“We’ve seen it too — that headless horseman — at a distance. Did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?”
“Santissima! no.”
“Can you tell us, miss?”
“I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I’ve said. What it may be, quien sabe?”
There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard.
The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory.
“Have you met, or seen, any one, miss — out here, I mean?”
“Si — yes — I have.”
“You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe — ”
“A lady.”
“Lady!” echo several voices.
“Si, señores.”
“What sort of a lady?”
“Una Americana.”
“An American lady! — out here? Alone?”
“Si, señores.”
“Who?”
“Quien sabe?”
“You don’t know her? What was she like?”
“Like? — like?”
“Yes; how was she dressed?”
“Vestido de caballo.”
“On horseback, then?”
“On horseback.”
“Where did you meet the lady you speak of?”
“Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal.”
“Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?”
“A jacalé. I only know of that.”
Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: “A jacalé?”
“They give that name to their shanties.”
“To whom does it belong — this jacalé?”
“Don Mauricio, el musteñero.”
“Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter.
A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching — fruitless, as earnest — they have struck a trail, — the trail of the murderer!
Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.
“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez — if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”
“It takes me a little out of my way — though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”
Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal — followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.
She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.
“Yonder!” says she, pointing over the plain; “you see that black spot on the horizon? It is the top of an alhuehuete. Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo. Go there! There is a cañon leading down the cliff. Descend. You will find, a little beyond, the jacalé of which I’ve told you.”
The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.
One of the party alone lingers — not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora. He is one who knows Isidora’s language, as well as his own native tongue.
“Tell me, niña,” says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude — almost of entreaty — “Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?”
“Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero! Who could help noticing it?”
“The colour?” gasps the inquirer.
“Un musteño pintojo.”
“A spotted mustang! Holy Heaven!” exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers — leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!
Chapter LXI. Angels on Earth
The retreat of her rival — quick and unexpected — held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision — bewildered by what she saw.
But the moment before she had looked into the jacalé — had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.
What was she to think of that sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?
In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.
At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.
“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catré. “Maurice — wounded — dying! Who has done this?”
There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.
“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it — O say it again!”
“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so — to the eyes — to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are — there are. I know one — ah! more — but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! I mean in beauty — in goodness, that’s another thing. I’m not thinking of goodness — no; no.”
“Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus? You are not in heaven; you are here with me — with Louise.”
“I am in heaven; yes, in heaven! I don’t wish it, for all they say; that is, unless I can have her with me. It may be a pleasant place. Not without her. If she were here, I could be content. Hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me! Very beautiful, you are, I admit; but none of you like her — her — my angel. Oh! there’s a devil, too; a beautiful devil — I don’t mean that. I’m thinking only of the angel of the prairies.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer.
She bent over him with ears upon the strain — with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.
“Name? name? Did some one say, name? Have you any names here? Oh! I remember — Michael, Gabriel, Azrael — men, all men. Angels, not like my angel — who is a woman. Her name is — ”
“Is?”
“Louise — Louise — Louise. Why should I conceal it from you — you up here, who know everything that’s down there? Surely you know her — Louise? You should: you could not help loving her — ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine — all — all!”
Not when these last words were once before spoken — first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees — the speaker in full consciousness of intellect — in the full fervour of his soul — not then were they listened to with such delight. O, happy hour for her who heard them!
Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow — upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.
She only stood up erect — triumphant; — her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations. It was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever — in the fear of its being too soon interrupted.
The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared — a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway.
The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup.