Майн Рид
Headless Horseman
Chapter Sixty Six. Chased by Comanches
It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. What was bringing her back? And why was she riding at such a perilous pace?
To explain it, we must return to that dark reverie, from which she was startled by her encounter with the “Tejanos.”
While galloping away from the Alamo, she had not thought of looking back, to ascertain whether she was followed. Absorbed in schemes of vengeance, she had gone on — without even giving a glance behind.
It was but slight comfort to her to reflect: that Louise Poindexter had appeared equally determined upon parting from the jacalé. With a woman’s intuitive quickness, she suspected the cause; though she knew, too well, it was groundless.
Still, there was some pleasure in the thought: that her rival, ignorant of her happy fortune, was suffering like herself.
There was a hope, too, that the incident might produce estrangement in the heart of this proud Creole lady towards the man so condescendingly beloved; though it was faint, vague, scarce believed in by her who conceived it.
Taking her own heart as a standard, she was not one to lay much stress on the condescension of love: her own history was proof of its levelling power. Still was there the thought that her presence at the jacalé had given pain, and might result in disaster to the happiness of her hated rival.
Isidora had begun to dwell upon this with a sort of subdued pleasure; that continued unchecked, till the time of her rencontre with the Texans.
On turning back with these, her spirits underwent a change. The road to be taken by Louise, should have been the same as that, by which she had herself come. But no lady was upon it.
The Creole must have changed her mind, and stayed by the jacalé — was, perhaps, at that very moment performing the métier Isidora had so fondly traced out for herself?
The belief that she was about to bring shame upon the woman who had brought ruin upon her, was the thought that now consoled her.
The questions put by Poindexter, and his companions, sufficiently disclosed the situation. Still clearer was it made by the final interrogations of Calhoun; and, after her interrogators had passed away, she remained by the side of the thicket — half in doubt whether to ride on to the Leona, or go back and be the spectator of a scene, that, by her own contrivance, could scarce fail to be exciting.
She is upon the edge of the chapparal, just inside the shadow of the timber. She is astride her grey steed, that stands with spread nostril and dilated eye, gazing after the cavallada that has late parted from the spot — a single horseman in the rear of the rest. Her horse might wonder why he is being thus ridden about; but he is used to sudden changes in the will of his capricious rider.
She is looking in the same direction — towards the alhuehueté; — whose dark summit towers above the bluffs of the Alamo.
She sees the searchers descend; and, after them, the man who has so minutely questioned her. As his head sinks below the level of the plain, she fancies herself alone upon it.
In this fancy she is mistaken.
She remains irresolute for a time — ten — fifteen — twenty minutes.
Her thoughts are not to be envied. There is not much sweetness in the revenge, she believes herself instrumental in having accomplished. If she has caused humiliation to the woman she hates, along with it she may have brought ruin upon the man whom she loves? Despite all that has passed, she cannot help loving him!
“Santissima Virgen!” she mutters with a fervent earnestness. “What have I done? If these men — Los Reguladores — the dreaded judges I’ve heard of — if they should find him guilty, where may it end? In his death! Mother of God! I do not desire that. Not by their hands — no! no! How wild their looks and gestures — stern — determined! And when I pointed out the way, how quickly they rode off, without further thought of me! Oh, they have made up their minds. Don Mauricio is to die! And he a stranger among them — so have I heard. Not of their country, or kindred; only of the same race. Alone, friendless, with many enemies. Santissima! what am I thinking of? Is not he, who has just left me, that cousin of whom I’ve heard speak! Ay de mi! Now do I understand the cause of his questioning. His heart, like mine own — like mine own!”
She sits with her gaze bent over the open plain. The grey steed still frets under restraint, though the cavallada has long since passed out of sight. He but responds to the spirit of his rider; which he knows to be vacillating — chafing under some irresolution.
’Tis the horse that first discovers a danger, or something that scents of it. He proclaims it by a low tremulous neigh, as if to attract her attention; while his head, tossed back towards the chapparal, shows that the enemy is to be looked for in that direction.
Who, or what is it?
Warned by the behaviour of her steed, Isidora faces to the thicket, and scans the path by which she has lately passed through it. It is the road, or trail, leading to the Leona. ’Tis only open to the eye for a straight stretch of about two hundred yards. Beyond, it becomes screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously.
No one is seen upon it — nothing save two or three lean coyotés, that skulk under the shadow of the trees — scenting the shod tracks, in the hope of finding some scrap, that may have fallen from the hurrying horsemen.
It is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement. He sees them; but what of that? The prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither startling, nor rare. There is something else — something he has either scented, or heard.
Isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her. The howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in the joy of the daylight. She hears only this. Her thoughts again return to the “Tejanos” — especially to him who has last parted from her side. She is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation; when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse.
The animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air; snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than before!
This time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to be going along the road — though still hidden behind the trees. Their hoof-strokes are heard at the same time.
But not after. The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise!
Isidora conjectures the former. She believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own.
She quiets him, and listens.
A humming is heard through the trees. Though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men’s voices — holding a conversation in a low muttered tone.
Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent. The horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted — perhaps hesitating to advance.
Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed. Some travellers, perhaps, en route for the Rio Grande — or, it may be, some stragglers from the Texan troop — who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. It is only natural — at a time, when Indians are known to be on the war-path.
Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers — whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side — placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening.
Not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing towards her — not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket! And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround!
She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution — perhaps of evil intent?
They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it? They may be riding to get round her — in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?
How is she to know that their intent is not hostile? She has enemies — one well remembered — Don Miguel Diaz. Besides, there are the Comanches — to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer en paz.
She begins to feel alarm. It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious. Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!
She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near. The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. She must soon be discovered.
At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse’s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.
Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards — beyond range of arrow, or bullet — then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing — whether friends, or to be feared.
If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the “Tejanos.”
She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself!
They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!
A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies — with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.
“Los Indios!” mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the alhuehueté.
A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. The glance tells her more, — that the pursuit is close and earnest — so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, do not yell!
Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!
Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. For years have they been en paz — both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink — just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of “navigators,” who have been spending their day at the beer-house.
Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it — with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to.
But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!
On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse, — all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!
She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless — silent as spectres!
Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one — and that one a woman!
There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.
She presses on for the alhuehueté.
Chapter Sixty Seven. Los Indios!
The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.
“Dios me amparé!” (God preserve me.)
God preserve her! She will be too late!
The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!
Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then —
And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind — thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.
The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacalé.
With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the alhuehueté, she rides directly towards the bluff.
The change puzzles her pursuers — at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the “lay” of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.
The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape.
“Chingaro!” mutters he to himself, “if she go much farther, she’ll be over the precipice!”
His reflection is false. She goes farther, but not over the precipice. With another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and rides along the edge of it — so close as to attract the attention of the “Tejanos” below, and elicit from Zeb Stump that quaint exclamation — only heard upon extraordinary occasions —
“Geesus Geehosofat!”
As if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter — or rather to the interrogatory with which he has followed it up — comes the cry of the strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff.
“Los Indios! Los Indios!”
No one who has spent three days in Southern Texas could mistake the meaning of that phrase — whatever his native tongue. It is the alarm cry which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand miles of frontier, in three different languages — “Les Indiens! Los Indios! the Indians!”
Dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger.
To those who hear it at the jacalé it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians — as certain as if the fact had been announced in their own Saxon vernacular.
They have scarce time to translate it into this — even in thought — when the same voice a second time salutes their ears: — “Tejanos! Cavalleros! save me! save me! Los Indios! I am chased by a troop. They are behind me — close — close — ”
Her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly. It is no longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above.
She has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards, when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen, going in full gallop, against the clear sky.
Like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head. So eager is he to throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the fugitive has said — spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no stop, while calling out to the “Tejanos.” He may fancy it has been addressed to himself — a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he does not understand: for Isidora had spoken in English.
He is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen, — or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!
He perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below.
A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. In that glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun barrels!
His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff — quite as quickly as they have been approaching it.
“’Tur a pity too,” says Zeb Stump, proceeding to reload his rifle. “If ’t hedn’t a been for the savin’ o’ her, I’d a let ’em come on down the gully. Ef we ked a captered them, we mout a got somethin’ out o’ ’em consarnin’ this queer case o’ ourn. Thur aint the smell o’ a chance now. It’s clur they’ve goed off; an by the time we git up yander, they’ll be hellurd.”
The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger’s hut — a change squally sudden in the thoughts of those who compose it.
The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected.
Calhoun and his bullies are no longer masters of the situation; and on the motion of their chief the Regulator Jury is adjourned. The new programme is cast in double quick time. A score of words suffice to describe it. The accused is to be carried to the settlement — there to be tried according to the law of the land.
And now for the Indians — whose opportune appearance has caused this sudden change, both of sentiment and design. Are they to be pursued? That of course. But when? Upon the instant? Prudence says, no.
Only four have been seen. But these are not likely to be alone. They may be the rear-guard of four hundred?
“Let us wait till the woman comes down,” counsels one of the timid. “They have not followed her any farther. I think I can hear her riding this way through the gulley. Of course she knows it — as it was she who directed us.”
The suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground. They are not cowards. Still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild Indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in the way of trade.
The advice is adopted. They stand waiting for the approach of Isidora.
All are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the trees. There are those who have an apprehension: that along with the Mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of Comanches.
A few are otherwise occupied — Zeb Stump among the number. He takes the gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the thongs hitherto holding him too fast.
There is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part in the proceeding. Her part has been already played — perhaps too prominently. She shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous.
Where is the niece of Don Silvio Mortimez? She has not yet come upon the ground! The stroke of her horse’s hoof is no longer heard! There has been time — more than time — for her to have reached the jacalé!
Her non-appearance creates surprise — apprehension — alarm. There are men there who admire the Mexican maiden — it is not strange they should — some who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day.
Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? The interrogatory passes round. No one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer.
The Texans begin to feel something like shame. Their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, “Tejanos! Cavalleros!”
Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? Is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?
They listen with ears intent, — many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.
They listen in vain.
There is no sound of hoof — no voice of woman — nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side!
Can it be that she is taken?
Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel.
Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever — since it is directed against the hereditary foe.
The younger and more ardent — among whom are the admirers of the Mexican maiden — can bear the uncertainty no longer. They spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her — to save her, or perish in the attempt.
Who is to gainsay them? Her pursuers — her captors perhaps — may be the very men they have been in search of — the murderers of Henry Poindexter!
No one opposes their intent. They go off in search of Isidora — in pursuit of the prairie pirates.
Those who remain are but few in number; though Zeb Stump is among them.
The old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the Indians. He keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after the invalid prisoner — still unconscious — still guarded by the Regulators.
Zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour of distress. There are two others equally faithful. One a fair creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager interest that consumes her. The other, a rude, almost ludicrous individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his “masther.” The last is Phelim, who has just descended from his perch among the parasites of an umbrageous oak — where he has for some time stayed — a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring. The change of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that duty for which he came across the Atlantic.
No longer lies our scene upon the Alamo. In another hour the jacalé is deserted — perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over Maurice the mustanger.
