"Carrambo! I lose time. There's a half-hour gone, and if they've
followed at all they'll be near by this time. Follow they can with
their long-eared brute, and I hope he'll guide them true. What can I do
with Cibolo? If I tie him at the root of the tree, he'll lie quiet
enough, poor brute! But then, suppose they should come this way! I
don't imagine they will. I shouldn't if I were in their place; but
suppose they should, the dog would be seen, and might lead them to
suspect something wrong. They might take a fancy to glance up the tree,
and then--No, no, it won't do--something else must be done with Cibolo."
Here he approached the root of the live-oak, and looked inquiringly up
among its branches.
After a moment he seemed to be satisfied with his scrutiny. He had
formed a new resolution.
"It will do," he muttered. "The dog can lie upon those vines. I'll
plait them a little for him, and cover them with moss."
Saying this, he caught hold of the lower limbs, and sprang up into the
tree.
After dragging down some of the creeping vines, he twined them between
the forks of a branch, so as to form a little platform. He next tore
off several bundles of the _tillandsia_, and placed it over the spot
thus wattled.
When the platform was completed to his satisfaction, he leaped down
again; and, taking the animal in his arms, carried him up to the tree,
and placed him gently upon the moss, where the dog lay quietly down.
To dispose of himself was the next consideration. That was a matter of
easy accomplishment, and consisted in laying hold of his rifle, swinging
his body back into the tree, and seating himself firmly among the
branches.
He now arranged himself with care upon his seat. One branch, a stout
one, supported his body, his feet rested upon another, while a third
formed a stay for his arms. In a fork lay the barrel of his long rifle,
the stock firmly grasped in his hands.
He looked with care to this weapon. Of course it was already loaded,
but, lest the night-dew might have damped the priming, he threw up the
pan-cover, with his thumb-nail scraped out the powder, and then poured
in a fresh supply from his horn. This he adjusted with his picker,
taking care that a portion of it should pass into the touch-hole, and
communicate with the charge inside. The steel was then returned to its
place, and the flint duly looked to. Its state of firmness was felt,
its edge examined. Both appeared to be satisfactory, so the piece was
once more brought to its rest in the fork of the branch.
The cibolero was not the man to trust to blind chance. Like all of his
calling, he believed in the wisdom of precautions. No wonder he adopted
them so minutely in the present instance. The neglect of any one of
them might be fatal to him. The flashing of that rifle might cost him
his life! No wonder he was particular about the set of his flint, and
the dryness of his powder.
The position he occupied was well chosen. It gave him a view of the
whole glade, and no object as large as a cat could enter the opening
without being seen by him.
Silently he sat gazing around the circle of green shrubbery--silently
and anxiously--for the space of nearly an hour.
His patient vigil was at length rewarded. He saw the yellow face as it
peered from the underwood, and for a moment hesitated about firing at it
then. He had even taken sight upon it, when it was drawn back!
A little longer he waited--till the mulatto, rising to his knees,
offered his face full in the blazing light. At that moment his finger
pressed the trigger, and his unerring bullet passed through the brain of
his treacherous foeman!