Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly
as his cousin; but, on leaving the _sala_ instead of returning to his
own chamber, he sallied forth from the house.
Still suffering from wounds but half healed, he was nevertheless
sufficiently convalescent to go abroad--into the garden, to the stables,
the corrals--anywhere around the house.
On the present occasion, his excursion was intended to conduct him to a
more distant point. As if under the stimulus of what had turned up in
the conversation--or perhaps by the contents of the letter that had been
read--his feebleness seemed for the time to have forsaken him; and,
vigorously plying his crutch, he proceeded up the river in the direction
of Fort Inge.
In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda
and the Fort--and that did not appear to belong to any one--he arrived
at the terminus of his limping expedition. There was a grove of
_mezquit_, with, some larger trees shading it; and in the midst of this,
a rude hovel of "wattle and dab," known in South-Western Texas as a
_jacale_.
It was the domicile of Miguel Diaz, the Mexican mustanger--a lair
appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the
distinctive appellation of _El Coyote_ ("Prairie Wolf.")
It was not always that the wolf could be found in his den--for his
_jacale_ deserved no better description. It was but his occasional
sleeping-place; during those intervals of inactivity when, by the
disposal of a drove of captured mustangs, he could afford to stay for a
time within the limits of the settlement, indulging in such gross
pleasures as its proximity afforded.
Calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so
fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety. He was not exactly
intoxicated--having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially
recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence.
"_H'la nor_!" he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the
salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the _jacale_. "_P'r
Dios_! Who'd have expected to see you? _Sientese_! Be seated. Take a
chair. There's one. A chair! Ha! ha! ha!"
The laugh was called up at contemplation of that which he had
facetiously termed a chair. It was the skull of a mustang, intended to
serve as such; and which, with another similar piece, a rude table of
cleft yucca-tree, and a couch of cane reeds, upon which the owner of the
_jacale_ was reclining, constituted the sole furniture of Miguel Diaz's
dwelling.
Calhoun, fatigued with his halting promenade, accepted the invitation of
his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull.
He did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of
his errand.
"Senor Diaz!" said he, "I have come for--"
"Senor Americano!" exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting
short the explanation, "why waste words upon that? _Carrambo_! I know
well enough for what you've come. You want me to _wipe out_ that
devilish _Irlandes_!"
"Well!"
"Well; I promised you I would do it, for five hundred _pesos_--at the
proper time and opportunity. I will. Miguel Diaz never played false to
his promise. But the time's not come, _nor capitan_; nor yet the
opportunity, _Carajo_! To kill a man outright requires skill. It can't
be done--even on the prairies--without danger of detection; and if
detected, ha! what chance for me? You forget, _nor capitan_, that I'm a
Mexican. If I were of your people, I might slay Don Mauricio; and get
clear on the score of its being a quarrel. _Maldita_! With us Mexicans
it is different. If we stick our machete into a man so as to let out
his life's blood, it is called murder; and you Americanos, with your
stupid juries of twelve _honest_ men, would pronounce it so: ay, and
hang a poor fellow for it. _Chingaro_! I can't risk that. I hate the
Irlandes as much as you; but I'm not going to chop off my nose to spite
my own face. I must wait for the time, and the chance--_carrai_, the
time and the chance."
"Both are come!" exclaimed the tempter, bending earnestly towards the
bravo. "You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian
trouble going on?"
"Of course I said so. If there was that--"
"You have not heard the news, then?"
"What news?"
"That the Comanches are starting on the war trail."
"_Carajo_!" exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch of reeds,
and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the
scent of prey. "_Santissima Virgen_! Do you speak the truth, _nor
capitan_?"
"Neither more nor less. The news has just reached the Fort. I have it
on the best authority--the officer in command."
"In that case," answered the Mexican reflecting!--"in that case, Don
Mauricio may die. The Comanches can kill him. Ha! ha! ha!"
"You are sure of it?"
"I should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead
of five hundred."
"It _is_ worth that sum."
"What sum?"
"A thousand dollars."
"You promise it?"
"I do."
"Then the Comanches _shall_ scalp him, _nor capitan_. You may return to
Casa del Corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the
opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair. You understand?"
"I do."
"Get ready your thousand _pesos_."
"They wait your acceptance."
"_Carajo_! I shall earn them in a trice. Adios! Adios!"
"_Santissima Virgen_!" exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor
limped out of sight. "What a magnificent fluke of fortune! A perfect
_chiripe_. A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on
my own account, without charging anybody a single _claco_ for the deed!
"The Comanches upon the war trail! _Chingaro_! can it be true? If so,
I must look up my old disguise--gone to neglect through these three long
years of accursed peace. _Viva la guerra de los Indios_! Success to
the pantomime of the prairies!"