The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse. Reid Mayne
I saw not you.”
“Carrambo! it was not for the want of using your eyes. There was not a balcon or reja into which you did not glance – not a smile in the whole street you did not seem anxious to reciprocate – Ha, ha, ha! I fear, Señor Capitan, you are the Don Juan de Tenorio of the north.”
“Lady, it is not my character.”
“Nonsense! you are proud of it. I never saw man who was not. But come! a truce to badinage. About the horse – you have none in your troop I value, save one.”
I trembled as she spoke.
“It is he,” she continued, pointing to Moro.
I felt as if I should sink into the earth. My embarrassment prevented me for some time from replying. She noticed my hesitation, but remained silent, awaiting my answer.
“Señorita,” I stammered out at length, “that steed is a great favourite – an old and tried friend. If you desire – to possess him, he is – he is at your service.”
In emphasising the “if,” I was appealing to her generosity. It was to no purpose.
“Thank you,” she replied coolly; “he shall be well cared for. No doubt he will serve my purpose. How is his mouth?”
I was choking with vexation, and could not reply. I began to hate her.
“Let me try him,” continued she. “Ah! you have a curb bit – that will do; but it is not equal to ours. I use a mameluke. Help me to that lazo.”
She pointed to a lazo of white horsehair, beautifully plaited, that was coiled upon the saddle of the mustang.
I unloosed the rope – mechanically I did – and in the same way adjusted it to the horn of my saddle. I noticed that the noose-ring was of silver! I shortened the leathers to the proper length.
“Now, capitan!” cried she, gathering the reins in her small gloved hand – “now I shall see how he performs.”
At the word, she bounded into the saddle, her small foot scarcely touching the stirrup. She had thrown off her manga, and her woman’s form was now displayed in all its undulating outlines. The silken skirt draped down to her ankles, and underneath appeared the tiny red boot, the glancing spur, and the lace ruffle of her snow-white calzoncillas. A scarlet sash encircled her waist, with its fringed ends drooping to the saddle; and the tight bodice, lashed with lace, displayed the full rounding of her bosom, as it rose and fell in quiet regular breathing – for she seemed in no way excited or nervous. Her full round eye expressed only calmness and courage.
I stood transfixed with admiration. I thought of the Amazons: were they beautiful like her? With a troop of such warriors one might conquer a world!
A fierce-looking bull, moved by curiosity or otherwise, had separated from the herd, and was seen approaching the spot where we were. This was just what the fair rider wanted. At a touch of the spur, the horse sprang forward, and galloped directly for the bull. The latter, cowed at the sudden onset, turned and ran; but his swift pursuer soon came within lazo distance. The noose circled in the air, and, launched forward, was seen to settle around the horns of the animal. The horse was now wheeled round, and headed in an opposite direction. The rope tightened with a sudden pluck, and the bull was thrown with violence to the plain, where he lay stunned and apparently lifeless. Before he had time to recover himself, the rider turned her horse, trotted up to the prostrate animal, bent over in the saddle, unfastened the noose, and, after coiling the rope under her arm, came galloping back.
“Superb! – magnificent!” she exclaimed, leaping from the saddle and gazing at the steed. “Beautiful! – most beautiful! Ah, Lola, poor Lola! I fear I shall soon forget thee!”
The last words were addressed to the mustang. Then turning to me, she added —
“And this horse is mine?”
“Yes, lady, if you will it,” I replied somewhat cheerlessly, for I felt as if my best friend was about to be taken from me.
“But I do not will it,” said she, with an air of determination; and then breaking into a laugh, she cried out, “Ha! capitan, I know your thoughts. Think you I cannot appreciate the sacrifice you would make? Keep your favourite. Enough that one of us should suffer;” and she pointed to the mustang. “Keep the brave black; you well know how to ride him. Were he mine, no mortal could influence me to part with him.”
“There is but one who could influence me.”
As I said this, I looked anxiously for the answer. It was not in words I expected it, but in the glance. Assuredly there was no frown; I even fancied I could detect a smile – a blending of triumph and satisfaction. It was short-lived, and my heart fell again under her light laugh.
“Ha! ha! ha! That one is of course your lady-love. Well, noble capitan, if you are as true to her as to you brave steed, she will have no cause to doubt your fealty. I must leave you. Adios!”
“Shall I not be permitted to accompany you to your home?”
“Gracias! no, señor. I am at home. Mira! my father’s house!” She pointed to the hacienda. “Here is one who will look to the remains of poor Lola;” and she signalled to a vaquero at that moment coming from the herd. “Remember, capitan, you are an enemy; I must not accept your politeness; neither may I offer you hospitality. Ah! you know not us – you know not the tyrant Santa Anna. Perhaps even at this moment his spies are – ” She glanced suspiciously around as she spoke. “O Heavens!” she exclaimed with a start, as her eyes fell upon the form of a man advancing down the hill. “Santissima Virgen! it is Ijurra!”
“Ijurra?”
“Only my cousin; but – ” She hesitated, and then suddenly changing to an expression of entreaty, she continued: “O leave me, señor! Por amor Dios! leave me. Adieu, adieu!”
Though I longed to have a nearer view of “Ijurra,” the hurried earnestness of her manner overcame me; and without making other reply than a simple “Adios,” I vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.
On reaching the border of the woods, curiosity – a stronger feeling perhaps – mastered my politeness; and, under the pretence of adjusting my stirrup, I turned in the saddle, and glanced back.
Ijurra had arrived upon the ground.
I beheld a tall dark man, dressed in the usual costume of the ricos of Mexico: dark cloth polka-jacket, blue military trousers, with scarlet sash around his waist, and low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat upon his head. He appeared about thirty years of age, whiskered, moustached, and, after a fashion, handsome. It was not his age, nor his personal appearance, nor yet his costume, that had my attention at the moment. I watched only his actions. He stood confronting his cousin, or rather he stood over her, for she appeared before him in an attitude of fear! He held a paper in one hand, and I saw he was pointing to it as he spoke. There was a fierce vulture-like expression upon his face; and even in the distance I could tell, from the tones of his voice, that he was talking angrily!
Why should she fear him? Why submit to such rude rebuke? He must have a strange power over that spirit who could force it thus tamely to listen to reproach?
These were my reflections. My impulse was to drive the spurs into the sides of my horse, and gallop back upon the ground. I might have done so had the scene lasted much longer; but I saw the lady suddenly leave the spot, and walk rapidly in the direction of the hacienda.
I wheeled round again, and plunging under the shadows of the forest, soon fell into a road leading to the rancheria. With my thoughts full of the incident that had just transpired, I rode unconsciously, leaving my horse to his own guidance.
My reverie was interrupted by the challenge of one of my own sentries, which admonished me that I had arrived at the entrance of the village.
Chapter Seven.
An order to forage
My adventure did not end with the day; it was continued