“‘Go now to thy quarters, señor.’ He clapped me on both shoulders. ‘And dream of the stars the morning sun will see flashing here.’
“But lest I sleep too well, señor, I came from the cuartel here.”
For a full minute, while Bull chewed the bitter cud of remorse, the cars racked on through the night. Then he spoke. “There is one in El Oro, the consul Ingles, that would have given many pesos—not the currency of Valles, but real pesos of silver and gold—for thee to set thy name to this!”
“Si!” His cigarette glowed in the midst of a shrug. “Of what use pesos, even silver and gold, when the sight is darkened and the mouth shut? When one may no longer see the niñas at play, watch the dancing of girls? When the taste of good food is gone from the mouth, the feel of warm liquor from the throat? He that betrays Valles will have no more use of these.”
“But in El Paso,” Bull urged, “one would be beyond the reach of his hand. There, also, is a consul Ingles.”
“One’s pais? The rise and set of sun across the desert beyond Las Bocas; the chatter of the women at their washing by the stream; the soft laughter of girls; one’s children watching at dusk for the return—these are not to be bought with pesos. One’s pais is one’s pais. To it one always returns.”
“Si,” Bull acknowledged the call, the most powerful in the feeling of a Mexican. “But from El Paso one could go by the ferrocarril Americano. In one day he could cross from El Paso to Nogales, thence south to Las Bocas and live in plenty beyond the reach of Valles. And one’s woman and niñas—would smile the sweeter at the sight of a bulging pocket.”
The cigarette glowed again, this time without the shrug. “There is something in that. Si, señor, I will do it!—go to the consul Ingles in El Paso.”
Just then the Chinaman called for Bull to come down to supper. He was not hungry, but he had food handed up for the man, who, after eating it, rolled up in his serape and went to sleep. Then, while he snored and the train racked slowly along the chain of fires, each a station that lay like red beads on the desert’s dark breast, Bull lay suffering agonies of shame and remorse that grew more vivid as the miles lessened between him and home.
It was long after midnight before he fell into troubled sleep. When he woke, at gray dawn, the revolutionist was gone.