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His name was Flavio Artelan, but his straight black hair, dark russet complexion, beady eyes, and hawk nose gave him such a resemblance to a fowl that he was known among his fellows as the Black Minorca, regardless of the fact that this sobriquet was scarcely fair to a very excellent breed of chicken. "That offer's good enough for me," he remarked in businesslike tones. "Come on everybody.
No, sir, I keel it you so queeck but my Don Mike hes never forget hes one great caballero so Pablo Artelan mus' not forget, too you sleep in theese hacienda, you eat the food ah, señor, I am so 'shame' for you and my Don Mike hees dead hees dead " He slid suddenly off the black mare and lay unconscious in the dust beside her.
And she unlatched the door of the tonneau and motioned him to enter. The return of Pablo Artelan to the hacienda with his employer's prisoner was a silent and dignified one up to the moment they reached the entrance to the palm avenue. Here the prisoner, apparently having gathered together his scattered wits, turned in the saddle and addressed his guard.
Would this be a dead heat? Would this unknown Panchito, fresh from the cattle ranges, divide first money with the favorite? The silence was broken by a terrible cry from Pablo Artelan. "Allesandro! I cut your throat!" Whether Allesandro heard the warning or whether he had decided that affairs had assumed a dangerous pass, matters not.
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