"I thought as much. He's no fool. Garcia knows it would not weaken me to lose both of them, that my grief would not be inconsolable. Who, then, if not Farrugia?"
"Nobody. I'm not an assassin. The story I told you is the truth, general."
"If that is true, Ramon Culvera's lies have brought you to your death."
The Mexican still sprawled with an arm flung across the table. Not a muscle of his lax body had grown more taut. But the eyes of the man—the terrible eyes that condemned men to their graves without a flicker of ruth—were fixed on the range-rider with a steady compulsion filled with hidden significance.
"Yes." Steve waited, alert and watchful. Presently he would understand what this grim, virile old scoundrel was driving at.
"You fought him in the open. You played your cards above the table. He comes back at you with a cold deck. Señor, do you love Ramon like a brother?"
"Of course not. If I could get at him before—"
The rigor of the black eyes boring into those of Yeager did not relax. The impact of them was like steel grinding on steel.
"Yes? If you could get at him? What, then, señor?"
The words were hissed across the room at the American. Pasquale was no longer lounging. He leaned forward, body tense and rigid. His prisoner understood that an offer for his life was being made him. But what kind of an offer? Just what was he to do?