“Let’s listen and find out,” said Ted.
As the blaze by which they dried their mysteriously muddy feet died down to red coals, from the pack of one of the burros the old peon extracted some ready-made tamales and proceeded to add the heat of cooking to the hotter peppers within their enwrapping corn husks. This fiery mixture they quenched from a round-bellied bottle passed from lip to lip, though the fat one took his first and longest.
“They’re the fire bugs, all right,” said Pedro softly into Ted’s ear. And it was agreed that they might safely creep in along the shadows till Pedro could hear more plainly.
Sanchez was the name of the fat leader, and his son and his servant the others proved to be. They had, it developed, a grouch against the lumber company down on the Kawa, (in which, as it happened, Ace’s father had an interest). They had been fired from the crew, and no punishment was too great for a company that would do that to a workman who merely asked his accustomed afternoon siesta.
“Detestablemente!” (And other remarks that sounded like fire-works.) The pigs of Americanoes! Pedro convulsed Ted with his recital when they had crept back to the cave mouth, despite the seriousness of the situation.
That they would start more fires at their first opportunity had also been established by their conversation.
“We can’t let ’em go,” argued the ranch boy.
“We can’t capture them,” the Castilian was as positive. “We are unarmed, and they have their daggers.”
Ted pondered, peered out at the still, smoking ground, soothed the nervous horse, then came to a conclusion, which he unfolded to his comrade.
He must go for help. He would ride that horse, find Norris, get Ace to wireless Radcliffe, and summon help. But—he eyed Pedro doubtfully, knowing his uncourageous bearing at the rodeo.