“Mil diablos, zarayote, why do you speak that name?” exclaimed Lopez, ferociously. “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing—nothing at all,” drawing a little back from the table, as if in expectation of an attack. “I only thought—”
“Carrai!” hissed Romulo. “You have no right to think of any thing or in any way but as I bid you. And the better you obey me in this, the longer will be your life. Por to dos santos” (by all the saints), “if I hear that name from your thick lips, or hear your tongue even hint at it, I will tear it out by the roots and feed it to the coyotes.”
“I hear you, ’nor Romulo, and will heed your hint.”
“See that you do. I never warn twice.”
“Have you any further orders?”
“None; except that you be here to-morrow night, to report progress in the first affair. Then you can attend to this miner, Sayosa.”
“Muy bueno! But, ’nor capitan, I must have some money. I spent the last ocharo to-night,” hinted Sylva.
“Voto a brios, picaro, do you think I am a gold mine?” fumed the choleric Lopez. “Here, take this, and be a little less free in your riotings,” at the same time shoving six golden onzas over to the other, who eagerly clutched them, saying, as he slipped them, one by one, into his pocket:
“You wrong me, master. Remember, there are many little bribes to give that I can not avoid, and—”