“You would not dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Baldy laughed sneeringly. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m neither snivelin’ Catholic nor bawlin’ Protestant. You don’t mean anythin’ to me, pardner. You do as I say, or suffer the consequences.”
Baldy drew out a huge pocketknife, opened a blade, and tested it on his thumb. Father Francisco knew that this man was just drunk enough, heartless enough, unprincipled enough to follow out his threat.
“I will do it under protest,” said the priest slowly. “It will be no marriage to be sanctioned by God nor by man; words which may as well be spoken by any of you for all they may mean.”
“Thassall right,” grinned Baldy. “I reckon we’ll have plenty of witnesses to prove that a priest done the job all proper.”
Gonzales grasped Wanna by the arm and whirled her around, a laugh on his thick lips, when the lamplight flickered on a twisting blade, and Gonzales staggered back clawing at his thick neck.
Torres had missed again. The guard on the knife had struck Gonzales in the neck, but the point had missed by an inch.
With a roar of rage Gonzales whipped out a revolver. Torres had darted toward the door, but Gonzales’ bullet struck him and he went sidewise, slithering along the adobe wall, and fell on his face.
“That was close!” whispered Gonzales hoarsely, feeling of his throat.
The crowd was shocked for a moment. Baldy went to Torres and turned him over, but came back quickly.