The laborers glanced at each other furtively; the others acted as though the words had nothing to do with them. But his thundering was too severe for the bolt of lightning not to be near.

“Boss Longhi . . . ,” continued Alves, now unable to contain himself. “I don’t know if he’s a boss in his blasted country! But the one who accepted that blasted wood is a jackass! Longhi or whoever! The one who . . .”

He was going to go on, but when he noticed that all of them were looking toward the main trail, which lay behind him, he turned and saw Longhi coming back from the woods at a tranquil pace. Though he was still quite a distance away, there was no chance he hadn’t heard, given the silence of the countryside. The employees exchanged a rapid glance among themselves. But Alves had already turned white-hot. When he saw Longhi he held back, and for a few seconds one could see portrayed on his face the struggle between his fear and his hatred of Longhi. The latter won out.

“Who accepted this wood?” he asked, addressing the employees, as if he didn’t know.

“I did,” answered Longhi, sure that this occasion was decisive, and already putting his hands in his pockets so as to better contain himself.

“You?” asked Alves, turning his head toward him with disdain. “You don’t know what wood is, then!”

“I think I do, though,” replied Longhi calmly. “What’s the matter with it?” he added, approaching the log.

“Nothing at all! Just totally eaten up inside!”

Longhi squatted and struck the log with his knuckles in several spots.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“You don’t think so! What I think is that you’ve been stealing your salary from me; that’s what I think.”

Remembering the prior clash between Alves and Longhi, the employees trembled, and opened their eyes wide so as not to miss a bit of what was going to happen.

But Longhi had squatted again, as though to examine the beam more closely than before. When he stood up he was still pale.

“Besides,” continued the Brazilian, “that’s no way to square. Where you come from maybe, but not among respectable people.”

This time he seemed to have violated the limits of Longhi’s deep-seated self-control; but once again the inspector bent over the end of the beam, set his eye at the level of an edge, and checked angles for a while. Again he stood up. And now he was livid.

“I beg your pardon,” he said with alarming calm, “this beam is quite well squared.”

“Ah! you think it’s squared?” he exclaimed—forgetting Spanish usted in his wrath and reverting to Portuguese vosé. “You’re such a thief . . .”

But he couldn’t finish. Longhi, with a hoarse cry discharging all his indignation—held in check till then by a strenuous act of will—had flung his lean and nervous hand at Alves’ face. The blow was hard and resounded like a rifle-shot. Alves staggered, lifting his arm to his bloodied mouth, and a second later was leaping backward, revolver in hand. He aimed at Longhi’s chest and let out a strident, sarcastic guffaw.

“Ah-hah! It looks like it’s all over now, eh? Thief! Thief!”

Longhi, his hands in his pockets again, stood still, white as a sheet, staring his accuser down.

“Vosé are a coward!” bellowed Alves, whose wrath was inflamed still more by this new test of composure. “I’m going to kill you like a dog! Thief!”

As he heard this insult for the third time Longhi’s arms moved convulsively, and Alves reacted instantly with the arm in which he was brandishing the revolver. One could see clearly, from the contraction of his face, that he was pulling the trigger. The shot was about to leave the gun when Guaycurú, in a tiger’s leap, fell upon Alves and, with a blow to his wrist, sent the revolver flying.

But now things changed; it was no longer a question of Longhi.

“Grab that bandit!” roared Alves.

The peones, who would have wavered if it were the inspector, in a mad throng came pouncing on the Indian. In a moment he was down and bound.

“The other one now! Grab me that other one!” he roared again, pointing at Longhi, who still had his hands in his pockets. Nobody moved.

“Swine!” he yelled, his eyes shining with tears of impotent wrath, and rushing headlong for his revolver, which had fallen a step away from Longhi.

But at the moment he was about to seize it, the inspector, with a tranquil motion, stepped on the firearm, and catching Alves by a shoulder, threw him violently aside. Alves let out a cry and fell on his back.

There’s no way to describe the expression on the Brazilian’s face when he got up. Tears of rabid exasperation were running from his eyes.

Longhi, calmly, bent over and picked up the revolver and threw it at the feet of Alves, who jumped on it with a hoarse cry of triumph and, aiming at the group of laborers, bellowed:

“Grab that man! Anyone who doesn’t move I’ll blow off the top of his head.”

The peones, cowed, headed for Longhi; but shrugging his shoulders he drew his revolver and told them calmly:

“Act your age, stay put. You don’t have to . . .”

A gunshot cut off his words, and was followed by a cry of pain from Longhi. His revolver fell, as a torrent of blood started flowing from his hand. Alves, whose marksmanship hadn’t failed him at that juncture, had just lopped off three of Longhi’s fingers with a single round, disarming him.

“Quick, tie that man up!” he roared, turning his gun toward the laborers.

Before Longhi could bend over, he found himself surrounded, smothered by a score of arms, and securely bound.

“Take those two bandits to the old well!”

The terrified laborers shouldered the two prisoners and started on their way.

“Now we’ll see, seu Longhi!” Alves shouted after him sarcastically. “Don’t be afraid, vosé; there’s no water in the well . . . but there are some other, better things. As for the other one . . .