Harrison sat down sullenly without speaking and stared straight in front of him. He was boiling with impotent fury. Pasquale had the whip hand and meant to carry things his own way. Of that he no longer had any doubt. In bringing Ruth to Noche Buena he had made a great mistake.
"Do you want to make some money, you—what's your name?" he presently rasped out.
Yeager answered with the universal formula of the land. "Si, señor. And my name is Cabenza—Pedro Cabenza."
The prizefighter glanced warily around, then lowered his voice. "I mean a lot of money—twenty dollars, maybe."
"Gold?" asked the peon, wide-eyed.
"Gold. How far would you go to earn that much?"
"A long way, señor."
Harrison caught him by the wrist with a grip that drove the blood back. "Listen, Cabenza. Would you go as far as the camp of Garcia Farrugia?" The close-gripped, salient jaw was thrust forward. Black eyes blazed from a set, snarling face.
So, after all, the man was trafficking with the Federal governor all the time just as he was with the Constitutionalists. Yeager had once or twice suspected as much.
"To the camp of Governor Farrugia," gasped Cabenza. "But—what for, señor?"