The Mexican who had spoken in English turned to Alex with a malicious grin on his dusky, dirty, greasy face.
“Call him here!” he commanded, pointing to Case, now turning off down the river and looking sharply about for the boys.
“I won’t!” replied the boy. “I’m not going to help you get him! I hope he’ll turn around and shoot you up! You let him alone!”
The other’s eyes blazed angrily and he leveled his revolver at Case, who was still increasing the distance between himself and the boys.
“Very well,” the Mexican said. “We can’t permit him to spy about the country. If you won’t call him to you, I’ll shoot him where he stands. I’ll give you while you count ten to decide.”
This put a different complexion on the situation. Alex hesitated only a second. He had every reason to believe that the Mexican would keep his word regarding the suggested murder of Case. He looked vicious enough to commit any crime, even that of shooting a boy in the back. If taken prisoner, Case might still stand a chance of getting away, while if deliberately shot down that would be the end of all things for him.
“Say, Case” the boy cried out, then. “Come on over here. I’ve got something to show you. Hurry up!”
Case turned about and ran toward the sheltered spot where the men lay with their prisoners. The boy’s face was wreathed with smiles, for he had been more than anxious about Alex. The Mexican’s evil eyes lighted up wickedly as the boy came up to his chums, looking suspiciously at the Mexicans as he advanced.
There were no weapons in sight, and so Case’s suspicions passed away in a measure, and he sat down by Alex’s side, his eyes fixed inquiringly on the others, and especially on Don Durand, the boy King had described as such a desperado. A bulging pocket at once caught the attention of the Mexican who had ordered Alex to call the lad into captivity.
“Stand up!” he ordered. “Stand up and throw out those guns!”