This was indeed luxury, far more than he had dared to hope for. He told Gomez so and the Mexican stretched his mouth in a wide grin showing all his startlingly white teeth.
“Tony bring water,” he said. “Senor pretty dirty.”
“Say,” said Phil, staring at the fellow with surprise and gratitude. “You sure are a dead game sport, Tony. How did you know I’d almost rather wash my face than eat?”
But the smile on the Mexican’s face vanished. He looked alarmed and pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture of caution.
“The senor must take care,” he said, his voice lowered to a guttural growl, “Espato find Tony kind to Americano, Tony die too.”
“All right, old scout,” said Phil, in a whisper—he was strangely hopeful and elated, now that his face was washed and he saw food before him once more. “I’ll do whatever you say from now on. And I’ll be careful about raising my voice, too. There’s no use both of us being hung up by our thumbs.”
The Mexican’s face blanched a sickly grey and Phil was suddenly very sorry for him. He watched him curiously as he ate ravenously of the food on the tray.
He guessed, in fact, he almost knew from what scraps of conversation had already passed between them that this young Mexican was unhappy and restive under the brutal command of Espato.
And Phil thought that there was some special reason underlying the fellow’s dislike—perhaps hatred—of his Chief. Perhaps there had been some personal wrong committed against himself or some member of his family.
At any rate, Phil thought, he had been mighty lucky to have fallen under the direct surveillance of one who was at least not actively unfriendly to him. Perhaps—if he should win the fellow’s confidence—. But no, there would be little chance of securing Tony’s assistance in a plan of escape. Tony was too terrified by Espato to join in any conspiracy against him. Probably he had been too long a witness of his commander’s methods to enjoy being a victim of them.