“Come over or you answer to me!” snorted Pedro, forgetting his caution. “Cowards that you are, I’ll show you,” and he started back across the log to get in arguing reach of the deserters.
But four steps from the bank his feet again suddenly leaped out from under him and the log smote him in the back with a loud thump, and a wild splash flung a dirty rain in the faces of his terrified companions.
“Uh, uh!” he gasped, coming to the surface at last. “Kff! Tchoo!” for he had swallowed a most unsavory pint.
“Ah, ha-ha!” rang a weird, shrill laugh from the southern bank. Pepe and ’Lipe crossed themselves and took to their heels, without thought of waiting for their leader. It struck a chill through Pedro, too, as he floundered to the shore and clambered up the jagged rocks frantically, cutting his hands and knees. But he hardly noticed that—all he could think of was the mocking laugh. Candelária’s laugh! After all, she was too strong! There was no use fighting against these witches—just see how easily she had undone his strength and wit! No more witch hunts for him—and he scrambled up the bank in utter rout. Just then a dark form reached out overhead. Pedro did not see it; but in an instant came a warm, suffocating avalanche which choked his cry of terror and half blinded him.
“Murder!” he managed to sputter at last. “So-cor-r-r-ro!” and he fled to the camp like one chased by wolves.
“So, thief! Shameless! It was thou that stole my tallow, then!” roared Telango, who had discovered his loss just now. “To anoint that dirty head, eh? Then take this!” and with a stout cudgel he belabored the luckless Pedro till the latter broke away and fled into further darkness. No wonder Telango had found him out—his great shock of hair and beard were matted in a gray, greasy mask, like the runnings of a cheap candle.
Pedro did not finish the shearing season. Next morning he was missing from Alamitos, and a few days later news came that he was in Cubero. His accomplices had no explanations to offer for his disappearance or for their wet clothing, and as for Alonzo, he “told nothing to nobody.” Only at times he was observed to drop his shears and double up as though he had a pain in his stomach, while his face would become suspiciously red. Furthermore, he came carelessly up to Telango at noon with:
“Oh, here’s your lard bucket—I picked it up by the arroyo. And say—if you want to make candles, you’d better go scrape the foot-log. Somebody has greased the whole middle of it!”
“What thing?” grumbled Telango. “Of the witches, no doubt. And quizas the same who anointed Pedro.”