Now ‘Mexicali’ Burton and Cal Monroid were facing each other, like two chiefs—one instantaneous look. All they had seemed to need was this one look in the lamplight. Each knew a man. It was a moment of romantic fulfillment to Elbert. His mind had suddenly renewed its grasp on the fact that Bart Leadley might be a part of Vallejo’s lines now closing about; yet at the same time he could not miss the way the fighting face of ‘Mexicali’ Burton had suddenly softened and turned in appeal to Cal.
‘It was bad enough before,’ he was saying, slowly. ‘Vallejo’s got numbers. I trust my white men, but you never can trust the Mexicans. Cordano himself may double-cross me. Can’t tell when he’ll get some troops here. It was bad enough before, but what can a man do with three girls—?’
A whimsical smile was on Cal’s lips, which formed to answer, but the words were never spoken.
That was the instant the gods of North America undertook to get a flash-light photograph of the lower end—stupefying flash and crash—blinding glare, heaving darkness, falling timbers, the scream of one horse.
Elbert was on his knees, eyes and nostrils choked with dust. He thought of Mamie outside; then certain new business and nothing else occupied his brain. In that unbelievable glare, he had seen the face of Mary Gertling. The light hadn’t shone upon her face, it had flowed into it, through it. He had seen the secret of her stillness, and though he couldn’t recall the nature of it now, he was perfectly aware that an explosion like that might breed another and he must somehow get to her, before it happened again.
He was calling. She called back just once. He was groping for her now. His hand touched objects, but they had nothing to do with what he groped for. His ears were filled with voices, but he was really listening only for one. His fingers touched the little fawnskin jacket, and beneath his face as he knelt, there was the queerest low sob; one arm came up and held him, and the words:
‘You shouldn’t have been quite so long—’
At his side was the distracting rattle of a match box, the strike of the stick. A face appeared—‘Mexicali’ Burton—all below the eyes, a gleaming black of blood.
‘Florabel!’
‘Papa!’