Barosa turned on them, his eyes snapping with rage. “Do you follow your own lead or mine?”
“He shall die,” said Marco sullenly, and was raising his revolver again when Barosa snatched it from him and flung it to the ground.
All three quailed before his fierce look and masterful assertion of his leadership; and Marco fell back a couple of paces, his gaze at me more vengeful and bitter than before, as if I had been the cause of his humiliation.
I could understand Barosa’s action. With men of this class among his followers his rule must be absolute and inflexible. Independent action, even when amounting to no more than an anticipation of his orders, could only be fraught with danger in such a cause as his; and for his own sake and that of the end he had in view, he was bound to exact literal and implicit obedience.
For a few seconds there was dead silence.
“Well, is it my lead or yours?” he asked them.
There was no longer sign or sound of disobedience.
“Pick up your weapon, Marco.”
The young fellow obeyed and put it back in his pocket.
“Now your decision?” he asked.