The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West. Gustave Aimard

to have you shot."

      "Ah!"

      "Yes. Hang it all! you understand: that, in an affair so important as this, it is wise to take one's precautions, for no one knows what may happen; and men of my stamp," he added, with an ironical smile, "have more reasons than others for being prudent."

      "Come, that is well played," the hacendero said, carelessly.

      "Is it not?"

      "Yes, and I compliment you on it: you are a better player than I gave you credit for."

      "Oh! You do not know me yet."

      "The little I do know suffices me."

      "Then?"

      "We will remain as we are, if you will permit me."

      "You still refuse?"

      "More than ever."

      The squatter frowned.

      "Take care, Don Miguel," he muttered, hoarsely. "I will do what I told you."

      "Yes, if I allow you time."

      "Eh?"

      "Caspita! If you are a clever scamp, I am not altogether a fool. Do you believe, in your turn, that I will let myself be intimidated by your threats, and that I should not find means to keep you from acting, not for my own sake, as I care little personally for what you can do, but for my friends, who are men of honour, and whose lives I do not wish to be compromised by your treachery?"

      "I am curious to know the means you will employ to obtain this result."

      "You shall see," Don Miguel replied with perfect coolness.

      "Well?"

      "I shall kill you."

      "Oh, oh!" the squatter said, as he looked complacently at his muscular limbs, "That is not easy."

      "More so than you suppose, my master."

      "Hum! and when do you reckon on killing me?"

      "At once!"

      The two men were seated in front of the hearth, each at the end of a bench: the table was between them, but a little back, so that while talking they only leaned an elbow on it. While uttering the last word, Don Miguel bounded like a tiger on the squatter, who did not at all expect the attack, seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. The two enemies rolled on the uneven flooring of the jacal.

      The Mexican's attack had been so sudden and well directed that the half-strangled squatter, in spite of his Herculean strength, could not free himself from his enemy's iron clutch, which pressed his throat like a vice. Red Cedar could neither utter a cry nor offer the slightest resistance: the Mexican's knee crushed his chest, while his fingers pressed into his throat.

      So soon as he had reduced the wretch to utter impotence, Don Miguel drew from his vaquera boot a long sharp knife, and buried the entire blade in his body. The bandit writhed convulsively for a few seconds; a livid pallor suffused his face; his eyes closed, and he then remained motionless. Don Miguel left the weapon in the wound, and slowly rose.

      "Ah, ah!" he muttered as he gazed at him with a sardonic air, "I fancy that rogue will not denounce me now."

      Without loss of time he seized the letters lying on the table, took from the box the few documents he found in it, hid them all in his bosom, opened the door of the cabin, which he carefully closed after him, and went off with long strides.

      The squatter's sons had not quitted their post; but, so soon as they perceived the Mexican, they went up to him.

      "Well," Shaw asked him, "have you come to an understanding with the old man?"

      "Perfectly so," the Mexican answered.

      "Then the affair is settled?"

      "Yes, to our mutual satisfaction."

      "All the better," the young men exclaimed joyously.

      The hacendero unfastened his horse and mounted.

      "Good-bye, gentlemen!" he said to them.

      "Good-bye!" they replied, returning his bow.

      The Mexican put his horse to a trot, but at the first turn in the road he dug his spurs into its flanks, and started at full speed.

      "Now," Sutter observed, "I believe that we can proceed to the cabin without inconvenience."

      And they gently walked toward the jacal, pleasantly conversing together.

      Don Miguel, however, had not succeeded so fully as he imagined. Red Cedar was not dead, for the old bandit kept a firm hold on life. Attacked unawares, the squatter had not attempted a resistance, which he saw at the first glance was useless, and would only have exasperated his adversary. With marvellous sagacity, on feeling the knife blade enter his body, he stiffened himself against the pain, and resolved on "playing 'possum;" that is to say, feigning death. The success of his stratagem was complete. Don Miguel, persuaded that he had killed him, did not dream of repeating his thrust.

      So long as his enemy remained in the jacal the squatter was careful not to make the slightest movement that might have betrayed him; but, so soon as he was alone, he opened his eyes, rose with an effort, drew the dagger from the wound, which emitted a jet of black blood, and looking at the door, through which his assassin had departed, with a glance so full of hatred that it is impossible to describe, he muttered—

      "Now we are quits, Don Miguel Zarate, since you have tried to take back the life of him you saved. Pray God never to bring us face to face again!"

      He uttered a deep sigh, and rolled heavily on the ground in a fainting fit. At this moment his sons entered the cabin.

      CHAPTER X.

      THE SACHEM OF THE CORAS.

       Table of Contents

      A few days after the events we have described in the previous chapter there was one of those lovely mornings which are not accorded to our cold climates to know. The sun poured down in profusion its warm beams, which caused the pebbles and sand to glisten in the walks of the garden of the Hacienda de la Noria. In a clump of flowering orange and lemon trees, whose sweet exhalations perfumed the air, and beneath a copse of cactus, nopals, and aloes, a maiden was asleep, carelessly reclining in a hammock made of the thread of the Phormium tenax, which hung between two orange trees.

      With her head thrown back, her long black hair unfastened, and falling in disorder on her neck and bosom; with her coral lips parted, and displaying the dazzling pearl of her teeth, Doña Clara (for it was she who slept thus with an infantile slumber) was really charming. Her features breathed happiness, for not a cloud had yet arisen to perturb the azure horizon of her calm and tranquil life.

      It was nearly midday: there was not a breath in the air. The sunbeams, pouring down vertically, rendered the heat so stifling and unsupportable, that everyone in the hacienda had yielded to sleep, and was enjoying what is generally called in hot countries the siesta. Still, at a short distance from the spot where Doña Clara reposed, calm and smiling, a sound of footsteps, at first almost imperceptible, but gradually heightening, was heard, and a man made his appearance. It was Shaw, the youngest of the squatter's sons. How was he at this spot?

      The young man was panting, and the perspiration poured down his cheeks. On reaching the entrance of the clump he bent an anxious glance on the hammock.

      "She is there," he murmured with a passionate accent. "She sleeps."

      Then he fell on his knees upon the sand, and began admiring the maiden, dumb and trembling. He remained thus a long time, with his glance fixed on the slumberer with a strange expression. At length he uttered a sigh and tearing himself with an effort from this delicious contemplation, he rose sadly, muttering in a whisper—