Chapter Twelve.
Tiburcio Arellanos.
Cuchillo approaching the body, bent down to examine the features, and see if there were any signs of life. At the first glance of that face the outlaw trembled.
“Tiburcio Arellanos, as I live!” he involuntarily muttered.
It was, in truth, the adopted son of his victim whom he saw before him.
“Yes—there is no mistake—it is he! Santa Virgen! if not dead he’s not far off it,” continued he, observing the mortal paleness of the young man’s countenance.
A hellish thought at this moment arose in the mind of the outlaw. Perhaps the only man in all the world who shared with him that secret, which he himself had purchased by the crime of murder, was there before him—completely in his power. It only needed to finish him, if not already dead, and to report that he could not be saved. He was in the middle of the desert, under the shadow of night, where no eye could see, and no hand could hinder; why then should he not make his secret secure against every contingency of the future?
All the ferocious instincts of the villain were re-awakened; mechanically he drew the long knife from his boot, and held its point over the heart of the unconscious Tiburcio.
At that moment, a slight quivering of the limbs told that the latter still lived. The outlaw raised his arm, but still hesitated to strike the blow.