“Si, señor.” His head moved in the gloom. In the rambling peon fashion he ran on: “‘The close mouth admits no flies,’ said Matador. ‘Keep thine shut and we shall make thee a captain to-morrow.’”
“A captain of what, señor? Of ghosts? For I was not deceived. He that was sentry when they killed the German? He became a captain? Also they that helped to roast the Spaniard till he told where he had hidden his gold? And the three that killed el presidente for Huerta? Captains and majors and colonels were they—of the dead. Si, among the revueltosos it is become a saying, ‘Be not a captain till thou hast grown lieutenant’s spurs.’ Si, I knew that I should be dead before the eve of another day, so I fled my guard, señor, and came straight to thee.”
Though he was on fire to hear, Bull knew better than to bring his crude thought into confusion by interruption. While the train ambled along he let the narrative take its own course.
“‘A captain?’ said Matador!” His eloquent shoulders quivered in the gloom. “Better to be a live mozo at the tail of Don Miguel’s horses in Las Bocas.”
From a second pause he ran on: “He came to the cuartel general, the señor Benson, while I was sentry of the second watch at the door of my general. He was in there, Valles, with a girl. I had seen her go in—such a girl! tall and straight, with eyes misty as twin nights, teeth white as bleached bone, hair thick and black as the pine forests that clothe the Sierra Madras! Santisimo, señor! such a girl as one may have when he has combed a country and taken first pick of its women! I could hear her laughing in there when the señor Benson came striding up the stairs.
“I saw, when he drew near, that his face was flushed, but there was no smell of liquor upon him. ’Twas the red of the great anger that burned in his veins, kept his head shaking like that of a tormented bull. When I barred the way he looked at me with eyes that snapped like living sparks, shoved me aside into the corner with one sweep of his arm, before I could stop him had opened the door and walked in—walked in, señor, through the anteroom into the private office where Valles was at play with the girl!
“El Matador himself had warned me, ‘Let no man pass!’ But when I had picked myself out of the corner and followed in, there he stood in front of Valles, who had dropped the girl and leaped to his feet. Surprise and fear showed on his face—the fear of bullet, knife, and poison that dogs him everywhere. But it changed at once to a grin—the terrible grin his people fear. His glance at me said, ‘Stay!’ and as I stood, waiting in fear and trembling, he spoke with a voice that cut like a knife.
“‘It is my amigo, the señor Benson.’
“Señor, I have seen his generals tremble when he spoke like that. Even el Matador, tiger that he is, would slink before him like a whipped cat. For all the pesos in all the world I would not have taken his place. Yet that great Englishman stood before him solid and square as a stone; answered with a voice of a hacendado in speech with a peon.
“‘I came to tell you, Valles’—just like that he spoke, señor, without even a ‘my general’—‘I came to tell you that I do not take my answers from secretaries. The offer I made you this morning was fair and square and good business for both of us. It deserved more than a threat of ‘requisitions.’ You’ll never get my horses that way—if I have to cut their throats. If you want them, say so—yes or no.’