"Oh, you mean the castle ghost—this old rummy who can't sleep in his grave of nights? Ha, ha! I'm not afraid of a little trifle like that, señor."
Robledo stepped back threateningly, and yet with hesitation caused by the perplexing simplicity of this foreigner.
"No?... Well, señorita, we gentlemen of Seguro will gladly drink to your American hero! Here, lads, is a toast to the maddest fool that ever came to Spain!"
He turned contemptuously on his heel, with military precision. Then he chuckled Dolores under the chin with a leer, to have his hand indignantly pushed aside. As the girl glared at him with a flash of hatred in her eyes, he stalked into the taproom, followed by the ready topers.
"Pile these bags on the table, Rusty," ordered Warren, as he smiled winningly at the girl.
"Yassir. We kin use 'em for one of these yere barracadies, if we has to."
"It looks as though we're booked for a warm reception in Seguro, Rusty. Doesn't it?"
Rusty rolled those chalky optics, with an expression of mingled drollery, apprehension, and confidence in his master's ability to lead the battle. It is wonderful how much expression can be condensed into a darky's eyes!
"Yassir. It's some tropical, dat's shore. But, you-all ain't no cold-storage rooster yohself, Marse Warren. A little Kaintucky ammanition might make some echoes 'round dis confabulation."
From the taproom came loud howls of derision from the associated village sports of Seguro.