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The wages of the five other men to the place where they quit would aggregate seventy-five dollars. Grand total, ninety-three. The others chose to take their pay in lead instead of gold, so their account is closed. Therefore I suggest that their pay go to you as puntero, popero, and good sport. What say, Rod?" "Make it a hundred flat," McKay agreed. "Right. A hundred in gold. Satisfy you, José?"
"The capitan has it wrong," asserted José. "We awake to find our popero being kicked in the head. We want to know why. If Francisco has done what you say I will deal with him. That I may be sure, allow me to look." "Very well. Look." José advanced, stooped, studied the ground, the position of Francisco's body, the knife still clutched in the nerveless hand.
"José, the puntero" his hand indicated the lookout "Francisco, the popero" pointing to the steersman "and six bogas. Good men." McKay ran a cold eye along the line of faces, his gaze plumbing each. Under that chill scrutiny the third man's stare wavered and dropped. That of the next also veered aside. The rest fronted him eye to eye.
Suddenly his knees gave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlight disclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular. With the utmost coolness José ran two fingers down his wet blade, snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew: "As I said, we shall have a new popero. To-morrow, Julio, you will take the platform." A rumble ran among the men.
And this time the wrist of the popero proved a bit the better; he threw the attacking steel aside and struck in a slashing sweep at his antagonist's stomach. A convulsive inward movement of the bowman's middle, coupled with a swift back-step, made the slash miss by a hair's breadth. With the quickness of light José was in again.
They made up their minds to go on until they should reach this bar. At its end appeared a proper place for the periagua to come to, and take them aboard. The craft was still working up stream, and had got nearly opposite them, so that they could hail it. They did so desiring the popero, or steersman, to put in at the extremity of the sand-bar.
As his paddle dipped and his men nodded their leave-taking, Francisco, the popero; sneered raucously: "Hah! Mere caucheros! Workers! Slaves!" And he spat at the Brazilian boat. Fire shot into the eyes of the bowman and his comrades. Their muscles tensed. "Better be slaves better be dogs than Peruvian cutthroats!" one retorted. "Go your way, and keep to your own side of the river."
Tim growlingly vouchsafed a brief explanation of the incident. When José straightened up, his mouth was a hard line and his eyes hot coals. "Si. Es verdad. To-morrow we shall have a new popero." With which he stooped again, grasped the prone man by the hair, dragged him into the moonlit space between the huts, and flung him down. "Juan, bring water!" he ordered.