“You heard me, sir,” said the colonel, loftily. “You owe your rescue from this ruffian to me. Now, you can understand how much you have misjudged me.”
Conrad Stiefel was not so easily satisfied of this.
“I heard what you said in Mexican, or whatever lingo it is, but I didn't understand it.”
“Nor I,” said Benson.
“Very well, gentlemen; I am ready to explain. I told this man that if he ever attempted to molest me I should shoot him in his track.”
“Why didn't you speak to him in English?” asked Stiefel.
“Because I had a suspicion that the fellow was the same I met once in Mexico, and I spoke to him in Spanish to make sure. As he understood, I am convinced I was right.”
“Who is it, then?” asked Benson.
“His name, sir, is Manuel de Cordova, a well-known Mexican bandit, who seems to have found his way to this neighborhood. He is a reckless desperado, and, though I addressed him boldly, I should be very sorry to meet him in a dark night.”
This explanation was very fluently spoken, but probably no one present believed what the colonel said, or exonerated him from the charge which George Melville had made against him.