But Tanto’s blood was up. Everyone but Guadalupe was an enemy. As he stood by the girl’s side, with lips drawn back and every hair erect, he was a foe to be considered. The taste of blood had made him wild. Before the speaker had taken five steps, the dog was at his throat. The force of the attack carried both dog and man to the ground, where for some seconds they fought desperately. But the unarmed peon was no match for the great beast. In a few minutes the conflict was over, and a second figure lay stretched upon the earth, while Guadalupe—unnerved by the sight—covered her face with her hands.
She was brought back to herself by a soft voice saying: “Call off your dog, señorita, and I will help you to get away from here.”
Guadalupe raised her eyes in surprise.
“You need have no fear,” the speaker continued. “I am not making war on women. Call off your dog, or I shall be obliged to kill him,” and Santiago, for it was he, drew a revolver from his breast.
Seeing that the man was armed, when he had declared to his companion that he was not, Guadalupe perceived that he must be friendly, and so called to the dog.
At first Tanto was not inclined to mind, but, after a second command, he left his last victim and placed himself at Guadalupe’s side.
“You can see I could kill your dog,” explained Santiago. “I could have killed him before. But I have no love for these,” and he gave the two bodies a contemptuous kick. “Keep your dog at your side and follow me before someone else comes.”
Even as Santiago spoke, they heard voices, and other men came crashing through the bushes some distance away.
“This way,” said Santiago, and he started in an opposite direction.
But they had no more than reached level ground than they heard voices on the other side.