The steersman's knife flashed up, caught the reaching blade, knocked it with a scraping clink. For a few seconds the two weapons seemed welded together, their owners each striving to bear down the other's wrist. Then they parted as the combatants sprang back.
José side-stepped twice to his right. Francisco, turning to preserve his guard, now had the light full in his face. But the moon rode so high that the steersman's disadvantage was negligible, and the next assault of the puntero was blocked as before. And this time the wrist of the popero proved a bit the better; he threw the attacking steel aside and struck in a slashing sweep at his antagonist's stomach.
A convulsive inward movement of the bowman's middle, coupled with a swift back-step, made the slash miss by a hair's breadth. With the quickness of light José was in again. His knife hand, still outstretched sidewise, stopped with a light smack of flesh on flesh. Then it jerked outward. His steel now was red to the hilt.
One more rapid step back, a keen glance at his opponent, and José stood at ease. From Francisco burst a bubbling groan. He staggered. His knife dropped. His hands rose fumblingly toward his neck. Suddenly his knees gave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlight disclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular.
With the utmost coolness José ran two fingers down his wet blade, snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew:
"As I said, we shall have a new popero. To-morrow, Julio, you will take the platform."
A rumble ran among the men. Their eyes lifted from Francisco to the Americans, and in them shone a wolfish gleam. The bowman turned sharply and faced them.
"Who growls?" he rasped. "You, Julio?"
"Si, yo soy," Julio answered, harshly, fingering his knife. "I will be steersman, but I steer downstream, not up. Francisco spoke the truth. Now or later—what is the difference? Let it be now!"
A louder growl from the others followed his words. One stepped back into the shadow of the hut.