"Surround him--take him," Pennington ordered. "I'll give--a month's
pay--to each of--the six men that bring--that scoundrel to me. Get
him--quickly! Understand?"
Not a man moved. Pennington shook with fury. "Get him," he croaked.
"There are enough of you to do--the job. Close in on him--everybody.
I'll give a month's pay to--everybody."
A man of that indiscriminate mixture of Spaniard and Indian known in
California as cholo swept the circle of men with an alert and knowing
glance. His name was Flavio Artelan, but his straight black hair,
dark russet complexion, beady eyes, and hawk nose gave him such a
resemblance to a fowl that he was known among his fellows as the
Black Minorca, regardless of the fact that this sobriquet was
scarcely fair to a very excellent breed of chicken. "That offer's
good enough for me," he remarked in businesslike tones. "Come on--
everybody. A month's pay for five minutes' work. I wouldn't tackle
the job with six men, but there are twenty of us here."
"Hurry," the Colonel urged them.
Shirley Sumner's flashing glance rested upon the Black Minorca.
"Don't you dare!" she cried. "Twenty to one! For shame!"
"For a month's pay," he replied impudently, and grinned evilly. "And
I'm takin' orders from my boss." He started on a dog-trot for the
timber, and a dozen men trailed after him.
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