“ Perdone? ”
“The Arroyo Verde,” said the Saint steadily. “Between San Miguel and Gajo. Where there was a man with a sprained ankle who had been there for three days without food, and who might have stayed there until he starved if a brigand with a price on his head had not stayed to help him.”
“I have not the least idea what you are talking about.”
“I thought not,” said the Saint softly. “Because you weren’t there.”
He saw the bandit’s hands go rigid around the gun, and the blue steel was as sharp as knife points in his eyes.
“I didn’t think this brigand would have forgotten me so completely that we could spend an evening together without him recognizing me. You see, we got quite friendly down in that forsaken canyon, and when my ankle was better I paid him a visit here. That’s why I was able to find my way so easily yesterday. I came to Durango because I hoped to meet him again. And yet this brigand’s name was El Rojo, too. How do you explain that — Señor Alvarez?”
For a moment the bandit was silent, standing tense and still, and Simon could feel the shattering chaos whirling through the man’s mind, the wild spin of instinctive stratagems and lies sinking down to the grim realization of their ultimate futility.
“And suppose I am Alvarez?” said the man at last, and his natural voice was quite different from the way he had been speaking before.
“Then you should tell me more about what you said last night — and about El Rojo. Where is he?”
“I found him here by accident, but he thought I was looking for him. We fought, and he fell over the precipice. He lies in the grave which I said was mine.”