The distrust left Manuel's eyes as he trotted across the hard-trodden
dirt floor and laid the tortilla carefully upon a hot rock, where
three others crisped and curled their edges in delectable promise of
future toothsomeness.
He stood up and turned to Dade amiably, his knuckles pressing lightly
upon his hips that his palms might be saved immaculate for the next
little corn cake which he would presently slap into thin symmetry.
"Madre de Dios!" he cried suddenly, quite forgetting the hospitable
thing he had meant to say about his supper. "You are hurt, Senor! The
blood is on your sleeve and your hand."
Dade looked down at his hand and laughed. "I did get a scratch. I'll
let you see what it's like."
"You never told me you got shot!" accused Jack sharply, from where he
had thrown himself down on a bundle of blankets covered over with a
bullock hide dressed soft as chamois.
"Never thought of it," retorted Dade in Spanish, out of regard for his
host.
"We had some trouble with the gringos," he explained to Manuel. "There
was a little shooting, and a bullet grazed my arm. It doesn't amount
to much, but I'll let you look at it."
"Ah, the gringos!" Manuel spat after the hated name. "The patron is
too good, too generous! They steal the cattle of the patron, though
they might have all they need for the asking. Like the green worms
upon the live oaks, they would strip the patron's herds to the last,
lean old bull that is too tough even for their wolf teeth! Me, I
should like to lasso and drag to the death every gringo who comes
sneaking in the night for the meat which tastes sweeter when it is
stolen.
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