Don Pedro's joy knew no bounds.
The Tigercat, forced to confess himself foiled, uttered a howl like a wild beast. "Aha!" cried he, beside himself with rage, "Is it to be thus? But it is not over yet!" He drew a poniard from his garments, and threw himself with all his force on Don Pedro, who, in his joy, had forgotten his presence.
But an eye watched him. Don Luciano had stolen into the jacal, and noiselessly placed himself behind the bandit, whose every movement he carefully watched. As the Tigercat made his spring, he threw his arms around him, and pinioned him, in spite of the desperate efforts made by the miserable wretch. At the same moment, the vaquero bounded into the jacal, knife in hand, and, before anyone could arrest him, plunged it up to the hilt in his throat. "Not bad;" he exclaimed. "The opportunity was too good to lose! My navajada was never given so fairly! I hope this blow will gain me pardon for the others."
The Tigercat remained standing a moment, swaying hither and thither, like a half-uprooted oak tottering to its fall. He rolled his eyes around him, in which rage still strove with the agony that made them haggard. He made one last effort to pronounce a terrible malediction, but his mouth contracted horribly; a stream of dark blood spouted from his yawning throat; he fell at his full length on the ground, where he writhed for a moment like a crushed reptile, to the inconceivable horror of the spectators. Then all was still: he was dead; but on his face, distorted by the death pang, unutterable hatred survived the life which had just quitted him.
"Justice is done," said Manuela, with trembling accents. "It is the hand of God!"
"Let us pray for him," said Don Pedro, falling on his knees.
All present, impressed by this noble and simple action, followed his example, and knelt by his side.
The vaquero, having finished his part in the scene, thought it prudent to disappear, but not without exchanging a glance of intelligence with the capataz, who smiled grimly under his gray moustache.