Swiftly Valdez and the wagon driver passed down the car and gathered the weapons from the seats of the troopers. Raising a window, they passed them out to their friends outside. Meanwhile, the sound of an axe could be heard battering at the door of the next car, and presently the crash of splintering wood announced that an entrance had been forced.
“Breaking furniture, I reckon,” drawled Bucky, in English, for the moment forgetful of the part he was playing. “I hope they’ll be all right careful of them pianos and not mishandle them so they’ll get out of tune.”
“So, señor, you are American,” said Chaves, in English, with a sinister smile.
O’Connor shrugged, answering in Spanish: “I am Romany. Who shall say, whether American, or Spanish, or Bohemian? All nations call to me, but none claim me, señor.”
The lieutenant continued to smile his meaning grin. “Yet you are American,” he persisted.
“Oh, as you please. I am what you will, lieutenant.”
“You speak the English like a native.”
“You are complimentary.”
Chaves lifted his eyebrows. “For believing that you are in costume, that you are wearing a disguise, Mr. American?”
Bucky laughed outright, and offered a gay retort. “Believe me, lieutenant, I am no more disguised as a gypsy than you are as a soldier.”