“He died,” declared Garcia in Spanish.
“He lives,” retorted Torres. “Sam Blair died a mile or more from the place where I threw the knife, and my knife was found beside him.”
“That is evil fortune,” said Garcia. “Other men will see that knife and know who owns it.”
“Croaking buzzard!” Torres spat angrily. “I must have hurried my throw—and it was dark.”
“A mile is a long throw,” observed Garcia blandly.
“I will kill you some day for being such a fool,” replied Torres. “Still,” he reflected, “it was found there, and who would leave it beside the dead body of Sam Blair? He was shot to death.”
“Your knife did not kill him?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing to fear. He was not killed with your knife.”
“If I was not there, how did my knife fall to the ground?” demanded Torres hotly. “Perhaps I shot him and lost the knife.”