O'Reilly stared stupidly at the weapon; then he raised his eyes.
Peering down at him out of the night was another face, an
impertinent, beardless, youthful face.
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."
"COBO! Coby, the baby-killer!" Jacket breathed an oath. "Oh, that
blessed knife!" The boy craned his small body forward until he was
in danger of following his victim. "Now this IS good luck indeed!
And to think that he died just like any other man."
"Rosa! Where is she?" O'Reilly inquired in a new agony of
apprehension.
"Oh, she is here," Jacket assured him, carelessly. "I think she
has fainted. Caramba! Isn't that like a woman--to miss all the
fun? But, compadre--that was a blow for Cuba Libre; what? People
will talk about me when I'm as dead as that pig. 'Narciso Villar,
the slayer of Cobo'--that's what they'll call me." Jacket giggled
hysterically. "I--I thought he would jump up and run after me, so
I fled, but he tried to bury himself, didn't he? His flesh was
like butter, O'Reilly.
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