“Cloth or no cloth, no man treats me like this!” he exclaimed. “A horse—immediately!”
The fray uttered an exclamation; the neophytes crowded closer. Releasing his man, the caballero drew his sword and turned upon them.
“Back, dogs!” he cried. “I do not like your stench! And you, fray, fetch me a horse, before I run you through!”
“You——!” The fray seemed to grow taller in his sudden anger. “You dare to threaten me, señor? A man of your stripe——”
“I have had enough of this mystery!”
“Out of my sight! Take your way to the south, or the north if it pleases you, but quit San Juan Capistrano this minute! Else I will not be responsible——”
“For what! For what may happen to me?” The caballero laughed aloud, half in anger, half in jest. His sword described an arc. But the neophytes did not fall back from before him; the fray made a sign and they closed in.
His back against the wall of the storehouse, the caballero swept his blade through the air again, and held his pistol in his left hand. The Indians hesitated a moment, the caballero advanced.
“Back!” the caballero cried.
Again they closed in, rushed. A screech of pain came from the first he touched with the blade. His pistol spoke and a man fell wounded. In that instant, as they hesitated, he was among them, his blade darting here and there. Purposely he avoided clashing with the fray, always keeping neophytes between them, for to wound a fray, he knew, would be to make bloodthirsty wretches of the red men. Foot by foot he fought his way to where the horse was standing with lowered head.