"Carrambo!" exclaimed the man now known to me as Ramon Rayas, "I was
going away without having accomplished the best half of my errand!
Didn't I come to make certain that your wound was mortal? Let's see if
that _picaro_ Vilagos has been telling me the truth. Through what part
of the body are you perforated?"
There was no reply; but from certain indications I could tell that the
_salteador_ had approached the prostrate man, and was stooping down to
examine his wounds.
I made a movement forward in the direction in which I had heard the
strange dialogue; but checked myself on again hearing the voice of
Rayas.
"_Carajo_!" ejaculated he, in a tone that betokened some discovery, at
the same time one causing disappointment. "That wound of yours is not
mortal--not a bit of it! You may recover from it, if--"
"You think I have a chance to recover?" eagerly interrogated the wounded
man--willing to clutch at hope, even when offered by an enemy.
"_Think_ you have a chance to recover? I'm _sure_ of it. The bullet
has passed through your thigh--what of that? It's only a flesh wound.
The great artery is not touched. That I'm sure about, or you'd have
bled to death long ago. The bone is not broken: else you could no more
lift your foot in that fashion, than you could kick yonder _cofre_ from
the top of Perote. _Carrambo_! you'd be sure to get over it, if--"
There was an interval of silence, as though the speaker hesitated to
pronounce the condition implied by that "if." The peculiar emphasis,
placed on the monosyllabic word, told me that he was making pause for a
purpose.
"If what, Capitan Rayas?"
The interrogatory came from the wounded man, in a tone trembling between
hope and doubt.
"If," answered the other, and with emphatic pronunciation,--"_if you
tell me where you have hidden Dolores_."
There was a groan; and then in a quivering voice came the rejoinder.
"How could that affect my recovery? If I am to die, it could not save
me. If it be my fate to survive this sad day--"
"It is _not_," interrupted the _salteador_, in a firm, loud voice. "No!
This day you must die--this hour--this moment, unless you reveal to me
that secret you have so carefully kept. Where is Dolores?"
"Never! Rather shall I die than that she should fall into the power of
such a remorseless villain. After that threat, O God!--"
"Die, then! and go to the God you are calling upon. Die, Calros
Vergara--!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming
myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing
nearer to the speakers. Just as the "Die, then!" reached my ears, I
caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace--as well
as of him to whom it was addressed.
Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had
entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending
over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his
grasp.
At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush
forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived
I should be too late.
Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword at my feet,
and drawing my revolver from its holster in my belt.
To cock the pistol, take aim, and pull the trigger, were three actions
in one, the result being a crack, a flash, a cloud of smoke, a cry of
commingled rage and pain; and succeeding to these sounds, a loud
breaking among the bushes on the opposite side of the opening, as if
some individual was making his way through the thicket, without staying
to seek for a path, and with no other thought than to put space between
himself and the form still recumbent upon the sward!
The latter I knew to be Carlos, or Calros, in the patois of his
_con-paisano_. The fugitive was the _salteador_ so lately threatening
his life.
Had the murderer succeeded in his design? I saw his blade brandished
aloft, as I drew my pistol from its holster. I had not seen the
downward thrust; but, for all that, it might have been made.
With a heart brimful of anxiety, I ran across the glade. I say brimful
of anxiety: for something, I could not tell what, had excited my
sympathy for Calros Vergara.
Partly may it have been from hearing that speech off sombre but
significant import,--"_Soy moriendo! Lola!--Lolita! a ver te nunca mas
en este mundo_!" and partly from admiration for a noble nature, that
preferred even death to the disclosing of some secret, which might
compromise the welfare of his beloved Dolores.
I thought no more of the robber, or his efforts to escape. My whole
attention became devoted to the man whom he had marked out for his
victim; and I made all haste to ascertain whether I had been successful
in hindering his fell intent.
In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate
Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger
still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had
disembarrassed him of his enemy.
"Are you safe?" I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could
command. "He has not succeeded in--?"
"Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better
my death, and yours--better far be in your grave than in the embrace of
Ramon Rayas! _O Santissima Madre_!--I die--I die! Mother of God
protect--_Lola!--Lolita! quer-i-da herm_..."
The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so
indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with
my ear close to the lips of the speaker.
His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.
I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His
lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light
of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his
enemy. He appeared to be dead.
Story 1, Chapter IV.