“Suppose we square this matter by your giving me a discharge for my comrade; in other words, that he acted in self-defense, and you bury the three bodies at your expense.”
“Yes, yes, señor, that will do, for I have no desire to prosecute you or your comrades. You are strangers in our valley, and I will give you the paper asked, and in return your lips are sealed about the confession of that dying man. As you said, it was the malignant confession on the eve of death, to ruin me, for we had had some trouble several times, and there is not a word of truth in it.”
“I did not tell you what he had said.”
“No, no.” The alcalde looked most anxious.
“Just write out the paper for my pard, please—his name is Robert Mead, nicknamed Blue Jacket Bob.”
“I see.” The alcalde hastily filled in a discharge and handed it to the scout, saying as he did so: “Now, there is no charge, you know.”
“Thanks, señor.”
“Now, what did that wicked man have to say about me?”
“Well, I heard enough to know you were in some way allied to these secret foes of the valley, and kept by fear of death of making known all that you are aware of.”
“Nonsense, señor, utter nonsense! Still, it is best not to let it be known that I had such a charge against me, and you are not to speak of it, you know.”