Gonzales roared with laughter and opened another bottle, while Torres scowled heavily and fingered the knife in his sleeve.
“A musician?” queried Gonzales, after he recovered from his fit of merriment. “I have Manuelo, who is never far from his beloved guitar. But that is of little importance. Where is the bride?”
Torres scowled and helped himself to another drink, while Guadalupe waited for him to speak. Gonzales grew impatient.
“Have you hidden her away where she may not look upon men?” he demanded. “Let us see if she is worthy of you, ladron.”
“She is worthy of any man,” grunted Torres. “Let us drink and forget the women.”
But Gonzales was not to be put off. He surged to his feet and flung a broken-necked bottle at Guadalupe’s head. Fortunately for Guadalupe, Gonzales’ aim was very poor.
“Bring her out, Guadalupe,” he ordered. “Hell, do I have to make my request more plain?”
Torres slumped in his chair, glowering at the bottles, while Guadalupe shuffled to the end of the room against the bluff, where he drew aside a cow-hide-covered bunk, which concealed a trap door. Flinging this back, he disappeared down a short flight of stairs.
Gonzales drank gulpingly and laughed at Torres. “So, you stole a gringo girl, eh?” he mocked. “Fool! When you go back across the line they will cut off your ears.”
“Who spoke of going back?” demanded Torres. “The world is wide. Anyway”—Torres shrugged his shoulders—“what is one girl, more or less?”