Tom's chum had had a glimpse of a shining revolver in the
hip pocket of one of the mule drivers, and knowing that the simple
natives were not in the habit of carrying such weapons, the lad had
communicated his suspicions to Tom.
"What man, senor?" asked the head mule driver.
"That one!" and the young inventor again pointed toward him. And,
now that Tom looked a second time he saw that the man was not as
black as the other drivers--not an honest, dark-skinned black but
more of a sickly yellow, like a treacherous half-breed. "Who is he?"
asked Tom, for the man in question was just then tightening a girth
and could not hear him.
"I know not, senor. He come to me when I am hiring the others, and
he say he is a good driver. And so he is, I test him before I engage
him," went in San Pedro in Spanish. "He is one good driver."
"Why does he carry a revolver?"
"A revolver, senor? Santa Maria, I know not! I--"
"I'll find out," declared Tom determinedly. "Here," he called to the
offending one, who straightened up quickly. "Come here!"
The man came, with all the cringing servility of a born native, and
bowed low.
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