“Carramba!” muttered the fellow, his eyes gleaming. “Could I not?”
“Very well, Pedro Escarillaz; we do not want much—only two rifles and a hundred cartridges.”
“Carr-r-r-r-rajo!” swore Pedro, under his breath. “It is death to talk that way.”
“Then you cannot serve us?” demanded Juan, in a voice that sounded all but indifferent.
“How much do you offer?” asked the soldier, suddenly.
“Fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars for a gun and cartridges?” repeated Private Escarillaz. “It is too little.”
“That would be altogether too much,” retorted Ramirez, imperturbably. “The price that I have offered must be for two Mauser rifles and a hundred cartridges.”
“Say seventy-five dollars,” proposed the soldier, “and I may be able to help you. But for less it cannot be done.”
“Then, Pedro Escarillaz, I wish you good-night,” answered Juan, performing a half wheel.