Palafox enjoyed his temporary wife's manifestations of jealousy. He laughed, took a deep draught from the flagon, and said:
"You are infernal particular, Mex. I never heard of another woman of your pedigree who was opposed to polygamy."
She did not understand all the words he used, but gathered the chief import, and replied with impetuous wrath:
"No Mex—not Choctaw—me Castiliano—me Señora Palafox." The desperado sat still several minutes, drank again from a bowl which Mex had mixed.
"You're all right, señora—I couldn't keep house without you. Look ye here, bring all those papers and I'll put 'em safe back in the pocket book." The papers were folded up and enclosed carefully into the leathern wallet. Palafox, with trembling hand, thrust the package in his pocket, and then staggered to his feet.
"There's a queer pain in the back of my neck and in my chest, Mex; I can't stand up—help me." He leaned on the bar, and the woman hastily drew to the middle of the floor the great buffalo robe which was her usual bed. She also brought a panther's hide rolled up to serve as a pillow. The horribly staring eyes of Palafox followed her motions.
"There's something ails my heart, I tell you."
He stumbled upon the bed of pelts and lay sprawling.
"More drink! water! brandy! quick!"
With difficulty Mex turned the man upon his back. A while he lay still. His breathing was labored and he twitched convulsively. The entire nervous system was suddenly depressed. Mex stood motionless beside the pallet, her eyes riveted upon him. Presently his livid lips opened, and he spoke gaspingly, "I'm done for."