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!