Then Teddy caught his breath and said, “Let’s not go back to Santa Fé.” He felt it too, then. Of course; he had to feel it too. He repeated, “Let’s not go back. You mustn’t go back to school and I mustn’t go on shaking cocktails for hostesses. We’ll go to Mexico and get away from everything. How about it?” Walking swiftly, Blake said, “All right. Yes.” It was a perfect thought. He felt no impulse to make plans. Leave it at that; then going will be simple. “We can drive it easily,” Teddy said. “We’ll get a car that we can depend on and it’ll be simple. I don’t care if we never come back, either.” He slowed up in his walk, wheeled, and started back to the trading post as though their errand had been finished. Skipping to catch up, Blake followed in step. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Mexico City, with broad white streets and narrow little slums. There would be fights. He and Teddy would frequent the little cafes ... knives flashing ... the room full of glowering peons allied against them.... He leaped at the swarthy man with the knife who was striking Teddy in the back. The knife felt sharp but not very painful as it reached his heart. Madden was shaking his shoulder and saying, “Blake! My God, he’s dying.” He stirred, smiled.... Blinking the wetness from his eyes, he blushed in the darkness and shoved his hands into his pockets. Tramp, tramp. Another flash; sitting in the cheapest seats in the Mexican theatre, surrounded by grimy sweaty people, mustachioed men and mustachioed women. They shouted as the dancer whirled out on the stage, stamping her little red heals. But she looked straight at Teddy, and her eyes were like Gin’s, fixed on Teddy in the same mocking, hurt way. And Teddy folded his arms and looked at her with his high little smile, the smile that always made Blake hate him and love him too. The music played; her little heels tapped the stage imperiously. She took the rose from her bosom and tossed it.... But someone was singing; someone really was singing out there in the dark, miles off across the rabbit-brush. Chanting, rising to a hysterical falsetto and swooping down again to a minor note under the one that began the song.... From the shadows back of the store-room another man answered him, for all the world like a coyote. CHAPTER TEN Mac drove away and the store was open for business, with the boys hanging about curiously, fingering the stock and getting into Bush’s way as he waited on customers. The big cool room was lined with shelves full of folded overalls and canned goods and coloured handkerchiefs and sheepskins and harness and cooking pots and candy. Three or four Navajos, who had been lounging on the doorstep when the store was first opened, now lounged on the hay-box and showed no signs either of buying or of going away. When other Indians came in they greeted them, then went on with the business of staring at the stock, or whittling little pieces of wood.