Yeager put down the stool and gave it a shove across the floor. "Will you take a seat, general? Sorry I can't offer you refreshments, but the truth is I'm not exactly master in my own house."
Pasquale dropped the serape from his face and moved forward. "So you knew me?"
"Yes."
"How much will you give for your life?" demanded the Mexican abruptly, sitting down on the stool with his back to the table.
"As much as any man."
The general eyed him narrowly. One sinewy brown hand caressed the butt of a revolver hanging at his hip.
"Who paid you to murder Culvera and Mendoza—not Farrugia, surely?" Pasquale shot at him, eyes gleaming under shaggy brows.
Garcia Farrugia was the Federal governor of the province, the general with whom Pasquale had been fighting for a year.
"No—not Farrugia."
The insurrecto chief, sprawling in the moonlight with his back against the table, nodded decisively.