"I shall shoot down upon you and kill you!" the Jefe bullied.
"Shoot or drown me," Guillermo's voice floated up; "but it will buy you nothing, for the treasure will still be in the well."
There was a pause, in which those at the surface questioned each other with their eyes as to what they should do.
"And the Gringos are running away farther and farther," Torres fumed. "A fine discipline you have, Senor Mariano — Vercara e Hijos, over your gendarmes!"
"This is not San Antonio," the Jefe flared back. "This is the bush of Juchitan. My dogs are good dogs in San Antonio. In the bush they must be handled gently, else may they become wild dogs, and what then will happen to you and me?"
"It is the curse of gold," Torres surrendered sadly. "It is almost enough to make one become a socialist, with a Gringo thus tying the hands of justice with ropes of gold."
"Of silver," the Jefe corrected.
"You go to hell," said Torres. "As you have pointed out, this is not San Antonio but the bush of Juchitan, and here I may well tell you to go to hell. Why should you and I quarrel because of your bad temper, when our prosperity depends on standing together?"
"Besides," the voice of Guillermo drifted up, "the water is not two feet deep. You cannot drown me in it. I have just felt the bottom and I have four round silver pesos in my hand right now. The bottom is carpeted with pesos. Do you want to let go? Or do I get ten pesos extra for the filthy job? The water stinks like a fresh graveyard."
"Yes! Yes!" they shouted down.