“I do.”
“Get ready your thousand pesos.”
“They wait your acceptance.”
“Carajo! I shall earn them in a trice. Adios! Adios!”
“Santissima Virgen!” exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. “What a magnificent fluke of fortune! A perfect chiripé. A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on my own account, without charging anybody a single claco for the deed!
“The Comanches upon the war trail! Chingaro! can it be true? If so, I must look up my old disguise—gone to neglect through these three long years of accursed peace. Viva la guerra de los Indios! Success to the pantomime of the prairies!”