Bernard felt somewhat disappointed following the conversation with his father. He had been hoping for a little more parental concern. After all, it wasn't every day a son got his head cut off.
He'd kept back something when he told his father about his unpleasant misadventure. He didn't mention he'd acquired a very strong, very deep desire to rip the guts out of every Mexican he came across, in either world. He felt it again as he lay back on his hiber bed.
When he arrived in Fort Lander, he found himself frowning at a wayward chicken running down the street in front of the house that served as his residence. The chicken was chased by one of the Mexican colonists, and Bernard realized that a bit of planning was required before he could indulge in his murderous desires. The Mexican colonists were very useful - they took care of the fucking chickens, among other things - a final solution to the Mexican problem required careful planning, and plenty of foresight.
