Tiburcio gleamed triumphantly. “An audacious defence!” he exclaimed. “But luckily for me, Don Anastasio is here.”
“Oh, hurry up!” protested Driscoll.
Asked if he knew anything more of the prisoner, witness could not swear for certain, except that he recognized in the American one of the guerrillas who had ambushed and slain Captain Maurel near Tampico. Yes, witness was scouting for the murdered captain at the time. Naturally, witness was present.
“You wanted proof, Señor Americano, that you crossed the river?” said Lopez. “Well, are you content now?”
“Go on,” Driscoll returned. He was bored. “Some people on earth are alive yet, but while Tibby is on the stand maybe I killed them too. I wouldn’t swear I didn’t.”
Murguía was called next, but he did not seem to hear. His body was bent over his knees, silently trembling. A Dragoon pressed a hand on his shoulder, but a sobbing groan racked his frame, as of a very sick man who will not be awakened to his pain. The pause that followed was uncanny–a syncope in the affairs of men like a gaping grave under midnight clouds. Lopez spoke again. He regretted that they must intrude on a fresh and poignant sorrow, but the case in hand was a matter of state, before which the individual had to give way. It was very logical and convincing. But the feeble old shoulders made no sign.
Tiburcio leaned over and shook him gently, and whispered 185in his ear. Still Murguía did not move. Tiburcio gripped his arm. “You and Rodrigo,” he said, so low that none could hear, “there was something arranged between you. What was it? Tell me! Tell me, I say, if you want the Gringo shot!”
He bent nearer, and against his ear came a muffled sound of lips. When he straightened, it was to address the court.
If he might ask a question, had they searched the prisoner? They had. But thoroughly? Thoroughly. But not enough to find anything? No. Then he would suggest that they had not searched thoroughly. The court seemed impressed, and Driscoll was fumbled over again. Still they found nothing.
“Whose flask is that?” Tiburcio demanded, pointing to where it had been tossed and forgotten. The prisoner’s. “Look that over again,” Tiburcio insisted. A guard handed it to Lopez, who squinted inside. “There is nothing,” he said. It was only an old canteen whose leather covering was dropping apart from rot.