The
lips that smiled so often were drawn tight and thin; the nostrils flared
like a frightened horse. While the laughs were still cackling derision,
Valencia jumped up and ran; and Dade, even before he sat up to look,
knew where he was going.
At the fire where the question was put, a young fellow, whose heavy,
black mustache prudently hid lips coarse and sneering, came to his feet
like a dummy of a man and glared dazedly at his companions, as if their
faces should tell him whose hand it was that gripped the braided collar
of his jacket. He was not long in doubt, however. The voice of Valencia
grated vitriolic sentences in his ear, and the free hand of Valencia was
lifted to deal him a blow fair upon the blank face of him. The circle
of faces watched, motionless, above crouched bodies as quiet as the
stars overhead.
A hand grasped Valencia's wrist while his arm was lifted to strike, so
that the three men stood, taut-muscled and still, like a shadowy,
sculptured group that pictured some mythological conflict.
"Let go, Valencia. This is nothing to fight over. Let go."
Valencia's angry eyes questioned the unreadable ones of his majordomo;
but he did not let go, and so the three stood for a moment longer.
"But they insult the Senor Allen with their jeers," he protested. "Me, I
fight always for my friends who are not present to fight for themselves.
Would not the Senor Allen fight this fool who flouts him so?"
"No!" Dade's eyes flicked the circle of faces upon which the firelight
danced.
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