"Tête de Plume. I could not send Versenca; in the first place, because he was drunk; secondly, because I don't like him."
Then, after a pause, Tom whispered to Camotte, who listened with deep and almost religious attention.
"And now," said Tom, "that you understand me, away."
Camotte went out. The worthy Mexican was the devoted friend, the alter ego, and moreover the lieutenant of Tom Mitchell, who wholly confided in him. Despite of events we have described before, Camotte was worthy of his trust.
The chief of the outlaws quietly made some alterations in his toilette, which was a little out of order from his long journey. He had just come off a distant expedition. The booty had been at once transferred to the island.
Having done this he drew the curtain that served as a door.
The camp no longer looked the same. The fire was out. The two eminences were guarded by sharpshooters. A detachment of twenty men guarded the entrance to the defile. The rest of the troop were ready to mount at a sign.
Tom Mitchell looked about him with an air of satisfaction. Camotte had executed all his orders faithfully.
At this moment the sun rose. It was like a theatrical scene. Light fell suddenly upon everything.
"Oh!" cried the captain as a bugle sounded in the distance from the defile, "I was just in time."