Standing beside the bole of a palm he looked up at the structure atop the knoll. The gate was closed, but light came over the wall, and he could hear the sound of voices raised in argument. Then there came to his ears the shrieking of an Indian, a raucous Spanish voice raised in anger and command, the sound of a lash striking into bare skin.
He left the tree and crept through the shadows, avoiding the front, going to the left. Standing against the wall he listened again.
“Tell us, dog!” Sergeant Cassara was shouting. “Tell us, or by the saints we’ll have your hide in strips! Be stubborn before your betters, will you?”
The lash fell again; again the Indian shrieked; coarse laughter smote the air.
“’Tis well we caught one of you!” the sergeant was saying now. “Sneak away like the coyotes you are, will you? Where is that camp—tell us!”
“Señor—señor—I cannot tell!” the Indian screeched.
“Will not, you mean! Cannot, you hound, when every gentile and neophyte within a score of miles knows of it? Where have the others gone, then? Answer me that!”
“One by one they slipped away, señor.”
“And you do not know where, eh?”
“I—I cannot tell, señor.”