True enough, the Peruvian gang was jumping from its hut. With another glance at the prostrate Francisco to make sure he was unconscious, Tim whirled to meet them, fist on gun.
"Halt!" he roared. "First guy passin' this corner post gits shot. Back up!"
The impact of his voice, the menace of his ready gun hand, the sight of Knowlton and McKay leaping out with pistols drawn, stopped the rush at the designated post. But swift hands dropped, and when they rose again the moonlight glinted on cold steel.
"Capitan, what happens here?" demanded José, ominously quiet.
"Knife work," McKay replied, curtly. "Your man Francisco attempted to creep in and murder Señor Knowlton. If you and the rest have similar intentions, now's your time to try. If not, put away those knives."
"Knives! Por Dios, what do you mean?"
"Look behind you."
José looked. At once he snarled curses and commands. Slowly the knives slipped out of sight. The paddlers edged backward to their own shack, leaving their puntero alone.
"The capitan has it wrong," asserted José. "We awake to find our popero being kicked in the head. We want to know why. If Francisco has done what you say I will deal with him. That I may be sure, allow me to look."
"Very well. Look."