A tide of emotion surged over Gale. How good it was to meet a friend--some one to whom to talk! He had never appreciated his loneliness until that moment.
"George, how I ever drifted down here I don't know. I didn't exactly quarrel with the governor. But--damn it, Dad hurt me--shamed me, and I dug out for the West. It was this way.
After leaving college I tried to please him by tackling one thing after another that he set me to do. On the square, I had no head for business. I made a mess of everything. The governor got sore.
He kept ramming the harpoon into me till I just couldn't stand it.
What little ability I possessed deserted me when I got my back up, and there you are. Dad and I had a rather uncomfortable half hour.
When I quit--when I told him straight out that I was going West to fare for myself, why, it wouldn't have been so tough if he hadn't laughed at me. He called me a rich man's son--an idle, easy-going spineless swell. He said I didn't even have character enough to be out and out bad. He said I didn't have sense enough to marry one of the nice girls in my sister's crowd. He said I couldn't get back home unless I sent to him for money. He said he didn't believe I could fight--could really make a fight for anything under the sun. Oh--he--he shot it into me, all right."
**** dropped his head upon his hands, somewhat ashamed of the smarting dimness in his eyes. He had not meant to say so much.
Yet what a relief to let out that long-congested burden!
"Fight!" cried Thorne, hotly. "What's ailing him? Didn't they call you Biff Gale in college? ****, you were one of the best men Stagg ever developed. I heard him say so--that you were the fastest, one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound man he'd ever trained, the hardest to stop."
"The governor didn't count football," said ****. "He didn't mean that kind of fight. When I left home I don't think I had an idea what was wrong with me. But, George, I think I know now. I was a rich man's son--spoiled, dependent, absolutely ignorant of the value of money. I haven't yet discovered any earning capacity in me. I seem to be unable to do anything with my hands. That's the trouble. But I'm at the end of my tether now. And I'm going to punch cattle or be a miner, or do some real stunt--like joining the rebels."
"Aha! I thought you'd spring that last one on me," declared Thorne, wagging his head. "Well, you just forget it. Say, old boy, there's something doing in Mexico. The United States in general doesn't realize it. But across that line there are crazy revolutionists, ill-paid soldiers, guerrilla leaders, raiders, robbers, outlaws, bandits galore, starving peons by the thousand, girls and women in terror. Mexico is like some of her volcanoes--ready to erupt fire and hell! Don't make the awful mistake of joining rebel forces. Americans are hated by Mexicans of the lower class--the fighting class, both rebel and federal. Half the time these crazy Greasers are on one side, then on the other.
If you didn't starve or get shot in ambush, or die of thirst, some Greaser would knife you in the back for you belt buckle or boots. There are a good many Americans with the rebels eastward toward Agua, Prieta and Juarez. Orozco is operating in Chihuahua, and I guess he has some idea of warfare. But this Sonora, a mountainous desert, the home of the slave and the Yaqui. There's unorganized revolt everywhere. The American miners and ranchers, those who could get away, have fled across into the States, leaving property. Those who couldn't or wouldn't come must fight for their lives, are fighting now."
"That's bad," said Gale. "It's news to me. Why doesn't the government take action, do something?"
"Afraid of international complications. Don't want to offend the Maderists, or be criticized by jealous foreign nations. It's a delicate situation, ****. The Washington officials know the gravity of it, you can bet. But the United States in general is in the dark, and the army--well, you ought to hear the inside talk back at San Antonio. We're patrolling the boundary line. We're ****** a grand bluff. I could tell you of a dozen instances where cavalry should have pursued raiders on the other side of the line. But we won't do it. The officers are a grouchy lot these days. You see, of course, what significance would attach to United States cavalry going into Mexican territory. There would simply be hell. My own colonel is the sorest man on the job. We're all sore. It's like sitting on a powder magazine. We can't keep the rebels and raiders from crossing the line. Yet we don't fight. My commission expires soon. I'll be discharged in three months. You can bet I'm glad for more reasons than I've mentioned."
Thorne was evidently laboring under strong, suppressed excitement.
His face showed pale under the tan, and his eyes gleamed with a dark fire.
Occasionally his delight at meeting, talking with Gale, dominated the other emotions, but not for long. He had seated himself at a table near one of the doorlike windows leading into the street, and every little while he would glance sharply out. Also he kept consulting his watch.
These details gradually grew upon Gale as Thorne talked. "George, it strikes me that you're upset," said ****, presently. "I seem to remember you as a cool-headed fellow whom nothing could disturb.
Has the army changed you?"
Thorne laughed. It was a laugh with a strange, high note. It was reckless--it hinted of exaltation. He rose abruptly; he gave the water money to go for drinks; he looked into the saloon, and then into the street. On this side of the house there was a porch opening on a plaza with trees and shrubbery and branches. Thorne peered out one window, then another. His actions were rapid. Returning to the table, he put his hands upon it and leaned over to look closely into Gale's face.
"I'm away from camp without leave," he said.
"Isn't that a serious offense?" asked ****.
