“Here!” the correspondent seized him. “Where are you going?”
“Out—to get drunk—get killed if I kin!”
Though he waved like a blown leaf at the end of the club-like arm, the correspondent stuck. “All right! all right! But what’s your hurry? You’ll be a long time dead, old man. If you must get killed, come with me.”
Through Bull’s black despair flashed a sardonic gleam. “Humph! Stand on a hill with a pair of glasses five miles off?”
“Not on your life, hombre! When we interviewed him yesterday that’s exactly the crack Valles made about ‘gringo correspondents’ and ‘long-distance reporting.’ I’m going to show the beggar. It’s me for the outposts where folks get killed.”
Now, in his turn, Bull showed no concern. “Don’t be a fool! You’re paid to get the news, not to do Valles’s fighting.”
The change of positions was so swift, the correspondent could not repress a grin. “What’s sauce for Diogenes is sauce for me. If you have a right to get yourself killed, so have I.”
The black shadow again wrapped Bull. “I’ve good reason. If I kin git myself shot, like a man, I’m just that much ahead. But you—”
“Aw, shut up! Do you think I am going to let that greasy bandit get away with a crack like that? We’re doing too much talking. Come on!”
“I’d—” Bull hesitated. “I’d like to see—his consul first. His wife—she’d naterally like to know. She’s in El Paso, just now, an’ I know her address.”