Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

Then he rode on and became lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.

Where was he going? To visit Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

As on the day before, Louise stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the mustanger ride past.

He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. Her heart fluttered between hope and fear. There was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself. Fear prevailed; and in the next instant he was gone.

The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. In less than twenty minutes after, a steed was seen upon the same road – and in the same direction – with a lady upon its back.

She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. There was a mansion in sight surrounded by tall trees. It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the uncle of Dona Isidora. So much had she learnt already.

No one appeared either at the house, or near it.

Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?

With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it – riding directly towards her.

It was too late for Louise to shun him. The spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. Its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.

“Good day, Miss Poindexter?” said he. “Alone?”

“Alone, sir. And why not?”

“True: I think I’ve heard you say you prefer solitary rides?”

“You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?”

“In faith I do like it. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or `hotel,’ as my host is pleased to call it; and one gets very tired of the noises – especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be. A ride along this quiet road would invigorate anyone. Don’t you think so, Miss Poindexter?”

“You should know best, sir,” was the reply vouchsafed, after some seconds of embarrassment. “You, who have so often tried it.”

“Often! I have been only twice down this road since I have been able to sit in my saddle. But, Miss Poindexter, may I ask how you knew that I have been this way at all?”

“Oh!” rejoined Louise, “how could I help knowing it? I am in the habit of spending much time on the housetop. Our roof commands a view of this road. Being up there, I could not avoid seeing you as you passed. The distance is scarce six hundred yards. Even a lady, mounted upon a steed much smaller than yours, was sufficiently conspicuous to be identified. When I saw her display her wonderful skill, by strangling a poor little antelope with her lazo, I knew it could be no other than she whose accomplishments you were so good as to give me an account of.”

“Isidora? Ah; true! She has been here for some time.”

“And has been very kind to Mr Maurice Gerald?”

“Indeed, it is true. She has been very kind; though I have had no chance of thanking her. I have not met her for many months; and may not for months to come – now that she has gone back to her home on the Rio Grande.”

“Are you speaking the truth, sir? You have not seen her since – she is gone away from the house of her uncle?”

“She has,” replied Maurice, exhibiting surprise. “Of course, I have not seen her. I only knew she was here by her sending me some delicacies while I was ill. In truth, I stood in need of them. The Dona Isidora has been but too grateful for the slight service I once did her.”

“A service! May I ask what it was, Mr Gerald?”

“Oh, certainly. It was merely a chance. I had the opportunity of being useful to the young lady, in once rescuing her from some rude Indians, into whose hands she had fallen, while making a journey from the Rio Grande to visit her uncle on the Leona – Don Silvio Martinez, whose house you can see from here.”

“A slight service, you call it? You are modest in your estimate, Mr Gerald. A man who should do that much for me!”

“What would you do for him?” asked the mustanger, placing a significant emphasis on the final word.

“I should love him,” was the prompt reply.

“Then,” said Maurice, spurring his horse close up to the side of the spotted mustang, and whispering into the ear of its rider, with an earnestness strangely contrasting to his late reticence, “I would give half my life to see you in the hands of Wild Cat and his drunken comrades – the other half to deliver you from the danger.”

“Do you mean this, Maurice Gerald? Do not trifle with me: I am not a child. Speak the truth! Do you mean it?”

“I do! As heaven is above me, I do!”

The fondest embrace ever received by Maurice Gerald, was that given by Louise Poindexter; when, standing up in her stirrup, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she cried in an agony of earnest passion—

“I love you, I love you!”

1) Who was the lady of the lazo? Why was Louise jealous?

2) Where did Louise decide to ride after seeing the mustanger and why?

3) Why did Isidora send delicacies to Maurice?

4) How did the encounter end?

Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, but, on leaving the sala instead of returning to his own chamber, he went out of the house.

In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda and the Fort, he arrived at the terminus of his expedition. It was the domicile of Miguel Diaz, the Mexican mustanger – a lair appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the distinctive appellation of El Coyote (“Prairie Wolf”).

Calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety. He was not exactly intoxicated – having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence.

“ Hola!” [31]he exclaimed as his visitor came in. “Who’d have expected to see you? Be seated. Take a chair. There’s one. Ha! ha! ha!”

Calhoun, fatigued with his promenade, accepted the invitation of his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull.

He did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of his errand.

“Senor Diaz!” said he, “I have come for—”

“Senor Americano!” exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting short the explanation, “why waste words upon that? I know well enough for what you’ve come. You want me to wipe out that devilish Irishman!”

“Well!”

“Well; I promised you I would do it – at the proper time and opportunity. Miguel Diaz never played false to his promise. But the time’s not come, captain; nor yet the opportunity. To kill a man outright requires skill. It can’t be done – even on the prairies – without danger of detection. I hate that Irishman as much as you; but I’m not going to chop off my nose to spite my own face. I must wait for the time, and the chance.”

“Both have come!” exclaimed the tempter. “You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian trouble going on?”

“Of course I said so—”

“You have not heard the news, then?”

“What news?”

“That the Comanches [32]are starting on the war trail.” [33]

“Carajo!” exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch, and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the scent of prey. “Do you speak the truth, captain?”