“Did I speak to you?” asked the Tiger angrily. “When I ask for your gold you may lie—if you dare.”
It was a strange sight there in the little cantina. Poor Felipe sprawled at the feet of the Tiger, his hands outspread on the floor, while the Tiger leaned forward facing us, a snarl writhing his thin lips.
Ramon was backed against the table, and almost into Mendez’s chair. Pasquale was sprawled forward, his arms on the table-top, while I hunched in my chair, afraid to move, I think.
Suddenly the Tiger whipped off his dripping sombrero and sent it spinning on to the table. A whisp of the water struck me in the eyes, but I did not blink.
“Put your gold in the hat,” said the Tiger. “I have stayed too long.”
“But señor—” Ramon started to protest.
“Gold—not lies!” rasped the Tiger.
I moved my feet to enable me to get into my pocket, and they came in contact with something. It was Pancho under the table. I had forgotten him. For a moment I thought perhaps he was intending to shoot the Tiger. Pancho was armed, because I could see the butt of his pistol, but his attitude was one of cramped prayer.
I tossed my slender wallet into the hat and prayed that the Tiger might not see how meager it was. Behind me the door creaked, as if from the wind, but when I looked up at the Tiger I knew that it was not wind.
He was standing in the same position, gun leveled at us, but the sneer seemed frozen on his face and his eyes were dilated. I looked back.