The Jefe repeated the laborious combing out process; but Henry was not minded longer to prolong the tension. He waited till the Jefe's latest chord brought him directly upon him. He waited till the rifle muzzle, breast high, was within half a dozen inches of his heart. Then he exploded into two simultaneous actions. He ducked lower than the rifle and yelled "Fire!" in stentorian command.
So startled, the Jefe pulled the trigger, and the bullet sped above Henry's head. From above, the sackcloth men applauded wildly. The Jefe tore off his blindfold and saw the smiling face of his foe.
"It is well God has spoken," announced the sackcloth leader, as he descended into the pit. "The man uninjured is innocent. Remains now to test the other man."
"Me?" the Jefe almost shouted in his surprise and consternation.
"Greetings, Jefe," Henry grinned. "You did try to get me. It's my turn now. Pass over that rifle."
But the Jefe, with a curse, in his disappointment and rage forgetting that the rifle had contained only one cartridge, thrust the muzzle against Henry's heart and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a metallic click.
"It is well," said the leader, taking away the rifle and recharging it. "Your conduct shall be reported. The test for you remains, yet must it appear that you are not acting like God's chosen man."
Like a beaten bull in the ring seeking a way to escape and gazing up at the amphitheatre of pitiless faces, so the Jefe looked up and saw only the rifles of the sackcloth men, the triumphing faces of Leoncia and Francis, the curious looks of his own gendarmes, and the blood-eager faces of the haciendados that were like the faces of any bull-fight audience.
The shadowy smile drifted the stern lips of the leader as he handed the rifle to Henry and started to blindfold him.
"Why don't you make him face the wall until I'm ready?" the Jefe demanded, as the silver bell tinkled in his passion-convulsed hand.