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Updated: June 20, 2025
"He is what the Gringoes call game. Is it not so, major?" Ochampa, his wounded leg on a chair, grunted. "Turn about is fair play. How is your leg, major?" asked Steve. The major glared at him. "Is it that I must put up with the insolence of this scoundrel, general?" he demanded. "Not for long," replied Culvera suavely.
"But it is well to remember that walls have ears, and therefore to whisper when one speaks of Gabriel." "I'm not afraid of him," boasted the American, but his voice fell. "I am," differed Culvera frankly. "Ramon is fond of Ramon, so he chooses a safe time to pay his debts and he does not advertise in advance that he is going to settle." "Bah! You sit still and do nothing. But I By God!
He might be a thief and a murderer, very likely was since he had crossed the border to join the insurgents, but it was a safe bet that he had the fighting edge. Men of this particular stripe were needed to lick his tattered, nondescript recruits into shape. "Where you from? Who knows you?" Culvera slewed round in his seat and glanced at the man standing behind his chair.
"Estupido!" he continued in growing terror. "Can it be the general?" "We shall see." Culvera stepped to the door. It was locked and the key gone. He called aloud. His only answer was a strange, muffled sound like a groan and the beating of feet upon the floor. With the butt of the sentry's rifle he hammered in the door at the lock and by exerting all his strength forced the fastening.
Resolved to strike while the iron was hot, Culvera took charge of the meeting of officers and proposed at once the election of a general to succeed Pasquale. His associates were taken by surprise. They looked out of the windows and saw pacing up and down the armed sentries Ramon had set. They heard still an occasional distant cheer for the new leader.
A photograph of him in his rags, with his serape and his ventilated sombrero, face as brown as a berry, would be sufficient proof to exonerate Culvera of the charge of having shot an American. Steve had made up too well for the part. At worst Culvera could plead a regrettable mistake. "You make out a good case against Pedro Cabenza, general," admitted the condemned man evenly. "Good enough.
He observed that Culvera's table manners were nice and particular, whereas those of his chief, though they ate off silver taken from the home of a Federal supporter during a raid, were uncouth in the extreme. He wolfed his food, throwing it into his mouth from knife or fork as rapidly as he could. Glancing up from his steak, Steve observed the brooding eye of Culvera upon him.
"Boy, look to the glasses of these gentlemen." The deal was finished. Culvera opened the pot. The captain stayed. Ochampa hesitated. One shot, a second, and then a fusillade of them shattered the quiet. Pasquale flung down his cards and rose hurriedly, overturning his chair. "Mil diablos! What's to pay?" he cried. The others followed him out of the room and house.
"I learned to jabber it when I was a year old before I did English." "Then you'll do. I defy even Harrison to recognize you." He gave her his Mexican bow. "Gracias, señorita." When Threewit and Farrar reached Noche Buena, Pasquale was absent from camp, but Culvera made them suavely welcome.
Pasquale as yet was dictator of the revolutionary forces, but there had been talk to the effect that Ramon Culvera was only biding his time. Other ambitious men had aspired to supplant Pasquale. They had died sudden, violent deaths. Ramon had been a great favorite of the dictator, but it was claimed signs were not lacking to show that a rupture between them was near.
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