Without knowing it, Barbados practiced a deal of psychology. These wild men of the sea had before them a journey of some miles inland, and they knew it and hated it, but the pirate chief continually hinted to them of the rich loot at the end of the present trip, and his hints served their purpose well.
Toward the shore they rowed, tossing on the breakers, making for the dark spot where the cañon ran down into the sea. There a cliff some twelve feet high circled back into the land, forming a natural shelter against the land breeze at times and the sea winds at other times.
Through the surf they splashed, half naked, carrying naught except their weapons, and no weapons save their cutlasses. They gathered on the beach and watched the boats return to the ship, shrieking coarse jests at the men compelled to remain behind.
Barbados took from his belt a tiny scrap of parchment and looked at it closely. With him this passed for a map. He called Sanchez to his side, turned his back to the sea, and looked along the dark reaches of the cañon.
“Forward!” Barbados said. “And let there be little noise about it! If we stumble across one of the accursed natives, slit his throat and so silence it.”
“And if we meet a wandering fray of the missions, slit him into ribbons,” Sanchez added, chuckling.
To his wonder, Barbados grasped his arm so that Sanchez thought the bone must break.
“Enough of that!” Barbados cried. “Touch no fray in violence except I give the word!”
“You love the robes and gowns?” Sanchez asked, in wonder.
“I love to protect myself,” Barbados replied. “It is an ill thing to assault a fray if it can be avoided.” He stopped speaking for a moment, and seemed to shiver throughout the length and breadth of his gigantic frame. “I had a friend once who struck a fray,” he added in a whisper. “I do not like to remember what happened to him. Forward!”