“Perhaps never at all,” says the gambusino, in confabulation with his fellow-watchers. “And why should they? They must be well aware of the chances against them. Besides, having got us as fish in a net, they’re not likely to leap into the water themselves, where they know there are tiburones (sharks).”
Vicente has had a spell at pearl-diving in the Gulf, hence his simile drawn from the sea.
“Ay, tintoreros—these,” he adds, specifying the most dreaded of the squaline tribe, with hand caressingly rested on one of the large stones alongside which he is lying. “I only wish they would try it, the Rattlesnake leading. ’Twould give me just the opportunity I want to pay that artist off for the bit of bad engraving—he did on my breast—by hurling one of these beauties at his head. Malraya! I may never have the chance to settle that score—not likely now.”
The final words, uttered in a tone of angry disappointed vengeance, are followed by an interval of silence. For the new videttes, having just entered on their duty, deem it wise, before aught else, to make themselves acquainted with how matters are below. They are all in recumbent attitude, ventre à terre, behind the parapet of loose stones. For having witnessed that long-range practice with the “Queen Annes,” it occurs to them that a big bullet may at any moment come whizzing up the gorge, and just as well be out of its way. So elevating but their eyes over, they look cautiously down. To see nothing—not even the plain, nor yet the lake; to hear nothing which proceeds from human kind; but they know the savages are on the alert, with sentries aligned below, and for a time continue to listen.
At length, satisfied there is nothing which calls for their vigilance being kept on the strain, Vicente draws out his cajoncito of corn-husk cigarittos, lights one, and sets to smoking. His comrades of the watch do likewise; and the English youth, long since initiated into the ways of the country, smokes too, only his weed is a Havannah.
Not many minutes are they thus occupied when the gambusino, chancing to turn his eyes south-westward, sees what makes him spit the cigaritto from his mouth, and gaze intently. The object is up in the sky; a slight rift just opened in the bank of cloud, edged yellowish-white. The moon must be near it—is near it, and now in it! for while they are still regarding the blue spot, she shoots suddenly out from the black, as arrow from bow.
Instantly night’s darkness is turned into light as of day; every object on the llano, even the smallest, made visible for miles upon miles, up to the horizon’s verge. But their eyes go not so far, least of all those of Pedro Vicente, who at the first flash from the unveiled moon catches sight of that which arrests his straying glances, fixing them fast. Not the line of sentries, though he sees them too; but a pair of figures inside and closer, up nigh the point where the path steps upon the plain. One of them, recognised, rivets his gaze by a token of identification unmistakable—a death’s head in white chalk, which, with the moon full upon it, gleams conspicuous against a background of bronze.
“Carria! El Cascabel!” he mechanically mutters, in tone of exultation; and without saying another word, or waiting another second, brings his rifle to shoulder, the stock to his cheek, with muzzle deep depressed.
A blaze—a crack—and the bullet is sped. A cry of agony from below—another of anger in voice different—proclaims its course true, and that the mark aimed at has been hit.