Mormon progenitors had given him a stocky, massive front and splendid build, a steely eye and projecting lower jaw. A touch of Mexican blood had given him coarse black hair, a swart complexion, and sinister mental attributes. He had much the appearance of a west-coast Irishman, with his black hair and gray eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Such was Abel Dorales, a man of reputation and education.
“Well?” greeted Mackintavers, abruptly. “What’s up now?”
“Trouble,” was the response. “Rodrigo Cota wants to see you. Also, I got a telegram from Ben Aimes, at Zacaton City, but haven’t decoded it yet. I think it’s about the Crump woman.”
“Then hurry it along,” snapped Mackintavers. “Send Cota in here pronto.”
A moment later entered the room a nervous native, the same legislator who had briefly interviewed Coravel Tio regarding the moving of the capital. Mr. Cota stood mopping his brow and glancing around.
“Well, Cota?” exploded Sandy, transfixing him with frowning gaze. “What’s the matter now? Need more money to swing it?”
“Señor,” blurted the legislator in desperation, “it cannot be swung!”
“Oh! And why not, Mr. Cota?”
“I do not know. Three weeks ago we had a clear majority. The measure was to be presented to-morrow—but our men have gone to pieces!”
“Do they want more money?” snapped Sandy, savagely.