“Señor! You hurt my shoulder!”
“Why do you flinch?”
“There is a sword-thrust through it.”
“And how got you that, cur?”
“Captain Fly-by-Night gave it me yesterday.”
“Never did I expect to call blessings down on the head of that rogue, but I do so now. And curses also that his blade did not find your black heart. Ran you through, eh? Well, you are not punished enough. You shall have a beating yet!”
The sergeant started to walk toward the end of the plaza, not releasing his grip on the Indian’s shoulder, dragging the unfortunate after him. Other Indians stopped their work to look, some of them muttering. A fray hurried toward them. But before he reached the sergeant’s side to protest Cassara felt his own shoulder gripped and whirled about with a snarl, letting go of the neophyte and starting to reach for his sword.
“By what right do you man-handle my servant?” were the words dinned into his ears.
“Your servant? Ah, ’tis the young gentleman who lost the mule at Santa Barbara in a game of cards, eh? You finally reached San Diego de Alcalá, then? And what mean you about a servant? This Indian dog is a runaway neophyte from the Santa Barbara presidio, as you know, having seen him there, and I am about to render punishment.”
“Runaway he may be, but he also is my servant, and I’ll thank you to release him.”