“I have seen her,” said Gonzales meaningly.
But Guadalupe shook his head quickly.
“It is a matter between you and Torres. Steve Guadalupe plays fair with all. No man can ever say that he lost by trusting me. What men do between themselves is nothing to me, but I have nothing to look back at and fear. Torres brought the girl to me, and he offers one hundred dollars in American gold for the use of a priest. I have agreed. That is my answer, Gonzales.”
Gonzales tugged at his mustaches. He knew that Guadalupe would not be a party to his scheme, because it would be a case of discriminating against one of his guests.
“Suppose we leave it to the girl,” he suggested.
Guadalupe laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well. And suppose she refuses either? What then?”
Gonzales patted himself on the chest and smiled widely. He was egotistical enough to think that any woman would be attracted to him, when as a matter of fact, Wanna would probably select Torres, as being the lesser of the two evils.
Guadalupe went back to the kitchen to hurry Lopez, and Gonzales entered the house. Torres had fallen forward against the table, his face buried in his arms—dead drunk. The men from the K-10 were grouped together, talking in undertones. Hashknife sat where they had left him, tightly bound, staring out through the open door. He had spoken no word since Kohler’s rifle barrel had laid him low.
Baldy left the group and came to him. Hashknife lifted his eyes and squinted at the boss of the K-10.