She put Baldy up the steep trail that had so filled her with terror when she first scaled it, and down upon the other side into the grove of oaks that had hidden the camp; but now there was no camp there—only the debris that always marks the stopping place of men.
As she reached the foot of the trail, she saw Bartolo standing beneath a great oak, awaiting her. His pony stood with trailing reins beneath the tree. A rifle butt protruded from a boot on the right of the saddle. He came forward as she guided Baldy toward the tree.
“Buenos dias, señorita,” he greeted her, twisting his pock-marked face into the semblance of a smile.
“What do you want of me?” Shannon demanded.
“I need money,” he said. “You get money from Evans. He got all the money from the hootch we take down two weeks ago. We never get no chance to get it from him.”
“I’ll get you nothing!”
“You get money now—and whenever I want it,” said the Mexican, “or I tell about Crumb. You Crumb’s woman. I tell how you peddle dope. I know! You do what I tell you, or you go to the pen. Sabe?”
“Now listen to me,” said the girl. “I didn’t come up here to take orders from you. I came to give you orders.”
“What?” exclaimed the Mexican, and then he laughed aloud. “You give me orders? That is damn funny!”
“Yes, it is funny. You will enjoy it immensely when I tell you what you are to do.”