He did not look at the base of the rock, but glanced up the rock, thinking perhaps he might find a trace of the gringo. Perhaps there might be a cave in which he lived.
Not seeing anything, he was about to return to the fire when he looked down to the bottom of the rock, where he saw just the head of Curtin—nothing else. He seemed not quite sure whether he had seen right, so he stepped one pace closer.
“Ay, caramba, chingue tu madre,” he said in a surprised voice. Then he turned round to his gang and shouted: “Ven aca, come here, all you muchachos. Here you will see a great sight. Hurry. Our little birdie is sitting on his eggs, waiting to hatch. Who ever would have thought them goddamned gringos and cabrones would use a skunk-hole for their headquarters?”
All the men rose and came hurrying toward him.
When they were half-way across the camp, Curtin shouted: “Stop or I shoot!”
The bandits immediately stopped and the man who had discovered Curtin and was only five feet away from the trench raised his arm and said: “All right, all right, bueno, muy bueno, don’t get sore at me, ya me voy, I am on my way.” Saying this, he retreated, walking backwards. He made no attempt to reach for his gun.
The bandits had been so taken by surprise that for a while they could not speak. They returned slowly to the opening where the trail ran into the thicket.
Here they began to talk rather rapidly. None of the boys in the trench could understand a word of what they were saying.
A few moments later the leader, the one with the golden hat, stepped forward right in the middle of the camp. He put his thumbs close together in front of his belt, wishing by doing so to indicate that he did not mean to shoot as long as the other did not draw.
“Oiga, senor, listen. We are no bandits. You are mistaken. We are the policla montada, the mounted police, you know. We are looking for the bandits, to catch them. They have robbed the train, you know.”
“All right,” Curtin shouted back. “If ypu are the police, where are your badges? Let’s see them.”
“Badges, to goddamned hell with badges! We have no badges. In fact, we don’t need badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges, you goddamned cabron and ching’ tu madre! Come out there from that shit-hole of yours. I have to speak to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you. If you want to speak to me, you can do so just as well from where you are. You’d better not come any closer if you want to keep your health.”
“We shall arrest you by order of the governor. You are hunting here without a hunter’s license, nor have you any for carrying guns. We have orders to confiscate your guns and your ammunition.”
“Where is your badge?” Curtin asked. “Let’s see it and I might be willing to talk things over with you.”
“Be reasonable, tenga razon. We are not going to arrest you. Just hand over your gun with the cartuchos, the ammunition, you know. Your shotgun you may keep for yourself. That’s the Sort of guys we are.”
He came two steps nearer the trench. Four or five of the others started to follow their leader.
“Another step,” Curtin yelled, “and I shoot, so help me!”
“No sea malo, hombre. Why, we don’t want to do you any harm. No harm at all! Why can’t you be just a little more polite? Or at least moire sociable. We mean well. Give us your gun and we’ll leave you in peace. Sure we will.” He made no attempt to come nearer.
“I need my gun myself and I won’t part with it.”
“Throw that old iron over here and we’ll pick it up and go on our way.”
“Nothing doing. You better go without my gun and go quick. I might easily lose my good temper, listening to your babble.” Curtin waved his gun over the rim of the trench.
The man retreated a few steps and again held council with his followers. They had to admit that Curtin held the strongest position. It would have cost the life of at least three of them had they tried to overpower him by direct attack. None of them wanted to be the victim. The price for that gun was too high.
The bandits squatted around the fire and cooked their meager meal, consisting of tortillas, black beans, green pepper, dried meat, and tea brewed from lemon leaves.
They were fully convinced that the gringo and his gun would be in their hands soon enough; it was only a matter of a few hours. He could not escape. He would have to sleep some time.
While eating they did not talk very much. Later, however, after they had had their siesta, they were looking for some entertainment. So they began to think about the gringo—to get him alive by any means and then make him the object of their enjoyment. They would begin by putting little pieces of embers in his mouth and watching him make funny faces. After this there were more refined ways by which to obtain pleasure during the next twenty—four hours. The victim usually does not like them. He may die too soon. So every kind of precaution has to be taken to make the entertainment last as long as possible.
