"Mil diablos! What a dolt I am. It's the very man, and I've been racking my brain to think where I met him before."
Yeager laughed hardily. "I've got a better memory, señor. Knew you the moment I set eyes on you, though it was some smoky when we last met."
Culvera rose, his knuckles pressing against the table. There was a faint smile of triumph, on his masked, immobile face.
"Farewell, Señor Yeager," he said softly. "After all, it's a world full of hardship and unpleasantness. You're well rid of it."
Steve knew his sole appeal lay in Pasquale. Ochampo was a nonentity. Both Harrison and Culvera had already condemned him to death. He turned quietly to the insurgent leader.
"How about it, general? Do I get a pass to Kingdom Come—because I stood by a half-grown kid when two blacklegs were robbing him?"
"You shot Mendoza, eh?" demanded Pasquale, his heavy brows knit in a frown.
"No; I helped the boy escape who did."
"You were both employed by the enemy to murder him and Culvera—not so?"
"Nothing of the sort. Young Seymour was in a poker game with Culvera and Mendoza. They were cross-lifting him—and playing with a cold deck at that. I warned the kid. They began shooting. I could have killed either of them, but I blew out the lights instead. In self-defense the boy shot Mendoza. We escaped through the door. The trouble was none of our seeking."