"Perhaps I want another. Ah! one word more."
"Speak."
"If by any chance you should hear a noise—shots fired, say—as you are going down the mountain, do not alarm yourself, or come up again."
"Good—that is agreed; so good-bye."
After tossing his hat to the gambusino, the young man put his rifle on his shoulder, and began descending the mountain: he speedily disappeared in the countless windings of the path. So soon as Andrés Garote was alone, he picked up Don Pablo's hat and threw it over the precipice, eagerly watching its descent. After turning over and over, the hat touched a peak, rebounded, and at length rested on the mountainside a great distance beneath.
"Good," the gambusino said with satisfaction, "that is all right; now for the rest."
Andrés Garote then sat down on the ground, took his rifle, and discharged it in the air; immediately, drawing one of his pistols from his belt, he stretched out his left arm and pulled the trigger; the ball went right through the fleshy part. "Caramba!" he said, as he fell all his length on the ground, "that pains more than I fancied; but no matter; the great point is to succeed, so now to await the result."
Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed and nothing disturbed the silence of the desert. Andrés, still stretched at full length, was groaning in a way that would move the heart of the rocks. At length a slight noise was heard a short distance off.
"Halloh!" the gambusino muttered, cunningly watching what had happened, "I fancy there's a bite."
"Who the deuce have we here?" a rough voice said; "Go and see, Sutter."