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Senor Cuchillo," continued the speaker with a certain affectation of mockery; "let us have this grand secret that is to make your fortune and mine!" "A word first, Senor Don Estevan de Arechiza," replied Cuchillo, in the same tone; "one word, and then you shall have it." "I listen to you; but observe, sir, say nothing of the past no more perfidy.
"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.
"Men meet on the sea whose surface is incomparably more extensive than that of this desert; it is not astonishing that they should meet here. Travellers and Indians have encountered one another, and are fighting." "That is what I think. One more question and then we will return to the first subject which I have at heart. Has Cuchillo returned?"
Notwithstanding the natural tone in which Cuchillo delivered this speech, he was one of those persons of such a sinister countenance, that Tiburcio could not help a certain feeling of suspicion while regarding it. But by little and little the feeling gave way, and the young man's thoughts taking another turn, he remained for some moments buried in a silent reverie.
But the trees were beginning to open their leaves to the southern breeze that freshened as the hours passed on, and they appeared impatiently to await the twilight, when the night-dews would once more freshen their foliage. Cuchillo gave a whistle, at which well-known signal his horse came galloping up to him. The poor beast appeared to suffer terribly from the thirst.
"I comprehend all that," responded Cuchillo. "Well! it is astonishing how people will regret the death of parents, who do not leave them the slightest inheritance!" Tiburcio could have told him, that on her death-bed his adopted mother had left him a royal, as well as a terrible legacy the secret of the Golden Valley, and the vengeance of the murder of Marcos Arellanos.
After a lapse of time, Cuchillo was heard knocking softly at his door; and as soon as it was opened, the hired assassin stepped in. His confused looks caused Don Estevan to tremble. Was the deed already done? He wished it, yet feared to ask the question. Cuchillo relieved him from his embarrassment by speaking first. "My twenty onzas are gone to the devil!" said he, in a lugubrious tone.
Drunkenness and all sorts of crimes were common, and the cuchillo the long knife was in constant requisition among the Spaniards, scarcely a night passing without one or more murders being committed. It was then little more than a village, but has now become quite a large town, with a number of English and American merchants settled there.
Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself. "You have sent for me?" said he to Don Estevan. "You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion," began the Spaniard, without making answer.
Don Estevan for it was he fixed upon Cuchillo a piercing glance, that appeared to penetrate to the bottom of his soul, at the same time the look denoted a slight expression of surprise. "I have the honour to kiss the hands of your excellency," said Cuchillo. "As you see, it is I who "
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