“What can I do?” replied Tiburcio. “Besides, it is just the sort of life I have been accustomed to; have I not always been exposed to privations and the solitude of the desert plains? These torn calzoneras and well-worn jacket are all that are left me—since I have now no longer my poor horse. Better turn vaquero than be a beggar!”
“He knows nothing of the secret then,” reflected Cuchillo, “since he is meditating on an employment of this nature.” Then raising his voice:—“You are in truth, then, a complete orphan, amigo; and have no one to mourn for you if you were to die—except myself. Have you by chance heard anything of this grand expedition that is being organised at Tubac?”
“No.”
“Become one of it then. To an expedition of this kind a resolute young fellow like you would be a valuable acquisition; and upon your part, an expert gambusino, such as I fancy you must be—from the school in which you have been taught—might make his fortune at a single stroke.”
If he parry this thrust, muttered the outlaw to himself, it will be proof positive that he knows nothing about it.
Cuchillo was thus pursuing his investigation with a twofold object, sounding Tiburcio about the secret, while at the same time trying to attach him to the expedition by the hope of gain. But cunning as was the outlaw, he had to do with a party that was no simpleton. Tiburcio prudently remained silent.
“Although between ourselves,” continued Cuchillo, “I can tell you that I have never been beyond Tubac, yet I am to be one of the guides of this expedition. Now what say you?”
“I have my reasons,” replied Tiburcio, “not to engage in it without reflection. I therefore demand of you twenty-four hours to think it over, and then you shall have my answer.”
The expedition, of which this was the first news Tiburcio had heard, might, in fact, ruin or favour his own projects—hence the uncertainty he felt, and which he contrived so cleverly to conceal by his discreet reserve.
“Very well,” rejoined Cuchillo, “the thing will keep that long.”