The Mexican rose to his feet and began hesitatingly:
“Geeve me—” He paused; and then, starting with the thought that had come to him, he shot a glance at the dance-hall and called out loudly, rolling his r’s even more pronouncedly than is the custom with his race: “Aguardiente! Aguardiente!”
“Sit down!” ordered Nick, vaguely conscious that there was something in the greaser’s voice that was not there before.
The greaser obeyed, but not until he knew for a certainty that his voice had been heard by his master.
“So you did bring in my saddle, eh, Nick?” asked the road agent, coming quickly, but unconcernedly into the room and standing behind his man.
Up to this time, Nick’s eyes had not left the prisoner, but with the appearance on the scene of Johnson, he felt that his responsibility ceased in a measure. He turned and gave his attention to matters pertaining to the bar. As a consequence, he did not see the look of recognition that passed between the two men, nor did he hear the whispered dialogue in Spanish that followed.
“Maestro! Ramerrez!” came in whispered tones from Castro.
“Speak quickly—go on,” came likewise in whispered tones from the road agent.
“I let them take me according to your bidding,” went on Castro.
“Careful, Jose, careful,” warned his master while stooping to pick up his saddle, which he afterwards laid on the faro table. It was while he was thus engaged that Nick came over to the prisoner with a glass of liquor, which he handed to him gruffly with: