let them off so easily. The occasions when they had such an advantage as this were too rare.
Finally the sight of the dapper village beau, who would have been as a rat to a terrier had he had him in his clutches, covering him with his own gun became too much for Ben Evans's self-control.
"You infernal greaser"—he yelled the epithet with insulting emphasis—"I'll make you sweat for this!"
Epiphanio Montejo, fairly safe behind a bench in the corner, shrieked shrilly:
"Shoot the American pigs!"
Other voices took up the cry, until it became a high-pitched, hysterical chorus:
"Shoot the dogs!"
Ben Evans stood quite still, but he dropped his hands.
"Oh, Ben!"
For the first time he heard Nan's trembling voice behind him.
"If they begin to shoot, stoop low and run for the door," he said quietly.
His jaw was rigid, and there was no fear in the steely eyes he fixed on Ignacio Bojar-
