The growl deepened, for blood-lust and drunkenness go together.

Terrified for my uncle's safety, I stood breathless, staring at the
evil-faced crowd of men going suddenly mad, without excuse. At the
farthest edge of the insipient mob, sitting on his horse and watching my
uncle's face intently, was the very Mexican whom I had twice seen at
Fort Leavenworth. At the drunken rowdy's challenge, I thought that he
half-lifted a threatening hand. But Esmond Clarenden only smiled, with a
mere turn of his head as if in disapproval. In that minute I learned my
first lesson in handling ruffians. I knew that my uncle was not afraid,
and because of that my faith in his power to take care of himself came
back.

"I want to leave here in half an hour. If you have any good
plains-broke mules you will sell for cash, I can do business with you
right now. If not, the sooner you leave this place the better."

He lifted his small, shapely hand unclenched, his good-natured smile and
gentlemanly bearing unchanged, but his low voice was stronger than all
the growls of the crowd that fell back like whipped dogs.

As he spoke a horse-dealer, seeing the gathering before the store, came
galloping up.

"I'm your man. Money talks so I can understand it. Wait five minutes and
ten seconds and I'll bring a whole strand of mules."

A rattling of wagons and roar of voices at the far end of the street
told of the arrival of a company coming in from the wharf at Westport,
and the crowd whirled about and made haste toward the next scene of