All these things had flattered him in the usual way. What
did he care about their politics? Nothing at all. And at the end of it
all--Nostromo here and Nostromo there--where is Nostromo? Nostromo can
do this and that--work all day and ride all night--behold! he found
himself a marked Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for
instance, would choose to take, now the Montero party, had, after all,
mastered the town. The Europeans had given up; the Caballeros had given
up. Don Martin had indeed explained it was only temporary--that he
was going to bring Barrios to the rescue. Where was that now--with Don
Martin (whose ironic manner of talk had always made the Capataz feel
vaguely uneasy) stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody had given up.
Even Don Carlos had given up. The hurried removal of the treasure out
to sea meant nothing else than that. The Capataz de Cargadores, on a
revulsion of subjectiveness, exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all
his world without faith and courage. He had been betrayed!
With the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of his silence and
immobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowded around
the white, misty sheen of Higuerota, Nostromo laughed aloud again,
sprang abruptly to his feet, and stood still.
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