“She is already,” Driscoll corrected him, “and so are you. Will you fight it out, or surrender?”
He pointed to the Grays as he spoke. They had dismounted, and each man had a rifle at aim across his saddle. It was a reminiscence out of Driscoll’s boyhood of Indians and the Santa Fé trail. But Don Rodrigo only smiled.
“You want the coach first?” he said.
“No!” Driscoll retorted. “You’re the one that’s wanted, and you can either wait for your trial, or be shot now, fighting. The coach will have to take its chances. But see here, if the firing once starts, not a thief among you will be left standing––”
It was a perilous “bluff,” and none might say if it would have broken the deadlock. But the outlaw interrupted.
“Listen! What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing. We’re only throwing a few bombs into Querétero.”
“Only!” The brigand’s eyes flashed, and his voice was filled with envy. Throwing bombs among the traitors?–and magnificence like that had grown common! Yet he, whose patriotism was a passion that fed and thrived upon itself, must be barred from such exquisite satiety.
Driscoll understood, and thought it droll. First there was that loyal Imperialist, Don Tiburcio, frothing chagrin because he had had to desert. And now here was this rabid Republican, heart broken over being outlawed from the ranks of his country’s avengers.
Again Rodrigo interrupted, more excitedly yet. “Señor, 387señor, you don’t shoot them that way every day? What does it mean?”