Billy threw himself upon his stomach and crawled slowly forward stopping often.  The sentry seemed asleep.  He did not move.  Billy reached the shadow at the side of the structure and some fifty feet from the soldier without detection.  Then he rose to his feet directly beneath a barred window.

Within Bridge paced back and forth the length of the little building.  He could not sleep.  Tomorrow he was to be shot!  Bridge did not wish to die.  That very morning General Villa in person had examined him.  The general had been exceedingly wroth—­the sting of the theft of his funds still irritated him; but he had given Bridge no inkling as to his fate.  It had remained for a fellow-prisoner to do that.  This man, a deserter, was to be shot, so he said, with Bridge, a fact which gave him an additional twenty-four hours of life, since, he asserted, General Villa wished to be elsewhere than in Cuivaca when an American was executed.  Thus he could disclaim responsibility for the act.

The general was to depart in the morning.  Shortly after, Bridge and the deserter would be led out and blindfolded before a stone wall—­if there was such a thing, or a brick wall, or an adobe wall.  It made little difference to the deserter, or to Bridge either.  The wall was but a trivial factor.  It might go far to add romance to whomever should read of the affair later; but in so far as Bridge and the deserter were concerned it meant nothing.  A billboard, thought Bridge, bearing the slogan:  “Eventually!  Why not now?” would have been equally as efficacious and far more appropriate.

The room in which he was confined was stuffy with the odor of accumulated filth.  Two small barred windows alone gave means of ventilation.  He and the deserter were the only prisoners.  The latter slept as soundly as though the morrow held nothing more momentous in his destiny than any of the days that had preceded it.  Bridge was moved to kick the fellow into consciousness of his impending fate.  Instead he walked to the south window to fill his lungs with the free air beyond his prison pen, and gaze sorrowfully at the star-lit sky which he should never again behold.

In a low tone Bridge crooned a snatch of the poem that he and Billy liked best: 

  And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
  With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.

Bridge’s mental vision was concentrated upon the veranda of a white-walled ranchhouse to the east.  He shook his head angrily.

“It’s just as well,” he thought.  “She’s not for me.”

Something moved upon the ground beyond the window.  Bridge became suddenly intent upon the thing.  He saw it rise and resolve itself into the figure of a man, and then, in a low whisper, came a familiar voice: 

“There ain’t no roses in my hair, but there’s a barker in my shirt, an’ another at me side.  Here’s one of ’em.  They got kisses beat a city block.  How’s the door o’ this thing fastened?” The speaker was quite close to the window now, his face but a few inches from Bridge’s.