The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse. Reid Mayne
an instant the latter had disengaged himself from his struggling steed, and stood upon his feet. Fearing that he might still endeavour to escape to the cover of the thicket, I spurred forward, pistol in hand, and pointed the weapon at his head. But he made no attempt either at further flight or resistance. On the contrary, he stood with folded arms, fronting the levelled tube, and, looking me full in the face, said with an air of perfect coolness —
“No matame, amigo! Soy muger!” (Do not kill me, friend! I am a woman!)
Chapter Five.
My captive
“Do not kill me, friend! I am a woman!”
This declaration scarcely astonished me; I was half prepared for it. During our wild gallop, I had noticed one or two circumstances which led me to suspect that the spy I pursued was a female. As the mustang sprung over the zequia, the flowing skirt of the manga was puffed upward, and hung for some moments spread out in the air. A velvet bodice beneath, a tunic-like skirt, the tournure of the form, all impressed me as singular for a cavallero, however rich and young. The limbs I could not see, as the goat-skin armas-de-agua were drawn over them; but I caught a glimpse of a gold spur, and a heel of a tiny red boot to which it was attached. The clubbed hair, too, loosened by the violent motion, had fallen backward, and in two thick plaits, slightly dishevelled, rested upon the croup of the horse. A young Indian’s might have been equally as long, but his tresses would have been jet-black and coarse-grained, whereas those under my eyes were soft, silky, and nut-brown. Neither the style of riding —à la Duchesse de Berri– nor the manlike costume of manga and hat, were averse to the idea that the rider was a woman. Both the style and costume are common to the rancheras of Mexico. Moreover, as the mustang made his last double, I had caught a near view of the side face of the rider. The features of no man – not of the Trojan shepherd, not of Adonis or Endymion – were so exquisitely chiselled as they. Certainly a woman! Her declaration at once put an end to my conjectures, but, as I have said, did not astonish me.
I was astonished, however, by its tone and manner. Instead of being uttered in accents of alarm, it was pronounced as coolly as if the whole thing had been a jest! Sadness, not supplication, was the prevailing tone, which was further carried out as she knelt to the ground, pressed her lips to the muzzle of the still breathing mustang, and exclaimed —
“Ay-de-mi! pobre yegua! muerte! muerte!” (Alas me! poor mare! dead! dead!)
“A woman?” said I, feigning astonishment. My interrogatory was unheeded; she did not even look up.
“Ay-de-mi! pobre yegua! Lola, Lolita!” she repeated, as coolly as if the dead mustang was the only object of her thoughts, and I, the armed assassin, fifty miles from the spot! “A woman?” I again ejaculated – in my embarrassment scarcely knowing what to say.
“Si, señor; nada mas—que quiere V.?” (Yes, sir nothing more – what do you want?)
As she made this reply, she rose to her feet, and stood confronting me without the slightest semblance of fear. So unexpected was the answer, both in tone and sentiment, that for the life of me I could not help breaking into a laugh.
“You are merry, sir. You have made me sad; you have killed my favourite!”
I shall not easily forget the look that accompanied these words – sorrow, anger, contempt, defiance, were expressed in one and the same glance. My laughter was suddenly checked; I felt humiliated in that proud presence.
“Señorita,” I replied, “I deeply regret the necessity I have been under: it might have been worse – ”
“And how, pray? – how worse?” demanded she, interrupting me.
“My pistol might have been aimed at yourself, but for a suspicion – ”
“Carrambo!” cried she, again interrupting me, “it could not have been worse! I loved that creature dearly – dearly as I do my life —as I love my father—pobre yegua—yeguita—ita—ita!”
And as she thus wildly expressed herself, she bent down, passed her arms around the neck of the mustang, and once more pressed her lips to its velvet muzzle. Then gently closing its eyelids, she rose to an erect attitude, and stood with folded arms, regarding the lifeless form with a sad and bitter expression of countenance.
I scarcely knew what to do. I was in a dilemma with my fair captive. I would have given a month of my “payroll” to have restored the spotted mustang to life; but as that was out of the question, I bethought me of some means of making restitution to its owner. An offer of money would not be delicate. What then?
A thought occurred to me, that promised to relieve me from my embarrassment. The eagerness of the rich Mexicans to obtain our large American horses —frisones, as they term them – was well known throughout the army. Fabulous prices were often paid for them by these ricos, who wanted them for display upon the Paseo. We had many good half-bred bloods in the troop; one of these, thought I, might be acceptable even to a lady who had lost her pet.
I made the offer as delicately as I could. It was rejected with scorn!
“What, señor!” cried she, striking the ground with her foot till the rowels rang – “what? A horse to me? —Mira!” she continued, pointing to the plain: “look there, sir! There are a thousand horses; they are mine. Now, know the value of your offer. Do I stand in need of a horse?”
“But, señorita,” stammered I apologisingly, “these are horses of native race. The one I propose to – ”
“Bah!” she exclaimed, interrupting me, and pointing to the mustang; “I would not have exchanged that native for all the frisones in your troop. Not one of them was its equal!”
A personal slight would not have called forth a contradiction; yet this defiance had that effect. She had touched the chord of my vanity – I might almost say, of my affection. With some pique I replied —
“One, señorita?”
I looked towards Moro as I spoke. Her eyes followed mine, and she stood for some moments gazing at him in silence. I watched the expression of her eye; I saw it kindle into admiration as it swept over the gracefully curving outlines of my noble steed. He looked at the moment superb; the short skurry had drawn the foam from his lips, and flakes of it clung against his neck and counter, contrasting finely with the shining black of his skin; his sides heaved and fell in regular undulations, and the smoke issued from his blood-red nostrils; his eye was still on fire, and his neck proudly arched, as though conscious of his late triumph, and the interest he was now exciting.
For a long while she stood gazing upon him, and though she spoke not a word, I saw that she recognised his fine points.
“You are right, cavallero,” she said at length, and thoughtfully; “he is.”
Just then a series of reflections were passing through my mind, that rendered me extremely uncomfortable; and I felt regret that I had so pointedly drawn her attention to the horse. Would she demand him? That was the thought that troubled me. I had not promised her any horse in my troop, and Moro I would not have given for her herd of a thousand; but on the strength of the offer I had made, what if she should fancy him? The circumstances were awkward for a refusal; indeed, under any circumstances refusal would have been painful. I began to feel that I could deny her nothing. This proud beautiful woman already divided my interest with Moro!
My position was a delicate one; fortunately, I was relieved from it by an incident that carried our thoughts into a new current: the troopers who had followed me at that moment rode up.
She seemed uneasy at their presence; that could not be wondered at, considering their wild garb and fierce looks. I ordered them back to their quarters. They stared for a moment at the fallen mustang with its rich blood-stained trappings, at its late rider, and her picturesque garments; and then, muttering a few words to one another, obeyed the order. I was once more alone with my captive.
Chapter Six.
Isolina