"I am curious to know the means you will employ to obtain this result."
"You shall see," Don Miguel replied with perfect coolness.
"Well?"
"I shall kill you."
"Oh, oh!" the squatter said, as he looked complacently at his muscular limbs, "That is not easy."
"More so than you suppose, my master."
"Hum! and when do you reckon on killing me?"
"At once!"
The two men were seated in front of the hearth, each at the end of a bench: the table was between them, but a little back, so that while talking they only leaned an elbow on it. While uttering the last word, Don Miguel bounded like a tiger on the squatter, who did not at all expect the attack, seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. The two enemies rolled on the uneven flooring of the jacal.
The Mexican's attack had been so sudden and well directed that the half-strangled squatter, in spite of his Herculean strength, could not free himself from his enemy's iron clutch, which pressed his throat like a vice. Red Cedar could neither utter a cry nor offer the slightest resistance: the Mexican's knee crushed his chest, while his fingers pressed into his throat.