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Updated: June 27, 2025
The man is gone, he has disappeared, and all Matanzas is mystified. This is the hand that did it; yonder is the weapon, with that butcher's blood still on it. That knife will be preserved in the museum at Habana, along with my statue." Jacket spied his chief witness and called to him. "Tell these good people who killed Cobo. Was it Narciso Villar?" "It was," O'Reilly smiled. "The fellow is dead."
He had had his opportunity of talking thus of himself during our long rambles out of doors. They were a series of excursions which he was accustomed to describe as hunting expeditions for the stocking of our larder. Thus James would announce at breakfast that prawns were the day's quarry, and the foreshore round Cobo Bay the hunting-ground. And to Cobo, accordingly, we would set out.
The men stared fixedly at each other, O'Reilly with his head thrown back, Cobo with his body propped rigidly upon wooden arms and that peculiar shocked inquiry in his glaring eyes. But slowly this expression changed; the colonel bent as if beneath a great weight, his head rose and turned back upon his neck, he filled his lungs with another wheezing sigh. "Christ! O Christ " he whispered.
He uttered Jacket's name, and the boy answered with a smile. "Bring my knife with you when you come," the latter directed. "YOU!" The American's voice was weak and shaky. "I thought " He set the candle down and covered his eyes momentarily. "That's a good knife, all right, and sharp, too. The fellow died in a hurry, eh? Who does he happen to be?" "Don't you know? It it's Cobo."
He dragged her farther from what was now a roaring furnace. "Where is your precious brother and that black fellow?" Rosa could only stare dully. "It seems we missed them," said Cueto. "More of your bungling," Cobo broke out at him, wrathfully. "God! I've a mind to toss you into that fire."
But you'd have been better pleased if he hadn't wanted so much." "Maybe," said my grandfather with his quiet smile. "But, as Jeanne Falla says, 'Young calves' " "I know, I know," laughed John Ozanne. "She's a famous wise woman is Jeanne Falla, and many a licking she gave me when I was a boy for stealing her apples round there at Cobo."
How absurdly naive, how impossibly melodramatic, how maudlinly sentimental, how improbable in fact, how altogether womanly she must have grown. Womanly! That did it. I felt that she was womanly. And it came about that it was my Margaret of the Cobo shrimping journeys that I was prepared to welcome as I drove that morning to Waterloo Station.
"The man's spirit is evil enough to frighten people away and we will drop stones upon him, so that he can learn the taste of his own medicine. It suits me exactly to think of Colonel Cobo standing on his head in a hole in the ground for the rest of eternity!"
While his hearers listened, petrified with amazement and doubting their ears, he recited the incidents of that unforgettable night on La Cumbre: how Cobo came, and of the trap he sprung; how Jacket stole upon the assassin while he knelt, and of the blow he struck. When Johnnie had finished there was a long moment of silence. Then Norine quavered, tremulously: "That boy! That blessed boy!"
As the three friends walked up the street they discovered Jacket holding the center of an interested crowd of his countrymen. It was the boy's moment and he was making the most of it. Swollen with self-importance, he was puffing with relish at a gigantic gift cigar. "I exaggerate nothing," he was saying, loudly. "O'Reilly will tell you that I killed Cobo, alone and unassisted.
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