I turned. Just between me and the door stood a man, whose eyes glittered like beads under the brim of his rain-drenched sombrero. The evils of purgatory showed in every line of his face; the hawk-like nose, scarred chin and thin-lipped, grinning mouth.
Two heavy revolvers rested in holsters at his hips, and the cartridges in his crossed belts gleamed like points of light. He wore black leather chaparajos, with wide, flaring sides, which flopped like the wings of a great buzzard.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
He laughed at us mockingly, while the water spewed off his clothes and ran in dirty puddles along the dirt floor.
“Welcome, señor” said Pasquale in a weak voice.
“What need have I of welcome?”
The man’s voice was like the hoarse croak of an angry buzzard. He took a step forward and dropped his claw-like hands to his holsters.
“Afraid to_talk?” he sneered. “Know who I am?”
He leered around at us and hunched his shoulders, as if about to attack.
“I am the Tiger.”