"Ho, compañero! Behold what I have. Gringo whiskey—better far than mescal," he cried softly as he handed the treasure to one of the guards.
The man glanced around hurriedly, even as had Cabenza, then tilted the mouth of the bottle over his lips and let a long stiff drink gurgle down his throat. He patted his fat paunch contentedly and handed the bottle to his companion. The second guard also drank deeply.
Cabenza put an arm across the shoulders of each and drew their heads close while he whispered confidential scandal about Pasquale and Ramon Culvera. The two men listened greedily, eager for more. It happened that there was no truth in the salacious tidbits which Pedro retailed, but he invented glibly and that did just as well.
The heads of his listeners began to nod. They murmured drowsy interjections and leaned more heavily upon his arms. Ineffectually they tried to shake off the lassitude that was creeping over their senses.
"Keep watch, brother, while I take just forty winks," begged one, and fairly thrust his rifle into the hand of Yeager.
The soldier staggered to the adobe wall and slumped down beside the door. His eyes closed, fluttered open again, shut a second time. They did not open. He was fast asleep.
The second guard sat down beside him and smiled up sleepily at the standing man. "Manuel sleeps on duty. He is—a fool. I do—not—sleep. No, I—I—"
His head drooped on his chest. Steve took the rifle that fell from his relaxed hand.
Instantly the American was tapping gently on the door. "Threewit—Farrar!" he called softly. "This is Steve."
There was the sound of quick footsteps. A voice within answered in a whisper.