"Why, if it ain't George! Good old George!" cried Pringle, rising with outstretched arms. "And my dear friend Espalin! What a charming reunion!"
Applegate's eyes threw a startled question at his chief and at
Creagan; Espalin slipped swiftly back through the door.
"I don't know you, sir," said Applegate.
"George! You're never going to disown me! Joe's gone, too. Nobody loves me!"
The third man, a grizzled and bristly old warrior with a limp, broke in with a roar.
"What in hell's going on here?" he stormed.
"You are, for one thing, if you don't moderate your voice," said
Anastacio. "Nueces, you bellow like the bulls of Bashan. Mr.
Applegate, meet Mr. Pringle."
"What does he mean, then, by such monkeyshines?" demanded the other—old Nueces River, chief of police, ex-ranger, and, for this occasion, deputy sheriff. "I got no time for foolishness. And you can't run no whizzer on me, Barela. Don't you try it!"
"Oh, they're just joking, Nueces," said the Major. "Tell us how about it. Here, I'll light the lamp; it's getting dark. Find any sign of Foy?"
Nueces leveled a belligerent finger at the Major.