Yet, pulsing with vindictive anger, the exhibition paled by contrast with his furious attack on one of his own officers who came in as the correspondents filed out. The fact that he had been wounded and had gone on, alone, when his command refused to face a galling fire, made no difference. Beast mouth stretched to a gorilla grin, every line of his face writhing in an awful smile, Valles scored him with coarse insult and seething invective while his hand toyed thirstily with the hilt of his knife.
Flushing and paling, the man stood with hanging head till an order issued from the last furious burst. “Go, now, and shoot every tenth man in your command. I will teach them that I am more to be feared than the damned Carranzistas!”
In the midst of it Bull nudged Benson. “Don’t you allow we better leave him cool for a while?”
But the Englishman’s obstinate jaw set hard. “I’m not afraid of him. Besides”—the secretary stood again in the doorway—“it is too late.”
A curt nod marked Valles’s recognition of Benson as they followed in. Then, as his tigerish eyes took in Bull, they lit with quick appreciation of his bulk, then went off again on their suspicious questing. While Benson talked, he beat again a soft tattoo with the heel of his hand; then, rising, he walked off into another room.
The secretary followed, and through the closed door they caught the harsh, throaty monotone. When it ceased the secretary came out.
“My general says that all of your property is subject to requisition to be paid for in legal currency issued by him as the chief of the republican armies.”
“And he thinks we’ll stand for that?” His eyes flashing under bent brows, harsh face burning with anger, Benson stepped toward the door. “I’ll—”
But as he moved the “Matador” stepped in between. Half a dozen lounging officers, too, came hurrying from the balconies.
“It would do no good, señor.” The secretary’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “Wait a more favorable time.”