"Let me see the lame foot!" spoke up Manuel Morales suddenly. As are most bullfighters, Morales was wise in horseflesh and its kindred species. He crouched, took the hoof between his knees and examined it carefully. All at once his head snapped up.
"You lagarto, you lizard, you sly trick one!" he shouted at the guide. "What Gypsy trick is this?"
He showed the mule's hoof to the others. Slightly protruding from the inside of that hoof was the head of a nail. It had been driven straight into the quick.
"Come, you flea!" commanded Morales. "Get me a pair of pincers, a hammer with a claw—anything which will grip this nail and help to draw it out."
The guide, glad enough to hide his discomfiture, hurried away. But in a moment he returned with empty hands.
"Senor, we have no pincers, pliers, hammer—nothing of the kind!"
The American blurted out an oath.
"Think you can stump us, eh?" he said collectedly in English. And he borrowed the revolver of Jacques Ferou, broke it, and emptied its six chambers.
"My automatic hasn't the leverage of your gun," he remarked to the Frenchman in explanation.
With the steel finger guard of the revolver he sought, as he spoke, to get a grip on the head of the nail. But the nail had been driven in so far that its head just barely protruded from the surface of the hoof. There was no room beneath the nail-head for the slim steel of the finger guard.