“Well,” rejoined the herdsman, “unless they are firing at either Cuchillo or Gayferos—or perhaps at both—I cannot divine the cause of their continued fusillade. These Indians are as curious as the very devil; and they can extract a secret almost as effectually as the Holy Inquisition itself. Perhaps they are frightening either the guide or Gayferos to betray the situation of our camp.”
“God forbid they should succeed!” exclaimed Baraja.
“I join you in the prayer,” said the ex-herdsman: “but I cannot help remarking, how imprudent in our chief to permit the fire. The smoke has been rising all day like a column. In an atmosphere like this it may be seen for leagues off!”
“I agree with you,” replied Baraja; “but then you know it was kindled at the express wish of the guide—so that he might find the way to where we should be encamped. Both humanity towards Cuchillo, as well as our own interest in his safety, required us to light the fire.”
“Ah! that is not so certain. Between ourselves, I haven’t much confidence in this Cuchillo. He appears to be one of those guides whose paths always end in quagmires.”
“But have you not heard the rumour of the camp?”
“What rumour? That Don Estevan is not going by mere hazard to search for a mine of gold; but that he already knows of the existence of a rich placer? Is it that you mean?”
“Yes—or rather that Don Estevan knows of the existence of the placer; but not where it is, or the road that leads to it. This is only known to Cuchillo, whose death would therefore be an irreparable loss to all of us.”
“Bah!” replied the ex-herdsman, with a shake of the head; “Cuchillo’s face is one that could never deceive an experienced eye. For my part I hope I am deceived in him, though I doubt it.”
“Oh, Señor Benito, you always look upon the dark side of things.”