ealt it.

To all appearance, Walt Wilder is doomed. He has escaped the spears,
arrows, and tomahawks of the Tenawa savages to fall a victim to a
destroyer, stealthy, subtle, unseen.

And is the noble Texan--guide, ranger, and hunter--thus sadly to
succumb? No. Fate has not decreed his death by such insidious means.
A circumstance, apparently accidental, steps in to save him. On this
very day, when the poison it being prepared for him, the poisoner
receives a summons that for the time at least, will frustrate his foul
plans. His master commands him to make ready for a journey. It is an
errand similar to that he has been several times sent upon before. He
is to proceed to the settlements on the Rio Grande, where Don Valerian
has friends with whom, in his exile, he keeps up secret correspondence,
Manuel acting as messenger. Thence the trusted peon is to bring back,
as oft before, despatches, news, provisions--the last now more than ever
needed, on account of the stranger guests so unexpectedly thrown upon
his hospitality.

Manuel is to commence his journey on the following day at the earliest
hour of dawn. There will be no chance for him now to carry out his
nefarious design. It must remain uncompleted till his return.

While chafing at the disappointment, he sees Conchita stealing out from
the house and entering the cotton-wood grove. He follows her with a
caution equalling her own, but from a far different cause. Crouching on
through the trees, he takes stand behind a trunk, and, concealed by it,
becomes spectator of all that passes. He is at first surprised at
seeing three where he expected only two. Pleased also; for it gives him
hope the girl's errand may not be the keeping of a love appointment.
But as the triangular conference proceeds; above all, when it arrives at
its conclusion, and he sees the Texan raise Conchita in his arms, giving
her that kiss, the echo of which is distinctly audible to him, his blood
boils, and with difficulty does he restrain himself from rushing up to
the spot, and taking the lives of all three, or ending his own if he
fail.

For a time he stands erect, with his _machete_ drawn from its sheath,
his eyes flashing with the fires of jealous vengeance. Fortunately for
those upon whom they are bent, an instinct of self-preservation stays
him. His hand is ready, but his heart fails him. Terrible as is his
anger, it is yet controlled by fear. He will wait for a more favour