It resists the effort.
“Carrambo! it’s barred inside!
Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes—perhaps Indians. Ha! ha! ha!”
Another kick is given with greater force.
The door still keeps its place.
“Barricaded with something—something heavy too. It won’t yield to kicking. No matter.
I’ll soon see what’s inside.”
The machete is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.
Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction.
The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.
The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.
A man lying in the middle of the floor!
“Carajo!”
“Is he asleep?”
“He must be dead not to have heard us?”
“Neither,” says the chief, after stooping to examine him, “only dead drunk—boracho—embriaguado!
He’s the servitor of the Irlandes.
I’ve seen this fellow before.
From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately.
I hope the brute hasn’t used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition.
Ah! a jar.
And smelling like a rose!
There’s a rattle among these rods. There’s stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!”
A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn.
There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. In a trice the jar is empty.
What next?
The master of the house must come home, some time or other.
An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him—particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit.
The chief is especially anxious to see him.
What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?
Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there.
They have come to murder him!
Their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and assistants.
The business is too important to permit of his trifling.
He will gain a thousand dollars by the deed—besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive.
His three braves will earn a hundred each—a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a Comanche, and purchase him for any purpose.
The travesty need not be carried any further. By this time the mask must have fallen off.
Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.
“We must lie in wait for him.” This is the counsel of El Coyote. “He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him.
You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain.
The rest remain here with me.
He must come that way from the Leona.
We can meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree. ’Tis the best place for our purpose.”
“Had we not better silence him?” hints the bloodthirsty Barajo, pointing to the Galwegian—fortunately unconscious of what is transpiring around him.
“Dead men tell no tales!” adds another of the conspirators, repeating the proverb in its original language.
“It would tell a worse tale were we to kill him,” rejoins Diaz. “Besides, it’s of no use.
He’s silent enough as it is, the droll devil.
Let the dog have his day.
I’ve only bargained for the life of his master.
Come, Barajo!