“He got it, the ‘no,’ quick and hard. Then the great anger that was in him burst forth like a river in flood. Like bear and tiger they quarreled, the señor threatening Valles with the power and vengeance of his government, Valles snarling defiance, their passions feeding each other as brands burn together in a fire.
“One other thing, and you will have a picture of it, señor—the two at their furious talk, the girl against the wall behind Valles, one hand held out, fear in her great eyes, and a fourth; for as they wrangled there came a stir behind me. So quietly that I, whom he touched in passing, did not hear, el Matador came into the room. One second he stood, watching them from narrow eyes, then, slowly and quietly as a snake slipping through grass, he drew up behind the señor. I have shot men in this war. At home in Las Bocas I have drawn the knife in passion. But the cold glittering of his eyes, slow snake crawl, chilled the blood of me.
“He had gained knifing distance when the señor roared in disgust. ‘Bah! Why do I waste words on a peon? My general, is it? I have had such generals whipped on my place! General? A bandit peon who steals horses in place of the chickens with which he began his thieveries!’
“‘Bandit peon? Stealer of chickens?’ This, señor, to Valles that had killed a hundred men with his own hand before the wars ever began? The yellow eyes of him seemed to leap out of his face. At the sight of him, frothing like a mad tiger in lust to kill, the girl screamed, hiding her face! At his belt hung pearl-jeweled pistols, the best of their kind. But with the instinct of his old trade the hand of the butcher flew to his knife.
“They say that the señor tried to kill him. It is a lie! Even when the knife flashed in his eyes he still stood at his distance, shaking his big fist, growling his threats, angry but unafraid; so big, strong, masterful, that Valles, even in his fury, hesitated. But not el Matador! Looking back as she ran out of the room, the girl saw as I saw; screamed aloud as the knife passed, once! twice! with a hiss and ’heigh! splitting the backbone, piercing the heart.”
With that strong sense of the dramatic which makes the peon a born story-teller he stopped. For a moment the flash of a match lifted the brown, hard face from the gloom under a tattered sombrero, lighting the faded red of his blanket serape. Then they faded again into a dim, huddled figure that swayed with the rack and swing of the cars.
Bull had unconsciously suspended his breath. Now it expired in a sigh. “His disposal. Know you aught of that?”
The shrug quivered again in the darkness. “There is little more that I saw. Across the body el Matador looked at me, and I chilled with the sure knowledge that I should never see my niñas again. He even stepped, then Valles spoke.
“‘This is a good hombre. He will help thee with—that!’ He followed the girl into the next room.
“Between us, el Matador and I, we rolled the señor in serapes, binding them with cords so that the face should not be seen by them that carried him out to the secret place; and it was then that he spoke of my captaincy.