Hi recognised the captain at once. He was the little, short, fierce, bullet-headed snappy man who had forbidden him to land at La Boca. His yellow eyes were still bloodshot with rage. He was barking at one of the teamsters, who had perhaps made some rash or unfortunate reply. After he had sworn at this man, he gave an order to some of his men, who threw the teamster to the ground and bent his head down to his knees. Two Indians then pressed a piece of wood across the back of his neck and lashed it there with strips of hide. Hi knew at once that they were going to make the man what is called a broody hen; his father had told him of this torture. But before the order could be given to complete the trussing of the victim, the officer looked up, and recognised Hi.
“Ah,” he said, “the Inglays from La Boca; the Inglays with the too much talk.”
“Si,” Hi said.
“Then you did not land at Carpinche as I bade?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Yes,” the officer said. “But what does Mr. Inglays do here, on the Meruel Road, after being told to stay in Carpinche?”
“I’m going to Anselmo.”
“To Anselmo? And where is your permit to go to Anselmo?”
“Surely I do not need a permit. I am English.”
“So? He does not need a permit: he is Inglays. To whom is the Inglays going in Anselmo?”