The silver dollars are raked along the rough table, their sharp chink contrasting with the soft shuffle of the cards.
All at once a more stentorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game.
It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacalé.
The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetés. Phelim stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long Toledos.
He is only saved by a contingency—another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent.
Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath.
It is scarce necessary for him to announce his errand, though he contrives to gasp out—
“He is coming—on the bluff already—at the head of the cañada—quick, comrades, quick!”
The Galwegian is saved. There is scarce time to kill him—even were it worth while.
But it is not—at least so think the masqueraders; who leave him to resume his disturbed slumber, and rush forth to accomplish the more profitable assassination.