into all his pockets; munching now and then when he chanced to think of it.
The purchase had been half-involuntary; some latent campaigning instinct leading him to buy the food for future use. In payment he had given a five-dollar gold piece; the only coin he chanced to have in his pocket; and it had not occurred to him to ask for change.
Somewhere along the road he had seen the broad-brimmed straw hat lying; its frayed brim and a hole in the crown testifying to its uselessness to a former owner. He had picked it up and put it on, in exchange for his shelterless military cap, as a better shield against the sun’s broiling heat.
For several days Brinton continued his blind progress northeastward.
He had met few people. And at these he had not so much as glanced.
Such of them as were Mexicans noted appraisingly his ragged state (for cactus spines and rocks had claimed their full toll of cloth-scraps in the blundering journey), and decided he was not worth molesting and had let him go in peace.