“Agreed, Don Estevan; and in to-morrow’s hunt of these wild horses, it will be strange if Tiburcio Arellanos don’t knock his brains out against either a rock or the trunk of a tree, or at least get himself into some corner, where he won’t be able to find his way out again. The only regret I have is, that I shall have to share these twenty onzas with my friends, Baraja and Oroche.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Don Estevan; “and who knows but that to-morrow may be too late? Is the night not better for your purpose? Are you not three to one? Who is to assure you that to-morrow I may not change my mind?”
This threat seriously alarmed Cuchillo.
“Carramba! your excellency is quick to decide; you are not one of those who leave for to-morrow what should be done to-day. Pues—then—I shall try my best. In fact, it is very quiet here—I wonder the cries of this young woman have not startled the whole house. There’s not a creature about.”
Such was in reality the case. Notwithstanding the noise of the struggle between Tiburcio and his assailants, and later still, the cries of Rosarita, no one had been awakened. The vast extent of the building prevented these sounds from being heard, particularly as all the domestics of the hacienda, as well as the proprietor himself, were buried in a profound slumber.
Cuchillo now directed himself toward the apartment where he had left his comrades; Don Estevan returning at the same time to his own chamber. The moon once more poured her soft, silvery light upon the grove of oranges, as if no crime had ever been attempted in that tranquil spot.
Don Estevan did not go to rest; but for a long time paced to and fro across his ample chamber, with the air of one accustomed to watch over ambitious projects while others were asleep.
After a lapse of time, Cuchillo was heard knocking softly at his door; and as soon as it was opened, the hired assassin stepped in. His confused looks caused Don Estevan to tremble. Was the deed already done? He wished it, yet feared to ask the question. Cuchillo relieved him from his embarrassment by speaking first.
“My twenty onzas are gone to the devil!” said he, in a lugubrious tone.
“How?” hastily inquired Don Estevan.