As the seekers of liberty rode up, Mr. Tolliver stood with his back to a high barbed-wire enclosure around his barn, with his elbows and one big foot propped back against its wires. With a depth of sarcasm marking his bearded mouth and glinting out of his pale eyes, he watched the cavalcade. As the army filed into the cool glade, Mr. Tolliver remarked in the queer mouthy English of a West Indian colonial:
"Well, you bloody sons of liberty are after my stock again, I see."
Coronel Saturnino betrayed no annoyance at this reception. He bade the rancher "Buenos tardes," and asked if his men might eat in the shade. The big Trinidadian gave a sardonic consent. Saturnino sat on his horse, enjoying this relief from the sun, and glanced about over the barbed-wire enclosure.
"You have a fine Hereford bull, Señor Tolliver," he admired.
The rancher did not turn his head.
"At present I have," he remarked drily.
"And some excellent chickens," smiled the colonel, who seemed to be enjoying some private jest.
These very mild and complimentary observations seemed suddenly to enrage Tolliver. He put his foot down and burst out:
"What the bloody hell makes you drool along like that? Why don't you say what you're going to steal, and quit purring like a cat?"
Saturnino shrugged politely.