The two soldiers nodded. One was counting his gains, which amounted to almost threepence. The loser wore a brave air of indifference, as behoved a reckless soldier taking loss or gain in a Spartan spirit.
‘There will be six men,’ continued Concepçion. ‘Two on horseback, two on the box, two inside the carriage with their prisoner—my friend.’
‘Ah!’ said the younger soldier thoughtfully.
‘I was wondering how three men could best kill six.’
‘Out of six,’ said the older man, ‘there is always one who runs away. I have found it so in my experience.’
‘And of five there is always one who cannot use his knife,’ added Concepçion.
Still the younger soldier, who had medals all across his chest, shook his head.
‘I am afraid,’ he said. ‘I am always afraid before I fight.’
Concepçion looked at the man whom General Vincente had selected from a brigade of tried soldiers, and gave a little upward jerk of the head.
‘With me,’ he said, ‘it is afterwards—when all is over. Then my hand shakes, and the wet trickles down my face.’
‘And yet,’ he said gaily, ‘it is the best game of all—is it not so?’
The troopers shrugged their shoulders. One may have too much of even the best game.
‘The carriage is ordered for eight o’clock,’ continued the practical Concepçion, rolling a cigarette, which he placed behind his ear where a clerk would carry his pen. ‘Those who take the road when the night-birds come abroad have something to hide. We will see what they have in their carriage, eh? The horses are hired for the journey to Galvez, where a relay is doubtless ordered. It will be a fine night for a journey. There is a half moon, which is better than the full for those who use the knife; but the Galvez horses will not be required, I think.’
The younger soldier, upon whose shoulder gleamed the stars of a rapid promotion, looked up to the sky, where a few fleecy clouds were beginning to gather above the setting sun like sheep about a gate.
‘A half moon for the knife and a full moon for firearms,’ he said.
‘Yes; and they will shoot quick enough if we give them the chance,’ said Concepçion. ‘They are Carlists! There is a river between this and Galvez—a little stream such as we have in Andalusia—so small that there is only a ford and no bridge. The bed of the river is soft; the horses will stop, or, at all events, must go at the walking pace. Across the stream are a few trees’ (he paused, illustrating his description with rapid gestures and an imaginary diagram drawn upon the rock with the forefinger), ‘ilex, and here, to the left, some pines. The stream runs thus from north-east to south-west. This bank is high, and over here are low-lying meadows where pigs feed.’