At their approach the two swarthy-skinned men looked up in surprise. The taller one, who was a little squint-eyed and had a scar on his chin, drew his brows together into a deep frown as he peered from under his sombrero at Jo Ann.
Involuntarily Jo Ann caught her breath as the thought darted into her mind that he looked as if he recognized her. “Perhaps he saw me there in the gully,” she thought.
By that time Florence was talking to the woman in rapid Spanish, offering to buy all her pottery at almost three times more than the men had offered.
The taller man whirled about to stare at Florence and to scowl more fiercely than ever. “It is impossible for you to buy the ollas. She promise us all—everything.”
Florence ignored this remark and asked the woman, “How much did they say in the first place that they would pay you?”
Between sobs the woman replied and added, “Now they say they will give me only half of that.”
“Since they won’t pay you what they had promised, then sell your pottery to me.”
Both men broke into a torrent of protests, waving their arms and shaking their heads violently.
While they were absorbed in arguing with Florence, Jo Ann gradually edged over and looked into the back of the car, the bottom of which was filled with pottery packed in straw. After one hasty glance over her shoulder at the men, she reached over and pulled out a large olla from the middle.
How heavy it was! She peered into it, then thrust her hand inside. There was a package—a heavy one—at the bottom.