"Am I a fool, señor?" asked the Mexican harshly. "How do I know you would keep faith, that you would not ride away—what you call laugh in your sleeve at me? No! You will strike under my own eye—with my revolver at your heart. Then I make sure."
"I'll bet you'd make sure. You'd shoot me down and explain it all fine when your men came running. 'The Gringo dog escaped and killed my dear friend Ramon, but by good luck I shot him before he made his getaway.' Nothing doing."
"Then you refuse?" Pasquale's narrowed eyes glittered in the moonshine.
"You're right I do."
The Mexican rose. "Die like a dog, then, you pigheaded Gringo."
"Just a moment, general. I've got a letter here I wish you'd send north for me. It explains that I shot myself accidentally—lets you out fine in case Uncle Sam begins to ask inconvenient whys about my disappearance."
"And why so much care to save me trouble?" inquired the insurgent leader suspiciously.
"I have to put that in to get you to forward the letter, I reckon. What I want is that my friends should know I'm dead."
As a soldier Pasquale could understand that desire. He hesitated. The sudden death of Americans had of late stirred a good deal of resentment across the line. Why not take the alibi Yeager so conveniently offered him?
"Let's see your letter. But remember I promise nothing," said the Mexican roughly.