“Very likely one of those American trappers we see now and then at Arispe, where they come to sell their beaver skins. These fellows think as little of a puma or a jaguar as they do of a jackal.”
No other noise was afterwards heard to break the imposing silence of the night. The stars were shining brightly in the blue heaven, and the breeze, that had now become much cooler, scarce made the slightest rustling as it passed through the branches of the iron-wood trees.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Tiburcio, after an interval of silence.
“To La Poza, where I have some companions who are to pass the night there. To-morrow, if you like, on to the hacienda of Venado.”
“To the hacienda of Venado! that is just where I was going.”
Had it been daylight, Cuchillo might have seen a blush suddenly redden the cheeks of the young man as he pronounced these words; for it was an affair of the heart, that in spite of all the efforts he had made to resist it, was attracting him to the hacienda de Venado. The object of his interest was no other than the daughter of the haciendado himself—the young heiress already spoken of.
“For what purpose were you going there?” inquired Cuchillo, in a careless tone.
This simple question was nevertheless difficult to be answered. His companion was not the man to whom the young gambusino could give his confidence. He hesitated before making reply.
“I am without resources,” said he at length, “and I go to ask Don Augustin Peña if he will accept me in the capacity of one of his vaqueros.”
“’Tis a poor business you wish to undertake, amigo. To expose your life forever for such paltry pay as you will get—to keep watch at night and run about all the day; exposed to the burning heat of the sun, and by night to the cold—for this is the lot of a vaquero.”