“Pardon me!” said he, “for this rudeness; but allow me to ask you another question?”
“Ask it!” said Cuchillo, “since we are friends; in fact, among friends, one question less or more can make no difference.”
“Who sold you this horse six weeks ago?”
“Por Dios, his owner, of course—a stranger, whom I did not know, but who had just arrived from a long journey.”
Cuchillo repeated these words in a slow and drawling manner, as if to gain time for some hidden purpose.
“A stranger?” repeated Tiburcio; “pardon me! one more question?”
“Has the horse been stolen from you?” asked the outlaw in an ironical tone.
“No—but let us think no more of my folly—pardon me, señor!”
“I pardon you,” answered Cuchillo, in a tone of magnanimity, “the more so,” added he mentally, “that you will not go much further, you son of a hound!”
Tiburcio, unsuspecting, was no longer on his guard, and the outlaw, profiting by the darkness, had already detached his carbine from the saddle. In another moment, beyond doubt, he would have carried into execution his demoniac purpose, had it not been for the appearance of a horseman, who was coming at full gallop along the road. Besides the horse which he rode, the horseman led behind him another, saddled and bridled. He was evidently a messenger from Don Estevan.