“In two ways: with a stout hook, or with the hand.”
“Here,” I said, “is a piastra for the man who will procure me such a sight.”
Mine host looked round, called to a young Indian who was outside, and informed him of my wish.
“All right, Señor, nothing easier; come in a boat to the stream on the other side of the village.”
In a few minutes we were at the place of rendezvous, where we found the Indian ready awaiting us, a dagger in his hand, cautioning us to follow without making a noise, as he walked along the high grass which grew on the banks. Suddenly two alligators plunged into the water, and Cyrilo was after them almost at the same time.
After a few minutes, which seemed hours, we spied the tail of the monster violently beating the surface of the water, then the whole body emerged with Cyrilo adhering to the alligator’s belly, then both disappeared again, leaving behind a long bloody streak.
“Well done, Cyrilo, well done!” cried Don Juan.
Yet all that could be seen was the commotion of the water where the struggle was going on; a few minutes more and Cyrilo came up, this time alone, breathing hard, covered with mud, and swimming towards us. I stretched out my hand to help him in, but he leaped into the boat without assistance and sat down quite still for one minute.
“Este can me cortò el dedo—this dog broke my finger,” he said, holding up his hand, of which the first joint of the forefinger was hanging down. “Però me lo pagò—but I paid him out, and I reckon we’ll soon see his ugly mug. But if not I’ll be after him again.”