“Perhaps.” Garcia was agreeable. “I think we will be safer across the border.”
But Torres shook his head.
“Not yet. Some of these days we might, but not now. There is too much money to be made here.”
“A slit throat does not taste wine,” said Garcia. “Money is of no value to a corpse. I would rather drink Guadalupe’s vile tequila in safety than to risk my neck for champagne.”
“There may be virtue in all that,” replied Torres.
“Go, if you are afraid. If not, stop croaking. I have business to attend to in Pinnacle. Guadalupe sent a message to Kern yesterday by that half-wit, Perez—who let me read it for the price of a quart of mescal.”
“It must have been of great value—to Perez,” grinned Garcia.
“We shall later discover its value. As for you, say nothing.”
Torres did no more questioning, and was doubly cautious. He felt sure that sooner or later someone would mention the knife to him, and he could not think of a single reason for losing that knife. The only thing he could do would be to deny that he had been near the spot where Blair had died, and swear that he had missed the knife when undressing at the Rancho Sierra.
It was very true that he had missed the knife. It was a favorite blade, and one he had carried a long time. One does not find a good throwing blade every day. He carried a revolver, under his sash and inside the waistband of his trousers; but he was not a gunman, preferring the more silent weapon.