“He knows no more of it than of the Garden of Eden,” replied Cuchillo, with a confident swagger.
“What was bringing him to the hacienda, then—for that is upon the route? He must have some object in coming this way.”
“O yes!—he came to ask Don Augustin to take him into his service as a vaquero.”
“It is evident,” said the Spaniard, in a tone of mockery, “that you have gained his full confidence and know all about him.”
“I flatter myself, my perspicacity—”
“Is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience,” interrupted Don Estevan, still keeping up his tone of raillery. “Well, but has this young man not confided to you any other secret? You have had a long ride together, and an opportunity to talk of many things. For instance, has he said nothing to you about an affair of the heart?—has he not told you he was in love?”
“Por Dios! Who could Tiburcio be in love with in these deserts? The poor devil is likely to think more of a good horse than a pretty girl.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a mocking laugh that sent a shivering through the frame of Cuchillo. “Well, well! friend Cuchillo, your youth promised better than this. If your conscience is as callous as your perspicacity is obtuse—which God forbid—it is not likely to interfere with your sleep.”
“What do you mean, señor?” demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.
“I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it.”