“It was a dirty, treacherous piece of business,” said Jim, his face growing dark with anger. “I’m going to put this fellow to the question.”
But they made no headway with the prisoner, as he maintained a stubborn silence about himself and his associates. Finally Jim, tired and disgusted, rose to his feet and looked down at the Mexican.
“Give me that dagger, Jo,” he said. Jo handed over the silver-handled weapon, while the Mexican watched Jim with eyes of concentrated hate. He believed his last hour had come.
“Have you got anything to say for yourself?” inquired Jim savagely, as he felt the edge of the knife with his thumb.
“I want to see a priest,” croaked the Mexican in a hoarse voice.
“I can furnish you with a philosopher,” said Jim. “Here, Jeems, can you offer any advice to this cutthroat or consolation either?”
“I haven’t any license to talk to the likes of him,” said Jeems gravely. “He wants a guarantee for the next life and I won’t give it to him. But I can tell him one thing, if he don’t hang now, he will later.”
When the Mexican saw that his life was going to be spared, he may have been surprised, but he showed no sign of gratitude. It was now time for the boys to turn in, but of course the camp was not left without a guard. The night was divided up into watches. Tom was to watch until eleven; then Jeems Howell was to have the watch until one; Jim to three; Juarez to five, and Jo the hour until six.