He was a tall, stalwart man, with features regular enough, but upon them was the brand of crime and fearful passion. Pepe, the vaquero, had spoken truly when he described the stranger as a “wild, rough-looking man.” He was such a man as one would instinctively shun if in a lone place, and feel more at ease when he was out of sight.
The two men, so dissimilar in appearance, were soon deeply engaged in consultation, and did not notice that there was an intruder near them, and one, too, that was listening eagerly to their every word, his countenance betraying the intense interest it occasioned him. He was concealed behind a dense stunted bush, or rather in a little clump, not more than a score of feet distant, with his eye at one opening and ear at another, carefully parting the leaves with his hands, so as to hear everything, while the slightly-fluttering leaves fully screened his face from view.
That it was a secret topic they were discussing was plainly evidenced by the continual glances that were cast around them, as if to guard against espial or interruption, but they were directed beyond where the spy was crouched. Perhaps an hour afterward the two men separated, Felipe riding homeward slowly, the stranger galloping rapidly off toward Guanajuato.
When they moved out of sight the spy arose, and looking toward the point where the latter had disappeared, clenched his fist and shook it vindictively, hissing between his closed teeth as he did so.
“Beware, Senor Don Lopez Romulo. I know you now, and your precious secret! And I will foil you, so sure as the sun shines; yes, and test my cuchillo on your ribs before many days. Santissima Virgin! can it be true?” he added, in a changed voice, as he sat down again, and resting his head upon his hand, sunk into a deep fit of musing that lasted until the sun had set.
“Yes, that will do, I think. At least I will try. But Don Felipe? Sangre de Christo! it must be so; else they would not have been so cautious. Poor Senora Canelo!” he muttered, as he strode rapidly toward the hacienda, taking a roundabout course, so as to enter it upon the opposite side from that whence Felipe had ridden.
It was at an early hour of the night of the succeeding day to that on which Felipe had met his strange visitor, that this same man, or Lopez Romulo as the spy had termed him, entered a low, fifth-rate cabaret near the suburbs of Guanajuato. His soft, felt hat was slouched over his eyes, and the muffling folds of his coarse woolen bayeta shrouded the lower portion of his face, only leaving a narrow aperture, from which gleamed a large black eye. After a quick glance around the room, he dropped his cloak, and spoke to the patrone.
“Senor Don Sanchez, if a cavallero asks for me by the name you know, be so kind as to direct him to my table. Stop. Have you any acquaintance with Don Sylva Cohecho?”
“Carajo! yes; more than I could wish. He owes me for two nights’ drinking, and what a head he has got, to be sure! He said you would see me paid.”
“Very good. Include it with my bill. Send a bottle of wine and some cigarettes—not like the bundle you gave me the other day, or I will ram them down my pistol and use your head for a target.”