In the horseman who had left the main body I was not long in distinguishing the man whose odd behavior had raised my suspicions while on my way from Vera Cruz to Bocca del Rio. Astonished, no doubt, to find the place which he had left so full of life some time before, quite deserted, the man, still enveloped in the same blue bayeta, continued silently to examine every place, and at last advanced near the mangroves. He soon, however, returned to his comrades.
The remains of the schooner's cargo, which the tide was washing on shore, could now be plainly seen. This was a sure indication that the most valuable parts of the lading would not be long in being thrown up. The wreckers could no longer restrain their impatience. They stationed themselves in a long line along the strand, so that nothing could escape them. The man in the blue cloak, who seemed to be the chief of these wretches, rode his horse into the waves, to have a better view of the boxes and bales floating about.
"Will any of you lend me a gun?" asked the pilot.
One of our party handed him his musket. Ventura seized it. At this moment the dark profile of the chief wrecker and his horse, relieved by the white foam of the sea, presented an admirable mark. He fired, and we saw the cavalier fall from his steed, and disappear beneath the waves. The other wretches took to flight. Immediately after, a man came out of the water, and walked up the beach, the ball which Ventura had intended for him having only struck his horse. The pilot ran toward the villain to prevent his escape. A struggle took place in the darkness. Just when we had come up to assist the pilot, he was thrown to the ground by the marauder, whose poniard happily had glided over his clothes without injuring him. It was impossible to overtake the fugitive, as he fled as fast as his legs could carry him, fancying, probably, his opponent had been killed. Ventura rose with difficulty.
"I was not able to hold him," said he, passing his hand over his body; "but that's nothing. I recognized the fellow; it is Campos! I am not hurt a bit; but it is a wonder that the rascal did not pin me to the ground with his dagger. I am curious to know, however, where the deuce the scoundrel got that horse."
"Did you say that the miscreant's name was Campos?" cried Calros; "Tereso Campos?"
"Yes, Tereso Campos."
"That's the man I am seeking," returned the Jarocho, grasping my hand.
"Are you in search of him?" asked the pilot; "and why?"
"To kill him," answered Calros, quite naïvely.