Headless Horseman. Captain Mayne Reid
for attack or defence, against Indian, buffalo, or bear. It was the six-chambered revolver of Colonel Colt — not the spurious improvement of Deane, Adams, and a host of retrograde imitators — but the genuine article from the “land of wooden nutmegs,” with the Hartford brand upon its breech.
“They must get over the narrow place where we crossed,” muttered he, as he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the arroyo.
“If I can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others from attempting the leap; or delay them — long enough for the mustang to make its escape. The big sorrel is leading. He will make the spring first. The pistol’s good for a hundred paces. He’s within range now!”
Simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter. The largest of the stallions — a sorrel in colour — rolled headlong upon the sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the leap.
Half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand; and then the whole cavallada!
The mustanger stayed not to note their movements. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond.
Whether dismayed by the fall of their chief — or whether it was that his dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the chasm could have been cleared at a leap — the stallions abandoned the pursuit; and Maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his fellow fugitive.
He overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the pond. She had obeyed him in everything — except as to the closing of the gap. He found it open — the bars lying scattered over the ground. He found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.
The peril was passed.
Chapter Seventeen. The Mustang Trap
No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked interrogatively around her.
There was a small lake — in Texan phraseology a “pond” — with countless horse-tracks visible along its shores, proving that the place was frequented by wild horses — their excessive number showing it to be a favourite watering place. There was a high rail fence — constructed so as to enclose the pond, and a portion of the contiguous prairie, with two diverging wings, carried far across the plain, forming a funnel-shaped approach to a gap; which, when its bars were up, completed an enclosure that no horse could either enter or escape from.
“What is it for?” inquired the lady, indicating the construction of split rails.
“A mustang trap,” said Maurice.
“A mustang trap?”
“A contrivance for catching wild horses. They stray between the wings; which, as you perceive, are carried far out upon the plain. The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. Once within the corral, there is no trouble in taking them. They are then lazoed at leisure.”
“Poor things! Is it yours? You are a mustanger? You told us so?”
“I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way. I prefer being alone, and rarely consort with men of my calling. Therefore I could not make use of this contrivance, which requires at least a score of drivers. My weapon, if I may dignify it by the name, is this — the lazo.”
“You use it with great skill? I’ve heard that you do; besides having myself witnessed the proof.”
“It is complimentary of you to say so. But you are mistaken. There are men on these prairies ‘to the manner born’ — Mexicans — who regard, what you are pleased to call skill, as sheer clumsiness.”
“Are you sure, Mr Gerald, that your modesty is not prompting you to overrate your rivals? I have been told the very opposite.”
“By whom?”
“Your friend, Mr Zebulon Stump.”
“Ha — ha! Old Zeb is but indifferent authority on the subject of the lazo.”
“I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole. “They tell me ’tis not a lady-like accomplishment. What matters — so long as it is innocent, and gives one a gratification?”
“Not lady-like! Surely ’tis as much so as archery, or skating? I know a lady who is very expert at it.”
“An American lady?”
“No; she’s Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes across to the Leona — where she has relatives.”
“A young lady?”
“Yes. About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter.”
“Size?”
“Not so tall as you.”
“But much prettier, of course? The Mexican ladies, I’ve heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain Americanos.”
“I think Creoles are not included in that category,” was the reply, worthy of one whose lips had been in contact with the famed boulder of Blarney.
“I wonder if I could ever learn to fling it?” pursued the young Creole, pretending not to have been affected by the complimentary remark. “Am I too old? I’ve been told that the Mexicans commence almost in childhood; that that is why they attain to such wonderful skill?”
“Not at all,” replied Maurice, encouragingly. “’Tis possible, with a year or two’s practice, to become a proficient lazoer. I, myself, have only been three years at; and — ”
He paused, perceiving he was about to commit himself to a little boasting.
“And you are now the most skilled in all Texas?” said his companion, supplying the presumed finale of his speech.
“No, no!” laughingly rejoined he. “That is but a mistaken belief on the part of Zeb Stump, who judges my skill by comparison, making use of his own as a standard.”
“Is it modesty?” reflected the Creole. “Or is this man mocking me? If I thought so, I should go mad!”
“Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?” said Maurice, observing her abstracted air. “Your father may be alarmed by your long absence? Your brother — your cousin — ”
“Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed either pique, or compunction. “I was not thinking of that. Thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. Let us go back!”
Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur — both acts being performed with an air of languid reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the “mustang trap.”
Once more upon the prairie, Maurice conducted his protégée by the most direct route towards the spot where they had parted from the picnic party.
Their backward way led them across a peculiar tract of country — what in Texas is called a “weed prairie,” an appellation bestowed by the early pioneers, who were not very choice in their titles.
The Louisianian saw around her a vast garden of gay flowers, laid out in one grand parterre, whose borders were the blue circle of the horizon — a garden designed, planted, nurtured, by the hand of Nature.
The most plebeian spirit cannot pass through such a scene without receiving an impression calculated to refine it. I’ve known the illiterate trapper — habitually blind to the beautiful — pause in the midst of his “weed prairie,” with the flowers rising breast high around him, gaze for a while upon their gaudy corollas waving beyond the verge of his vision; then continue his silent stride with a