He said nothing. A sullen, dogged look rested on his face. Manuel had seen it before on the countenance of many men. He knew that the sheep grazer could not be driven to talk.
Miss Valdés might have known it, too, but she was too impatient for finesse. "What have you done with Mr. Gordon? Tell me—now—at once," she commanded.
The man's eyes did not lift to meet hers. Nor did he answer a single word.
"First, our hundred dollars, Señorita," one of the men reminded her.
"It will be paid when you deliver Sebastian to us in the street with his hands tied behind him," Manuel promised.
They protested, grumbling that they had risked enough already when they had captured him an hour earlier. But in the end they came to Pesquiera's condition. The prisoner's hands were tied behind him and his feet released so that he could walk. Manuel slid one arm under the right one of Sebastian. The fingers of his left hand rested on the handle of a revolver in his coat pocket.
Valencia, all impatience, could hardly restrain herself until they were alone with their prisoner. She walked on the other side of her cousin, but as soon as they reached the Plaza she stopped.
"Where is he, Sebastian? What have you done with him? I warn you it is better to tell all you know," she cried sternly.
He looked up at her doggedly, moistened his lips, and looked down again without a word.
"Speak!" she urged imperiously. "Where is Mr. Gordon? Tell me he is alive. And what of Pablo?"