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"Damn," he complained without looking back, "I hope you got the old girl boarded up. The way the rain's comin' down, you and I are gonna have a bitch of a time just gettin' over to the mainland." |
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"You ain't goin' nowhere," an unfamiliar, snarling, Mexican voice informed him. |
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Two men stood across the room staring at him. Their kind needed no introduction. They were the type that spelled trouble. Their intention was as apparent as the malevolent look on their glowering faces. Both had guns, little short-barreled ugly-looking things, the kind pounded out in countless back alley shops all across Mexico. |
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One was big and beefy with a fat face and a full bushy mustache. The other looked enough like Moxie to be his twin brother. He was the leader, the meaner looking of the two. |
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"What the hell's goin' on here?" Miller sputtered. |
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The little one smiled; it was sinister and sardonic. The big one's face was stupidly flaccid. |
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"Where's Pasquel?" Bartholomew demanded. |
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"Don't worry about Señor Morgan." The smaller of the two grinned. "We already took care of him." |
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The big one, almost as tall as Bartholomew |
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