“But, Henry, I can’t stand it! And I look so! I never was so altogether wretched in all my life,” groaned Clara.
“Be patient, that’s a good girl, until we see what they’re going to do.”
“If that devil’s face is any index to his character, he’s going to do something awful.”
Angel Gonzales, in fact, was justifying Clara’s opinion of him.
“The woman has money and property, and so, I think, has he,” he said to Cortes. “If they have money, they have friends, and friends will pay, eh?”
“Sometimes,” admitted Cortes. “But we are in a hurry, amigo. If Pachuca has come this far, he means business. We had better be on our way to meet him.”
“Yes, that’s so. Our horses are not strong enough to carry double, either. We’ll leave the Americanos with Manuel Soria and pay him to keep them for a few days until we know what we want to do with them, eh?”
“Not bad,” agreed Cortes. “Manuel is a good deal of a fool but his woman is smart. Give her a gun and she will know how to use it. She will do it for me because I make love to her now and then,” he added, with something which in a civilized being would pass for a simper.
“Humph, she’d do it for me because I’ll pay her some good money and promise her more,” said the unsympathetic Gonzales.
By this time they had reached the Soria cabin, much to Clara’s relief, and the party dismounted. The cabin door was closed, and Angel, who evidently wasted no time on the little courtesies of life, raised his pistol and fired into it. Clara caught her breath in horror.