“Who else could I mean, you sot? You who neither know how to use strength or stratagem! A woman has accomplished what you could not do! I have told you that this child is a giant to you; and had it not been for me—”
“Had it not been for you,” interrupted the outlaw, “this young fellow would not now have been living to trouble us.”
“How sir?” demanded Don Estevan.
“Last night, as I was bringing him to your bivouac, the fellow did an outrage to my honour, and actually threatened me. I was about putting an end to our differences by a shot from my carbine, when your precious old fool of a servant, Benito, came galloping up, and of course I had to renounce my design. So you see, the only good action I have ever done, has brought me to grief. Such is the reward of our virtue!”
“Speak for yourself, my droll fellow!” said the Spaniard, whose pride revolted at being thus classed with such company as the outlaw. “But if that could be outraged which does not exist, may I ask what attempt this young man made upon your honour?”
“I do not know myself—it was something that happened with my horse, who has the fault—”
Cuchillo interrupted himself as one who has made an imprudent speech.
“The fault of stumbling in the left fore-leg?” added Don Estevan. “I see—this old history of the murder of Arellanos.”
“I did not murder him,” cried the outlaw, impudently. “I had reasons not to like him; but I pardoned him, for all that.”
“Oh! you are so magnanimous! But come, an end to these pleasantries. It remains for you to get this young man out of the way. I have my reasons for wishing it so—among others, he knows our secret. I gave you a half onza to save his life. To-day I have different views regarding him; and I promise to give you twenty onzas when I am assured that he is no longer alive.”