“Sí, Señor; that’s the truth. Everything is guarded; the station, the roads,—you won’t leave Cordova unless you pay.”
“Really?” asked Quentin apparently frightened.
“You hear me. So you’d better hand over that money and not expose yourself to a stab with a dagger.”
“The devil! You very nearly convince me.”
“Do it, Don Quentin.”
“To whom shall I hand the money?”
“To Pacheco, Señor José’s brother. He goes to El Cuervo’s tavern every night about eight o’clock.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Don’t stop to think, my friend! You ought to take that money back right away.”
“Well, you have persuaded me. I’ll go right away.”