"He has a bag, and a heavy one, sir," one of them said, as he lifted a canvas bag from the dead man's sash.
"Let us see what he valued my life at," Juan replied.
The two vaqueros counted over the gold pieces.
"There are eighty of them."
"Ten apiece," Juan remarked. "Put aside sixty for the widows of Pedro and Lopez, and take ten each yourselves."
"Shall we do anything with the body, señor?"
"Fetch some big stones and pile them over it. There will be no search for him, for you may be sure he has not mentioned to anyone in the town what he was going to do, or where he was going. He probably asked for a week's leave of absence, and would likely enough say that he was going up to Los Angeles or Santa Barbara, and when he does not return it will be supposed that he has been murdered on the way. When you have done with him you had better do the same thing with the bodies of your two comrades. The ground is too rocky to dig graves, and they will sleep as well there as elsewhere. It would be impossible for us to carry them home."
An hour's labour and the work was finished. Will assisted the men in the work. Juan did not offer to do so.
"I have a bullet in my shoulder," he said. "Another fellow fired the instant that I shot his comrade. He luckily hit my shoulder instead of my head. I will get you to fetch Pedro's sash and make a sling for my arm. We can do nothing for it until we go down to Monterey."
"Have the horses gone far, do you think, Juan?"