Gonzales’ two men came in and he motioned them to sit down at another table. Garcia came in, his scowling face half-concealed in the dirty serape, and sat down against the wall.
Gonzales tossed a bottle of tequila across to his men, who thanked him profusely and proceeded to empty it. Voices came from within the trap door, and a moment later Wanna Hawkworth came slowly up the ladder, closely followed by Guadalupe.
The girl was not bound now. Her wealth of blueblack hair hung in profusion about her face, which was slightly pale. Her calico dress had been badly torn, but she never looked more beautiful than standing there at the edge of the trap door, her hands clenched at her sides, staring her hate at Torres.
Gonzales half-rose from his chair as he stared at her. He had expected nothing like this. Torres reached for another bottle.
With a mighty oath, Gonzales attempted to bow and almost struck his forehead on the table. He shoved it roughly aside and went toward Wanna, who backed away.
“Let her alone,” ordered Guadalupe. “She belongs to Torres.”
Gonzales stopped and leered at Guadalupe.
“Belongs to Torres!” he roared. “To that?” He pointed at Torres, who was shakily pouring a drink. “Dios! Here is a mate for a man!”
But Gonzales did not advance farther. He seemed content for the moment merely to look at her. It was Lopez who broke the spell, as he shuffled quickly in from the kitchen.
“Vaqueras!” he said shrilly, pointing toward the north. “Americanos!”