“N-o?” said Driscoll in dismay. “Gracious, I hadn’t any time to count money when I searched ’em!”
“You!–searched Don Tiburcio?”
“Why not? Isn’t he a thief?”
“But–he permitted––”
“W’y yes, they both let me, I had the drop. But they got indignant and called me a thief–I believe they’d of called a policeman if there’d been one handy, or even–– Now what,” he exclaimed, “what ails the old bare-bones now?”
The senile mirth had left the trader’s face, and his olive skin was ashen. “Next time,” he moaned, “next time, Santa María, they will be in force and they–they will take the very horse from under me!”
“Tough luck,” Driscoll observed.
77Murguía darted at him a look in which there was all the old hate, and more added. But it disturbed the trooper as little as ever. “Come,” he said, “own up. You knew we were going to meet those fellows?” Murguía said nothing. “Of course you knew. But why didn’t you change your route, seeing you’re too high-minded to fight?–What’s that?–Oh that voice! Dive for it, man!”
“I, I couldn’t change on account of my passport.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”