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"Your man Francisco attempted to creep in and murder Señor Knowlton. If you and the rest have similar intentions, now's your time to try. If not, put away those knives." "Knives! Por Dios, what do you mean?" "Look behind you." José looked. At once he snarled curses and commands. Slowly the knives slipped out of sight. The paddlers edged backward to their own shack, leaving their puntero alone.

I am much in the dark, gentlemen. If you would be so good as to enlighten me " He paused, looking sidewise again at José as if the puntero had suddenly grown wings or horns. "All right," nodded Knowlton, biting and lighting his cigar. "We are somewhat in the dark ourselves as to why José has been so zealous, for he has been very taciturn since the recent fight at our camp.

When Tim awoke the next morning he found himself deserted. To Knowlton, who drew from the small gold-chest the hundred dollars allotted to José and handed it to him before redressing his wound, the puntero quietly revealed his intention to go before sunrise. "Say nothing, señor," he requested. "You need know nothing of it, if you like. I am here to-night I am gone to-morrow that is all.

From the time of the landing at Remate de Males, however, he narrated events more fully, giving complete details of Schwandorf's activities, Francisco's offense, and the final attack by the crew. While he talked the coronel's frown deepened. Also, José gradually assumed the expression of a thundercloud. And when the tale was done the puntero exploded. "Sangre de Cristo!" he yelled.

José recovered himself and lifted his coffee cup. "I do not understand you, Nunes," he replied, languidly. "I am but the humble puntero of the crew engaged by these señores. My only work has been to earn my pay. And you may ask el capitan whether I have earned it." "Ay, he has," corroborated McKay. "Killed two of his own crew in our defense." The coronel's jaw dropped.

Naked, painted, minus his fierce mustache and flamboyant headkerchief, he appeared a far different man than the domineering puntero of a short time back. But his bold black eyes, his reckless grin, and his mocking tone proved him the same swashbuckling José, undaunted by hunger, exhaustion, or his position as prisoner of man eaters whose enmity was implacable.

Disputes arose among them with volcanic suddenness, and more than once knives were half drawn, only to be slipped back under the tongue-lashing of the hawk-nosed puntero, José, who damned the disputants completely and promised to cut out the bowels of any man daring to lift his blade clear of its sheath.

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?"

After a long stare at Knowlton he looked at McKay, at Tim, and finally at José. A frown grew on his face. And the Americans, following his look at the Peruvian, were surprised to see that José himself was staring blankly at the speaker. "José Martinez!" snapped the coronel, leveling a finger pistollike at the puntero. "What devil's game are you working now?"

"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.