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 L. 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.