“Do not risk it,” advised Father José. “Listen!” And he held up a finger.
There was now a deep voice in the tumult outside—a voice that boomed in heavy undertones.
“It is the river, señor. Oh, I shall worry too.”
“I’ll yell when I get across.”
“I could not hear. But I have an old pistol which I took from a quarrelsome Indian.” The father disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying a long-barrelled revolver of an old make. “Fire this when you reach the other side.”
“Good-night, Father.”
“Good-night, my son.”
They shook hands and Señor John went out through the door leading into the garden.
A little moon-faced clock on a shelf under the white-and-gold porcelain marked the time as close upon eight. The father returned to his armchair. But now he kept his eyes open and his lips pressed tight, and his head a little to one side. Thus, he waited.
At half-past eight he got up and went to the front door. Rain was still falling heavily, but the wind seemed to have abated a degree. He listened. The river was speaking with a medley of curious voices: There was the rise and fall of pleasant argumentation; wagon-wheels ground over gravel; a child whimpered; oars pounded and squeaked in their rowlocks; steam sang; a dog snarled. Presently he made out the wide Rio Grande as pools of glistening black that moved upon a dead blackness.