Somewhere south in Sonora

Arecibo was thirty-five miles away, when Elbert received this news. He did fifteen miles more that day, and the next mid-afternoon when he was close to the town where Monte Vallejo was said to be held, a most inviting level stretch of turf showed ahead. Mamie did not miss the fact. She had been well rested in San Isidro; her fitness brought to a fine point, which two full days’ work had not dulled. She was teasing at the man’s arm, at this very moment, and rising under him, as a small boat in open sailing after the drag of a breakwater. She took the gallop and Elbert wasn’t so hard to persuade, as she stretched out, loosening her mouth from the restraint of his hand.

There was a laugh on his lips, as he let her go. These were some of their best moments together, and this particular dash promised to be a jewel among them—only in the lee of a big boulder as he flicked round a bend, stood one of the rurales at ‘raise pistol,’ and a snapping bark to halt from his throat.

It took nearly a hundred yards for Mamie to slow down. Elbert turning her about at length, perceived the native trooper riding his way—one of Sonora’s finest—gunned, spurred, saber-sheathed on one side, carbine-booted on the other, a heavy cartridge-belt flung over left shoulder and under right arm. Around the mustacios was a restless, uncertain look.

‘Magnificent horse you ride, Señor.’

‘She’s a good mare—just trying her out.’

‘Had her long?’

‘Oh, yes—’ but that didn’t seem to go with ‘just trying her out.’

The rurale was sizable for a Mexican; not so tall, but thick in proportion; heavy wrists, bulging forearms, thick, straight back. His pony looked small and desperate compared to Mamie, but kept going with outstretched head.

‘And where does the Señor travel?’

‘The next town—Arecibo.’

‘I also go to Arecibo.’

Mamie was now being regarded with even more than customary interest, back and forth, up and down, the rurale’s eye roving, so that it was with difficulty that he kept his mind upon conversation at this time. Still Elbert was used to this sort of thing, having frequently found himself judged as a caballero of some great and elaborate house by the horse he rode.

‘I have heard that the notorious Vallejo is being held in Arecibo,’ he began with sociable impulse.

‘Yes?’ questioned the trooper in return.

Elbert wondered at the curious tone. This man had reservations.

‘I have been on the road for two days and possibly am misinformed,’ Elbert added carefully.

‘On the road—from where, Señor?’

‘From San Isidro—’

The other’s hand jerked at his bridle-rein.

Now Elbert began to realize that San Isidro was hardly a town to mention—so close to the gorge of the same name where the recent hold-up had taken place.

The Mexican slowly pulled himself together to reply. ‘Monte Vallejo is not being held in Arecibo. In purgatorio, at this hour, so I trust. Ah, it was magnificent!’

Mamie was now forgotten. Transformation in the rurale was to be witnessed, moreover, at this point. The man seemed higher, rising in his saddle with enthusiasm. Here was one of the pride of the Republic, indeed, having banished all present care, in the thought of the recent exploits of his troop, and especially of the light-hearted and inimitable courage of his chief, Ramon Bistula, el capitan, to whom the bandit’s capture was largely due.

Tributes, dithyrambs, even—but no news.

‘You say Monte Vallejo is dead—already put to death?’

‘To-day. This very day, Señor.’

‘And by the hand of this famous captain of your troop?’

‘Si, Señor.’

‘Where is your captain now?’ Elbert asked at random.

‘In Arecibo—have no fear. The Señor will be welcomed by el capitan Ramon, himself, who put the bullet in the head of the chief of the bandits, Monte Vallejo!’

Elbert struggled with his own composure.

‘I do not understand about your captain’s bullet—if Monte was already taken captive—surely he—’

‘This very day!’ exclaimed the rurale. ‘It was so, Señor—a most charming thing! The great Vallejo had many wounds at the time—many wounds, but would not fall. Laughing, he stood unbound—his head uncovered, trying to light with wet fingers a second cigarette that would not burn—’

‘I did not hear about the first. Please, not so fast,’ said Elbert. ‘My Spanish is of the book—not so fast, please—’

‘Ah, Señor, your Spanish is quite—Castillano, quite. The Spanish of el capitan Ramon is like that, also—’

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—”

‘It was then with his own hands—’

Florid life was closing in upon Elbert a bit too fast. Riding in silence into Arecibo, he reflected upon the quiet life of the leather-store, and upon the manner of life he was entering upon right now. He couldn’t have chatted and smoked like Monte Vallejo. He couldn’t have done the elegant butchery part of el capitan Ramon. It was like the story of Red Ante—there just wasn’t the stuff in him to endure certain phases of that, nor the sort of thing pulled off in el cuartel, Arecibo, this very day.

In so many cases in this country, he reflected, one but arrived to the estate of manhood, when he met death in violent form. And out of all this death, what hope for Bart Leadley, and the rounding-out of that old bitter tale?

Elbert felt very confused and inadequate.

The little plaza, with only one building of more than one story surrounding, and that el cuartel, looked cold and forbidding to his eyes that late afternoon; the little shops with dirt floors, where old cheese and new rum struggled together to reproduce the flavor of by-gone Spain, had lost their accustomed romance. It was not until Mamie was safely cared for in a clean corral by herself; not, in fact, until her master sat down to tortillas and huevos rancheros (the flavor of garlic coming in from the open fireplace of the little fonda)—that a certain wistful zest of life really began to stir again in his veins once more. Black tobacco in the air, black coffee sweetened to a syrup.

‘If one could only live to enjoy all this,’ he reflected, leaning back.

Dusk was already in the room—candle-lights across the plaza, the first strum of guitars. At this moment a young Mexican officer appeared; elegantly dressed, and quite as Elbert might have pictured such an entrance—whipping a riding crop against his polished boot.

‘May I humbly present myself, Señor—I, Ramon Bistula?’