"A Strange Tale of Texas" (continued 7)

It was not fulfilled, at least as regarded time. The trial was postponed by an unexpected circumstance.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major. It was from the commanding officer of the district, whose head-quarters were at San Antonio do Bexar. It had been sent to Fort Inge, and thence forwarded.

The major made known its tenor by ordering “boots and saddles” to be sounded; and before the sweat had become dry upon the horses, the dragoons were once more upon their backs.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward, close to the town of San Antonio itself.

It was no longer a mere rumour. The maraud had commenced by the murder of men, women, and children, with the firing of their houses.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations. Hence his hurried decampment.

The civilians might have stayed; but friendship—even parental affection—must yield to the necessities of nature. Most of them had set forth without further preparation than the saddling of their horses, and shouldering their guns; and hunger now called them home.

There was no intention to abandon the search. That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses, and establish a better system of commissariat. Then would it be continued—as one and all declared, to the “bitter end.”

A small party was left with Spangler to take up the trail of the American horse, which according to the tracker’s forecast would lead back to the Leona. The rest returned along with the dragoons.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them—what he had hitherto kept back—the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker’s interpretation of it. As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, with whom in the way of his calling he had held some pleasant intercourse. But duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger’s guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.

That the deed had been done no one thought of doubting.

Oberdoffer’s story had furnished the first chapter of the evidence. Henry’s horse returning with the blood-stained saddle the last. The intermediate links were readily supplied—partly by the interpretations of the tracker, and partly by conjecture.

No one paused to investigate the motive—at least with any degree of closeness. The hostility of Gerald was accounted for by his quarrel with Calhoun; on the supposition that it might have extended to the whole family of the Poindexters!

It was very absurd reasoning; but men upon the track of a supposed murderer rarely reason at all. They think only of destroying him.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found—one or both, living or dead.

The party left with Spangler remained upon the spot which the major had chosen as a camping ground.

They were in all less than a dozen. A larger number was deemed unnecessary. Comanches, in that quarter, were no longer to be looked for; nor was there any other danger that called for a strength of men. Two or three would have been sufficient for the duty required of them.

Nine or ten stayed—some out of curiosity, others for the sake of companionship. They were chiefly young men—sons of planters and the like. Calhoun was among them—the acknowledged chief of the party; though Spangler, acting as guide, was tacitly understood to be the man to whom obedience should be given.

Instead of going to sleep, after the others had ridden away, they gathered around a roaring fire, already kindled within the thicket glade.

Among them was no stint for supper—either of eatables or drinkables. The many who had gone back—knowing they would not need them—had surrendered their haversacks, and the “heel-taps” of their canteens, to the few who remained. There was liquor enough to last through the night—even if spent in continuous carousing.

Despite their knowledge of this—despite the cheerful crackling of the logs, as they took their seats around the fire—they were not in high spirits.

One and all appeared to be under some influence, that, like a spell, prevented them from enjoying a pleasure perhaps not surpassed upon earth.

You may talk of the tranquil joys of the domestic hearth. At times, upon the prairie, I have myself thought of, and longed to return to them. But now, looking back upon both, and calmly comparing them, one with the other, I cannot help exclaiming:

“Give me the circle of the camp-fire, with half-a-dozen of my hunter comrades around it—once again give me that, and be welcome to the wealth I have accumulated, and the trivial honours I have gained—thrice welcome to the care and the toil that must still be exerted in retaining them.”

The sombre abstraction of their spirits was easily explained. The weird shape was fresh in their thoughts. They were yet under the influence of an indefinable awe.

Account for the apparition as they best could, and laugh at it—as they at intervals affected to do—they could not clear their minds of this unaccountable incubus, nor feel satisfied with any explanation that had been offered.

The guide Spangler partook of the general sentiment, as did their leader Calhoun.

The latter appeared more affected by it than any of the party! Seated, with moody brow, under the shadow of the trees, at some distance from the fire, he had not spoken a word since the departure of the dragoons. Nor did he seem disposed to join the circle of those who were basking in the blaze; but kept himself apart, as if not caring to come under the scrutiny of his companions.

There was still the same wild look in his eyes—the same scared expression upon his features—that had shown itself before sunset.

“I say, Cash Calhoun!” cried one of the young fellows by the fire, who was beginning to talk “tall,” under the influence of the oft-repeated potations—“come up, old fellow, and join us in a drink! We all respect your sorrow; and will do what we can to get satisfaction, for you and yours. But a man mustn’t always mope, as you’re doing. Come along here, and take a ‘smile’ of the Monongaheela! It’ll do you a power of good, I promise you.”

Whether it was that he was pleased at the interpretation put upon his silent attitude—which the speech told him had been observed—or whether he had become suddenly inclined towards a feeling of good fellowship, Calhoun accepted the invitation; and stepping up to the fire, fell into line with the rest of the roysterers. Before seating himself, he took a pull at the proffered flask.

From that moment his air changed, as if by enchantment. Instead of showing sombre, he became eminently hilarious—so much so as to cause surprise to more than one of the party. The behaviour seemed odd for a man, whose cousin was supposed to have been murdered that very morning.

Though commencing in the character of an invited guest, he soon exhibited himself as the host of the occasion. After the others had emptied their respective flasks, he proved himself possessed of a supply that seemed inexhaustible. Canteen after canteen came forth, from his capacious saddle-bags—the legacy left by many departed friends, who had gone back with the major.

Partaking of these at the invitation of their leader—encouraged by his example—the young planter “bloods” who encircled the camp fire, talked, sang, danced, roared, and even rolled around it, until the alcohol could no longer keep them awake. Then, yielding to exhausted nature, they sank back upon the sward, some perhaps to experience the dread slumber of a first intoxication.

The ex-officer of volunteers was the last of the number who laid himself along the grass.

If the last to lie down, he was the first to get up. Scarce had the carousal ceased—scarce had the sonorous breathing of his companions proclaimed them asleep—when he rose into an erect attitude, and with cautious steps stole out from among them. With like stealthy tread he kept on to the confines of the camp—to the spot where his horse stood “hitched” to a tree.

Releasing the rein from its knot, and throwing it over the neck of the animal, he clambered into the saddle, and rode noiselessly away.

In all these actions there was no evidence that he was intoxicated. On the contrary, they proclaimed a clear brain, bent upon some purpose previously determined. What could it be?

Urged by affection, was he going forth to trace the mystery of the murder, by finding the body of the murdered man? Did he wish to show his zeal by going alone?

Some such design might have been interpreted from a series of speeches that fell carelessly from his lips, as he rode through the chapparal.

“Thank God, there’s a clear moon, and six good hours before those youngsters will think of getting to their feet! I’ll have time to search every corner of the thicket, for a couple of miles around the place; and if the body be there I cannot fail to find it. But what could that thing have meant? If I’d been the only one to see it, I might have believed myself mad. But they all saw it—every one of them. Almighty heavens! what could it have been?”

The closing speech ended in an exclamation of terrified surprise—elicited by a spectacle that at the moment presented itself to the eyes of the ex-officer—causing him to rein up his horse, as if some dread danger was before him.

Coming in by a side path, he had arrived on the edge of the opening already described. He was just turning into it, when he saw, that he was not the only horseman, who at that late hour was traversing the chapparal.

Another, to all appearance as well mounted as himself, was approaching along the avenue—not slowly as he, but in a quick trot.

Long before the strange rider had come near, the moonlight, shining fall upon him, enabled Calhoun to see that he was headless!

There could be no mistake about the observation. Though quickly made, it was complete. The white moon beams, silvering his shoulders, were reflected from no face, above or between them! It could be no illusion of the moon’s light. Calhoun had seen that same shape under the glare of the sun.

He now saw more—the missing head, ghastly and gory, half shrouded behind the hairy holsters! More still—he recognised the horse—the striped serapé upon the shoulders of the rider—the water-guards upon his legs—the complete caparison—all the belongings of Maurice the mustanger!

He had ample time to take in these details. At a stand in the embouchure of the side path, terror held him transfixed to the spot. His horse appeared to share the feeling. Trembling in its tracks, the animal made no effort to escape; even when the headless rider pulled up in front, and, with a snorting, rearing steed, remained for a moment confronting the frightened party.

It was only after the blood bay had given utterance to a wild “whigher”—responded to by the howl of a hound close following at his heels—and turned into the avenue to continue his interrupted trot—only then that Calhoun became sufficiently released from the spell of horror to find speech.

“God of heaven!” he cried, in a quivering voice, “what can it mean? Is it man, or demon, that mocks me? Has the whole day been a dream? Or am I mad—mad—mad?”

The scarce coherent speech was succeeded by action, instantaneous but determined. Whatever the purpose of his exploration, it was evidently abandoned: for, turning his horse with a wrench upon the rein, he rode back by the way he had come—only at a far faster pace,—pausing not till he had re-entered the encampment.

Then stealing up to the edge of the fire, he lay down among the slumbering inebriates—not to sleep, but to stay trembling in their midst, till daylight disclosed a haggard pallor upon his cheeks, and ghastly glances sent forth from his sunken eyes.

Chapter Forty Six.

A Secret Confided.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of Casa del Corvo. The courtyard was crowded with men—armed, though not in the regular fashion. They carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of coloured blanket, and “Kentucky jeans,” trowsers of brown “homespun,” and blue “cottonade,” hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck—these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an assemblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of Texas.

Despite the bizarrerie of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. Others had now joined the assemblage—settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day—even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the assembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. Irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. These were the “Regulators.”

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any other individual. They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder—of the murder of Henry Poindexter—coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not—of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony—and the serious manner in which it was given—could not long be resisted; and the existence of the headless horseman became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested. The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman—that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside—some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most “hitched” to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter—on this occasion their chief—to give the signal for setting forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo—who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.

There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service—old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.

There was a woman, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track—to the very hearthstone of the supposed assassin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. Had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda without him. The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth.

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder”—as he was wont to term it—procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home. She was even eager for the interview—so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare—the latter laden with the spoils of the chase—slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.

A glad sight to her—that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood. She recognised in it the form of a true friend—to whose keeping she could safely entrust her most secret confidence. And she had now such a secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully pent up within her bosom.

Long before Zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she had gone out into the verandah to receive him.

The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house. There was just perceptible the slightest expression of surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred.

It had not been the custom of the hacienda—at least during its present proprietary.

The sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of the saguan, strengthened Zeb’s surprise—sufficiently to call forth an inquiry.

“Why, Pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi’ ye? Yur lookin’ like a ’coon wi’ his tail chopped off—clost to the stump at thet! An’ why air the big gate shet an barred—in the middle o’ breakfist time? I hope thur hain’t nuthin’ gone astray?”

“Ho! ho! Mass ’Tump, dat’s jess what dar hab goed stray—dat’s preecise de ting, dis chile sorry t’ say—berry much goed stray. Ho! berry, berry much!”

“Heigh!” exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone. “Thur air sommeat amiss? What is’t, nigger? Tell me sharp quick. It can’t be no wuss than yur face shows it. Nothin’ happened to yur young mistress, I hope? Miss Lewaze—”

“Ho—ho! nuffin’ happen to de young Missa Looey. Ho—ho! Bad enuf ’thout dat. Ho! de young missa inside de house yar, ’Tep in, Mass’ ’Tump. She tell you de drefful news herseff.”

“Ain’t yur master inside, too? He’s at home, ain’t he?”

“Golly, no. Dis time no. Massa ain’t ’bout de house at all nowhar. He wa’ hya a’most a quarrer ob an hour ago. He no hya now. He off to de hoss prairas—wha de hab de big hunt ’bout a momf ago. You know, Mass’ Zeb?”

“The hoss purayras! What’s tuk him thur? Who’s along wi’ him?”

“Ho! ho! dar’s Mass Cahoon, and gobs o’ odder white genlum. Ho! ho! Dar’s a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis nigga tell you.”

“An’ yur young Master Henry—air he gone too?”

“O Mass’ ’Tump! Dat’s wha am be trubble. Dat’s de whole ob it. Mass’ Hen’ he gone too. He nebber mo’ come back. De hoss he been brought home all kibbered over wif blood. Ho! ho! de folks say Massa Henry he gone dead.”

“Dead! Yur jokin’? Air ye in airnest, nigger?”

“Oh! I is, Mass’ ’Tump. Sorry dis chile am to hab say dat am too troo. Dey all gone to sarch atter de body.”

“Hyur! Take these things to the kitchen. Thur’s a gobbler, an some purayra chickens. Whar kin I find Miss Lewaze?”

“Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!” replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it.

“Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you. My brother is missing. He has not been seen since the night before last. His horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. O Zeb! it’s fearful to think of it!”

“Sure enuf that air ugly news. He rud out somewhar, and the hoss kim back ’ithout him? I don’t weesh to gie ye unneedcessary pain, Miss Lewaze; but, as they air still sarchin’ I mout be some help at that ere bizness; and maybe ye won’t mind tellin’ me the particklers?”

These were imparted, as far as known to her. The gardes scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. Oberdoffer was given as authority for the belief, that Henry had gone off after the mustanger.

The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people—that Maurice was the murderer.

“It air a lie!” cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: “a false, parjured lie! an he air a stinkin’ skunk that invented it. The thing’s impossible. The mowstanger ain’t the man to a dud sech a deed as that. An’ why shed he have dud it? If thur hed been an ill-feelin’ atween them. But thur wa’n’t. I kin answer for the mowstanger—for more’n oncest I’ve heern him talk o’ your brother in the tallest kind o’ tarms. In coorse he hated yur cousin Cash—an who doesn’t, I shed like to know? Excuse me for sayin’ it. As for the other, it air different. Ef thar hed been a quarrel an hot blood atween them—”

“No—no!” cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. “It was all over. Henry was reconciled. He said so; and Maurice—”

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears.

“Hoh—oh!” muttered Zeb; “thur hev been somethin’? D’ye say, Miss Lewaze, thur war a—a—quarrel atween yur brother—”

“Dear, dear Zeb!” cried she, removing her hands, and confronting the stalwart hunter with an air of earnest entreaty, “promise me, you will keep my secret? Promise it, as a friend—as a brave true-hearted man! You will—you will?”

The pledge was given by the hunter raising his broad palm, and extending it with a sonorous slap over the region of his heart.

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man—except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence.

The hunter showed less surprise than might have been expected; merely muttering to himself:—

“I thort it wild come to somethin’ o’ the sort—specially arter thet ere chase acrost the purayra.”

“Wal, Miss Lewaze,” he continued, speaking in a tone of kindly approval, “Zeb Stump don’t see anythin’ to be ashamed o’ in all thet. Weemen will be weemen all the world over—on the purayras or off o’ them; an ef ye have lost yur young heart to the mowstanger, it wud be the tallest kind o’ a mistake to serpose ye hev displaced yur affeckshuns, as they calls it. Though he air Irish, he aint none o’ the common sort; thet he aint. As for the rest ye’ve been tellin’ me, it only sarves to substantify what I’ve been sayin’—that it air parfickly unpossible for the mowstanger to hev dud the dark deed; that is, ef thur’s been one dud at all. Let’s hope thur’s nothin’ o’ the kind. What proof hez been found? Only the hoss comin’ home wi’ some rid spots on the seddle?”

“Alas! there is more. The people were all out yesterday. They followed a trail, and saw something, they would not tell me what. Father did not appear as if he wished me to know what they had seen; and I—I feared, for reasons, to ask the others. They’ve gone off again—only a short while—just as you came in sight on the other side.”

“But the mowstanger? What do it say for hisself?”

“Oh, I thought you knew. He has not been found either. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! He, too, may have fallen by the same hand that has struck down my brother!”

“Ye say they war on a trail? His’n I serpose? If he be livin’ he oughter be foun’ at his shanty on the crik. Why didn’t they go thar? Ah! now I think o’t, thur’s nobody knows the adzack sittavashun o’ that ere domycile ’ceptin’ myself I reckon: an if it war that greenhorn Spangler as war guidin’ o’ them he’d niver be able to lift a trail acrost the chalk purayra. Hev they gone that way agin?”

“They have. I heard some of them say so.”

“Wal, if they’re gone in sarch o’ the mowstanger I reck’n I mout as well go too. I’ll gie tall odds I find him afore they do.”

“It is for that I’ve been so anxious to see you. There am many rough men along with papa. As they went away I heard them use wild words. There were some of those called ‘Regulators.’ They talked of lynching and the like. Some of them swore terrible oaths of vengeance. O my God! if they should find him, and he cannot make clear his innocence, in the height of their angry passions—cousin Cassius among the number—you understand what I mean—who knows what may be done to him? Dear Zeb, for my sake—for his, whom you call friend—go—go! Reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger! Your horse is slow. Take mine—any one you can find in the stable—”

“Thur’s some truth in what ye say,” interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. “Thur mout be a smell o’ danger for the young fellur; an I’ll do what I kin to avart it. Don’t be uneezay, Miss Lewaze. Thur’s not sech a partickler hurry. Thet ere shanty ain’t agoin’ ter be foun’ ’ithout a spell o’ sarchin’. As to ridin’ yur spotty I’ll manage better on my ole maar. Beside, the critter air reddy now if Plute hain’t tuk off the saddle. Don’t be greetin’ yur eyes out—thet’s a good chile! Maybe it’ll be all right yit ’bout yur brother; and as to the mowstanger, I hain’t no more surspishun o’ his innersense than a unborn babby.”

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance in backwoodsman style, and striding out of the verandah; while the young Creole glided off to her chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit in supplications for his success.

Chapter Forty Seven.

An Intercepted Epistle.

Urged by the most abject fear, had El Coyote and his three comrades rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle.

They had no idea of returning to the jacalé of Maurice Gerald. On the contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and that solitary dwelling—whose owner they had encountered riding towards it in such strange guise.

That it was “Don Mauricio” not one of them doubted. All four knew him by sight—Diaz better than any—but all well enough to be sure it was the Irlandes. There was his horse, known to them; his armas de agua of jaguar-skin; his Navajo blanket, in shape differing from the ordinary serapé of Saltillo;—and his head!

They had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in its place—the sombrero of black glaze which Maurice was accustomed to wear. It had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the moon.

Besides, they had seen the great dog, which Diaz remembered to be his. The staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with a fierce growl attacked the assailant—though it had not needed this to accelerate their retreat.

Fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines—not that where they had meant to commit murder—they reached the level of the upper plateau.

Nor did they halt there for a single second; but, galloping across the plain, re-entered the chapparal, and spurred on to the place where they had so skilfully transformed themselves into Comanches.

The reverse metamorphosis, if not so carefully, was more quickly accomplished. In haste they washed the war-paint from their skins—availing themselves of some water carried in their canteens;—in haste they dragged their civilised habiliments from the hollow tree, in which they had hidden them; and, putting them on in like haste, they once more mounted their horses, and rode towards the Leona.

On their homeward way they conversed only of the headless horseman: but, with their thoughts under the influence of a supernatural terror, they could not satisfactorily account for an appearance so unprecedented; and they were still undecided as they parted company on the outskirts of the village—each going to his own jacalé.

“Carrai!” exclaimed the Coyote, as he stepped across the threshold of his, and dropped down upon his cane couch. “Not much chance of sleeping after that. Santos Dios! such a sight! It has chilled the blood to the very bottom of my veins. And nothing here to warm me. The canteen empty; the posada shut up; everybody in bed!

“Madre de Dios! what can it have been? Ghost it could not be; flesh and bones I grasped myself; so did Vicente on the other side? I felt that, or something very like it, under the tiger-skin. Santissima! it could not be a cheat!

“If a contrivance, why and to what end? Who cares to play carnival on the prairies—except myself, and my camarados? Mil demonios! what a grim masquerader!

“Carajo! am I forestalled? Has some other had the offer, and earned the thousand dollars? Was it the Irlandes himself, dead, decapitated, carrying his head in his hand?

“Bah! it could not be—ridiculous, unlikely, altogether improbable!

“But what then?

“Ha! I have it! A hundred to one I have it! He may have got warning of our visit, or, at least, had suspicions of it. ’Twas a trick got up to try us!—perhaps himself in sight, a witness of our disgraceful flight? Maldito!

“But who could have betrayed us? No one. Of course no one could tell of that intent. How then should he have prepared such an infernal surprise?

“Ah! I forget. It was broad daylight as we made the crossing of the long prairie. We may have been seen, and our purpose suspected? Just so—just so. And then, while we were making our toilet in the chapparal, the other could have been contrived and effected. That, and that only, can be the explanation!

“Fools! to have been frightened at a scarecrow!

“Carrambo! It shan’t long delay the event. To-morrow I go back to the Alamo. I’ll touch that thousand yet, if I should have to spend twelve months in earning it; and, whether or not, the deed shall be done all the same. Enough to have lost Isidora. It may not be true; but the very suspicion of it puts me beside myself. If I but find out that she loves him—that they have met since—since—Mother of God! I shall go mad; and in my madness destroy not only the man I hate, but the woman I love! O Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos! Angel of beauty, and demon of mischief! I could kill you with my caresses—I can kill you with my steel! One or other shall be your fate. It is for you to choose between them!”

His spirit becoming a little tranquillised, partly through being relieved by this conditional threat—and partly from the explanation he had been able to arrive at concerning the other thought that had been troubling it—he soon after fell asleep.

Nor did he awake until daylight looked in at his door, and along with it a visitor.

“José!” he cried out in a tone of surprise in which pleasure was perceptible—“you here?”

“Si, Señor; yo estoy.”

“Glad to see you, good José. The Doña Isidora here?—on the Leona, I mean?”

“Si, Señor.”

“So soon again! She was here scarce two weeks ago, was she not? I was away from the settlement, but had word of it. I was expecting to hear from you, good José. Why did you not write?”

“Only, Señor Don Miguel, for want of a messenger that could be relied upon. I had something to communicate, that could not with safety be entrusted to a stranger. Something, I am sorry to say, you won’t thank me for telling you; but my life is yours, and I promised you should know all.”

The “prairie wolf” sprang to his feet, as if pricked with a sharp-pointed thorn.

“Of her, and him? I know it by your looks. Your mistress has met him?”

“No, Señor, she hasn’t—not that I know of—not since the first time.”

“What, then?” inquired Diaz, evidently a little relieved, “She was here while he was at the posada. Something passed between them?”

“True, Don Miguel—something did pass, as I well know, being myself the bearer of it. Three times I carried him a basket of dulces, sent by the Doña Isidora—the last time also a letter.”

“A letter! You know the contents? You read it?”

“Thanks to your kindness to the poor peon boy, I was able to do that; more still—to make a copy of it.”

“You have one?”

“I have. You see, Don Miguel, you did not have me sent to school for nothing. This is what the Doña Isidora wrote to him.”

Diaz reached out eagerly, and, taking hold of the piece of paper, proceeded to devour its contents.

It was a copy of the note that had been sent among the sweetmeats.

Instead of further exciting, it seemed rather to tranquillise him.

“Carrambo!” he carelessly exclaimed, as he folded up the epistle. “There’s not much in this, good José. It only proves that your mistress is grateful to one who has done her a service. If that’s all—”

“But it is not all, Señor Don Miguel; and that’s why I’ve come to see you now. I’m on an errand to the pueblita. This will explain it.”

“Ha! Another letter?”

“Si, Señor! This time the original itself, and not a poor copy scribbled by me.”

With a shaking hand Diaz took hold of the paper, spread it out, and read:—

Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.

Querido amigo!

Otra vez aqui estoy—con tio Silvio quedando! Sin novedades de V. no puedo mas tiempo existir. La incertitud me malaba. Digame que es V. convalescente! Ojala, que estuviera asi! Suspiro en vuestros ojos mirar, estos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos—a ver, si es restablecido vuestra salud. Sea graciosa darme este favor. Hay—opportunidad. En una cortita media de hora, estuviera quedando en la cima de loma, sobre la cosa del tio. Ven, cavallero, ven!

Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

With a curse El Coyote concluded the reading of the letter. Its sense could scarce be mistaken. Literally translated it read thus:—

“Dear Friend,—I am once more here, staying with uncle Silvio. Without hearing of you I could not longer exist. The uncertainty was killing me. Tell me if you are convalescent. Oh! that it may be so. I long to look into your eyes—those eyes so beautiful, so expressive—to make sure that your health is perfectly restored. Be good enough to grant me this favour. There is an opportunity. In a short half hour from this time, I shall be on the top of the hill, above my uncle’s house. Come, sir, come!

“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”

“Carajo! an assignation!” half shrieked the indignant Diaz. “That and nothing else! She, too, the proposer. Ha! Her invitation shall be answered; though not by him for whom it is so cunningly intended. Kept to the hour—to the very minute; and by the Divinity of Vengeance—

“Here, José! this note’s of no use. The man to whom it is addressed isn’t any longer in the pueblita, nor anywhere about here. God knows where he is! There’s some mystery about it. No matter. You go on to the posada, and make your inquiries all the same. You must do that to fulfil your errand. Never mind the papelcito; leave it with me. You can have it to take to your mistress, as you come back this way. Here’s a dollar to get you a drink at the inn. Señor Doffer keeps the best kind of aguardiente. Hasta luejo!”

Without staying to question the motive for these directions given to him, José, after accepting the douceur, yielded tacit obedience to them, and took his departure from the jacalé.

He was scarce out of sight before Diaz also stepped over its threshold. Hastily setting the saddle upon his horse, he sprang into it, and rode off in the opposite direction.

Chapter Forty Eight.

Isidora.

The sun has just risen clear above the prairie horizon, his round disc still resting upon the sward, like a buckler of burnished gold. His rays are struggling into the chapparal, that here and there diversifies the savanna. The dew-beads yet cling upon the acacias, weighting their feathery fronds, and causing them to droop earthward, as if grieving at the departure of the night, whose cool breeze and moist atmosphere are more congenial to them than the fiery sirocco of day. Though the birds are stirring—for what bird could sleep under the shine of such glorious sunrise?—it is almost too early to expect human being abroad—elsewhere than upon the prairies of Texas. There, however, the hour of the sun’s rising is the most enjoyable of the day; and few there are who spend it upon the unconscious couch, or in the solitude of the chamber.

By the banks of the Leona, some three miles below Fort Inge, there is one who has forsaken both, to stray through the chapparal. This early wanderer is not afoot, but astride a strong, spirited horse, that seems impatient at being checked in his paces. By this description, you may suppose the rider to be a man; but, remembering that the scene is in Southern Texas still sparsely inhabited by a Spano-Mexican population—you are equally at liberty to conjecture that the equestrian is a woman. And this, too, despite the round hat upon the head—despite the serapé upon the shoulders, worn as a protection against the chill morning air—despite the style of equitation, so outré to European ideas, since the days of La Duchesse de Berri; and still further, despite the crayon-like colouring on the upper lip, displayed in the shape of a pair of silken moustaches. More especially may this last mislead; and you may fancy yourself looking upon some Spanish youth, whose dark but delicate features bespeak the hijo de algo, with a descent traceable to the times of the Cid.

If acquainted with the character of the Spano-Mexican physiognomy, this last sign of virility does not decide you as to the sex. It may be that the rider in the Texan chapparal, so distinguished, is, after all, a woman!

On closer scrutiny, this proves to be the case. It is proved by the small hand clasping the bridle-rein; by the little foot, whose tiny toes just touch the “estribo”—looking less in contrast with the huge wooden block that serves as a stirrup; by a certain softness of shape, and pleasing rotundity of outline, perceptible even through the thick serapé of Saltillo; and lastly, by the grand luxuriance of hair coiled up at the back of the head, and standing out in shining clump beyond the rim of the sombrero. After noting these points, you become convinced that you are looking upon a woman, though it may be one distinguished by certain idiosyncrasies. You are looking upon the Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

You are struck by the strangeness of her costume—still more by the way she sits her horse. In your eyes, unaccustomed to Mexican modes, both may appear odd—unfeminine—perhaps indecorous.

The Doña Isidora has no thought—not even a suspicion—of there being anything odd in either. Why should she? She is but following the fashion of her country and her kindred. In neither respect is she peculiar.

She is young, but yet a woman. She has seen twenty summers, and perhaps one more. Passed under the sun of a Southern sky, it is needless to say that her girlhood is long since gone by. In her beauty there is no sign of decadence. She is fair to look upon, as in her “buen quince” (beautiful fifteen), Perhaps fairer. Do not suppose that the dark lining on her lip damages the feminine expression of her face. Rather does it add to its attractiveness. Accustomed to the glowing complexion of the Saxon blonde, you may at first sight deem it a deformity. Do not so pronounce, till you have looked again. A second glance, and—my word for it—you will modify your opinion. A third will do away with your indifference; a fourth change it to admiration!

Continue the scrutiny, and it will end in your becoming convinced: that a woman wearing a moustache—young, beautiful, and brunette—is one of the grandest sights which a beneficent Nature offers to the eye of man.

It is presented in the person of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. If there is anything unfeminine in her face, it is not this; though it may strengthen a wild, almost fierce, expression, at times discernible, when her white teeth gleam conspicuously under the sable shadow of the “bigotite.”

Even then is she beautiful; but, like that of the female jaguar, ’tis a beauty that inspires fear rather than affection.

At all times it is a countenance that bespeaks for its owner the possession of mental attributes not ordinarily bestowed upon her sex. Firmness, determination, courage—carried to the extreme of reckless daring—are all legible in its lines. In those cunningly-carved features, slight, sweet, and delicate, there is no sign of fainting or fear. The crimson that has struggled through the brown skin of her cheeks would scarce forsake them in the teeth of the deadliest danger.

She is riding alone, through the timbered bottom of the Leona. There is a house not far off; but she is leaving it behind her. It is the hacienda of her uncle, Don Silvio Martinez, from the portals of which she has late issued forth.

She sits in her saddle as firmly as the skin that covers it. It is a spirited horse, and has the habit of showing it by his prancing paces. But you have no fear for the rider: you are satisfied of her power to control him.

A light lazo, suited to her strength, is suspended from the saddle-bow. Its careful coiling shows that it is never neglected. This almost assures you, that she understands how to use it. She does—can throw it, with the skill of a mustanger.

The accomplishment is one of her conceits; a part of the idiosyncrasy already acknowledged.

She is riding along a road—not the public one that follows the direction of the river. It is a private way leading from the hacienda of her uncle, running into the former near the summit of a hill—the hill itself being only the bluff that abuts upon the bottom lands of the Leona.

She ascends the sloping path—steep enough to try the breathing of her steed. She reaches the crest of the ridge, along which trends the road belonging to everybody.

She reins up; though not to give her horse an opportunity of resting. She has halted, because of having reached the point where her excursion is to terminate.

There is an opening on one side of the road, of circular shape, and having a superficies of some two or three acres. It is grass-covered and treeless—a prairie in petto. It is surrounded by the chapparal forest—very different from the bottom timber out of which she has just emerged. On all sides is the enclosing thicket of spinous plants, broken only by the embouchures of three paths, their triple openings scarce perceptible from the middle of the glade.

Near its centre she has pulled up, patting her horse upon the neck to keep him quiet. It is not much needed. The scaling of the “cuesta” has done that for him. He has no inclination either to go on, or tramp impatiently in his place.

“I am before the hour of appointment,” mutters she, drawing a gold watch from under her serapé, “if, indeed, I should expect him at all. He may not come? God grant that he be able!

“I am trembling! Or is it the breathing of the horse? Valga me Dios, no! ’Tis my own poor nerves!

“I never felt so before! Is it fear? I suppose it is.

“’Tis strange though—to fear the man I love—the only one I over have loved: for it could not have been love I had for Don Miguel. A girl’s fancy. Fortunate for me to have got cured of it! Fortunate my discovering him to be a coward. That disenchanted me—quite dispelled the romantic dream in which he was the foremost figure. Thank my good stars, for the disenchantment; for now I hate him, now that I hear he has grown—Santissima! can it be true that he has become—a—a salteador?

“And yet I should have no fear of meeting him—not even in this lone spot!

“Ay de mi! Fearing the man I love, whom I believe to be of kind, noble nature—and having no dread of him I hate, and know to be cruel and remorseless! ’Tis strange—incomprehensible!

“No—there is nothing strange in it. I tremble not from any thought of danger—only the danger of not being beloved. That is why I now shiver in my saddle—why I have not had one night of tranquil sleep since my deliverance from those drunken savages.

“I have never told him of this; nor do I know how he may receive the confession. It must, and shall be made. I can endure the uncertainty no longer. In preference I choose despair—death, if my hopes deceive me!

“Ha! There is a hoof stroke! A horse comes down the road! It is his? Yes. I see glancing through the trees the bright hues of our national costume. He delights to wear it. No wonder; it so becomes him!

“Santa Virgin! I’m under a serapé, with a sombrero on my head. He’ll mistake me for a man! Off, ye ugly disguises, and let me seem what I am—a woman.”

Scarce quicker could be the transformation in a pantomime. The casting off the serapé reveals a form that Hebe might have envied; the removal of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of Canova!

A splendid picture is exhibited in that solitary glade; worthy of being framed, by its bordering of spinous trees, whose hirsute arms seem stretched out to protect it.

A horse of symmetrical shape, half backed upon his haunches, with nostrils spread to the sky, and tail sweeping the ground; on his back one whose aspect and attitude suggest a commingling of grand, though somewhat incongruous ideas, uniting to form a picture, statuesque as beautiful.

The pose of the rider is perfect. Half sitting in the saddle, half standing upon the stirrup, every undulation of her form is displayed—the limbs just enough relaxed to show that she is a woman.

Notwithstanding what she has said, on her face there is no fear—at least no sign to betray it. There is no quivering lip—no blanching of the cheeks.

The expression is altogether different. It is a look of love—couched under a proud confidence, such as that with which the she-eagle awaits the wooing of her mate.

You may deem the picture overdrawn—perhaps pronounce it unfeminine.

And yet it is a copy from real life—true as I can remember it; and more than once had I the opportunity to fix it in my memory.

The attitude is altered, and with the suddenness of a coup d’éclair; the change being caused by recognition of the horseman who comes galloping into the glade. The shine of the gold-laced vestments had misled her. They are worn not by Maurice Gerald, but by Miguel Diaz!

Bright looks become black. From her firm seat in the saddle she subsides into an attitude of listlessness—despairing rather than indifferent; and the sound that escapes her lips, as for an instant they part over her pearl-like teeth, is less a sigh than an exclamation of chagrin.

There is no sign of fear in the altered attitude—only disappointment, dashed with defiance.

El Coyote speaks first.

“H’la! S’ñorita, who’d have expected to find your ladyship in this lonely place—wasting your sweetness on the thorny chapparal?”

“In what way can it concern you, Don Miguel Diaz?”

“Absurd question, S’ñorita! You know it can, and does; and the reason why. You well know how madly I love you. Fool was I to confess it, and acknowledge myself your slave. ’Twas that that cooled you so quickly.”

“You are mistaken, Señor. I never told you I loved you. If I did admire your feats of horsemanship, and said so, you had no right to construe it as you’ve done. I meant no more than that I admired them—not you. ’Tis three years ago. I was a girl then, of an age when such things have a fascination for our sex—when we are foolish enough to be caught by personal accomplishments rather than moral attributes. I am now a woman. All that is changed, as—it ought to be.”

“Carrai! Why did you fill me with false hopes? On the day of the herradero, when I conquered the fiercest bull and tamed the wildest horse in your father’s herds—a horse not one of his vaqueros dared so much as lay hands upon—on that day you smiled—ay, looked love upon me. You need not deny it, Doña Isidora! I had experience, and could read the expression—could tell your thoughts, as they were then. They are changed, and why? Because I was conquered by your charms, or rather because I was the silly fool to acknowledge it; and you, like all women, once you had won and knew it, no longer cared for your conquest. It is true, S’ñorita; it is true.”

“It is not, Don Miguel Diaz. I never gave you word or sign to say that I loved, or thought of you otherwise than as an accomplished cavalier. You appeared so then—perhaps were so. What are you now? You know what’s said of you, both here and on the Rio Grande!”

“I scorn to reply to calumny—whether it proceeds from false friends or lying enemies. I have come here to seek explanations, not to give them.”

“Prom whom?”

“Prom your sweet self, Doña Isidora.”

“You are presumptive, Don Miguel Diaz! Think, Señor, to whom you are addressing yourself. Remember, I am the daughter of—”

“One of the proudest Haciendados in Tamaulipas, and niece to one of the proudest in Texas. I have thought of all that; and thought too that I was once a haciendado myself and am now only a hunter of horses. Carrambo! what of that? You’re not the woman to despise a man for the inferiority of his rank. A poor mustanger stands as good a chance in your eyes as the owner of a hundred herds. In that respect, I have proof of your generous spirit!”

“What proof?” asked she, in a quick, entreating tone, and for the first time showing signs of uneasiness. “What evidence of the generosity you are so good as to ascribe to me?”

“This pretty epistle I hold in my hand, indited by the Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos, to one who, like myself, is but a dealer in horseflesh. I need not submit it to very close inspection. No doubt you can identify it at some distance?”

She could, and did; as was evinced by her starting in the saddle—by her look of angry surprise directed upon Diaz.

“Señor! how came you in possession of this?” she asked, without any attempt to disguise her indignation.

“It matters not. I am in possession of it, and of what for many a day I have been seeking; a proof, not that you had ceased to care for me—for this I had good reason to know—but that you had begun to care for him. This tells that you love him—words could not speak plainer. You long to look into his beautiful eyes. Mil demonios! you shall never see them again!”

“What means this, Don Miguel Diaz?”

The question was put not without a slight quivering of the voice that seemed to betray fear. No wonder it should. There was something in the aspect of El Coyote at that moment well calculated to inspire the sentiment.

Observing it, he responded, “You may well show fear: you have reason. If I have lost you, my lady, no other shall enjoy you. I have made up my mind about that.”

“About what?”

“What I have said—that no other shall call you his, and least of all Maurice the mustanger.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, indeed! Give me a promise that you and he shall never meet again, or you depart not from this place!”

“You are jesting, Don Miguel?”

“I am in earnest, Doña Isidora.”

The manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech. Coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks, whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his macheté.

Despite her Amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of uneasiness. She saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of averting it. Something of this she had felt from the first moment of the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change its character.

During the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for the sound of a horse’s hoof—casting occasional and furtive glances through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it.

This hope was no more. The sight of her own letter told its tale: it had not reached its destination.

Deprived of this hope—hitherto sustaining her—she next thought of retreating from the spot.

But this too presented both difficulties and dangers. It was possible for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet. The butt of El Coyote’s pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his macheté.

She was fully aware of the danger. Almost any other woman would have given way to it. Not so Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. She did not even show signs of being affected by it.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of well dissembled incredulity. “You are making sport of me, Señor. You wish to frighten me. Ha! ha! ha! Why should I fear you? I can ride as well—fling my lazo as sure and far as you, Look at this I see how skilfully I can handle it!”

While so speaking—smiling as she spoke—she had lifted the lazo from her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate her observations.

The act had a very different intent, though it was not perceived by Diaz; who, puzzled by her behaviour, sate speechless in his saddle.

Not till he felt the noose closing around his elbows did he suspect her design; and then too late to hinder its execution. In another instant his arms were pinioned to his sides—both the butt of his pistol and the hilt of his macheté beyond the grasp of his fingers!

He had not even time to attempt releasing himself from the loop. Before he could lay hand upon the rope, it tightened around his body, and with a violent pluck jerked him out of his saddle—throwing him stunned and senseless to the ground.

“Now, Don Miguel Diaz!” cried she who had caused this change of situation, and who was now seen upon her horse, with head turned homeward, the lazo strained taut from the saddle-tree. “Menace me no more! Make no attempt to release yourself. Stir but a finger, and I spur on! Cruel villain! coward as you are, you would have killed me—I saw it in your eye. Ha! the tables are turned, and now—”

Perceiving that there was no rejoinder, she interrupted her speech, still keeping the lazo at a stretch, with her eyes fixed upon the fallen man.

El Coyote lay upon the ground, his arms enlaced in the loop, without stirring, and silent as a stick of wood. The fall from his horse had deprived him of speech, and consciousness at the same time. To all appearance he was dead—his steed alone showing life by its loud neighing, as it reared back among the bushes.

“Holy Virgin! have I killed him?” she exclaimed, reining her horse slightly backward, though still keeping him headed away, and ready to spring to the spur. “Mother of God! I did not intend it—though I should be justified in doing even that: for too surely did he intend to kill me! Is he dead, or is it a ruse to get me near? By our good Guadaloupe! I shall leave others to decide. There’s not much fear of his overtaking me, before I can reach home; and if he’s in any danger the people of the hacienda will get back soon enough to release him. Good day, Don Miguel Diaz! Hasta luego!”

With these words upon her lips—the levity of which proclaimed her conscience clear of having committed a crime she drew a small sharp-bladed knife from beneath the bodice of her dress; severed the rope short off from her saddle-bow; and, driving the spur deep into the flanks of her horse, galloped off out of the glade—leaving Diaz upon the ground, still encircled by the loop of the lazo!

Chapter Forty Nine.

The Lazo Unloosed.

An eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed Cottonwood, with a scream, soars upward into the air.

Startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre.

A single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade. There, poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the open space and the chapparal that surrounds it. In the former it beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance—a man thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him—prostrate—apparently dead. In the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman, with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other, also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion, riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace, but with equal earnestness in her looks.

Such is the coup d’oeil presented to the eye of the eagle.

Of these fair equestrians both are already known. She galloping away is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she who approaches, Louise Poindexter.

It is known why the first has gone out of the glade. It remains to be told for what purpose the second is coming into it.

After her interview with Zeb Stump, the young creole re-entered her chamber, and kneeling before an image of the Madonna, surrendered her spirit to prayer.

It is needless to say that, as a Creole, she was a Catholic, and therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession. Strange and sad was the theme of her supplication—the man who had been marked as the murderer of her brother!

She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime. It could not be. The very suspicion of it would have lacerated her heart.

Her prayer was not for pardon, but protection. She supplicated the Virgin to save him from his enemies—her own friends!

Tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the ear of Heaven. She had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly affection. She sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that other affection, stronger than the ties of blood. While mourning her brother’s loss she prayed for her lover’s safety.

As she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow—that implement so cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved.

“Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! I may never use it again!”

The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. Might there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the place where it had been carried on?

She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. He must have been left in the boat!

On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of this. It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as she supposed, no tongue but theirs—and that for ever silent—could tell the tale.

The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass. She threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding towards the skiff. In the balcon her steps were arrested, on hearing voices above.

Two persons were conversing. They were her maid Florinde, and the sable groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the azotea.

Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not intentionally listen to them. It was only on their pronouncing a name, that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.

“Dey calls de young fella Jerrad. Mors Jerrad am de name. Dey do say he Irish, but if folks ’peak de troof, he an’t bit like dem Irish dat works on de Lebee at New Orlean. Ho, ho! He more like bos gen’lum planter. Dat’s what he like.”

“You don’t tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Massa Henry?”

“I doan’t tink nuffin ob de kind. Ho, ho! He kill Massa Henry! no more dan dis chile hab done dat same. Goramity—Goramity! ’Peak ob de debbil and he dar—de berry individible we talkin’ ’bout. Ho, ho! look Florinde; look yonner!”

“Whar?”

“Dar—out dar, on todder side ob de ribber. You see man on horseback. Dat’s Mors Jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira. De same dat gub Missa Loode ’potted hoss; de same dey’ve all gone to sarch for. Ho, ho! Dey gone dey wrong way. Dey no find him out on dem prairas dis day.”

“O, Pluto! an’t you glad? I’m sure he innocent—dat brave bewful young gen’lum. He nebba could been de man—”

The listener below stayed to hear no more. Gliding back into her chamber she made her way towards the azotea. The beating of her heart was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the escalera. It was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from the two individuals whose conversation had caused it. “What have you seen, that you talk so loudly?” said she, trying to hide her agitation under a pretended air of severity, “Ho, ho! Missa Looey—look ober dar. De young fella!”

“What young fellow?”

“Him as dey be gone sarch for—him dat—”

“I see no one.”

“Ho, ho! He jess gone in ’mong de tree. See yonner—yonner! You see de black glaze hat, de shinin’ jacket ob velvet, an de glancin’ silver buttons—dat’s him. I sartin sure dat’s de same young fella.”

“You may be mistaken for all that, Master Pluto. There are many here who dress in that fashion. The distance is too great for you to distinguish; and now that he’s almost out of sight—Never mind, Florinde. Hasten below—get out my hat and habit. I’m going out for a ride. You, Pluto! have the saddle on Luna in the shortest time. I must not let the sun get too high. Haste! haste!”

As the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts. Unobserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal.

She was too late. The horseman had ridden entirely out of sight.

“It was very like him, and yet it was not. It can scarce be possible. If it be he, why should he be going that way?”

A new pang passed through her bosom. She remembered once before having asked herself the same question.

She no longer stayed upon the azotea to watch the road. In ten minutes’ time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the horseman had disappeared.

She rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance.

Suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked the Leona. The act was consequent on the hearing of voices.

She listened. Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.

What man? What woman? Another pang passed through her heart at these put questions.

She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.

The conversation was carried on in Spanish. There was no relief to her in this. Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words. The tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a passion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.

She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.

The man’s voice was heard no longer. The woman’s sounded dear and firm, as if in menace!

There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses—another pause—another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy—then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground.

Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.

The listener knew of the opening—to her a hallowed spot. The voices had come out of it. She had made her last halt a little way from its edge. She had been restrained from advancing by a fear—the fear of finding out a bitter truth.

Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.

A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro—a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead—a sombrero and serapé lying near, evidently not the man’s! What could be the interpretation of such a tableau?

The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican ranchero—the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.

At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy. Whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the azotea; and he was not Maurice Gerald.

She had doubted before—had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed.

She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face, which was turned up—the man lying upon his back. She fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain.

It was plain that he was a Mexican. Not only his dress but his countenance—every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.

He was far from being ill-featured. On the contrary, he might have been pronounced handsome.

It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.

The joy caused by his presence—by the discovery that he was not somebody else—found gratification in performing an act of humanity.

“He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?”

The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.

It was loosened on the instant—the noose giving way to a Woman’s strength.

“Now, he can breathe more freely. Pardieu! what can have caused it? Lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth? That is most probable. But who could have done it? It was a woman’s voice. Surely it was? I could not be mistaken about that.

“And yet there is a man’s hat, and a serapé, not this man’s! Was there another, who has gone away with the woman? Only one horse went off.

“Ah! he is coming to himself! thank Heaven for that! He will be able to explain all. You are recovering, sir?”

“S’ñorita! who are you?” asked Don Miguel Diaz, raising his head, and looking apprehensively around.

“Where is she?” he continued.

“Of whom do you speak? I have seen no one but yourself.”

“Carrambo! that’s queer. Haven’t you met a woman astride a grey horse?”

“I heard a woman’s voice, as I rode up.”

“Say rather a she-devil’s voice: for that, sure, is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.”

“Was it she who has done this?”

“Maldito, yes! Where is she now? Tell me that, s’ñorita.”

“I cannot. By the sound of the hoofs I fancy she has gone down the hill. She must have done so, as I came the other way myself.”

“Ah—gone down the hill—home, then, to —. You’ve been very kind, s’ñorita, in loosening this lazo—as I make no doubt you’ve done. Perhaps you will still further assist me by helping me into the saddle? Once in it, I think I can stay there. At all events, I must not stay here. I have enemies, not far off. Come, Carlito!” he cried to his horse, at the same time summoning the animal by a peculiar whistle. “Come near! Don’t be frightened at the presence of this fair lady. She’s not the same that parted you and me so rudely—en verdad, almost for ever! Come on, cavallo! come on!”

The horse, on hearing the whistle, came trotting up, and permitted his master—now upon his feet—to lay hold of the bridle-rein.

“A little help from you, kind s’ñorita, and I think I can climb into my saddle. Once there, I shall be safe from their pursuit.”

“You expect to be pursued?”

“Quien sale? I have enemies, as I told you. Never mind that. I feel very feeble. You will not refuse to help me?”

“Why should I? You are welcome, sir, to any assistance I can give you.”

“Mil gracias, s’ñorita! Mil, mil gracias!”

The Creole, exerting all her strength, succeeded in helping the disabled horseman into his saddle; where, after some balancing, he appeared to obtain a tolerably firm seat.

Gathering up his reins, he prepared to depart.

“Adios, s’ñorita!” said he, “I know not who you are. I see you are not one of our people. Americano, I take it. Never mind that. You are good as you are fair; and if ever it should chance to be in his power, Miguel Diaz will not be unmindful of the service you have this day done him.”

Saying this El Coyote rode off, not rapidly, but in a slow walk, as if he felt some difficulty in preserving his equilibrium.

Notwithstanding the slowness of the pace—he was soon out of sight,—the trees screening him as he passed the glade. He went not by any of the three roads, but by a narrow track, scarce discernible where it entered the underwood.

To the young Creole the whole thing appeared like a dream—strange, rather than disagreeable.

It was changed to a frightful reality, when, after picking up a sheet of paper left by Diaz where he had been lying, she read what was written upon it. The address was “Don Mauricio Gerald;” the signature, “Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.”

To regain her saddle, Louise Poindexter was almost as much in need of a helping hand as the man who had ridden away.

As she forded the Leona, in returning to Casa del Corvo, she halted her horse in the middle of the stream; and for some time sate gazing into the flood that foamed up to her stirrup. There was a wild expression upon her features that betokened deep despair. One degree deeper, and the waters would have covered as fair a form as was ever sacrificed to their Spirit!

Chapter Fifty.

A Conflict with Coyotes.

The purple shadows of a Texan twilight were descending upon the earth, when the wounded man, whose toilsome journey through the chapparal has been recorded, arrived upon the banks of the streamlet.

After quenching his thirst to a surfeit, he stretched himself along the grass, his thoughts relieved from the terrible strain so long and continuously acting upon them.

His limb for the time pained him but little; and his spirit was too much worn to be keenly apprehensive as to the future.

He only desired repose; and the cool evening breeze, sighing through the feathery fronds of the acacias, favoured his chances of obtaining it.

The vultures had dispersed to their roosts in the thicket; and, no longer disturbed by their boding presence, he soon after fell asleep.

His slumber was of short continuance. The pain of his wounds, once more returning, awoke him.

It was this—and not the cry of the coyoté—that kept him from sleeping throughout the remainder of the night.

Little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies—a true jackal—that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying.

He did not believe that he was dying.

It was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would never dawn.

The light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him. Along with it came the birds, and the beasts went not away.

Over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended their shadowy wings. Around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyoté, in a hundred hideous repetitions.

Crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst.

He now hungered; and looked round for something to eat.

A pecân tree stood, near. There were nuts upon its branches, within six feet of the ground.

He was able to reach the pecân upon his hands and knees; though the effort caused agony.

With his crutch he succeeded in detaching some of the nuts; and on these broke his fast.

What was the next step to be taken?

To stir away from the spot was simply impossible. The slightest movement gave him pain; at the same time assuring him of his utter inability to go anywhere.

He was still uncertain as to the nature of the injuries he had sustained—more especially that in his leg, which was so swollen that he could not well examine it. He supposed it to be either a fracture of the knee-cap, or a dislocation of the joint. In either case, it might be days before he could use the limb; and what, meanwhile, was he to do?

He had but little expectation of any one coming that way. He had shouted himself hoarse; and though, at intervals, he still continued to send forth a feeble cry, it was but the intermittent effort of hope struggling against despair.

There was no alternative but stay where he was; and, satisfied of this, he stretched himself along the sward, with the resolve to be as patient as possible.

It required all the stoicism of his nature to bear up against the acute agony he was enduring. Nor did he endure it altogether in silence. At intervals it elicited a groan.

Engrossed by his sufferings, he was for a while unconscious of what was going on around him. Still above him wheeled the black birds; but he had become accustomed to their presence, and no longer regarded it—not even when, at intervals, some of them swooped so near, that he could hear the “wheep” of their wings close to his ears.

Ha! what was that—that sound of different import?

It resembled the pattering of little feet upon the sandy channel of the stream, accompanied by quick breathings, as of animal in a state of excitement.

He looked around for an explanation.

“Only the coyotés!” was his reflection, on seeing a score of these animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream, and “squatting” upon the grass.

Hitherto he had felt no fear—only contempt—for these cowardly creatures.

But his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and attitudes. The former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening. Clearly did the coyotés mean mischief.

He now remembered having heard, that these animals—ordinarily innocuous, from sheer cowardice—will attack man when disabled beyond the capability of defending himself. Especially will they do so when stimulated by the smell of blood.

His had flowed freely, and from many veins—punctured by the spines of the cactus. His garments were saturated with it, still but half dry.

On the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour. The coyotés could not help scenting it.

Was it this that was stirring them to such excited action—apparently making them mad?

Whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to attack him.

He had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place in his belt. His rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been carried off by his horse.

He drew the knife; and, resting upon his right knee, prepared to defend himself.

He did not perform the action a second too soon. Emboldened by having been so long left to make their menaces unmolested—excited to courage by the smell of blood, stronger as they drew nearer—stimulated by their fierce natural appetites—the wolves had by this time reached the turning point of their determination: which was, to spring forward upon the wounded man.

They did so—half a dozen of them simultaneously—fastening their teeth upon his arms, limbs, and body, as they made their impetuous onset.

With a vigorous effort he shook them off, striking out with his knife. One or two were gashed by the shining blade, and went howling away. But a fresh band had by this time entered into the fray, others coming up, till the assailants counted a score. The conflict became desperate, deadly. Several of the animals were slain. But the fate of their fallen comrades did not deter the survivors from continuing the strife. On the contrary, it but maddened them the more.

The struggle became more and more confused—the coyotés crowding over one another to lay hold of their victim. The knife was wielded at random; the arm wielding it every moment becoming weaker, and striking with less fatal effect. The disabled man was soon further disabled. He felt fear for his life. No wonder—death was staring him in the face.

At this crisis a cry escaped his lips. Strange it was not one of terror, but joy! And stranger still that, on hearing it, the coyotés for an instant desisted from their attack!

There was a suspension of the strife—a short interval of silence. It was not the cry of their victim that had caused it, but that which had elicited the exclamation.

There was the sound of a horse’s hoofs going at a gallop, followed by the loud baying of a hound.

The wounded man continued to exclaim,—in shouts calling for help. The horse appeared to be close by. A man upon his back could not fail to hear them.

But there was no response. The horse, or horseman, had passed on.

The hoof-strokes became less distinct. Despair once more returned to the antagonist of the coyotés.

At the same time his skulking assailants felt a renewal of their courage, and hastened to renew the conflict.

Once more it commenced, and was soon raging fiercely as before—the wretched man believing himself doomed, and only continuing the strife through sheer desperation.

Once more was it interrupted, this time by an intruder whose presence inspired him with fresh courage and hope.

If the horseman had proved indifferent to his calls for help, not so the hound. A grand creature of the staghound species—of its rarest and finest breed—was seen approaching the spot, uttering a deep sonorous bay, as with impetuous bound it broke through the bushes.

“A friend! thank Heaven, a friend!”

The baying ceased, as the hound cleared the selvage of the chapparal, and rushed open-mouthed among the cowed coyotés—already retreating at his approach!

One was instantly seized between the huge jaws; jerked upward from the earth; shaken as if it had been only a rat; and let go again, to writhe over the ground with a shattered spine!

Another was served in a similar manner; but ere a third could be attacked, the terrified survivors dropped their tails to the sward, and went yelping away; one and all retreating whence they had come—into the silent solitudes of the chapparal.

The rescued man saw no more. His strength was completely spent. He had just enough left to stretch forth his arms, and with a smile close them around the neck of his deliverer. Then, murmuring some soft words, he fainted gradually away.

His syncope was soon over, and consciousness once more assumed away.

Supporting himself on his elbow, he looked inquiringly around.

It was a strange, sanguinary spectacle that met his eyes. But for his swoon, he would have seen a still stranger one. During its continuance a horseman had ridden into the glade, and gone out again. He was the same whose hoofstroke had been heard, and who had lent a deaf ear to the cries for help. He had arrived too late, and then without any idea of offering assistance. His design appeared to be the watering of his horse.

The animal plunged straight into the streamlet, drank to its satisfaction, climbed out on the opposite bank, trotted across the open ground, and disappeared in the thicket beyond.

The rider had taken no notice of the prostrate form; the horse only by snorting, as he saw it, and springing from side to side, as he trod amidst the carcases of the coyotés.

The horse was a magnificent animal, not large, but perfect in all his parts. The man was the very reverse—having no head!

There was a head, but not in its proper place. It rested against the holster, seemingly held in the rider’s hand!

A fearful apparition.

The dog barked, as it passed through the glade, and followed it to the edge of the underwood. He had been with it for a long time, straying where it strayed, and going where it went.

He now desisted from this fruitless fellowship; and, returning to the sleeper, lay down by his side.

It was then that the latter was restored to consciousness, and remembered what had made him for the moment oblivious.

After caressing the dog he again sank into a prostrate position; and, drawing the skirt of the cloak over his face to shade it from the glare of the sun, he fell asleep.

The staghound lay down at his feet, and also slumbered; but only in short spells. At intervals it raised its head, and uttered an angry growl, as the wings of the vultures came switching too close to its ears.

The young man muttered in his sleep. They were wild words that came from his unconscious lips, and betokened a strange commingling of thoughts: now passionate appeals of love—now disjointed speeches, that pointed to the committal of murder!

Chapter Fifty One.

Twice Intoxicated.

Our story takes us back to the lone hut on the Alamo, so suddenly forsaken by the gambling guests, who had made themselves welcome in the absence of its owner.

It is near noon of the following day, and he has not yet come home. The ci-devant stable-boy of Bally-ballagh is once more sole occupant of the jacalé—once more stretched along the floor, in a state of inebriety; though not the same from which we have seen him already aroused. He has been sober since, and the spell now upon him has been produced by a subsequent appeal to the Divinity of drink.

To explain, we must go back to that hour between midnight and morning, when the monté players made their abrupt departure.

The sight of three red savages, seated around the slab table, and industriously engaged in a game of cards, had done more to restore Phelim to a state of sobriety than all the sleep he had obtained.

Despite a certain grotesqueness in the spectacle, he had not seen such a ludicrous sight, as was proved by the terrific screech with which he saluted them. There was nothing laughable in what followed. He had no very clear comprehension of what did follow. He only remembered that the trio of painted warriors suddenly gave up their game, flung their cards upon the floor, stood over him for a time with naked blades, threatening his life; and then, along with a fourth who had joined them, turned their backs abruptly, and rushed pellmell out of the place!

All this occupied scarce twenty seconds of time; and when he had recovered from his terrified surprise, he found himself once more alone in the jacalé!

Was the sleeping, or awake? Drunk, or dreaming? Was the scene real? Or was it another chapter of incongruous impossibilities, like that still fresh before his mind?

But no. The thing was no fancy. It could not be. He had seen the savages too near to be mistaken as to their reality. He had heard them talking in a tongue unknown to him. What could it be but Indian jargon? Besides, there were the pieces of pasteboard strewn over the floor!

He did not think of picking one up to satisfy himself of their reality. He was sober enough, but not sufficiently courageous for that. He could not be sure of their not burning his fingers—those queer cards? They might belong to the devil?

Despite the confusion of his senses, it occurred to him that the hut was no longer a safe place to stay in. The painted players might return to finish their game. They had left behind not only their cards, but everything else the jacalé contained; and though some powerful motive seemed to have caused their abrupt departure, they might re-appear with equal abruptness.

The thought prompted the Galwegian to immediate action; and, blowing out the candle, so as to conceal his movements, he stole softly out of the hut.

He did not go by the door. The moon was shining on the grass-plat in front. The savages might still be there.

He found means of exit at the back, by pulling one of the horse hides from its place, and squeezing himself through the stockade wall.

Once outside, he skulked off under the shadow of the trees.

He had not gone far when a clump of dark objects appeared before him. There was a sound, as of horses champing their bitts, and the occasional striking of a hoof. He paused in his steps, screening his body behind the trunk of a cypress.

A short observation convinced him, that what he saw was a group of horses. There appeared to be four of them; no doubt belonging to the four warriors, who had turned the mustanger’s hut into a gaming-house. The animals appeared to be tied to a tree, but for all that, their owners might be beside them.

Having made this reflection, he was about to turn back and go the other way; but just at that moment he heard voices in the opposite direction—the voices of several men speaking in tones of menace and command.

Then came short, quick cries of affright, followed by the baying of a hound, and succeeded by silence, at intervals interrupted by a swishing noise, or the snapping of a branch—as if several men were retreating through the underwood in scared confusion!

As he continued to listen, the noises sounded nearer. The men who made them were advancing towards the cypress tree.

The tree was furnished with buttresses all around its base, with shadowy intervals between. Into one of these he stepped hastily; and, crouching close, was completely screened by the shadow.

He had scarce effected his concealment, when four men came rushing up; and, without stopping, hastened on towards the horses.

As they passed by him, they were exchanging speeches which the Irishman could not understand; but their tone betrayed terror. The excited action of the men confirmed it. They were evidently retreating from some enemy that had filled them with fear.

There was a glade where the moon-beams fell upon the grass. It was just outside the shadow of the cypress. To reach the horses they had to cross it; and, as they did so, the vermilion upon their naked skins flashed red under the moonlight.

Phelim identified the four gentlemen who had made so free with the hospitality of the hut.

He kept his place till they had mounted, and rode off—till he could tell by the tramp of their horses that they had ascended the upper plain, and gone off in a gallop—as men who were not likely to come back again.

“Doesn’t that bate Banagher?” muttered he, stepping out from his hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment. “Be japers! it diz. Mother av Moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow? What are them divvils afther? An fwhat’s afther them? Shure somethin’ has given them a scare—that’s plain as a pikestaff. I wondher now if it’s been that same. Be me sowl it’s jist it they’ve encounthered. I heerd the hound gowlin, an didn’t he go afther it. O Lard! what cyan it be? May be it’ll be comin’ this way in purshoot av them?”

The dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree; where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense.

“Afther all, it must be some thrick av Masther Maurice. Maybe to give me a scare; an comin’ back he’s jist been in time to frighten off these ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too. Sowl! I hope it is that. How long since I saw it first? Trath! it must be some considerable time. I remimber having four full naggins, an that’s all gone off. I wondher now if them Indyins has come acrass av the dimmyjan? I’ve heerd that they’re as fond of the crayther as if their skins was white. Sowl! if they’ve smelt the jar there won’t be a dhrap in it by this time. I’ll jist slip back to the hut an see. If thare’s any danger now it won’t be from them. By that tarin’ gallop, I cyan tell they’ve gone for good.”

Once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards the jacalé.

He approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself that no one was near.

Notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself, he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman—who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it.

But for the hope of finding a “dhrap” in the demijohn, he would not have ventured back that night. As it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped doubtfully into the darkness.

He made no attempt to rekindle the light. Every inch of the floor was familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find the demijohn.

He tried for it. An exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment told that it was not there.

“Be dad!” muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; “it looks as if they’d been at it. Av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its place? I lift it thare—shure I lift it thare.”

“Ach, me jewel! an it’s thare yez are yet,” he continued, as his hand came in contact with the wickerwork; “an’ bad luck to their imperence—impty as an eggshill! Ach! ye greedy gutted bastes! If I’d a known yez were goin’ to do that, I’d av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye—jist fwhat yez wants. Divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin’ a man’s liquor when he’s aslape! Och-an-anee! fwhat am I to do now? Go to slape agane? I don’t belave I cyan, thinkin’ av tham an the tother, widout a thrifle av the crayther to comfort me. An’ thare isn’t a dhrap widin twenty—Fwhat—fwhat! Howly Mary! Mother av Moses! Sant Pathrick and all the others to boot, fwhat am I talkin’ about? The pewther flask—the pewther flask! Be japers! it’s in the thrunk—full to the very neck! Didn’t I fill it for Masther Maurice to take wid him the last time he went to the sittlements? And didn’t he forget to take it? Lard have mercy on me! If the Indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon that I shall be afther takin’ lave at me sinses.”

“Hoo—hoop—hoorro!” he cried, after an interval of silence, during which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau. “Hoo—hoop—hoorro! thanks to the Lord for all his mercies. The rid-skins haven’t been cunnin’ enough to look thare. The flask as full as a tick—not wan av them has had a finger on it. Hoo—hoop—hoorro!”

For some seconds the discoverer of the spirituous treasure, giving way to a joyous excitement, could be heard in the darkness, dancing over the floor of the jacalé.

Then there was an interval of silence, succeeded by the screwing of a stopper, and after that a succession of “glucks,” that proclaimed the rapid emptying of a narrow-necked vessel.

After a time this sound was suspended, to be replaced by a repeated, smacking of lips, interlarded with grotesque ejaculations.

Again came the gluck-gluck, again the smackings, and so on alternately, till an empty flask was heard falling upon the floor.

After that there were wild shouts—scraps of song intermingled with cheers and laughter—incoherent ravings about red Indians and headless horsemen, repeated over and over again, each time in more subdued tones, till the maudlin gibberish at length ended in loud continuous snoring!