In a remote chamber of the hacienda were lodged the four adventurers,
Pedro Diaz, Oroche, Cuchillo, and Baraja. These gentlemen were not slow
in becoming acquainted with one another, and this acquaintance was soon
of the most familiar character. In the middle of the room in which all
four were to pass the night, stood a strong oaken table, upon which, in
an iron candlestick, was burning a long thin tallow candle, that gave
forth a somewhat dim and doubtful light. By this light Cuchillo and
Baraja--forgetful of all their promises and vows--were going on with the
game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village
of Huerfano.
Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche,
seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his
elbow resting on his knee--the favourite attitude of mandolin players--
accompanied his own voice as he sang the _boleros_ and _fandangos_ then
most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region.
Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true
inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the
wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the
cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of _mezcal_, already
half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally
helped themselves--as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and
to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour.
Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he
appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent
passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these
passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even
more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards
with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the
mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received
from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja's pockets, and Cuchillo
was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the
cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him.
The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he
had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once
Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the
table.
"Who the devil wants your music?" cried he to Oroche in a furious tone,
"and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion--only credit when
I win, and cash whenever I lose."
"You offend me, Senor Cuchillo," said Baraja, "my word has always passed
for its value in cash."
"Especially when you don't happen to lose," sneeringly added Cuchillo.
"That is not a very delicate insinuation," said Baraja gathering up the
cards. "Fye, fye! Senor Cuchillo--to get angry about such a trifle! I
myself have lost half a hacienda at play--after being robbed of the
other half--and yet I never said a word about it."
"Didn't you indeed? what's that to me? I shall speak as I please, Senor
Baraja, and as loudly as I please too," added he, placing his hand upon
the hilt of his knife.
"Yes," coolly answered Baraja, "I know you use words _that cause your
friends to drop dead_; but these words are harmless at a distance--
besides I have got a tongue as sharp as yours, Senor Cuchillo."
As Baraja said this, he drew his knife from its sheath--in which action
he was imitated by his antagonist--and both placed themselves
simultaneously in an attitude for fight.
Oroche coolly took up his mandolin--which at the interference of
Cuchillo he had laid aside--and, like a bard of ancient times was,
preparing to accompany the combat with a chant, when Diaz suddenly
interposed between the two champions.
"For shame, gentlemen!" cried he; "what! two men made to be mutual
friends, thus to cut each other's throats for a few paltry dollars! on
the eve too of becoming the owners of a hundred times as much! Have I
not understood you to say, Senor Cuchillo, that you were to be the guide
of our expedition? Your life is no more your own, then; it belongs to
us all, and you have no right to risk it. And you, Senor Baraja! you
have not the right to attempt the life of our guide. Come! put up your
knives, and let there be no more of this matter."
This speech recalled the two combatants to their senses. Cuchillo
remembering the grand interest he had in the success of the expedition,
and perceiving that the risk of life was playing a little too high--for
a combat of this sort usually ends in the death of one or the other--
gave ready ear to the counsel of Diaz. Baraja, on his side, reflected
that the dollars he had already pocketed might be better employed than
in defraying the expenses of his own funeral; and on this reflection was
equally ready to desist from his intention.
"Be it so, then!" cried Cuchillo, speaking first; "I sacrifice my
feelings to the common good."
"And I," said Baraja, "I am willing to follow so noble an example. I
disarm--but--I shall play no more."
The knives were again stuck into their scabbards, and the two
adversaries mutually extended their hands to one another.
At this moment, Diaz, by way of preventing any allusion to the recent
quarrel, suddenly turning to Cuchillo, demanded:
"Who, Senor Cuchillo, is this young man whom I saw riding by your side
as you came up to the hacienda? Notwithstanding the friendship that
appeared to exist between you and him, if I mistake not, I observed you
regarding one another with an occasional glance of mistrust--not to say
hostility. Was it not so?"
Cuchillo recounted how they had found Tiburcio half dead upon the road,
and also the other circumstances, already known to the reader; but the
question put by Diaz had brought the red colour into the face of the
outlaw, for it recalled to him how his cunning had been outwitted by the
young man, and also how he had been made to tremble a moment under
Tiburcio's menace. Writhing under these remembrances, he was now
determined to make his vengeance more secure, by enlisting his
associates as accomplices of his design.
"It often happens," said he, in a significant tone, "that one man's
interest must be sacrificed to the common welfare--just as I have now
done--does it not?"
"Without doubt," replied several.
"Well then," continued Cuchillo, "when one has given himself, body and
soul, to any cause, whatever it may be, it becomes his duty, as in my
case, to put a full and complete constraint upon his affections, his
passions, even his dearest interests--ay, even upon any scruples of
conscience that might arise in an over-delicate mind."
"All the world knows that," said Baraja.
"Just so, gentlemen. Well, I feel myself in that difficulty; I have a
too timid conscience, I fear, and I want your opinions to guide me."
His audience maintained an imperturbable silence.
"Suppose, then," continued the outlaw, "there was a man whom you all
held in the highest esteem, but whose life compromised the success of
our expedition, what should be done with him?"
"As God lives," cried Oroche, "I should be happy to find some occasion
of sacrificing private interests to the common good."
"But is there such a man?" inquired Diaz, "and who may he be?"
"It's a long story," replied Cuchillo, "and its details concern only
myself--but there _is_ such a man."
"Carajo!" exclaimed Oroche, "that is enough; he should be _got rid of_
as speedily as possible."
"Is that the advice of all of you?" asked Cuchillo.
"Of course," answered simultaneously Oroche and Baraja.
Diaz remained silent keeping himself out of this mysterious compromise.
After a little, he rose from his seat, and under some pretext left the
chamber.
"Well, then, gentlemen," said Cuchillo, addressing himself to his two
more facile comrades, "you are fully of the opinion that the man should
be got rid of? Let me tell you, then, that this man is no other than
Tiburcio Arellanos."
"Tiburcio!" exclaimed the two acolytes.
"Himself--and although, since he is one of my dearest friends, it goes
sadly against my heart, I declare to you that his life may render
abortive all the plans of our expedition."
"But," interposed Baraja, "why may he not lose it?--to-morrow in this
hunt of wild horses there will be a thousand opportunities of his losing
it?"
"True enough," said Cuchillo, in a solemn voice. "It is of great
importance he should not return from this hunt. Can I rely upon you,
gentlemen?"
"Blindly!" replied the two adventurers.
The storm was gathering over the head of poor Tiburcio, but danger
threatened him from still another quarter; and long before the expected
hunt, that danger would be at its height.
The three adventurers continued their conversation, and were entering
more particularly into the details of their design, when a knocking at
the outer door interrupted their sinister councils.