“How did he die?” Webster whispered.
“He died hard, with the holes in front—and he died for you.”
Two big tears trickled slowly through Webster's closed lids and rolled across his pale cheek. “Poor, lost, lonesome, misunderstood wreck,” he murmured presently, “he was an extremist in all things. He used to sing those wonderfully poetic ballads of his people—I remember one that began: 'Green were the fields where my forefathers dwelt.' I think his heart was in Kerry—so we'll send him there. He's my dead, Ricardo; care for his body, because I'm—going to plant Don Juan with the—shamrocks. They didn't understand him here. He was an exile—so I'm going to send him—home.”
“He shall have a military funeral,” Rocardo promised.
“From the cathedral,” Webster added. “And take a picture of it for his people. He told me about them. I want them to think he amounted to something, after all. And when you get this two-by-four republic of yours going again, Rick, you might have your congress award Don Juan a thousand dollars oro for capturing Sarros. Then we can send the money to his old folks.”
“But he didn't capture Sarros,” Ricardo protested. “The man escaped when the Guards cut their way through.”
“He didn't. That was a ruse while he beat it out the gate where you found me. I saw Don Juan knock him cold with the but of his rifle after I'd brought down his horse.”
“Do you think he's there yet?”
“He may be—provided all this didn't happen the day before yesterday. If I wanted him, I'd go down and look for him, Rick.”
“I'll go right away, Jack.”