“But not of murder, as we did to-day.”
“That too, for that was murder to-day. But I was thinking of a worse crime. I was thinking of theft, sir.”
“Theft? How can that be worse?”
“Theft of their country, I mean, and as your accomplice I owe restitution. Leaving after a victory ain’t so bad, but if I’d known that I was fighting for that Black Decree, I’d of 291dropped out before the fight. But look at it anyway you please. How it looks be damned!”
“Señor, lay down your pistols and sabre, there, on that table, because, by Heaven, I shall stop you! But if you are armed, I–I shall have to shoot you, too.”
“Hang it, Mendez, you’re a good fellow! But–I can’t help it.”
“Lay them down, you renegade!”
Driscoll removed his sabre and gravely placed it on the table.
“The guns are my own,” he said. “Dupin had them returned to me. He took them. Suppose you take them, Colonel Mendez!”
He was in the doorway, and from there he faced them. The day was hot, and Mendez had taken off his belt with his weapons. But the others were armed. Yet they hesitated. They were brave enough for death, but before the certainty of death for at least one among them and the uncertainty of which one, they paused. Driscoll had not touched the black six-shooters under his ribs. That would have snapped the psychological fetter. As he expected, Mendez sprang first. This put an unarmed man between himself and the others. In the instant he wheeled, was in the saddle, and clattering down the street.