“Buenos di—Ah, senors!—and you, noble Chasca! Noble Cleeford Gray Chasca!” There was a curl to his lip and Nicky thrust a hand against the table to push himself erect, but Mr. Whitley put a foot against his ankle none too gently in warning as the Spaniard proceeded. “But that is fine, that you shall be Chasca! You can help me.”
“You weren’t ambushed?” demanded Tom. “We thought——”
“There was some—how you say?—some ‘ta-ra-boom-te-ay’ in the pass of snow. My men all run away back. Me, I am desert in snow to freeze. But I get here—late. You are already fix up very nice.”
“I warned you about the pass,” Bill reminded him.
“Si!” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and bent close and motioned to them to listen. “That we shall forget. Now it is to know—is there plenty of gold? But I see it.”
“What did you tell these people?” Mr. Whitley demanded. “We heard that you came with some message.”
“Tell—? Oh! I tell that I am send by other men of the hills to seek white faces of those who come this way.”
“You told them that?” Bill scowled.
“Si. But I have not yet tell that you are men I seek.”
“No, and you had better not!” said Tom sharply. Bill warned him with a look.