And this was the story that Elbert heard, through many repetitions, as they rode forward toward Arecibo:
‘... At daybreak this very day, seven men put to death in the patio of el cuartel in Arecibo by the limping idiots of Cordano who call themselves soldiers. Seven prisoners, bound and blindfolded, shot down by the soldiers of Cordano, while Monte himself and el capitan, Ramon Bistula, laughed and smoked and chatted together, until there were no more prisoners standing, and it became time for Monte himself to stand against the wall.
‘No bandage for the eyes—ah, no, not for such as he! No thongs for his hands—he waved them away; then stepping carefully to avoid the dead and shaking ones of his band, Monte took his place against the blank wall—lighting another cigarette.’
Elbert felt a frightful closeness about it all—this very day, under this very sun, the town where it happened, looming just ahead, the man at his side, having witnessed it all. Moreover Elbert was enduring a positive strain to know if one of the bodies Monte Vallejo stepped over, as he took his place at the wall, was Bart Leadley. Not without great difficulty, his pressure was so keen, did Elbert follow the details of the trooper’s story, but the telling was folded over and over again on itself. It appeared that as Vallejo lighted his cigarette, taking his place against the wall, Ramon Bistula called to the soldiers not to fire for a moment, until the chief of bandits had taken one or two deep breaths of smoke.
‘... Such courtesy!’ exclaimed the enraptured rurale, pouring out the rest. ‘And then it was, in a moment more, with a gesture of thanks to my captain, Señor Vallejo bowed his head for death, but there was not one of the soldiers who cared to put an end to such courage, and none could fire straight in any case; so “boom-boom” from the volleys and Monte Vallejo did not fall.’
Now the trooper swung his shoulders to the right and left—unsettling the gait of his pony—in the way of portraying the manner the doomed bandit kept his feet.
‘Several times—in the arms and legs, struck, Señor—yet smiling still and trying to light his tobacco from which the fire had dropped—’
The trooper’s speech had become very rapid; his bridle-rein changed from hand to hand, the ears of his mount cocking with the gestures. Here, manifestly, was the climax of his narrative. Once he dropped the bridle-rein entirely, needing both hands:
‘... Then it was that my captain, Ramon Bistula, hastened forward, beckoning the soldiers back. He caught the reeling Vallejo in his own hands. He held him still. From his own case he drew a cigarette. He struck the match, lit it in his own lips. He placed it in the lips of the other. This I heard, “I have the honor in a moment to end the work of these frightened butchers. You are a brave man, Monte Vallejo! Speak, when you would have me fire!”
‘And with that, such a beautiful look came into the eyes of the bandit chief, as he said, “Gracias, Capitan, your words and your tobacco are of one excellence!” And after that, “I will thank you now to put me to sleep, Brother Ramon—”