“Andela!” (forward), shouted Lucas Planillas.
At the word both men bounded forward, and their knives met with a clash that sent showers of tiny sparks to the table. Then their thrusts and blows were made so quickly, the parries and changes of position were so rapid, that the eye could not follow them. It was like the rapid shifting of the kaleidoscope when quickly turned. The eye could catch the motion, but ere it could fix the details, another combination would obliterate its predecessor.
Despierto was slowly being forced back, or retreated from policy, when, as Marcos stood near the edge of the table, Sylva Cohecho—he who had brought the news of the intended attack by the Melladios—thrust forth a hand, and strove to catch the young miner by the foot. If he had succeeded it must have been fatal, for Estevan would have profited by the stumble, and ended the combat then and there. But Lucas’ eye caught the motion in time to frustrate it, and as he delivered a swift blow behind the spy’s ear with his clenched fist, an adroit trip of the foot sent him headlong under the table.
“Cursed crookback, you would do murder?” yelled Planillas, drawing his knife and diving under the table just as Cohecho crowded out through the crowd, who were ignorant of the cause of the disturbance.
He ran to the door, and turning, saw Lucas dart forward. Drawing a pistol from his belt, he fired at the youth, the bullet piercing his sombrero, while a faint yell and heavy fall among the spectators told that the bullet had not been entirely harmless. Cohecho saw Planillas stagger, and thinking his aim had been true, burst open the door with a strong pull, and rushed through the bar-room, gaining the open street in safety, sending back a wild, taunting laugh of triumph.
Further pursuit would be worse than useless, so the miners returned to the room where the fight was still in progress, and a little knot gathered around the dead body of a youth, who had been shot through the brain by the missile intended for Planillas. The latter only gave one glance at the victim, and then turned to view the duel.
They were both wounded, but evidently not very severely. The perspiration ran in streams from their bronzed faces. Marcos adroitly unrolled the frazada that enveloped his left arm until it nearly reached the floor. And, as the motions of his knife were thus concealed, penetrated his antagonist’s guard, and sent his long blade to the hilt in Despierto’s body.
But an attempted parry of the latter diverted the aim slightly, and instead of passing between his ribs, as was intended, the knife glanced into his back, inflicting a painful flesh wound, but not disabling the duelist. The force of the blow, however, staggered him, and he fell upon his back, as his foot slipped upon some blood. Marcos kicked the knife from his grasp, and then kneeling upon his breast, pressed the point of his knife against the man’s throat.
“Now, base liar, unsay the words, or by the Virgin of Atocha, I will kill you like a dog!”
“I am Don Estevan Despierto!” scornfully replied the defeated duelist, as though in those words were contained his answer to the threat.