To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.
Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.
Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?
I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho’s body, not a scratch to account for them!
Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?
While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté—half sword, half hunting-knife—to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero.
Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the hand of his enemy?
I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared on its polished surface!
Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt something wet. Was it dew from the grass?
No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!