He was quick
to see her action.
"You need not be afraid," he heartened her. "I shall not 'urt you. That is,
not yet. The chile--" she dished some out for him, hurriedly. "So! You are
afraid of me because I kill people, eh?" He leaned back, and his lids
contracted until his eyes looked wicked and sinister. The spangles on his
sleeves trembled like leaves.
"A little," Lucia managed to say.
"You sink it wrong to kill?" Pancho wanted to know, gulping down a great
mouthful of chile, and smattering a huge slice of bread with butter. He ate
with his knife, like a glutton. He smacked his lips, and wiped them on the
sleeve of his coat, where the brass buttons gleamed picturesquely.
"You talk of killing in such a matter-of-fact way," Lucia observed.
"An' why not?" Lopez asked.
The cook brought in the coffee-pot and put it on the table.
"Does life mean as little to you as that?" Lucia asked another question.
This man was an enigma. He was bad through and through. They were as
helpless as cattle in his hands.
"Life?" Lopez smiled. "To be 'ere--zat is life. Not to be 'ere--" he gulped
down some steaming coffee--"zat is death. Life is a leetle thing--unless it
is one's own.
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