“Oh, dey pays—in paper money,” replied the German, sourly.
“Well, you’re better off than we are. They took our stuff, shot two of the boys, knifed another, and blew up our track.”
“Young Pachuca and his crowd. Say, who’s the boss of this outfit?”
Swartz opined that Colonel d’Anguerra, who was lodged in the house of the local jefe, was in command.
“Good-natured kind of a guy, is he?” queried Tom, anxiously. “Or one of the kind that orders out the firing squad if his dinner don’t set well on him?”
Swartz had seen better natured men than the Colonel, but on the other hand admitted that he had seen worse. “He iss a young man,” he said, “and he ain’t got so much sense that it bothers him, yet he tries to keep them devils quiet if he can.”
“Well, give me a drink of water if you ain’t got no beer. I guess I’ll look this feller up.”
“I got some lemon pop,” offered Swartz, hospitably. “Them fellers don’t like it; it ain’t got poison enough in it for ’em.”
Johnson, having drunk the pop, departed for the official residence. It took some time and a good deal of diplomacy to get an audience with the military chief, but it was accomplished at last. D’Anguerra was a youngish man, tall, thin and sallow. He spoke very little English, but his secretary spoke it very well and acted as interpreter, Tom’s Spanish being several degrees worse than the Colonel’s English. The conversation in two tongues proceeded through the secretary with dispatch and accuracy.