Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid
She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. There was a house in sight surrounded by tall trees. It might have been termed a mansion. It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the uncle of Doña Isidora. So much had she learnt already.
There were other houses to be seen upon the plain below; but on this one, and the road leading to it, the eyes of the Creole became fixed in a glance of uneasy interrogation.
For a time she continued her scrutiny without satisfaction. No one appeared either at the house, or near it. The private road leading to the residence of the haciendado, and the public highway, were alike without living forms. Some horses were straying over the pastures; but not one with a rider upon his back.
Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?
Were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house? If the former, was Don Silvio aware of it? If the latter, was he at home – an approving party to the assignation?
With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the chinking of a shod hoof against the stones of the causeway. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it – riding directly towards her. She might have seen him sooner, had she not been occupied with the more distant view.
He was alone, as he had ridden past Casa del Corvo. There was nothing to show that he had recently been in company – much less in the company of an inamorata[187].
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 – for upon the prairies it is not etiquette for the lady to speak first. “Alone?”
“Alone, sir. And why not?”
“’Tis a solitary ride among the chapparals. But true: I think I’ve heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?”
“You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?”
“In faith I do like it; and just for that very reason. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or ‘hotel,’ as mine host is pleased to call it; and one gets so tired of the noises – especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be – that a ride along this quiet road is something akin to luxury. The cool shade of these acacias – which the Mexicans have vulgarised by the name of mezquites – with the breeze that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would invigorate the feeblest of frames. 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, her colour going and coming as she spoke, “how could I help knowing it? I am in the habit of spending much time on the housetop. The view, the breeze, the music of the birds, ascending from the garden below, makes it a delightful spot – especially in the cool of the morning. Our roof commands a view of this road. Being up there, how could I avoid seeing you as you passed – that is, so long as you were not under the shade of the acacias?”
“You saw me, then?” said Maurice, with an embarrassed air, which was not caused by the innuendo conveyed in her last words – which he could not have comprehended – but by a remembrance of how he had himself behaved while riding along the reach of open road.
“How could I help it?” was the ready reply. “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?”
“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. With all her friendship for poor me, she is a great hater of us foreign invaders; and would not condescend to step over the threshold of Mr Oberdoffer’s hotel.”
“Indeed! I suppose she preferred meeting you under the shade of the acacias!”
“I have not met her at all; at least, not 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 hotel cuisine is none of the nicest; nor was I the most welcome of Mr Oberdoffer’s guests. The Doña 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 – Wild Oat and his Seminoles – 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. The brutes had got drunk; and were threatening – not exactly her life – though that was in some danger, but – well, the poor girl was in trouble with them, and might have had some difficulty in getting away, had I not chanced to ride up.”
“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 sweetest kiss I ever had in my life, was when a woman – a fair creature, in the hunting field – leant over in her saddle and kissed me as I sate in mine.
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 —
“Do with me as thou wilt: I love you, I love you!”
Chapter 28
A Pleasure Forbidden
Ever since Texas became the scene of an Anglo-Saxon immigration – I might go a century farther back and say, from the time of its colonisation by the descendants of the Conquistadores – the subject of primary importance has been the disposition of its aborigines.
Whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of open war – or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were consenting to a temporary peace – made but slight difference, so far as they were talked about. In either case they were a topic of daily discourse. In the former it related to the dangers to be hourly apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks[188] entombed.
In Mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at desayuno[189], almuerzo[190], comida[191], y cena[192]; in American times, up to this present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast, dinner, and supper tables. In the planter’s piazza[193], as in the hunter’s camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary[194], are not named with half the frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word “Indian.” It is this that scares the Texan child instead of the stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed mattress – disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent.
Despite the surrounding of strong walls – more resembling those of a fortress than a gentleman’s dwelling – the inmates of Casa del Corvo were not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the frontier. As yet they knew little of the Indians, and that little only from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with the character of this natural “terror” that interfered with the slumbers of their fellow settlers.
That it was no mere “bogie” they had begun to believe; but if any of them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the Fort – about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition – was calculated to cure them of their incredulity. It came in the early morning, carried by a mounted rifleman. It was put into the hands of the planter just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which were assembled the three individuals who composed his household – his daughter Louise, his son Henry, and his nephew Cassius Calhoun.
“Startling news!” he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note. “Not very pleasant if true; and I suppose there can be no doubt of that, since the major appears convinced.”
“Unpleasant news, papa?” asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to her cheek as she put the question.
The spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud.
“What can the major have written to him? I met him yesterday while riding in the chapparal. He saw me in company with – Can it be that? Mon Dieu! if father should hear it – ”
“‘The Comanches on the war trail’ – so writes the major.”
“Oh, that’s all!” said Louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase, as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it. “You frightened us, sir. I thought it was something worse.”
“Worse! What trifling, child, to talk so! There is nothing worse, in Texas, than Comanches on the war trail – nothing half so dangerous.”
Louise might have thought there was – a danger at least as difficult to be avoided. Perhaps she was reflecting upon a pursuit of wild steeds – or thinking of the trail of a lazo.
She made no reply. Calhoun continued the conversation.
“Is the major sure of the Indians being up? What does he say, uncle?”
“That there have been rumours of it for some days past, though not reliable. Now it is certain. Last night Wild Cat, the Seminole[195] chief, came to the Fort with a party of his tribe; bringing the news that the painted pole has been erected in the camps of the Comanches all over Texas, and that the war dance has been going on for more than a month. That several parties are already out upon the maraud, and may be looked for among the settlements at any moment.”
“And Wild Cat himself – what of him?” asked Louise, an unpleasant reminiscence suggesting the inquiry. “Is that renegade Indian to be trusted, who appears to be as much an enemy to the whites as to the people of his own race?”
“Quite true, my daughter. You have described the chief of the Seminoles almost in the same terms as I find him spoken of, in a postscript to the major’s letter. He counsels us to beware of the two-faced old rascal, who will be sure to take sides with the Comanches, whenever it may suit his convenience to do so.”
“Well,” continued the planter, laying aside the note, and betaking himself to his coffee and waffles, “I trust we sha’n’t see any redskins here – either Seminoles or Comanches. In making their marauds, let us hope they will not like the look of the crenelled parapets of Casa del Corvo, but give the hacienda a wide berth.”
Before any one could respond, a sable face appearing at the door of the dining-room – which was the apartment in which breakfast was being eaten – caused a complete change in the character of the conversation.
The countenance belonged to Pluto, the coachman.
“What do you want, Pluto?” inquired his owner.
“Ho, ho! Massr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin ’t all. Only look in t’ tell Missa Looey dat soon’s she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. Ho! ho! dat critter do dance ’bout on de pave stone as ef it wa’ mad to ’treak it back to de smoove tuff ob de praira.”
“Going out for a ride, Louise?” asked the planter with a shadow upon his brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.
“Yes, papa; I was thinking of it.”
“You must not.”
“Indeed!”
“I mean, that you must not ride out alone. It is not proper.”
“Why do you think so, papa? I have often ridden out alone.”
“Yes; perhaps too often.”
This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was to put upon it.
Notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation. On the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply.
“If you think so, papa, I shall not go out again. Though to be cooped up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad upon business – is that the life you intend me to lead in Texas?”
“Nothing of the sort, my daughter. I have no objection to your riding out as much as you please; but Henry must be with you, or your cousin Cassius. I only lay an embargo on your going alone. I have my reasons.”
“Reasons! What are they?”
The question came involuntarily to her lips. It had scarce passed them, ere she regretted having asked it. By her uneasy air it was evident she had apprehensions as to the answer.
The reply appeared partially to relieve her.
“What other reasons do you want,” said the planter, evidently endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the Statement of a convenient fact – “what better, than the contents of this letter from the major? Remember, my child, you are not in Louisiana, where a lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but in Texas, where she may dread both – where even her life may be in danger. Here there are Indians.”
“My excursions don’t extend so far from the house, that I need have any fear of Indians. I never go more than five miles at the most.”
“Five miles!” exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic smile; “you would be as safe at fifty, cousin Loo. You are just as likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as at the distance of a hundred miles. When they are on the war trail they may be looked for anywhere, and at any time. In my opinion, uncle Woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone.”
“Oh! you say so?” sharply retorted the young Creole, turning disdainfully towards her cousin. “And pray, sir, may I ask of what service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the Comanches, which I don’t believe there’s the slightest danger of my doing? A pretty figure we’d cut – the pair of us – in the midst of a war-party of painted savages! Ha! ha! The danger would be yours, not mine: since I should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own devices. Danger, indeed, within five miles of the house! If there’s a horseman in Texas – savages not excepted – who can catch up with my little Luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more than you do, Mr Cash!”
“Silence, daughter!” commanded Poindexter. “Don’t let me hear you talk in that absurd strain. Take no notice of it, nephew. Even if there were no danger from Indians, there are other outlaws in these parts quite as much to be shunned as they. Enough that I forbid you to ride abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do.”
“Be it as you will, papa,” rejoined Louise, rising from the breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the room. “Of course I shall obey you – at the risk of losing my health for want of exercise. Go, Pluto!” she added, addressing herself to the darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, “turn Luna loose into the corral – the pastures – anywhere. Let her stray back to her native prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she’s no longer needed here.”
With this speech, the young lady swept out of the sala, leaving the three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words.
They were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series. As she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips. They were in the shape of interrogatories – a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by conjecture.
“What can papa have heard? Is it but his suspicions? Can any one have told him? Does he knew that we have met?”
Chapter 29
El Coyote at Home
Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly as his cousin; but, on leaving the sala[196] instead of returning to his own chamber, he sallied forth from the house.
Still suffering from wounds but half healed, he was nevertheless sufficiently convalescent to go abroad – into the garden, to the stables, the corrals – anywhere around the house.
On the present occasion, his excursion was intended to conduct him to a more distant point. As if under the stimulus of what had turned up in the conversation – or perhaps by the contents of the letter that had been read – his feebleness seemed for the time to have forsaken him; and, vigorously plying his crutch, he proceeded up the river in the direction of Fort Inge.
In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda and the Fort – and that did not appear to belong to any one – he arrived at the terminus of his limping expedition. There was a grove of mezquit, with, some larger trees shading it; and in the midst of this, a rude hovel of “wattle and dab,” known in South-Western Texas as a jacalé.
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.”)
It was not always that the wolf could be found in his den – for his jacalé deserved no better description. It was but his occasional sleeping-place; during those intervals of inactivity when, by the disposal of a drove of captured mustangs, he could afford to stay for a time within the limits of the settlement, indulging in such gross pleasures as its proximity afforded.
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.
“H’la ñor!” he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the jacalé. “P’r Dios! Who’d have expected to see you? Siéntese[197]! Be seated. Take a chair. There’s one. A chair! Ha! ha! ha!”
The laugh was called up at contemplation of that which he had facetiously termed a chair. It was the skull of a mustang, intended to serve as such; and which, with another similar piece, a rude table of cleft yucca-tree, and a couch of cane reeds, upon which the owner of the jacalé was reclining, constituted the sole furniture of Miguel Diaz’s dwelling.
Calhoun, fatigued with his halting 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.
“Señor Diaz!” said he, “I have come for – ”
“Señor Americano!” exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting short the explanation, “why waste words upon that? Carrambo! I know well enough for what you’ve come. You want me to wipe out that devilish Irlandes!”
“Well!”
“Well; I promised you I would do it, for five hundred pesos[198] – at the proper time and opportunity. I will. Miguel Diaz never played false to his promise. But the time’s not come, ñor capitan; nor yet the opportunity, Carajo! To kill a man outright requires skill. It can’t be done – even on the prairies – without danger of detection; and if detected, ha! what chance for me? You forget, ñor capitan, that I’m a Mexican. If I were of your people, I might slay Don Mauricio; and get clear on the score of its being a quarrel. Maldita[199]! With us Mexicans it is different. If we stick our macheté into a man so as to let out his life’s blood, it is called murder; and you Americanos, with your stupid juries of twelve honest men, would pronounce it so: ay, and hang a poor fellow for it. Chingaro! I can’t risk that. I hate the Irlandes 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 – carrai[200], the time and the chance.”
“Both are come!” exclaimed the tempter, bending earnestly towards the bravo. “You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian trouble going on?”
“Of course I said so. If there was that – ”
“You have not heard the news, then?”
“What news?”
“That the Comanches are starting on the war trail.”
“Carajo!” exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch of reeds, and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the scent of prey. “Santíssima Virgen[201]! Do you speak the truth, ñor capitan?”
“Neither more nor less. The news has just reached the Fort. I have it on the best authority – the officer in command.”
“In that case,” answered the Mexican reflecting! – “in that case, Don Mauricio may die. The Comanches can kill him. Ha! ha! ha!”
“You are sure of it?”
“I should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead of five hundred.”
“It is worth that sum.”
“What sum?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“You promise it?”
“I do.”
“Then the Comanches shall scalp him, ñor capitan. You may return to Casa del Corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Get ready your thousand pesos.”
“They wait your acceptance.”
“Carajo! I shall earn them in a trice. Adiós[202]! Adiós!”
“Santíssima Virgen!” exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. “What a magnificent fluke of fortune! A perfect chiripé[203]. A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on my own account, without charging anybody a single claco[204] for the deed!
“The Comanches upon the war trail! Chingaro! can it be true? If so, I must look up my old disguise – gone to neglect through these three long years of accursed peace. Viva la guerra de los Indios[205]! Success to the pantomime of the prairies!”
Chapter 30
A Sagittary Correspondence
Louise Poindexter, passionately addicted to the sports termed “manly,” could scarce have overlooked archery.
She had not. The how, and its adjunct the arrow, were in her hands as toys which she could control to her will.
She had been instructed in their manège by the Houma[206] Indians; a remnant of whom – the last descendants of a once powerful tribe – may still be encountered upon the “coast” of the Mississippi, in the proximity of Point Coupé and the bayou Atchafalaya[207].
For a long time her bow had lain unbent – unpacked, indeed, ever since it had formed part of the paraphernalia brought overland in the waggon train. Since her arrival at Casa del Corvo she had found no occasion to use the weapon of Diana; and her beautiful bow of Osage-orange wood, and quiver of plumed arrows, had lain neglected in the lumber-room.