human
Hands up, my beauties--every mother's son of yer. Yes, I mean you, yer human catapiller. Don't waste any time about it; I'm the caller fer this dance. Put 'em up higher, less yer want ter commit suicide. Now drop them rifles on the floor--gently, friends, gently. Matt, frisk 'em and see what other weapons they carry. Ever see nicer bunch o' lambs, Jim? His lips smiling, but with an ugly look to his gleaming teeth, and steady eyes.
gpt
Why they'd eat outer yer hand. Which one of yer is Mendez?
human
He dead, _señor_, one fellow managed to answer in broken English.
gpt
That heem lie dar.
human
Well, that's some comfort, but without glancing about.
gpt
Now kick the guns over this way, Matt, and touch a match to the lamp on that shelf yonder; and, Jim, perhaps you better stamp out the fire; we'll not need it any more. Great Scott! What's this?