At the corral he delivered Vaca's message to Waring, who feigned delight at the other's information.
"If that is so, Tio Juan," he laughed, "you shall have your share—a hundred pesos. Leave the blankets there by my saddle. We will go to the house."
From the coolness of night, with its dim radiance of stars, to the accumulated heat of the interior of the adobe was an unpleasant change. The walls were whitewashed and clean enough, but the place smelled strongly of cooking. A lamp burned on the oilcloth-covered table. Ramon, wide-eyed with trepidation, stood by his uncle, who had braced himself on his elbow as Waring approached. Waring nodded pleasantly and rolled a cigarette. José Vaca glared up at him hungrily. The lower lip, pendulous, showed his broken teeth. Waring thought of a trapped wolf. Juan glanced from one to the other.
But the gringo seemed incurious, merely gazing at the pictures on the walls; a flaming print of the Madonna, one of the Christ, a cheap photograph of Juan and his señora taken on their wedding day, an abalone shell on which was painted something resembling a horse and rider—
"The gold is hidden in the house of Pedro Salazar, of Sonora. It is buried in the earth beneath his bed."
José Vaca had spoken, but Waring was watching Ramon's eyes.
"All right, hombre. Muchas gracias."
"And now you will let me go?" queried Vaca.
"I haven't said so." Waring's tone was pleasant, almost indifferent.
Ramon's face was troubled. Of what use was it to try and deceive the gringo? But Waring was smiling. Did he, then, believe such an obvious lie?