“Shoot him!” thundered the Tiger.
“But if he will tell us?” someone interposed.
It was Don Tiburcio, still the guardian angel of the golden goose.
“Bien,” growled the Tiger, “let him live then until we find the American.”
“Which way did they go?” Tiburcio whispered in Murguía’s ear.
“To, to Valles,” came the reply.
The blazing huts revealed a ghoulish joy on the miser’s face. The Gringo, not he, would now have to explain to the Tiger.
108CHAPTER XIII
Unregistered in Any Studbook
“La belle chose que l’aristocratie quand on a le chance d’en être.”