The voice of the tendejón-keeper interjected itself smoothly. "You've played yore hand out, friend. We're four to one. You go back an' report nothin' doin'."
Roberts looked at the man, and a little shiver ran down the barkeeper's spine. "There won't be four of you when we get through arguin' this, amigo, if we ever start," the Ranger suggested gently.
The proprietor of the place dropped his hand to the butt of his gun. But he did not draw. Some deep, wise instinct warned him to go slow. He knew the others would take their cue from him. If he threw down the gage of battle the room would instantly become a shambles. How many of them would again pass alive through the door nobody knew. He was a man who had fought often, but he could not quite bring himself to such a decision while those chilled-steel eyes bored into his. Anyhow, the game was not worth the candle.
"What is it you want Tony for?" he temporized, playing for time and any chance that might arise.
"For killin' Rutherford Wadley last month."
"A mistake. Tony has been here since the full of the moon."
"Oh, no. He was at the dance on Tomichi Creek. He tried to knife young Wadley. He left the house right after him."
"I left—sí, señor—but to come here," cried the accused man.
"To follow Wadley, Tony. You jumped a camper that night an' didn't know it. He saw you."
"Wadley was a dog, but I did not kill him," Alviro said gloomily.