“Homesick and scared out!” Bull shrugged—and what did it matter? That which was done was done!
Nor was he the only deserter. All through the night the train had dribbled away its evil freight in trickles that would spread through the land till it was inundated with a flood of carnage, robbery, rape. Of the clustering brown swarm on the roof there remained only a few dozens scattered in heavy sleep throughout the train’s length.
Across the brightening east the mountains now laid a familiar pattern. Beyond—the patio and compound of Los Arboles were lying still and gray under the dawn. Bull saw, with the distinctness of vision, the sheet across Lee’s doorway quiver under the breath of dawn. Then it faded, gave place to the Mills rancho, equally still, equally silent; its warm gold walls pale gray, the clustering bougainvilleas dark as clotted blood.
That feeling analogous to the chill of death which envelops a sleeping house held him in thrall. While he gazed, there appeared on the veranda the familiar vision. But he shut it out, tightly closing the eyes of his mind. He turned his face to a dark dot, walls of the burned station, that appeared to be moving toward him across the desert’s grays. Climbing down over the end, he passed through the Chinaman’s kitchen into the car.
It was still dusk in there, but he could hear the deep breathing of correspondents, sleeping heavily after the exhaustion of the hot night. Quietly he gathered his belongings, had shoved open the door sufficiently to pass out, when a whisper came from behind:
“Adios, Diogenes!”
Turning, he saw the correspondent leaning out of his bunk.
“Don’t take that little slip too seriously, old man,” he whispered as they shook hands. “Try again. If it wasn’t for this”—he tapped his knee—“I’d have helped you to get out your girl. But you’ll make it all right. Only don’t dally. There’s going to be hell to pay.”
The engine was whistling for the station. Though it did not stop, Bull jumped and, if a bit shaken, landed unhurt. He was watching the train recede, his hand still tingling, heart warmed by the strong pressure of his friend’s hand, when his name was called.
“It is you, señor Perrin?”