“Speak, Sergeant Cassara, and let these men judge. Why have you the better right?”
Cassara’s face grew purple suddenly, for there came to him a vision of the barracks-room at the presidio, himself and two soldiers bound hand and foot and fastened to stools, a grinning gentile watching them—while Captain Fly-by-Night slept in an adjoining room.
“Let the men judge!” Gonzales was shouting.
Cassara choked in embarrassment. Tell the outrage this Caballero had put upon him—tell it to the grinning troopers? A courageous man was the Santa Barbara sergeant, but not courageous enough for that.
“I fight you for him!” he roared, and started to draw blade. Nor was Gonzales a bit backward. In an instant their swords had crossed, in another they would have been at it. But Ensign Sanchez, who had come from the guest house with the comandante, interposed his own blade and separated them.
“A truce to such quarreling!” he ordered. “This Fly-by-Night is my quarry, señores! He is to be left to me, I would have all men know. Did he not make a dunce of me at Santa Barbara? ‘Can you conceive a reason why a gentleman might not want his name shouted for all men to hear?’ he asked. ‘You know the state of the times, I take it.’ Hah! Did I not wine and dine him? He comes to my blade!”
“Now, by the saints! If this rogue appears at any of the four points of the compass, he meets a señor awaiting him!” Cassara said. “’Tis to be a matter of luck, then.”
A fray entered the conversation.
“Were Rojerio Rocha with us, no doubt he would want to claim this Fly-by-Night,” he said.
“Rojerio Rocha had his chance at him,” Cassara replied.