The Mexican sat back in the shadow on a rock smoking a cigarette, while the boys ate their supper of beans, meat, bread and coffee. He was the skeleton at the feast as it were, not only his malignant humor made itself felt, but there was a sense of depression that they could not shake off, try as they would.
This was so unusual that they could not account for it. As a rule, they were jolly and even when danger was impending, they felt a certain confidence and assurance, but not so tonight.
"What makes us feel so on the bum tonight, do you suppose?" asked Tom.
"Maybe this canyon is haunted," proposed Jo, who had an imaginative streak in him.
"I tell you the way I figure it," said Jim. "We are not used to camping in a hollow like this, for before this we have always selected a place that we could defend, and though there is no particular danger from outlaws or Indians in these mountains, we can't shake off our old habits."
"I believe there is something in that," acquiesced Jo.
"It's that rat over there," said Juarez loudly.
The Mexican laughed coolly and insolently, and lighted another cigarette. This would have maddened an excitable person, but Juarez was in a stoical mood and he contented himself with flinging a bone that he had been gnawing at, carelessly over his shoulder, almost striking the Mexican in the face.
This set that peppery individual wild and he tore around considerably, tearing his hair, stamping his feet and sputtering with maledictions at the insult that had been offered him.
"I am no dog that you can throw a bone to," and he sizzled off into a string of unpleasant remarks.