An Indian stood in the centre of it, his hands behind his back, his body tall and straight, his face expressionless. Before him was Sergeant Cassara with lash in his hand. The two soldiers sat to one side on stools before a small table with wine cups before them.
Sergeant Cassara swung the whip through the air, and the lash curled around the Indian’s body. There was no shriek this time—the gentile’s eyes closed for a moment, flickered, then opened wide, and his body swayed forward a bit as the sergeant jerked the whip back.
“Speak!” he commanded. “Tell us the whereabouts of the camp, dog!”
Again the lash was raised. The caballero did not wait to see the result. He walked on around the building, and came to the open door. There he took his pistol from his belt, gripped it for action, stepped into the path of light, took a quick step—and had entered the barracks-room and was standing before them.
“Allow me to tell you the location of the camp, Sergeant Cassara!” he said.
The whip dropped to the floor and the sergeant’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. The two soldiers had sprung to their feet, but muskets and pistols were on the other side of the room, and the muzzle of the caballero’s weapon menaced them.
“Stand as you are!” the caballero ordered. “At least I will drive the soul of the first man who moves to eternity. As you are!”
“Captain Fly-by-Night, by all the saints!” Cassara cried. “Hah! He walks into a trap!”
“Beater of gentiles, he spares you the instant death you deserved!” answered the caballero. “Move if you like! This pistol of mine gets one, and, as for the others——”
“The others, perhaps, when we do move, will live to see you shot!” Cassara growled.