Cuchillo approaching the body, bent down to examine the features, and
see if there were any signs of life. At the first glance of that face
the outlaw trembled.
"Tiburcio Arellanos, as I live!" he involuntarily muttered.
It was, in truth, the adopted son of his victim whom he saw before him.
"Yes--there is no mistake--it is he! _Santa Virgen_! if not dead he's
not far off it," continued he, observing the mortal paleness of the
young man's countenance.
A hellish thought at this moment arose in the mind of the outlaw.
Perhaps the only man in all the world who shared with him that secret,
which he himself had purchased by the crime of murder, was there before
him--completely in his power. It only needed to finish him, if not
already dead, and to report that he could not be saved. He was in the
middle of the desert, under the shadow of night, where no eye could see,
and no hand could hinder; why then should he not make his secret secure
against every contingency of the future?
All the ferocious instincts of the villain were re-awakened;
mechanically he drew the long knife from his boot, and held its point
over the heart of the unconscious Tiburcio.
At that moment, a slight quivering of the limbs told that the latter
still lived. The outlaw raised his arm, but still hesitated to strike
the blow.
"It was just thus," reflected he, "that I stabbed the man he called his
father--just in the same way, as he slept beside me, in full confidence
of security. I see him now contesting with me for the life of this
young fellow more than half gone. I feel at this moment the weight of
his body upon my shoulders, just as I felt it when I carried him down to
the river."
And the murderer, at these thoughts, in the middle of the darkness and
solitude, cast around him a look that betrayed the terror with which the
souvenir still inspired him.
That terror saved the life of Tiburcio; for the knife was thrust back
into its singular scabbard, and the villain, seating himself beside the
recumbent form, thrust his hand under the vest of the young man, and
held it over his heart to try whether it was still beating.
In this attitude he remained for a short while--until satisfied that
Tiburcio was yet alive. Then a bright thought seemed to startle him;
for a voice had spoken to him from within, stronger than the voice of
conscience. It was that of personal interest. Cuchillo knew the rare
qualities of Tiburcio--his talents as a _rastreador_, or tracker--his
daring prowess in Indian warfare; and after some consideration, he
resolved to enrol him in the expedition of Don Estevan, to which he
would no doubt prove of great value.
"That will be the best plan," said the outlaw, speaking in soliloquy.
"What would his life be worth to me now?--Nothing; and if I wish to have
it hereafter--why, then there will be no lack of opportunities. He
cannot be otherwise than grateful for what I am going to do for him.
But let me see how matters stand--of course it is thirst that is killing
him--how lucky I have kept a little water in my canteen!"
He now opened the mouth of the dying man, and holding the neck of the
leathern bottle to his lips, poured some drops down his throat. The
water produced an almost instantaneous reanimation, and the young man
opened his eyes, but soon closed them again.
"That shows he is coming round," muttered Cuchillo.
Twice or thrice he repeated the operation, each time doubling the dose
of water. Finally, at the end of half an hour or so, Tiburcio was
sufficiently recovered to be able to raise himself up, and to answer the
questions put to him by the man who was, in reality, the preserver of
his life.
Tiburcio Arellanos was still but a young man; but the sort of life he
had led--solitary, and dependent on his own resources--had given to his
judgment a precocious maturity. He therefore observed a degree of
prudence in recounting to Cuchillo the death of his adopted mother, to
which subject the outlaw had guided the conversation.
"During the twenty-four hours that I passed by the death-bed of my
mother," said Tiburcio, "I quite forgot to attend to my horse; and after
all was over I closed the door of the cottage, where I never wished to
return, and I set out upon this journey. The poor animal, so long
neglected, became feeble on the second day, and fell dead under me: and,
to my misfortune, my water-bottle was broken in the fall, and the water
spilled upon the sand. I remained on the spot till thirst brought on
fever, and then I strayed away; and after wandering about, I know not
how long, I fell, as my horse had done, expecting never more to rise."
"I comprehend all that," responded Cuchillo. "Well! it is astonishing
how people will regret the death of parents, who do not leave them the
slightest inheritance!"
Tiburcio could have told him, that on her death-bed his adopted mother
had left him a royal, as well as a terrible legacy--the secret of the
Golden Valley, and the vengeance of the murder of Marcos Arellanos.
Both had been, confided to him--the golden secret upon the especial
conditions that Tiburcio would, if necessary, spend the whole of his
life in searching for the assassin.
Tiburcio appeared to take no notice of Cuchillo's last reflection, and
perhaps his discretion proved the saving of his life: for had the outlaw
been made sure that he was in possession of the secret of the Golden
Valley, it is not likely he would have made any further efforts to save
him, but the reverse.
"And is that a fact," continued Cuchillo, interrogatively, "that with
the exception of a hut which you have abandoned, a horse which has
dropped dead between your legs, and the garments you carry on your back,
that Arellanos and his widow have left you nothing?"
"Nothing but the memory of their goodness to me, and a reverence for
their name."
"Poor Arellanos! I was very sorry for him," said Cuchillo, whose
hypocrisy had here committed him to an unguarded act of imprudence.
"You knew him then?" hastily inquired Tiburcio, with some show of
surprise. "He never spoke to me of you!"
Cuchillo saw that he had made a mistake, and hastened to reply.
"No, I didn't know him personally. I have only heard him much spoken of
as a most worthy man, and a famous gambusino. That is why I was sorry
on hearing of his death. Was it not I who first apprised his widow of
the unfortunate occurrence, having myself heard of it by chance?"
Notwithstanding the natural tone in which Cuchillo delivered this
speech, he was one of those persons of such a sinister countenance, that
Tiburcio could not help a certain feeling of suspicion while regarding
it. But by little and little the feeling gave way, and the young man's
thoughts taking another turn, he remained for some moments buried in a
silent reverie. It was merely the result of his feebleness, though
Cuchillo, ever ready to suspect evil, interpreted his silence as arising
from a different cause.
Just then the horse of Cuchillo began to show evident signs of terror,
and the instant after, with his hair standing on end, he came galloping
up to his master as if to seek protection. It was the hour when the
desert appears in all its nocturnal majesty. The howling of the jackals
could be heard in the distance; but all at once a voice rising far above
all the rest appeared to give them a signal to be silent. It was the
voice of the American lion.
"Do you hear it?" inquired Cuchillo of his companion.
A howl equally loud, but of a different tone, was heard on the opposite
side. "It is the puma and jaguar about to battle for the body of your
horse, friend Tiburcio, and whichever one is conquered may take a fancy
to revenge himself on us. Suppose you mount behind me, and let us be
off?"
Tiburcio followed the advice; and notwithstanding the double load, the
horse of Cuchillo galloped off like an arrow, impelled to such swift
course by the growling of the fierce animals, that for a long time could
be heard, as if they were following in the rear.