was proud blood in his veins. Ignacio Bojarques twirled his mustache and tossed his head. Pigs of Americans—bah!
What was that? The caballeros stopped on the instant. The pounding of hoofs, a cloud of dust—Dios! the Americanos! They recognized Ben Evans's big sorrel in the lead.
They curbed their horses in sudden panic, and the faces of the jaunty caballeros paled perceptibly. It was one thing to fight the Americano in the imagination and quite another to face him in reality, particularly when he was seeking the encounter with all his heart and soul. Indecision was in the Mexicans' attitudes in the momentary pause. Should they fight or run?
Perhaps the Americans desired to wreak their vengeance only upon Ignacio Bojarques. In that case surely it were not cowardice to remain neutral, since he alone was guilty? Happy inspiration! It was far less ignominious than to run; besides, one's back is a wide target.
They drew their horses to the roadside, huddling close to let the cowboys pass if they
