"Yes," he replied; "but—"
"Remember that we can admit no vague suppositions. Things have reached such a pitch that, if you wish us to give you the credence you doubtlessly deserve, you must bring your charges precisely, and not shrink from pronouncing any name if it be necessary."
"I shall shrink from nothing, señor conde. I know all the responsibility I take on myself. No consideration, however powerful it may be, will make me conceal what I regard as a sacred duty."
"Speak, then, in Heaven's name; and God grant that your words may not compel me to inflict an exemplary chastisement on one of our comrades."
The capataz collected himself for a moment. All anxiously awaited his explanation: Cucharés especially was suffering from an emotion which he found great difficulty in concealing. Blas Vasquez at length spoke again, while keeping his eye so fixed on the count that the latter began to understand that he and his men were the victims of some odious treachery.
"Señor conde," Blas said, "we Mexicans have a law from which we never depart—a law which, indeed, is inscribed in the hearts of all honest men. It is this: in the same way that the pilot is responsible for the ship intrusted to him to take into port, the pioneer responds with his person for the safety of the people he undertakes to guide in the desert. In this case no discussion is possible: either the guide is ignorant, or he is not. If he is ignorant, why, against the opinion of everybody, has he forced us to enter the desert, while taking on himself the entire responsibility of our journey? Why, if he be not ignorant, did he not guide us straight across the desert as he agreed to do, instead of leading us at venture in pursuit of an enemy who, he knows as well as I do, is never stationary in the desert, but traverses it at his horse's utmost speed when forced to enter it? Hence on the guide alone must weigh the blame of all that has happened, as he was master of events, and arranged them as he thought proper."
Cucharés, more and more perturbed, knew not what countenance to keep; his emotion was visible to all.
"What reply have you to make?" the captain asked him.
Under circumstances like the present, the man attacked has only two means of defence—to feign indignation or contempt. Cucharés chose the latter. Summoning up all his boldness and impudence, he raised his voice, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and answered in an ironical tone,—
"I will not do Don Blas the honour of discussing his remarks: there are certain accusations which an honest man scorns to repel. It was my duty to act in conformity with the orders of the captain, who alone commands here. Since we have been in the desert we have lost twenty men, killed by the Indians or by disease. Can I be logically rendered responsible for this misfortune? Do I not run the same risks as all of you of perishing in the desert? Is it in my power to escape the fate that threatens you? If the captain had merely ordered me to cross the desert, we should have done so long ago: he told me that he wished to catch the Apaches up, and I was compelled to obey him."