“Ah! is it you, Señor Cuchillo?” he cried out, as he rode up.
“The devil!” grumbled the outlaw, at this ill-timed interruption. “Ah! is it you, Señor Benito?” he inquired, suddenly changing his tone.
“Yes. Well, have you saved the man? Don Estevan has sent me back to you with a gourd of fresh water, and a horse to bring him on.”
“He is there,” replied Cuchillo, pointing to Tiburcio, who stood at a little distance, “thanks to me he is sound and safe—until I have a chance of being once more alone with him,” he muttered, in a tone not intended to be heard.
“Well, gentlemen,” remarked the servant, “we had better go on—the camping place is not far from here—we can soon reach it.”
Tiburcio leaped into the empty saddle, and the three galloped silently toward the place where the travellers had halted—the servant thinking only of reaching it as soon as possible, and going to rest—Cuchillo mentally cursing the interruption that had forced him to adjourn his project of vengeance—and Tiburcio vainly endeavouring to drive out of his mind the suspicion which this curious incident had aroused.
In this occupation the three rode on for about a quarter of an hour, until the gleam of fires ahead discovered the halting-place of the travellers at La Poza. Soon afterwards their camp itself was reached.