“Miserable wretch!” cried Kearney—for it was he who confronted him—“I don’t want to kill you in cold blood Heaven forbid my doing murder. Defend yourself.”
“He defend hisself!” scornfully exclaimed a voice—that of Cris Rock. “He dassen’t as much as do that. He hasn’t the steel shirt on now.”
Yet another voice at this moment made itself heard, as a figure, feminine, became added to the group. Luisa Valverde it was, who, rushing out of the carriage and across the courtyard, cried out—
“Spare his life, Don Florencio. He’s not worthy of your sword.”
“You’re right thar, young lady,” endorsed the Texan, answering for Kearney. “That he ain’t—an’ bare worth the bit o’ lead that’s inside o’ this ole pistol. For all, I’ll make him a present o’ ’t—thar, dang ye.”
The last words were accompanied by a flash and a crack, causing Santander’s horse to shy and rear up. When the fore hoofs of the animal returned to the flags, they but missed coming down upon the body of its rider, now lying lifeless along them.
“That’s gin him his quieetus, I reckin,” observed Rock, as he glanced down at the dead man, whose face upturned had the full moonlight upon it, showing handsome features, that withal were forbidding in life, but now more so in the ghastly pallor of death.
No one stayed to gaze upon them, least of all the Texan, who had yet another life to take, as he deemed in the strict execution of duty and satisfaction of justice. For it too was forfeit by the basest betrayal. The soldiers were out of their saddles now, prisoners all; having surrendered without striking a blow. But crouching away in a shadowy corner was that thing of deformity, who, from his diminutive size, might well have escaped observation. He did not, however. The Texan had his eyes on him all the while, having caught a glimpse of him as they were riding in at the gate. And in those eyes now gleamed a light of a vengeance not to be allayed save by a life sacrificed. If Santander on seeing Kearney believed his hour was come, so did the dwarf as he saw Cris Rock striding towards him. Caught by the collar, and dragged out into the light, he knew death was near now.
In vain his protestations and piteous appeals. Spite of all, he had to die. And a death so unlike that usually meted out to criminals, as he himself to the commonality of men. No weapon was employed in putting an end to him: neither gun nor pistol, sword nor knife. Letting go hold of his collar, the Texan grasped him around the ankles, and with a brandish raising him aloft, brought his head down upon the pavement. There was a crash as the breaking of a cocoa-nut shell by a hammer; and when Rock let go, the mass of mis-shapen humanity dropped in a dollop upon the flags, arms and legs limp and motionless, in the last not even the power left for a spasmodic kick.
“Ye know, Cap,” said the Texan, justifying himself to Kearney, “I’d be the last man to do a cruel thing. But to rid the world o’ sech varmint as them, ’cording to my way o’ thinking, air the purest hewmanity.”