The Señor laughed. He had seen Andres at only the last fair, less than a year ago, shoot, at eighty yards, a Mexican dollar from between the fingers of Dondy Jeem. The scene recurred to Andres. "Had it been but his heart!" he muttered, dully. And then, with a look at Don Gil, "There are few who cannot do one thing well, Señor."
"You are far too modest, Andres."
Don Gil glanced again at the lantern which Andres had set down upon the veranda rail. When he had first caught sight of that lantern in Andres's hand his difficulty had vanished like the morning mist. With a flash of thought, rather of many thoughts in one train, he had seen the proceedings of the evening to come mapped out like a plan of campaign.
"Will you do something for me, Andres?"
"The good God knows; anything that I can, Señor. But what I should prefer would be a night when the moon shines. He could not then see me behind the old ironwood, and I could distinguish him better when there is a little light. Is it the Señor E'cobeda, Señor?"
Don Gil laughed again. He put El Rey gently from him, and arose. He walked to the corner of the veranda and back again. Andres took El Rey tenderly up in his arms, the child laid his hot head on Andres's shoulder.
"When will Roseta come?" he whispered. With the unreason and trustful selfishness of childhood, he did not see that if his heart was breaking, the heart of Andres had already broken.
"No, Andres; it is not Escobeda. I do not hire assassins, even for such a villain as he. But I need a servant as faithful and as dumb as if that were my custom. I want something done at once, Andres, and I truly believe that you are the only one upon all the coloñia whom I can trust. Come in here with me. No! Set the child down; he will listen and repeat."
"El Rey will not listen at nothing, Señor," said the child. He clung tightly to Andres's neck.