A pair of Greasers were
ahead of me, but I could see only their outlines, and they didn't
seem to interfere any with the scenery. Suddenly a black figure
seemed to rise up out of the ground; the Mexican man went down as
though he'd been jerked with a string, and the woman screeched.
I ran up, pulling my gun. The Mex was flat on his face, his arms
stretched out. On the middle of his back knelt my one-armed
friend. And that sharp hook was caught neatly under the point of
the Mexican's jaw. You bet he lay still.
I really think I was just in time to save the man's life.
According to my belief another minute would have buried the hook
in the Mexican's neck. Anyway, I thrust the muzzle of my Colt's
into the sailor's face.
"What's this?" I asked.
The sailor looked up at me without changing his position. He was
not the least bit afraid.
"This man has my coat," he explained.
"Where'd you get the coat?" I asked the Mex.
"I ween heem at monte off Antonio Curvez," said he.
"Maybe," growled the sailor.
He still held the hook under the man's jaw, but with the other
hand he ran rapidly under and over the Mexican's left shoulder.
In the half light I could see his face change.
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