"Good-bye, gentlemen!" he said to them.
"Good-bye!" they replied, returning his bow.
The Mexican put his horse to a trot, but at the first turn in the road he dug his spurs into its flanks, and started at full speed.
"Now," Sutter observed, "I believe that we can proceed to the cabin without inconvenience."
And they gently walked toward the jacal, pleasantly conversing together.
Don Miguel, however, had not succeeded so fully as he imagined. Red Cedar was not dead, for the old bandit kept a firm hold on life. Attacked unawares, the squatter had not attempted a resistance, which he saw at the first glance was useless, and would only have exasperated his adversary. With marvellous sagacity, on feeling the knife blade enter his body, he stiffened himself against the pain, and resolved on "playing 'possum;" that is to say, feigning death. The success of his stratagem was complete. Don Miguel, persuaded that he had killed him, did not dream of repeating his thrust.
So long as his enemy remained in the jacal the squatter was careful not to make the slightest movement that might have betrayed him; but, so soon as he was alone, he opened his eyes, rose with an effort, drew the dagger from the wound, which emitted a jet of black blood, and looking at the door, through which his assassin had departed, with a glance so full of hatred that it is impossible to describe, he muttered,—
"Now we are quits, Don Miguel Zarate, since you have tried to take back the life of him you saved. Pray God never to bring us face to face again!"
He uttered a deep sigh, and rolled heavily on the ground in a fainting fit. At this moment his sons entered the cabin.