“Give it up,” replied Adrian. “It couldn’t have been he that was shot.”
“Who knows?” said Billie suddenly. “No one entered the house. He may be lying in there dead.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Adrian, “I’ll suggest it to the policeman.”
“Not as you value your life,” interrupted Donald. “If by any chance they should find him dead, they’d accuse us of killing him.”
All this had been said in English, of which the policemen did not understand a word. In fact, had it been said in Spanish, it is doubtful if the policemen could have heard, on account of the hooting and the cries of “Down with the Americanos! Death to the Gringoes!”
“If they ever get us locked up,” said Donald, a moment later, “it’s going hard with us. We’ve simply got to get away!”
“All right!” replied Billie. “You lead the way.”
“Wait till the right moment and keep your eye on me. When I shout, both of you join in and we’ll try and stampede this herd.”
Slowly they rode along the narrow street and finally emerged on to the plaza. Here the street was much wider, and the crowd became less dense, although no smaller numerically.
As they passed one of the cantinas, a gang of half-drunken railroad laborers of various nationalities came out, singing and shouting. Among them were several Americans, seeing which Donald gave a wild yell, crying at the top of his voice: