"Senor," begged Nicolas, "I would not joke about Gato. He means to kill you, or worse."
"Worse?" queried Tom, raising his eyebrows. "How could that be?"
The Mexican servant made a gesture of horror.
"It is worse when our Mexican bandits torture a man," he replied, his voice shaking. "They are fiends—those of our Mexicans who have bad hearts."
"Then you believe that Gato plans something diabolical, just because I walloped him in a fair fight—or in a fight where the odds were against me?"
"It matters not as to the merits of the fight," Nicolas went on. "Gato will never be satisfied until he has hurt you worse than you hurt him."
"And perhaps Don Luis may be behind the rascal, urging him on and offering to protect him from the law? What do you think about that, Nicolas?"
"I cannot say," Nicolas responded, with a slight shrug. "I am
Don Luis's servant."
"Pardon my forgetting that," begged Harry. "I should not have spoken as I did."
"For more than one reason," Tom muttered, "we shall do well to get out of this unfriendly stretch of country. Harry, we're pining for the good old U.S., aren't we?"