Headless Horseman. Captain Mayne Reid
“His name?”
“Wal, es to the name o’ his family, that I niver heern. His Christyun name air Maurice. He’s knowed up thur ’bout the Fort as Maurice the mowstanger.”
The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer.
Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.
“La, Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen’l’m — he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?”
“Geehosofat, yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “Now I think o’t, he told me o’ thet suckumstance this very mornin’, afore we started. He air the same. Thet’s the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin’ the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump’ny wi’ about a dozen others o’ the same cavyurd. He oughter be hyur afore sundown. I pushed my ole maar ahead, so ’s to tell yur father the spotty war comin’, and let him git the fust chance o’ buyin’. I know’d as how thet ere bit o’ hosdoin’s don’t get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb’dy snaps her up. I thort o’ you, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt ye ’bout the critter. Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. Ole Zeb Stump ’ll be yur bail for thet.”
“Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you! I am very, very grateful. You will now excuse me for a moment. Father will soon be back. We have a dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many people. Florinda, see that Mr Stump’s luncheon is set out for him. Go, girl — go at once about it!”
“And, Mr Stump,” continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, “if the young — young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here — perhaps he don’t know them — will you see that he is not neglected? There is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. You know what I mean, dear Mr Stump?”
“Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly. I kin unnerstan’ all thet ere ’bout the licker’ an other fixins. But who air the young gen’leman yur speakin’ o’? Thet’s the thing as bamboozles me.”
“Surely you know who I mean! The young gentleman — the young man — who, you say, is bringing in the horses.”
“Oh! ah! Maurice the mowstanger! That’s it, is it? Wal, I reck’n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling him a gen’leman; tho’ it ain’t offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. He air one, every inch o’ him — a gen’leman by barth, breed, an raisin’ — tho’ he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet.”
The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.
“I must tell ye, howsomdiver,” continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, “it won’t do to show that ’ere young fellur any sort o’ second-hand hospertality. As they used to say on the Massissippi, he air ‘as proud as a Peintdexter.’ Excuse me, Miss Lewaze, for lettin’ the word slip. I did think o’t thet I war talkin’ to a Peintdexter — not the proudest, but the puttiest o’ the name.”
“Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me. You know that I could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!”
“He’d be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin’ to offend you, miss.”
“Thanks! thanks! I know your honest heart — I know your devotion. Perhaps some time — some time, Mr Stump,” — she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning — “I might stand in need of your friendship.”
“Ye won’t need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin promise ye, Miss Peintdexter. He’d be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn’t stan’ by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o’ breath left in the inside o’ his body.”
“A thousand thanks — again and again! But what were you going to say? You spoke of second-hand hospitality?”
“I dud.”
“You meant — ?”
“I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”
The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.
“Never mind about it,” she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. “Never mind, Mr Stump. You need not invite him. Only let me know when he arrives — unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. But if he should come at that time, you detain him — won’t you?”
“Boun’ to do it, ef you bid me.”
“You will, then; and let me know he is here. I shall ask him to eat.”
“Ef ye do, miss, I reck’n ye’ll speil his appetite. The sight o’ you, to say nothin’ o’ listenin’ to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin’ wolf o’ bein’ hungry. When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. Neow I don’t care a durn about eatin’. I ked go ’ithout chawin’ meat for month.”
As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the “cocina,” carrying a light tray — followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted.
“You great giant!” was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; “I won’t believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack. Yonder come Pluto and Morinda. They bring something that will prove more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it. Good bye, Zeb — good bye, or, as the natives say here, hasta luego!”
Gaily were these words spoken — lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the covered corridor. Only after entering her chamber, and finding herself chez soi-même, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning: —
“It is my destiny: I feel — I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it — I may not — I would not — I will not!”
Chapter Twelve. Taming a Wild Mare
The pleasantest apartment in a Mexican house is that which has the roof for its floor, and the sky for its ceiling — the azotea. In fine weather — ever fine in that sunny clime — it is preferred to the drawing-room; especially after dinner, when the sun begins to cast rose-coloured rays upon the snow-clad summits of Orizava, Popocatepec, Toluca, and the “Twin Sister;” when the rich wines of Xeres and Madeira have warmed the imaginations of Andalusia’s sons and daughters — descendants of the Conquistadores — who mount up to their house-tops to look upon a land of world-wide renown, rendered famous by the heroic achievements of their ancestors.
Then does the Mexican “cavallero,” clad in embroidered habiliments, exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some señorita — at the same time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks. Then does the dark-eyed donçella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some distant hacienda — the home of him she truly loves.
So enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the housetop, could not