That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.
Their stealthy tread — taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves — the precaution to keep inside the shadow — the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening — the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader — all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.
In this they are successful — so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen.
The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. There is nothing heard — not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.
And yet the hut is inhabited. But a man may get drunk beyond the power of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is the tenant of the jacalé.
The four Comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking attitudes scrutinise it.
It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears — all at the same time — and stand silently listening.
No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!
“It is possible,” says their chief to the follower nearest him — speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Castilian, “just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this. He may have ridden out again? Now I remember: there’s a horse-shed at the back. If the man be inside the house, the beast should be found in the shed. Stay here, camarados, till I go round and see.”
Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. No horse in it.
As many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it. No horse has been there — at least not lately.
These points determined, the chief returns to his followers — still standing by the doorway in front.
“Maldito!” he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, “he’s not here, nor has he been this day.”
“We had better go inside, and make sure?” suggests one of the common warriors, in Spanish fairly pronounced. “There can be no harm in our seeing how the Irlandes has housed himself out here?”
“Certainly not!” answers a third, equally well versed in the language of Cervantes. “Let’s have a look at his larder too. I’m hungry enough to eat raw tasajo.”
“Por Dios!” adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. “I’ve heard that he keeps a cellar. If so — ”
The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him — stimulating to immediate action.
He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open.
It resists the effort.
“Carrambo! it’s barred inside! Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes — perhaps Indians. Ha! ha! ha!”
Another kick is given with greater force. The door still keeps its place.
“Barricaded with something — something heavy too. It won’t yield to kicking. No matter. I’ll soon see what’s inside.”
The macheté is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.
Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction.
The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.
The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.
A man lying in the middle of the floor!
“Carajo!”
“Is he asleep?”
“He must be dead not to have heard us?”
“Neither,” says the chief, after stooping to examine him, “only dead drunk — boracho — embriaguado! He’s the servitor of the Irlandes. I’ve seen this fellow before. From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. I hope the brute hasn’t used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition. Ah! a jar. And smelling like a rose! There’s a rattle among these rods. There’s stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!”
A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn. There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. In a trice the jar is empty. What next?
The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him — particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit. The chief is especially anxious to see him.
What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?
Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there.
They have come to murder him!
Their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and assistants.
The business is too important to permit of his trifling. He will gain a thousand dollars by the deed — besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. His three braves will earn a hundred each — a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a Comanche, and purchase him for any purpose.
The travesty need not be carried any further. By this time the mask must have fallen off. Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.
“We must lie in wait for him.”
This is the counsel of El Coyote.
“He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. The rest remain here with me. He must come that way from the Leona. We can meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree. ’Tis the best place for our purpose.”
“Had we not better silence him?” hints the bloodthirsty Barajo, pointing to the Galwegian — fortunately unconscious of what is transpiring around him.
“Dead men tell no tales!” adds another of the conspirators, repeating the proverb in its original language.
“It would tell a worse tale were we to kill him,” rejoins Diaz. “Besides, it’s of no use. He’s silent enough as it is, the droll devil. Let the dog have his day. I’ve only bargained for the life of his master. Come, Barajo! Vayate! vayate! Up to the cliff. We can’t tell the moment Don Mauricio may drop in upon us. A miscarriage must not be made. We may never have such a chance again. Take your stand at the top of the gorge. From that point you have a view of the whole plain. He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. As soon as you’ve set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know. Be sure you give us time to get under the cypress.”
Barajo is proceeding to yield obedience to this chapter of instructions, but with evident reluctance. He has, the night before, been in ill luck, having lost to El Coyote a large sum at the game of monté. He is desirous of having his revanche: for he well knows how his confrères will spend the time in his absence.
“Quick. Señor Vicente!” commands Diaz, observing his dislike to the duty imposed upon him; “if we fail in this business, you will lose more than you can gain at an albur of monté. Go, man!” continues El Coyote, in an encouraging way. “If he come not within the hour, some one will relieve you. Go!”