Something in his tone nettled the brigand. “What do you mean? Give me my pistol.”
Tiburcio pointed it at him instead. “When you cool a little, yes. But it takes a good marksman to hit a Frenchman with an empty pistol–especially when one wakes up and finds himself tied.”
Rodrigo stiffened. This was menacing to his dignity.
“Both lassoed,” Tiburcio went on, “and no telling which was heifer and which vaquero, stampeding down on poor Max.–Ai de mi, I never thought it could be so funny!”
“Give me my pistol!”
“Slumbering like two babes in the wood, and your sweet innocent breaths perfuming the woody forest. I’d have covered you with leaves, like the little robins, only––”
“Was it you tied us, you––”
“Just like two babes, but,” and Tiburcio pointed his thumb to his mouth and shook his head sorrowfully, “that’s bad, very 170bad. Why didn’t you leave me some? Of the cognac, especially?”
“If you don’t explain––”
“Softly there, amigo. Yes, I tied you.”