Somewhere south in Sonora

Finally came the night when Bart said he would be ready to ride within a week, but just then they heard a light step in the next room, and Elbert’s voice became very hushed.

‘I’ve been looking for a way north through the mountains. My idea is to take it easy, riding nights—keeping our eyes on—’

‘On what?’ Bart asked.

‘On the north star,’ in embarrassed tone.

‘Why, we’re not thirty miles from the Border right now. We can do it in a night.’

‘But I’ve been thinking we’d better not enter Arizona on any of the regular roads—and there’s quite a ride west after that—’

Señorita Valencia was in the doorway.

‘You’re the doctor!’ Bart laughed.

Two nights later Elbert made Mamie fast in an old lane about three hundred yards from the Fonseca road directly back of El Relicario. This was his next to last trip from the mountains down, according to the plan. He was to bring both horses next time, two or three nights later. Then north and west with Bart through the high range, which he had explored so many days with the one single thought of ending his mission.

Nearing the old ranch house, he moved around in front to approach by the road, but heard Mexican voices before reaching the gateway. Stealing closer he saw three ponies standing just within—carbine-boots and saber-sheathes! Only the rurales carried that outfit. He moved back and circled among the scented vine-tangles of the grounds, at length drawing near an unglazed window of an empty room, which was just across a corridor from the little room where Bart lay. Faint reflection of the candle-light came from there, careless strumming of a guitar and laughter of the Mexicans from the front of the house.

A light step at his left, a movement of white, visible as he turned—Valencia, alone in the grounds. Softly he called her name.

‘Oh, I prayed you would come, Señor! The rurales are here. They have seen him! I have left them but a moment—saying I must dress—’ She was all in white, her face held close to his, the breath of her whispering part of the perfume of the dark.

‘You must take him away to-night—now, while they wait—or he will have to go with them! You see, they are not quite sure yet, it is he, but have sent for others in Fonseca who will know. Before the others come, while I keep the ones here in the front of the house—you must take him to the mountains—to your country!’

‘Have they got Bart in front with them?’

‘No, he’s still lying in there—but one of the men is watching in the corridor. I have told them how ill he is!’

Elbert spoke swiftly: ‘I’ll go and bring the mare closer in, Señorita, and be back to this window in ten minutes. Get word to Bart that I’m coming back!’

‘I will try—or perhaps my mother. They are waiting for me in there now. I must keep them in the front!’

He heard the Mexican voices. ‘In ten minutes—’ he hastily whispered.

He was running back toward Mamie’s tether. No moon, but a few great stars, fireflies in a near low tree—a perfumed, humid night. Thoughts ran with him. It was like the mystery of life—her pale upheld face in the dark, with an untellable meaning for his heart, having to do with a corn-dust maiden. Even as he ran, he marveled that she could help him get Bart away ‘to the mountains, to your country!’ ... the breath of her whispering—

Mamie was dancing, as his hands ran over the cinches. ‘The job of our lives!’ he panted. ‘You’re fit, little one. Won’t be your fault if we don’t make it! It’s for him—for old Bob Leadley, Mamie!’

He was riding back. He could not bring the mare too near to the ranch house, lest she signal to the rurales’ horses standing in front. He reached the unglazed window of the unused room. Perhaps she had been unable to get Bart word, for he had not come. Perhaps, the full ten minutes had not passed.

He waited a moment, then climbed into the empty room, crossing softly toward the faint sheen of light in the corridor. Reaching the door, he could look across the corridor into the little room where a single candle burned. Only the foot of Bart’s cot was visible.

Now a step sounded down the corridor at his left. He drew back into the dark. A Mexican approached, glanced into the little room, then turned back toward the patio—the rurale pacing his post.

Elbert craned forward as far as he dared; this time he saw the covering of the cot flung back, a single booted leg beneath. Something familiar in the way it jerked that second, made him know that Bart was drawing a boot on the other leg. How could he let Bart know he had come? The slightest whisper was as impossible as it was for him to cross the corridor while the sentry moved back and forth.

At this instant a liquid shower of chords sounded through the house—the great harp in the front room coming to life—Valencia’s voice lifting above her accompaniment:

A heart-break in itself—that song.

At the same time, another voice from the patio—quavery tones of the old señora offering the sentry a glass of wine. Was she trying to hold him at the far end of his post? Now in the opposite doorway, tipping a little weakly, hatless, without coat, but fully booted, Bart Leadley showed himself, a cool laugh on the dark face. Elbert darting a glance down the corridor, saw the back of the rurale’s head. He thrust out his hand to steady Bart across the corridor.

They had crossed the empty room; Elbert outside the window, was helping Bart through—the rurale still held to the patio-end of the corridor by the señora—or was it by the song? Even in the fierce drum of his excitement, words of old Bob Leadley flashed to Elbert’s mind: ‘... like the Virgin speaking to them.’ Yes, he could understand being held by that song; a wonder above everything, that Bart could leave at all.

They had crossed the grounds to Mamie’s tether; Bart’s left ankle was in his hand for a lift. He swung up behind on the spacious saddle-tree; Mamie darting off in the dark toward high country with her double burden. Hauntingly from behind:

And from Bart:

‘That there song, Mister, has followed me all the way!’

Miles back among the hills, they picked up the sorrel; still no sound of pursuit. Then it was northward among the foothills—the north star for Elbert’s eyes. At any moment he half expected to hear, ‘No, I’m not going to fall, Mister,’ but to-night it was: ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m sittin’ easy.’

Before daybreak they followed a little stream up higher—less volume but more noise all the way, and came to rest in the deep privacy of a sunless ravine.

The second night, long after midnight, they heard the far scream of a train from the north.

‘The Mexican Pacific,’ suggested Elbert.

‘Where?’ said Bart.

‘That train—’

‘The Mexican Pacific cuts north through San Isidro Gorge ten miles southeast of here. Ask old Mallet-head, that’s where we dragged him out of his Pullman—’

‘You think we’ve crossed the Border—that this is a U.S. Transcontinental?’

‘The States is a large place, but I sure thought you’d know home when you got there, Doc.’

But Elbert could hardly believe. A little later they caught a glimpse of the crawling serpent of coaches, faint lights for scales. Finally in the first daylight the two horses crossed the tracks—‘Safety First,’ authoritative like an Eleventh Commandment on a big water tank in the dusk of morning.