She felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face at intervals and fixed his regard upon Casa del Corvo. It was increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road, and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion.
She almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress!
It was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain shadow of an eclipse. It was succeeded by a sadness that might be appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that moment seemed filled with gloom.
Maurice Gerald had ridden on. He had entered the chapparal; and become lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.
Whither was he bound? Whither, but to visit Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
It mattered not that he returned within less than an hour. They might have met in the woods – within eyeshot of that jealous spectator – but for the screening of the trees. An hour was sufficient interview – for lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence.
It mattered not, that in passing upwards he again cast regards towards Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed some time in apparent scrutiny of the mansion.
It was but mockery – or exultation. He might well feel triumphant; but why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips – the kisses he had received from the Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
She almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress!
It was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain shadow of an eclipse. It was succeeded by a sadness that might be appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that moment seemed filled with gloom.
Maurice Gerald had ridden on. He had entered the chapparal; and become lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.
Whither was he bound? Whither, but to visit Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
It mattered not that he returned within less than an hour. They might have met in the woods – within eyeshot of that jealous spectator – but for the screening of the trees. An hour was sufficient interview – for lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence.
It mattered not, that in passing upwards he again cast regards towards Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed some time in apparent scrutiny of the mansion.
It was but mockery – or exultation. He might well feel triumphant; but why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips – the kisses he had received from the Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
Chapter 27
I Love You! – I Love You!
Louise Poindexter upon the azotea again – again to be subjected to a fresh chagrin! That broad stone stairway trending up to the housetop, seemed to lead only to spectacles that gave her pain. She had mentally vowed no more to ascend it – at least for a long time. Something stronger than her strong will combatted – and successfully – the keeping of that vow. It was broken ere the sun of another day had dried the dew from the grass of the prairie.
As on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from observation.
He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. In like manner did he cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump of trees that grew opposite.
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.
Whither?
The self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday. It met with a similar response.
Whither, if not to meet Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
Could there be a doubt of it?
If so, it was soon to be determined. In less than twenty minutes after, a parded steed was seen upon the same road – and in the same direction – with a lady upon its back.
The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. No truth could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through suspicion. She had resolved on assuring herself, though the knowledge should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes.
She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the acacias. She rode in silence upon the soft turf – keeping close to the side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones. The long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled with the plumes in her hat. She sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to avoid being observed – all the while with earnest glance scanning the open space before her.
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!”
As on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from observation.
He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. In like manner did he cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump of trees that grew opposite.
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.
Whither?
The self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday. It met with a similar response.
Whither, if not to meet Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?
Could there be a doubt of it?
If so, it was soon to be determined. In less than twenty minutes after, a parded steed was seen upon the same road – and in the same direction – with a lady upon its back.
The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. No truth could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through suspicion. She had resolved on assuring herself, though the knowledge should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes.
She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the acacias. She rode in silence upon the soft turf – keeping close to the side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones. The long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled with the plumes in her hat. She sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to avoid being observed – all the while with earnest glance scanning the open space before her.
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?”
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!”
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.
There came a time when they were taken forth, and honoured with some attention. It was shortly after that scene at the breakfast table; when she had received the paternal command to discontinue her equestrian excursions.
To this she had yielded implicit obedience, even beyond what was intended: since not only had she given up riding out alone, but declined to do so in company.
The spotted mustang stood listless in its stall, or pranced frantically around the corral; wondering why its spine was no longer crossed, or its ribs compressed, by that strange caparison, that more than aught else reminded it of its captivity.
It was not neglected, however. Though no more mounted by its fair mistress, it was the object of her daily – almost hourly – solicitude. The best corn in the granaderias of Casa del Corvo was selected, the most nutritions grass that grows upon the savanna – the gramma – furnished for its manger; while for drink it had the cool crystal water from the current of the Leona.
Pluto took delight in grooming it; and, under his currycomb and brushes, its coat had attained a gloss which rivalled that upon Pluto’s own sable skin.
While not engaged attending upon her pet, Miss Poindexter divided the residue of her time between indoor duties and archery. The latter she appeared to have selected as the substitute for that pastime of which she was so passionately fond, and in which she was now denied indulgence.
The scene of her sagittary performances was the garden, with its adjacent shrubbery – an extensive enclosure, three sides of which were fenced in by the river itself, curving round it like the shoe of a racehorse, the fourth being a straight line traced by the rearward wall of the hacienda.
Within this circumference a garden, with ornamental grounds, had been laid out, in times long gone by – as might have been told by many ancient exotics seen standing over it. Even the statues spoke of a past age – not only in their decay, but in the personages they were intended to represent. Equally did they betray the chisel of the Spanish sculptor. Among them you might see commemorated the figure and features of the great Condé[208]; of the Campeador[209]; of Ferdinand[210] and his energetic queen; of the discoverer of the American world; of its two chief conquistadores – Cortez[211] and Pizarro[212]; and of her, alike famous for her beauty and devotion, the Mexican Malinché[213].
It was not amidst these sculptured stones that Louise Poindexter practised her feats of archery; though more than once might she have been seen standing before the statue of Malinché, and scanning the voluptuous outline of the Indian maiden’s form; not with any severe thought of scorn, that this dark-skinned daughter of Eve[214] had succumbed to such a conqueror as Cortez.
The young creole felt, in her secret heart, that she had no right to throw a stone at that statue. To one less famed than Cortez – though in her estimation equally deserving of fame – she had surrendered what the great conquistador had won from Marina – her heart of hearts.
In her excursions with the bow, which were of diurnal occurrence, she strayed not among the statues. Her game was not there to be found; but under the shadow of tall trees that, keeping the curve of the river, formed a semicircular grove between it and the garden. Most of these trees were of indigenous growth – wild Chinas, mulberries, and pecans – that in the laying out of the grounds had been permitted to remain where Nature, perhaps some centuries ago, had scattered their seed.
It was under the leafy canopy of these fair forest trees the young Creole delighted to sit – or stray along the edge of the pellucid river, that rolled dreamily by.
Here she was free to be alone; which of late appeared to be her preference. Her father, in his sternest mood, could not have denied her so slight a privilege. If there was danger upon the outside prairie, there could be none within the garden – enclosed, as it was, by a river broad and deep, and a wall that could not have been scaled without the aid of a thirty-round ladder. So far from objecting to this solitary strolling, the planter appeared something more than satisfied that his daughter had taken to these tranquil habits; and the suspicions which he had conceived – not altogether without a cause – were becoming gradually dismissed from his mind.
After all he might have been misinformed? The tongue of scandal takes delight in torturing; and he may have been chosen as one of its victims? Or, perhaps, it was but a casual thing – the encounter of which he had been told, between his daughter and Maurice the mustanger? They may have met by accident in the chapparal? She could not well pass, without speaking to, the man who had twice rescued her from a dread danger. There might have been nothing in it, beyond the simple acknowledgment of her gratitude?
It looked well that she had, with such willingness, consented to relinquish her rides. It was but little in keeping with her usual custom, when crossed. Obedience to that particular command could not have been irksome; and argued innocence uncontaminated, virtue still intact.
So reasoned the fond father; who, beyond conjecture, was not permitted to scrutinise too closely the character of his child. In other lands, or in a different class of society, he might possibly have asked direct questions, and required direct answers to them. This is not the method upon the Mississippi; where a son of ten years old – a daughter of less than fifteen – would rebel against such scrutiny, and call it inquisition.
Still less might Woodley Poindexter strain the statutes of parental authority – the father of a Creole belle – for years used to that proud homage whose incense often stills, or altogether destroys, the simpler affections of the heart.
Though her father, and by law her controller, he knew to what a short length his power might extend, if exerted in opposition to her will. He was, therefore, satisfied with her late act of obedience – rejoiced to find that instead of continuing her reckless rides upon the prairie, she now contented herself within the range of the garden – with bow and arrow slaying the small birds that were so unlucky as to come under her aim.
Father of fifty years old, why reason in this foolish fashion? Have you forgotten your own youth – the thoughts that then inspired you – the deceits you practised under such inspiration – the counterfeits you assumed – the “stories” you told to cloak what, after all, may have been the noblest impulse of your nature?
The father of the fair Louise appeared to have become oblivious to recollections of this kind: for his early life was not without facts to have furnished them. They must have been forgotten, else he would have taken occasion to follow his daughter into the garden, and observe her – himself unobserved – while disporting herself in the shrubbery that bordered the river bank.
By doing so, he would have discovered that her disposition was not so cruel as may have been supposed. Instead of transfixing the innocent birds that fluttered in such foolish confidence around her, her greatest feat in archery appeared to be the impaling of a piece of paper upon the point of her arrow, and sending the shaft thus charged across the river, to fall harmlessly into a thicket on the opposite side.
He would have witnessed an exhibition still more singular. He would have seen the arrow thus spent – after a short interval, as if dissatisfied with the place into which it had been shot, and desirous of returning to the fair hand whence it had taken its departure – come back into the garden with the same, or a similar piece of paper, transfixed upon its shaft!
The thing might have appeared mysterious – even supernatural – to an observer unacquainted with the spirit and mechanism of that abnormal phenomenon. There was no observer of it save the two individuals who alternately bent the bow, shooting with a single arrow; and by them it was understood.
“Love laughs at locksmiths.” The old adage is scarce suited to Texas, where lock-making is an unknown trade.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” expresses pretty much the same sentiment, appropriate to all time and every place. Never was it more correctly illustrated than in that exchange of bow-shots across the channel of the Leona.
Louise Poindexter had the will; Maurice Gerald had suggested the way.
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.
There came a time when they were taken forth, and honoured with some attention. It was shortly after that scene at the breakfast table; when she had received the paternal command to discontinue her equestrian excursions.
To this she had yielded implicit obedience, even beyond what was intended: since not only had she given up riding out alone, but declined to do so in company.
The spotted mustang stood listless in its stall, or pranced frantically around the corral; wondering why its spine was no longer crossed, or its ribs compressed, by that strange caparison, that more than aught else reminded it of its captivity.
It was not neglected, however. Though no more mounted by its fair mistress, it was the object of her daily – almost hourly – solicitude. The best corn in the granaderias of Casa del Corvo was selected, the most nutritions grass that grows upon the savanna – the gramma – furnished for its manger; while for drink it had the cool crystal water from the current of the Leona.
Pluto took delight in grooming it; and, under his currycomb and brushes, its coat had attained a gloss which rivalled that upon Pluto’s own sable skin.
While not engaged attending upon her pet, Miss Poindexter divided the residue of her time between indoor duties and archery. The latter she appeared to have selected as the substitute for that pastime of which she was so passionately fond, and in which she was now denied indulgence.
The scene of her sagittary performances was the garden, with its adjacent shrubbery – an extensive enclosure, three sides of which were fenced in by the river itself, curving round it like the shoe of a racehorse, the fourth being a straight line traced by the rearward wall of the hacienda.
Within this circumference a garden, with ornamental grounds, had been laid out, in times long gone by – as might have been told by many ancient exotics seen standing over it. Even the statues spoke of a past age – not only in their decay, but in the personages they were intended to represent. Equally did they betray the chisel of the Spanish sculptor. Among them you might see commemorated the figure and features of the great Condé[208]; of the Campeador[209]; of Ferdinand[210] and his energetic queen; of the discoverer of the American world; of its two chief conquistadores – Cortez[211] and Pizarro[212]; and of her, alike famous for her beauty and devotion, the Mexican Malinché[213].
It was not amidst these sculptured stones that Louise Poindexter practised her feats of archery; though more than once might she have been seen standing before the statue of Malinché, and scanning the voluptuous outline of the Indian maiden’s form; not with any severe thought of scorn, that this dark-skinned daughter of Eve[214] had succumbed to such a conqueror as Cortez.
The young creole felt, in her secret heart, that she had no right to throw a stone at that statue. To one less famed than Cortez – though in her estimation equally deserving of fame – she had surrendered what the great conquistador had won from Marina – her heart of hearts.
In her excursions with the bow, which were of diurnal occurrence, she strayed not among the statues. Her game was not there to be found; but under the shadow of tall trees that, keeping the curve of the river, formed a semicircular grove between it and the garden. Most of these trees were of indigenous growth – wild Chinas, mulberries, and pecans – that in the laying out of the grounds had been permitted to remain where Nature, perhaps some centuries ago, had scattered their seed.
It was under the leafy canopy of these fair forest trees the young Creole delighted to sit – or stray along the edge of the pellucid river, that rolled dreamily by.
Here she was free to be alone; which of late appeared to be her preference. Her father, in his sternest mood, could not have denied her so slight a privilege. If there was danger upon the outside prairie, there could be none within the garden – enclosed, as it was, by a river broad and deep, and a wall that could not have been scaled without the aid of a thirty-round ladder. So far from objecting to this solitary strolling, the planter appeared something more than satisfied that his daughter had taken to these tranquil habits; and the suspicions which he had conceived – not altogether without a cause – were becoming gradually dismissed from his mind.
After all he might have been misinformed? The tongue of scandal takes delight in torturing; and he may have been chosen as one of its victims? Or, perhaps, it was but a casual thing – the encounter of which he had been told, between his daughter and Maurice the mustanger? They may have met by accident in the chapparal? She could not well pass, without speaking to, the man who had twice rescued her from a dread danger. There might have been nothing in it, beyond the simple acknowledgment of her gratitude?
It looked well that she had, with such willingness, consented to relinquish her rides. It was but little in keeping with her usual custom, when crossed. Obedience to that particular command could not have been irksome; and argued innocence uncontaminated, virtue still intact.
So reasoned the fond father; who, beyond conjecture, was not permitted to scrutinise too closely the character of his child. In other lands, or in a different class of society, he might possibly have asked direct questions, and required direct answers to them. This is not the method upon the Mississippi; where a son of ten years old – a daughter of less than fifteen – would rebel against such scrutiny, and call it inquisition.
Still less might Woodley Poindexter strain the statutes of parental authority – the father of a Creole belle – for years used to that proud homage whose incense often stills, or altogether destroys, the simpler affections of the heart.
Though her father, and by law her controller, he knew to what a short length his power might extend, if exerted in opposition to her will. He was, therefore, satisfied with her late act of obedience – rejoiced to find that instead of continuing her reckless rides upon the prairie, she now contented herself within the range of the garden – with bow and arrow slaying the small birds that were so unlucky as to come under her aim.
Father of fifty years old, why reason in this foolish fashion? Have you forgotten your own youth – the thoughts that then inspired you – the deceits you practised under such inspiration – the counterfeits you assumed – the “stories” you told to cloak what, after all, may have been the noblest impulse of your nature?
The father of the fair Louise appeared to have become oblivious to recollections of this kind: for his early life was not without facts to have furnished them. They must have been forgotten, else he would have taken occasion to follow his daughter into the garden, and observe her – himself unobserved – while disporting herself in the shrubbery that bordered the river bank.
By doing so, he would have discovered that her disposition was not so cruel as may have been supposed. Instead of transfixing the innocent birds that fluttered in such foolish confidence around her, her greatest feat in archery appeared to be the impaling of a piece of paper upon the point of her arrow, and sending the shaft thus charged across the river, to fall harmlessly into a thicket on the opposite side.
He would have witnessed an exhibition still more singular. He would have seen the arrow thus spent – after a short interval, as if dissatisfied with the place into which it had been shot, and desirous of returning to the fair hand whence it had taken its departure – come back into the garden with the same, or a similar piece of paper, transfixed upon its shaft!
The thing might have appeared mysterious – even supernatural – to an observer unacquainted with the spirit and mechanism of that abnormal phenomenon. There was no observer of it save the two individuals who alternately bent the bow, shooting with a single arrow; and by them it was understood.
“Love laughs at locksmiths.” The old adage is scarce suited to Texas, where lock-making is an unknown trade.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” expresses pretty much the same sentiment, appropriate to all time and every place. Never was it more correctly illustrated than in that exchange of bow-shots across the channel of the Leona.
Louise Poindexter had the will; Maurice Gerald had suggested the way.
Chapter 31
A Stream Cleverly Crossed
The sagittary correspondence could not last for long. They are but lukewarm lovers who can content themselves with a dialogue carried on at bowshot distance. Hearts brimful of passion must beat and burn together – in close proximity – each feeling the pulsation of the other. “If there be an Elysium[215] on earth, it is this!”
Maurice Gerald was not the man – nor Louise Poindexter the woman – to shun such a consummation.
It came to pass: not under the tell-tale light of the sun, but in the lone hour of midnight, when but the stars could have been witnesses of their social dereliction.
Twice had they stood together in that garden grove – twice had they exchanged love vows – under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a third interview had been arranged between them.
Little suspected the proud planter – perhaps prouder of his daughter than anything else he possessed – that she was daily engaged in an act of rebellion – the wildest against which parental authority may pronounce itself.
His own daughter – his only daughter – of the best blood of Southern aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a splendid alliance – holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter!
Could he have but dreamt it when slumbering upon his soft couch, the dream would have startled him from his sleep like the call of the eternal trumpet!
He had no suspicion – not the slightest. The thing was too improbable – too monstrous, to have given cause for one. Its very monstrosity would have disarmed him, had the thought been suggested.
He had been pleased at his daughter’s compliance with his late injunctions; though he would have preferred her obeying them to the letter, and riding out in company with her brother or cousin – which she still declined to do. This, however, he did not insist upon. He could well concede so much to her caprice: since her staying at home could be no disadvantage to the cause that had prompted him to the stern counsel.
Her ready obedience had almost influenced him to regret the prohibition. Walking in confidence by day, and sleeping in security by night, he fancied, it might be recalled.
It was one of those nights known only to a southern sky, when the full round moon rolls clear across a canopy of sapphire; when the mountains have no mist, and look as though you could lay your hand upon them; when the wind is hushed, and the broad leaves of the tropical trees droop motionless from their boughs; themselves silent as if listening to the concert of singular sounds carried on in their midst, and in which mingle the voices of living creatures belonging to every department of animated nature – beast, bird, reptile, and insect.
Such a night was it, as you would select for a stroll in company with the being – the one and only being – who, by the mysterious dictation of Nature, has entwined herself around your heart – a night upon which you feel a wayward longing to have white arms entwined around your neck, and bright eyes before your face, with that voluptuous gleaming that can only be felt to perfection under the mystic light of the moon.
It was long after the infantry drum had beaten tattoo, and the cavalry bugle sounded the signal for the garrison of Fort Inge to go to bed – in fact it was much nearer the hour of midnight – when a horseman rode away from the door of Oberdoffer’s hotel; and, taking the down-river road, was soon lost to the sight of the latest loiterer who might have been strolling through the streets of the village.
Maurice Gerald was not the man – nor Louise Poindexter the woman – to shun such a consummation.
It came to pass: not under the tell-tale light of the sun, but in the lone hour of midnight, when but the stars could have been witnesses of their social dereliction.
Twice had they stood together in that garden grove – twice had they exchanged love vows – under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a third interview had been arranged between them.
Little suspected the proud planter – perhaps prouder of his daughter than anything else he possessed – that she was daily engaged in an act of rebellion – the wildest against which parental authority may pronounce itself.
His own daughter – his only daughter – of the best blood of Southern aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a splendid alliance – holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter!
Could he have but dreamt it when slumbering upon his soft couch, the dream would have startled him from his sleep like the call of the eternal trumpet!
He had no suspicion – not the slightest. The thing was too improbable – too monstrous, to have given cause for one. Its very monstrosity would have disarmed him, had the thought been suggested.
He had been pleased at his daughter’s compliance with his late injunctions; though he would have preferred her obeying them to the letter, and riding out in company with her brother or cousin – which she still declined to do. This, however, he did not insist upon. He could well concede so much to her caprice: since her staying at home could be no disadvantage to the cause that had prompted him to the stern counsel.
Her ready obedience had almost influenced him to regret the prohibition. Walking in confidence by day, and sleeping in security by night, he fancied, it might be recalled.
It was one of those nights known only to a southern sky, when the full round moon rolls clear across a canopy of sapphire; when the mountains have no mist, and look as though you could lay your hand upon them; when the wind is hushed, and the broad leaves of the tropical trees droop motionless from their boughs; themselves silent as if listening to the concert of singular sounds carried on in their midst, and in which mingle the voices of living creatures belonging to every department of animated nature – beast, bird, reptile, and insect.
Such a night was it, as you would select for a stroll in company with the being – the one and only being – who, by the mysterious dictation of Nature, has entwined herself around your heart – a night upon which you feel a wayward longing to have white arms entwined around your neck, and bright eyes before your face, with that voluptuous gleaming that can only be felt to perfection under the mystic light of the moon.
It was long after the infantry drum had beaten tattoo, and the cavalry bugle sounded the signal for the garrison of Fort Inge to go to bed – in fact it was much nearer the hour of midnight – when a horseman rode away from the door of Oberdoffer’s hotel; and, taking the down-river road, was soon lost to the sight of the latest loiterer who might have been strolling through the streets of the village.