Andrés did not move. “Haniwa!” he muttered in the same slow, stupid way, shutting his eyes as the club rose again. But just then a voice called from the carriage:
“To what use, brother? They are no more than clods. Beat one to death, and you shall not change him. Let Pepe tie him and then we can verify the boxes.”
The one with the quirt hesitated a moment. His blood was hot, and the brute in him ached to beat away at this maddening stupid. His hand dropped reluctantly, and he growled:
“As thou wilt. Rope him then, Pepe.”
But if the arriero had stood dumb under the lash of his superior, it was another page in the almanac when a brown fellow of his own blood and station caught him by the arms and started to pass a reata around him. Andrés doubled forward at the waist, clumsily but resistlessly. His tousled head struck Pepe on the mouth, and that too-ready henchman rolled heavily in the road. Andrés sprang upon him and flung fistfuls of dust in his face, shaking him as a terrier does a rat.
“Pig! Who lent thee a candle in this funeral? Thy master I could not fight. But thou, barbarian——”
“Socorro!” bawled Pepe, quite helpless in the clutch of his exasperated rider. “Take him off!”
“I’ll take him off!” growled the master, and he ran forward, swinging the club about his head. Woe is me for thy skull, Andresito, if that ounce of lead befall it squarely from behind!