“‘Buenos dias, señor,’ (Good day) he said as he raised his hat. ‘As you remarked, it is permitted to shoot alligators. That, it appears, does not always include the killing of them,’ and he laughed—his queer high-pitched laugh.
“For the moment I was tongue-tied. The suggestion that an animal whose brain had been shattered by my bullet was still alive was ridiculous, but—well, the ‘but’ was to explain this new brute of the same size in precisely the same spot. I looked Garsia squarely in the eyes.
“‘Do you mean to imply that Joaquin has come back?’ I asked.
“He shrugged his shoulders.
“‘Quien sabe—who knows?’ he answered, with that impudent smile still twisting his lips. ‘What is your own opinion, señor?’
“I patted the breech of my rifle.
“‘It is here,’ I said quietly. ‘Joaquin—or another, I shall continue the old treatment, amigo (friend). Half an ounce of lead—at frequent intervals.’
“He laughed again jeeringly, and turned upon his heel.
“‘Continue it, señor, continue it,’ he cried over his shoulder, ‘but remember that all things come to an end, even your treatment and perhaps—yourself!’
“The next minute he had slammed the door of his bungalow, and I, not forgetting what an excellent mark for a bullet I was against the yellow of the tinder-dry bush, hastened to put a tree between myself and the shuttered window.