“You bet,” cried Billy.
Pesita thought for several minutes. In his mind was a scheme which required the help of just such an individual as this stranger—someone who was utterly unknown in the surrounding country and whose presence in a town could not by any stretch of the imagination be connected in any way with the bandit, Pesita.
“I tell you,” he said. “I let your friend go. I send him under safe escort to El Orobo Rancho. Maybe he help us there after a while. If you stay I let him go. Otherwise I shoot you both with Miguel.”
“Wot you got it in for Mig fer?” asked Billy. “He's a harmless sort o' guy.”
“He Villista. Villista with gringos run Mexico—gringos and the church. Just like Huerta would have done it if they'd given him a chance, only Huerta more for church than for gringos.”
“Aw, let the poor boob go,” urged Billy, “an' I'll come along wit you. Why he's got a wife an' kids—you wouldn't want to leave them without no one to look after them in this God-forsaken country!”
Pesita grinned indulgently.
“Very well, Senor Captain,” he said, bowing low. “I let Miguel and your honorable friend go. I send safe escort with them.”
“Bully fer you, ol' pot!” exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of “Granavenoo.” “I'll go an' tell 'em,” said Billy.
“Yes,” said Pesita, “and say to them that they will start early in the morning.”