It is already known, that this road passed the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, at some distance from the house, and on the opposite side of the river. It is also known that at the same place it traversed a stretch of open prairie, with only a piece of copsewood midway between two extensive tracts of chapparal.
This clump of isolated timber, known in prairie parlance as a “motte” or “island” of timber, stood by the side of the road, along which the horseman had continued, after taking his departure from the village.
On reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the underwood; “hitched” him, by looping his bridle rein around the topmost twigs of an elastic bough; then detaching a long rope of twisted horsehair from the “horn” of his saddle, and inserting his arm into its coil, he glided out to the edge of the “island,” on that side that lay towards the hacienda.
Before forsaking the shadow of the copse, he cast a glance towards the sky, and at the moon sailing supremely over it. It was a glance of inquiry, ending in a look of chagrin, with some muttered phrases that rendered it more emphatic.
“No use waiting for that beauty to go to bed? She’s made up her mind, she won’t go home till morning – ha! ha!”
The droll conceit, which has so oft amused the nocturnal inebriate of great cities, appeared to produce a like affect upon the night patroller of the prairie; and for a moment the shadow, late darkening his brow, disappeared. It returned anon; as he stood gazing across the open space that separated him from the river bottom – beyond which lay the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, clearly outlined upon the opposite bluff, “If there should be any one stirring about the place? It’s not likely at this hour; unless it be the owner of a bad conscience who can’t sleep. Troth! there’s one such within those walls. If he be abroad there’s a good chance of his seeing me on the open ground; not that I should care a straw, if it were only myself to be compromised. By Saint Patrick, I see no alternative but risk it! It’s no use waiting upon the moon, deuce take her! She don’t go down for hours; and there’s not the sign of a cloud. It won’t do to keep her waiting. No; I must chance it in the clear light. Here goes?”
Saying this, with a swift but stealthy step, the dismounted horseman glided across the treeless tract, and soon readied the escarpment of the cliff, that formed the second height of land rising above the channel of the Leona.
He did not stay ten seconds in this conspicuous situation; but by a path that zigzagged down the bluff – and with which he appeared familiar – he descended to the river “bottom.”
In an instant after he stood upon the bank; at the convexity of the river’s bend, and directly opposite the spot where a skiff was moored, under the sombre shadow of a gigantic cotton-tree.
For a short while he stood gazing across the stream, with a glance that told of scrutiny. He was scanning the shrubbery on the other side; in the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its shadow.
Becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his lazo – for it was this he carried over his arm – and giving it half a dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream.
The noose settled over the cutwater of the skiff; and closing around the stem, enabled him to tow the tiny craft to the side on which he stood.
Stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars that lay along the planking at the bottom; and, placing them between the thole-pins, pulled the boat back to its moorings.
Leaping out, he secured it as it had been before, against the drift of the current; and then, taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree, he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one, expected by appointment.
His manoeuvres up to this moment, had they been observed, might have rendered him amenable to the suspicion that he was a housebreaker, about to “crack the crib” of Casa del Corvo.
The phrases that fell from his lips, however, could they have been heard, would have absolved him of any such vile or vulgar intention. It is true he had designs upon the hacienda; but these did not contemplate either its cash, plate, or jewellery – if we except the most precious jewel it contained – the mistress of the mansion herself.
It is scarce necessary to say, that the man who had hidden his horse in the “motte,” and so cleverly effected the crossing of the stream, was Maurice the mustanger.
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
This clump of isolated timber, known in prairie parlance as a “motte” or “island” of timber, stood by the side of the road, along which the horseman had continued, after taking his departure from the village.
On reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the underwood; “hitched” him, by looping his bridle rein around the topmost twigs of an elastic bough; then detaching a long rope of twisted horsehair from the “horn” of his saddle, and inserting his arm into its coil, he glided out to the edge of the “island,” on that side that lay towards the hacienda.
Before forsaking the shadow of the copse, he cast a glance towards the sky, and at the moon sailing supremely over it. It was a glance of inquiry, ending in a look of chagrin, with some muttered phrases that rendered it more emphatic.
“No use waiting for that beauty to go to bed? She’s made up her mind, she won’t go home till morning – ha! ha!”
The droll conceit, which has so oft amused the nocturnal inebriate of great cities, appeared to produce a like affect upon the night patroller of the prairie; and for a moment the shadow, late darkening his brow, disappeared. It returned anon; as he stood gazing across the open space that separated him from the river bottom – beyond which lay the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, clearly outlined upon the opposite bluff, “If there should be any one stirring about the place? It’s not likely at this hour; unless it be the owner of a bad conscience who can’t sleep. Troth! there’s one such within those walls. If he be abroad there’s a good chance of his seeing me on the open ground; not that I should care a straw, if it were only myself to be compromised. By Saint Patrick, I see no alternative but risk it! It’s no use waiting upon the moon, deuce take her! She don’t go down for hours; and there’s not the sign of a cloud. It won’t do to keep her waiting. No; I must chance it in the clear light. Here goes?”
Saying this, with a swift but stealthy step, the dismounted horseman glided across the treeless tract, and soon readied the escarpment of the cliff, that formed the second height of land rising above the channel of the Leona.
He did not stay ten seconds in this conspicuous situation; but by a path that zigzagged down the bluff – and with which he appeared familiar – he descended to the river “bottom.”
In an instant after he stood upon the bank; at the convexity of the river’s bend, and directly opposite the spot where a skiff was moored, under the sombre shadow of a gigantic cotton-tree.
For a short while he stood gazing across the stream, with a glance that told of scrutiny. He was scanning the shrubbery on the other side; in the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its shadow.
Becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his lazo – for it was this he carried over his arm – and giving it half a dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream.
The noose settled over the cutwater of the skiff; and closing around the stem, enabled him to tow the tiny craft to the side on which he stood.
Stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars that lay along the planking at the bottom; and, placing them between the thole-pins, pulled the boat back to its moorings.
Leaping out, he secured it as it had been before, against the drift of the current; and then, taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree, he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one, expected by appointment.
His manoeuvres up to this moment, had they been observed, might have rendered him amenable to the suspicion that he was a housebreaker, about to “crack the crib” of Casa del Corvo.
The phrases that fell from his lips, however, could they have been heard, would have absolved him of any such vile or vulgar intention. It is true he had designs upon the hacienda; but these did not contemplate either its cash, plate, or jewellery – if we except the most precious jewel it contained – the mistress of the mansion herself.
It is scarce necessary to say, that the man who had hidden his horse in the “motte,” and so cleverly effected the crossing of the stream, was Maurice the mustanger.
Chapter 32
Light and Shade
He had not long to chafe under the trysting-tree, if such it were. At the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a casement window that looked to the rear of the hacienda commenced turning upon its hinges, and was then for a time held slightly ajar; as if some one inside was intending to issue forth, and only hesitated in order to be assured that the “coast was clear.”
A small white hand – decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon – grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure – soon after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the garden – could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.
It was she.
For a second or two the lady stood listening. She heard, or fancied she heard, the dip of an oar. She might be mistaken; for the stridulation of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. No matter. The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand upon punctilios as to time – especially after spending two hours of solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many. With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided sylph[216]-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her.
Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace – strange to say, sweeter from being stolen? Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at such a moment – too sacred to be touched by the pen?
It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes proper, or even possible to report them.
Thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative: —
“To-morrow night you will meet me again – to-morrow night, dearest Maurice?”
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, – if I were free to say the word.”
“And why not? Why are you not free to say it?”
“To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo.”
“Indeed! Is it imperative you should go?”
The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. A vision of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.
And why? It had afforded her hospitality. One would suppose that her visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections of her life. And yet it was not!
“I have excellent reasons for going,” was the reply she received.
“Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?”
“My follower Phelim – no one else. I hope the poor fellow is still above the grass. I sent him out about ten days ago – before there was any tidings of these Indian troubles.”
“Only Phelim you expect to meet? Is it true, Gerald? Dearest! do not deceive me! Only him?”
“Why do you ask the question, Louise?”
“I cannot tell you why. I should die of shame to speak my secret thoughts.”
“Do not fear to speak them! I could keep no secret from you – in truth I could not. So tell me what it is, love!”
“Do you wish me, Maurice?”
“I do – of course I do. I feel sure that whatever it may be, I shall be able to explain it. I know that my relations with you are of a questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of them. It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo.”
“And to stay there?”
“Only for a single day, or two at most. Only to gather up my household gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life.”
“Indeed!”
“You appear surprised.”
“No! only mystified. I cannot comprehend you. Perhaps I never shall!”
“’Tis very simple – the resolve I have taken. I know you will forgive me, when I make it known to you.”
“Forgive you, Maurice! For what do you ask forgiveness?”
“For keeping it a secret from you, that – that I am not what I seem.”
“God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me – noble, grand, beautiful, rare among men! Oh, Maurice! you know not how I esteem – how I love you!”
“Not more than I esteem and love you. It is that very esteem that now counsels me to a separation.”
“A separation?”
“Yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time.”
“How long?”
“While a steamer can cross the Atlantic, and return.”
“An age! And why this?”
“I am called to my native country – Ireland, so much despised, as you already know. ’Tis only within the last twenty hours I received the summons. I obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me I shall be able soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor horse-hunter who won his daughter’s heart – have I won it, Louise?”
“Idle questioner! Won it? You know you have more than won it – conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape. Mock me not, Maurice, nor my stricken heart – henceforth, and for evermore, your slave!”
During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered herself – heart, soul, and body – to the man who had made conquest of her affections, there was silence perfect and profound.
The grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred ceremony transpiring in their presence!
But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. A footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden – and yet touching it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact – was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.
The lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection, heard it not. They saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot where they were kissing each other!
Little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time, betraying their excited actions.
That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a witness to both. Within easy earshot, he could hear every word – even the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect their slightest gestures.
It is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper. That of Cassius Calhoun will have suggested itself.
It was he.
A small white hand – decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon – grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure – soon after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the garden – could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.
It was she.
For a second or two the lady stood listening. She heard, or fancied she heard, the dip of an oar. She might be mistaken; for the stridulation of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. No matter. The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand upon punctilios as to time – especially after spending two hours of solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many. With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided sylph[216]-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her.
Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace – strange to say, sweeter from being stolen? Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at such a moment – too sacred to be touched by the pen?
It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes proper, or even possible to report them.
Thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative: —
“To-morrow night you will meet me again – to-morrow night, dearest Maurice?”
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, – if I were free to say the word.”
“And why not? Why are you not free to say it?”
“To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo.”
“Indeed! Is it imperative you should go?”
The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. A vision of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.
And why? It had afforded her hospitality. One would suppose that her visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections of her life. And yet it was not!
“I have excellent reasons for going,” was the reply she received.
“Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?”
“My follower Phelim – no one else. I hope the poor fellow is still above the grass. I sent him out about ten days ago – before there was any tidings of these Indian troubles.”
“Only Phelim you expect to meet? Is it true, Gerald? Dearest! do not deceive me! Only him?”
“Why do you ask the question, Louise?”
“I cannot tell you why. I should die of shame to speak my secret thoughts.”
“Do not fear to speak them! I could keep no secret from you – in truth I could not. So tell me what it is, love!”
“Do you wish me, Maurice?”
“I do – of course I do. I feel sure that whatever it may be, I shall be able to explain it. I know that my relations with you are of a questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of them. It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo.”
“And to stay there?”
“Only for a single day, or two at most. Only to gather up my household gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life.”
“Indeed!”
“You appear surprised.”
“No! only mystified. I cannot comprehend you. Perhaps I never shall!”
“’Tis very simple – the resolve I have taken. I know you will forgive me, when I make it known to you.”
“Forgive you, Maurice! For what do you ask forgiveness?”
“For keeping it a secret from you, that – that I am not what I seem.”
“God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me – noble, grand, beautiful, rare among men! Oh, Maurice! you know not how I esteem – how I love you!”
“Not more than I esteem and love you. It is that very esteem that now counsels me to a separation.”
“A separation?”
“Yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time.”
“How long?”
“While a steamer can cross the Atlantic, and return.”
“An age! And why this?”
“I am called to my native country – Ireland, so much despised, as you already know. ’Tis only within the last twenty hours I received the summons. I obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me I shall be able soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor horse-hunter who won his daughter’s heart – have I won it, Louise?”
“Idle questioner! Won it? You know you have more than won it – conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape. Mock me not, Maurice, nor my stricken heart – henceforth, and for evermore, your slave!”
During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered herself – heart, soul, and body – to the man who had made conquest of her affections, there was silence perfect and profound.
The grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred ceremony transpiring in their presence!
But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. A footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden – and yet touching it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact – was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.
The lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection, heard it not. They saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot where they were kissing each other!
Little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time, betraying their excited actions.
That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a witness to both. Within easy earshot, he could hear every word – even the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect their slightest gestures.
It is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper. That of Cassius Calhoun will have suggested itself.
It was he.
Chapter 33
A Torturing Discovery
How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning? Had he been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of the garden?
In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon information previously communicated to him?
The former was the fact. Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell.
Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight – what had taken him up there cannot be guessed – breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming cereus; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any particular anxiety. He had recovered from the injuries received in his encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted by hopes of revenge – towards a plan for which he had already made some progress.
Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. Equally had he remained ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar manner had misconceived it. In fact, he had begun to flatter himself, that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. She had been less cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.
He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there was none.
Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the careless insouciance with which he applied the light to his cigar, and afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there for any very important purpose. It may have been to exchange the sultry atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon – though he was not much given to such romantic contemplation.
Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face turned towards the river.
It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open plain.
He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night – a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey. It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.
In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.
The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river.
It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements.
“What the devil can that mean?” muttered Calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. “Damn the man, he’s dismounted!” continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse.
“And coming this way – towards the bend of the river – straight as he can streak it!
“Down the bluff – into the bottom – and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. Surely to God he don’t intend making his way across into the garden? He’d have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old Scratch[217] can be his intention? A thief?”
This was Calhoun’s first idea – rejected almost as soon as conceived. It is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on horseback. Much more might the thief?
For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.
What else could he be after?
The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man’s errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.
What could it be?
Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.
“What can the man be after?”
After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time – each with increasing emphasis – the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.
“The stroke of an oar,” muttered he, on hearing it. “Is, by the holy Jehovah[218]! He’s got hold of the skiff, and’s crossing over to the garden. What on earth can he be after?”
The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs – rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.
He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.
This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below – almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.
On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them – what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.
The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.
Loosely attired in white, as though in the negligé[219] of a robe de chambre[220], with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!
Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.
And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?
A clandestine meeting! And by appointment!
There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff.
Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea – speechless and without motion. It was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding.
He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house – at least not then. Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin’s disgrace; and then – and then —
In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and, acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried down the escalera, and made his way through the house, and out into the garden.
He felt feeble as he pressed forward. His legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. They did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen – while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.
He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow’s day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.
With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.
He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.
Why at that moment did he not spring forward – put a termination to the intolerable tête-à-tête – and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low – at his own feet and that of his mistress? Why had he not done this at the beginning – for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured?
There was a time when he would not have been so patient. What, then, was the punctilio that restrained him? Was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a “Colt’s six-shooter?”
Perhaps it may have been. At all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle – the final embrace – prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending – sure to be procrastinated.
In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon information previously communicated to him?
The former was the fact. Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell.
Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight – what had taken him up there cannot be guessed – breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming cereus; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any particular anxiety. He had recovered from the injuries received in his encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted by hopes of revenge – towards a plan for which he had already made some progress.
Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. Equally had he remained ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar manner had misconceived it. In fact, he had begun to flatter himself, that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. She had been less cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.
He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there was none.
Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the careless insouciance with which he applied the light to his cigar, and afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there for any very important purpose. It may have been to exchange the sultry atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon – though he was not much given to such romantic contemplation.
Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face turned towards the river.
It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open plain.
He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night – a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey. It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.
In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.
The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river.
It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements.
“What the devil can that mean?” muttered Calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. “Damn the man, he’s dismounted!” continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse.
“And coming this way – towards the bend of the river – straight as he can streak it!
“Down the bluff – into the bottom – and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. Surely to God he don’t intend making his way across into the garden? He’d have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old Scratch[217] can be his intention? A thief?”
This was Calhoun’s first idea – rejected almost as soon as conceived. It is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on horseback. Much more might the thief?
For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.
What else could he be after?
The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man’s errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.
What could it be?
Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.
“What can the man be after?”
After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time – each with increasing emphasis – the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.
“The stroke of an oar,” muttered he, on hearing it. “Is, by the holy Jehovah[218]! He’s got hold of the skiff, and’s crossing over to the garden. What on earth can he be after?”
The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs – rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.
He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.
This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below – almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.
On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them – what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.
The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.
Loosely attired in white, as though in the negligé[219] of a robe de chambre[220], with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!
Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.
And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?
A clandestine meeting! And by appointment!
There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff.
Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea – speechless and without motion. It was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding.
He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house – at least not then. Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin’s disgrace; and then – and then —
In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and, acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried down the escalera, and made his way through the house, and out into the garden.
He felt feeble as he pressed forward. His legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. They did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen – while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.
He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow’s day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.
With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.
He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.
Why at that moment did he not spring forward – put a termination to the intolerable tête-à-tête – and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low – at his own feet and that of his mistress? Why had he not done this at the beginning – for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured?
There was a time when he would not have been so patient. What, then, was the punctilio that restrained him? Was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a “Colt’s six-shooter?”
Perhaps it may have been. At all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle – the final embrace – prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending – sure to be procrastinated.
Chapter 34
A Chivalrous Dictation
Where went Cassius Calhoun?
Certainly not to his own sleeping-room. There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.
He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers – now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed – but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.
He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him – in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.
It was not needed. The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the reja[221], filled the chamber with light – sufficient for his purpose. They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture – a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with “mosquito curtains.”
Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.
As Calhoun lifted the muslin “bar,” the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.
What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion[222] to the Satyr[223].
“Awake, Harry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.
“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?”
“Worse than that – worse! worse! Quick! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace – the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”
After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep – at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor – in an attitude of speechless astonishment.
“Don’t wait to dress,” cried his excited counsellor, “stay, you may put on your pants. Damn the clothes! There’s no time for standing upon trifles. Quick! Quick!”
The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas cottonade[224], were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin – without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth – he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.
“What is it, Cash?” he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. “What does it all mean?”
“See for yourself! Stand close to me! Look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept. Do you see anything there?”
“Something white. It looks like a woman’s dress. It is that. It’s a woman!”
“It is a woman. Who do you suppose she is?”
“I can’t tell. Who do you say she is?”
“There’s another figure – a dark one – by her side.”
“It appears to be a man? It is a man!”
“And who do you suppose he is?”
“How should I know, cousin Cash? Do you?”
“I do. That man is Maurice the mustanger!”
“And the woman?”
“Is Louise – your sister – in his arms!”
As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.
“Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you – her brother – should be the avenger of your sister’s wrongs. On, my boy! See that you don’t hurt her; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don’t give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. I’ll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. Now! Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!”
It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action. The brother of a sister – a beautiful sister – erring, undone!
In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.
“Low villain!” he cried, “unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! Aside, sister! Aside, I say!”
Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist – unless he had found heart to kill Henry Poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done.
Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.
For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister’s life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger.
That pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three. The Creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother. She knew there was nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of Maurice. Henry alone had to be held doing mischief.
“Go, go!” she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. “My brother is deceived by appearances. Leave me to explain. Away, Maurice! away!”
“Henry Poindexter,” said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, “I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me. Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin. I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence – her love – then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyoté, that chanced to cross your track. Till then, I bid you adieu.”
Henry’s struggle to escape from his sister’s arms – perhaps stronger than his own – grew less energetic as he listened to these words. They became feebler and feebler – at length ceasing – when a plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of Casa del Corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home.
It was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive fashion. On the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff; which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the caparison presented along with the spotted mustang.
“Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!” were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. “Oh, Henry – dearest Hal, if you but knew how noble he is! So far from desiring to do me an injury, ’tis only this moment he has been disclosing a plan to – to – prevent – scandal – I mean to make me happy. Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not – if only the common man you take him for – I could not help what I have done – I could not, for I love him!”
“Louise! tell me the truth! Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self. From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man. Has he taken advantage of your – your – unfortunate passion?”
“No – no – no. As I live he has not. He is too noble for that – even had I – Henry! he is innocent! If there be cause for regret, I alone am to blame. Why – oh! brother! why did you insult him?”
“Have I done so?”
“You have, Henry – rudely, grossly.”
“I shall go after, and apologise. If you speak truly, sister, I owe him that much. I shall go this instant. I liked him from the first – you know I did? I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. I can’t now. Sister! come back into the house with me. And now, dearest Loo! you had better go to bed. As for me, I shall be off instanter to the hotel, where I may still hope to overtake him. I cannot rest till I have made reparation for my rudeness.”
So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger, he hastily returned to the hacienda – intending to go after the young Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been deemed excusable.
As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.
He, too, had thoughts of going after the mustanger.
Certainly not to his own sleeping-room. There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.
He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers – now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed – but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.
He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him – in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.
It was not needed. The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the reja[221], filled the chamber with light – sufficient for his purpose. They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture – a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with “mosquito curtains.”
Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.
As Calhoun lifted the muslin “bar,” the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.
What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion[222] to the Satyr[223].
“Awake, Harry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.
“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?”
“Worse than that – worse! worse! Quick! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace – the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”
After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep – at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor – in an attitude of speechless astonishment.
“Don’t wait to dress,” cried his excited counsellor, “stay, you may put on your pants. Damn the clothes! There’s no time for standing upon trifles. Quick! Quick!”
The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas cottonade[224], were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin – without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth – he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.
“What is it, Cash?” he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. “What does it all mean?”
“See for yourself! Stand close to me! Look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept. Do you see anything there?”
“Something white. It looks like a woman’s dress. It is that. It’s a woman!”
“It is a woman. Who do you suppose she is?”
“I can’t tell. Who do you say she is?”
“There’s another figure – a dark one – by her side.”
“It appears to be a man? It is a man!”
“And who do you suppose he is?”
“How should I know, cousin Cash? Do you?”
“I do. That man is Maurice the mustanger!”
“And the woman?”
“Is Louise – your sister – in his arms!”
As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.
“Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you – her brother – should be the avenger of your sister’s wrongs. On, my boy! See that you don’t hurt her; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don’t give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. I’ll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. Now! Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!”
It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action. The brother of a sister – a beautiful sister – erring, undone!
In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.
“Low villain!” he cried, “unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! Aside, sister! Aside, I say!”
Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist – unless he had found heart to kill Henry Poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done.
Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.
For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister’s life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger.
That pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three. The Creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother. She knew there was nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of Maurice. Henry alone had to be held doing mischief.
“Go, go!” she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. “My brother is deceived by appearances. Leave me to explain. Away, Maurice! away!”
“Henry Poindexter,” said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, “I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me. Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin. I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence – her love – then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyoté, that chanced to cross your track. Till then, I bid you adieu.”
Henry’s struggle to escape from his sister’s arms – perhaps stronger than his own – grew less energetic as he listened to these words. They became feebler and feebler – at length ceasing – when a plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of Casa del Corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home.
It was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive fashion. On the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff; which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the caparison presented along with the spotted mustang.
“Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!” were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. “Oh, Henry – dearest Hal, if you but knew how noble he is! So far from desiring to do me an injury, ’tis only this moment he has been disclosing a plan to – to – prevent – scandal – I mean to make me happy. Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not – if only the common man you take him for – I could not help what I have done – I could not, for I love him!”
“Louise! tell me the truth! Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self. From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man. Has he taken advantage of your – your – unfortunate passion?”
“No – no – no. As I live he has not. He is too noble for that – even had I – Henry! he is innocent! If there be cause for regret, I alone am to blame. Why – oh! brother! why did you insult him?”
“Have I done so?”
“You have, Henry – rudely, grossly.”
“I shall go after, and apologise. If you speak truly, sister, I owe him that much. I shall go this instant. I liked him from the first – you know I did? I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. I can’t now. Sister! come back into the house with me. And now, dearest Loo! you had better go to bed. As for me, I shall be off instanter to the hotel, where I may still hope to overtake him. I cannot rest till I have made reparation for my rudeness.”
So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger, he hastily returned to the hacienda – intending to go after the young Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been deemed excusable.
As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.
He, too, had thoughts of going after the mustanger.
Chapter 35
An Uncourteous Host
“The chicken-hearted fool! Fool myself, to have trusted to such a hope! I might have known she’d cajole the young calf, and let the scoundrel escape. I could have shot him from behind the tree – dead as a drowned rat! And without risking anything – even disgrace! Not a particle of risk. Uncle Woodley would have thanked me – the whole settlement would have said I had done right. My cousin, a young lady, betrayed by a common scamp – a horse trader – who would have said a word against it? Such a chance! Why have I missed it? Death and the devil – it may not trump up again!”
Such were the reflections of the ex-captain of cavalry, while at some paces distance following his two cousins on their return to the hacienda.
“I wonder,” muttered he, on re-entering the patio[225], “whether the blubbering baby be in earnest? Going after to apologise to the man who has made a fool of his sister! Ha – ha! It would be a good joke were it not too serious to be laughed at. He is in earnest, else why that row in the stable? ’Tis he bringing but his horse! It is, by the Almighty[226]!”
The door of the stable, as is customary in Mexican haciendas opened upon the paved patio.
It was standing ajar; but just as Calhoun turned his eye upon it, a man coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him.
The man had a Panama hat upon his head, and a cloak thrown loosely around his shoulders. This did not hinder Calhoun from recognising his cousin Henry, as also the dark brown horse that belonged to him.
“Fool! So – you’ve let him off?” spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as the other came within whispering distance. “Give me back my bowie and pistol. They’re not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours! Bah! Why did you not use them as I told you? You’ve made a mess of it!”
“I have,” tranquilly responded the young planter. “I know it. I’ve insulted – and grossly too – a noble fellow.”
“Insulted a noble fellow! Ha – ha – ha! You’re mad – by heavens, you’re mad!”
“I should have been had I followed your counsel, cousin Cash. Fortunately I did not go so far. I have done enough to deserve being called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, I may obtain forgiveness for my fault. At all events, I intend to try for it, and without losing time.”
“Where are you going?”
“After Maurice the mustanger – to apologise to him for my misconduct.”
“Misconduct! Ha – ha – ha! Surely you are joking?”
“No. I’m in earnest. If you come along with me, you shall see!”
“Then I say again you are mad! Not only mad, but a damned natural-born idiot! you are, by Jesus Christ and General Jackson!”
“You’re not very polite, cousin Cash; though, after the language I’ve been lately using myself, I might excuse you. Perhaps you will, one day imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness.”
Without adding another word, the young gentleman – one of the somewhat rare types of Southern chivalry – sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to his horse; and rode hurriedly through the saguan[227].
Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance.
Then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the verandah to his own room; entered it; reappeared in a rough overcoat; crossed back to the stable; went in; came out again with his own horse saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, as gently as if he was stealing him; and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his back, and rode rapidly away.
For a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by Henry Poindexter. It could not have been with any idea of overtaking the latter: since, long before, the hoofstrokes of Henry’s horse had ceased to be heard; and proceeding at a slower pace, Calhoun did not ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin.
He had taken the up-river road. When about midway between Casa del Corvo and the Fort, he reined up; and, after scrutinising the chapparal around him, struck off by a bridle-path leading back toward the bank of the river. As he turned into it he might have been heard muttering to himself —
“A chance still left; a good one, though not so cheap as the other. It will cost me a thousand dollars. What of that, so long as I get rid of this Irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence! If true to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the morning. What time, I wonder. These men of the prairies call it late rising, if they be abed till daybreak! Never mind. There’s yet time for the Coyote to get before him on the road! I know that. It must be the same as we followed to the wild horse prairies. He spoke of his hut upon the Alamo. That’s the name of the creek where we had our pic-nic. The hovel cannot be far from there! The Mexican must know the place, or the trail leading to it; which last will be sufficient for his purpose and mine. A fig for the shanty itself! The owner may never reach it. There may be Indians upon the road! There must be, before daybreak in the morning!”
As Calhoun concluded this string of strange reflections, he had arrived at the door of another “shanty” – that of the Mexican mustanger. The jacalé was the goal of his journey.
Having slipped out of his saddle, and knotted his bridle to a branch, he set foot upon the threshold.
The door was standing wide open. From the inside proceeded a sound, easily identified as the snore of a slumberer.
It was not as of one who sleeps either tranquilly, or continuously. At short intervals it was interrupted – now by silent pauses – anon by hog-like gruntings, interspersed with profane words, not perfectly pronounced, but slurred from a thick tongue, over which, but a short while before, must have passed a stupendous quantity of alcohol.
“Carrambo! carrai! carajo – chingara! mil diablos!” mingled with more – perhaps less – reverential exclamations of “Sangre[228] de Cristo! Jesus! Santíssima Virgen! Santa Maria! Dios! Madre de Dios![229]” and the like, were uttered inside the jacalé, as if the speaker was engaged in an apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the Popish[230] antheon.
Calhoun paused upon the threshold, and listened.
“Mal – dit – dit – o!” muttered the sleeper, concluding the exclamation with a hiccup. “Buen – buenos nove-dad-es! Good news, por sangre Chrees – Chreest – o! Si S’ñor Merican – cano! Nove – dad – es s’perbos! Los Indyos Co – co – manchees on the war-trail – el rastro de guerra. God bless the Co – co – manchees!”
“The brute’s drunk!” said his visitor, mechanically speaking aloud.
“H’la S’ñor!” exclaimed the owner of the jacalé, aroused to a state of semi-consciousness by the sound of a human voice. “Quien llama! Who has the honour – that is, have I the happiness – I, Miguel Diaz – el Co – coyote, as the leperos[231] call me. Ha, ha! coyo – coyot. Bah! what’s in a name? Yours, S’ñor? Mil demonios! who are you?”
Partially raising himself from his reed couch, the inebriate remained for a short time in a sitting attitude – glaring, half interrogatively, half unconsciously, at the individual whose voice had intruded itself into his drunken dreams.
The unsteady examination lasted only for a score of seconds. Then the owner of the jacalé, with an unintelligible speech, subsided into a recumbent position; when a savage grunt, succeeded by a prolonged snore, proved him to have become oblivious to the fact that his domicile contained a guest.
“Another chance lost!” said the latter, hissing the words through his teeth, as he turned disappointedly from the door.
“A sober fool and a drunken knave – two precious tools wherewith, to accomplish a purpose like mine! Curse the luck! All this night it’s been against me! It maybe three long hours before this pig sleeps off the swill that has stupefied him. Three long hours, and then what would be the use of him? ’Twould be too late – too late!”
As he said this, he caught the rein of his bridle, and stood by the head of his horse, as if uncertain what course to pursue.
“No use my staying here! It might be daybreak before the damned liquor gets out of his skull. I may as well go back to the hacienda and wait there; or else – or else – ”
The alternative, that at this crisis presented itself, was nor, spoken aloud. Whatever it may have been, it had the effect of terminating the hesitancy that living over him, and stirring him to immediate action.
Roughly tearing his rein from the branch, and passing it over his horse’s head, he sprang into the saddle, and rode off from the jacalé in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it.
Such were the reflections of the ex-captain of cavalry, while at some paces distance following his two cousins on their return to the hacienda.
“I wonder,” muttered he, on re-entering the patio[225], “whether the blubbering baby be in earnest? Going after to apologise to the man who has made a fool of his sister! Ha – ha! It would be a good joke were it not too serious to be laughed at. He is in earnest, else why that row in the stable? ’Tis he bringing but his horse! It is, by the Almighty[226]!”
The door of the stable, as is customary in Mexican haciendas opened upon the paved patio.
It was standing ajar; but just as Calhoun turned his eye upon it, a man coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him.
The man had a Panama hat upon his head, and a cloak thrown loosely around his shoulders. This did not hinder Calhoun from recognising his cousin Henry, as also the dark brown horse that belonged to him.
“Fool! So – you’ve let him off?” spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as the other came within whispering distance. “Give me back my bowie and pistol. They’re not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours! Bah! Why did you not use them as I told you? You’ve made a mess of it!”
“I have,” tranquilly responded the young planter. “I know it. I’ve insulted – and grossly too – a noble fellow.”
“Insulted a noble fellow! Ha – ha – ha! You’re mad – by heavens, you’re mad!”
“I should have been had I followed your counsel, cousin Cash. Fortunately I did not go so far. I have done enough to deserve being called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, I may obtain forgiveness for my fault. At all events, I intend to try for it, and without losing time.”
“Where are you going?”
“After Maurice the mustanger – to apologise to him for my misconduct.”
“Misconduct! Ha – ha – ha! Surely you are joking?”
“No. I’m in earnest. If you come along with me, you shall see!”
“Then I say again you are mad! Not only mad, but a damned natural-born idiot! you are, by Jesus Christ and General Jackson!”
“You’re not very polite, cousin Cash; though, after the language I’ve been lately using myself, I might excuse you. Perhaps you will, one day imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness.”
Without adding another word, the young gentleman – one of the somewhat rare types of Southern chivalry – sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to his horse; and rode hurriedly through the saguan[227].
Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance.
Then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the verandah to his own room; entered it; reappeared in a rough overcoat; crossed back to the stable; went in; came out again with his own horse saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, as gently as if he was stealing him; and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his back, and rode rapidly away.
For a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by Henry Poindexter. It could not have been with any idea of overtaking the latter: since, long before, the hoofstrokes of Henry’s horse had ceased to be heard; and proceeding at a slower pace, Calhoun did not ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin.
He had taken the up-river road. When about midway between Casa del Corvo and the Fort, he reined up; and, after scrutinising the chapparal around him, struck off by a bridle-path leading back toward the bank of the river. As he turned into it he might have been heard muttering to himself —
“A chance still left; a good one, though not so cheap as the other. It will cost me a thousand dollars. What of that, so long as I get rid of this Irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence! If true to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the morning. What time, I wonder. These men of the prairies call it late rising, if they be abed till daybreak! Never mind. There’s yet time for the Coyote to get before him on the road! I know that. It must be the same as we followed to the wild horse prairies. He spoke of his hut upon the Alamo. That’s the name of the creek where we had our pic-nic. The hovel cannot be far from there! The Mexican must know the place, or the trail leading to it; which last will be sufficient for his purpose and mine. A fig for the shanty itself! The owner may never reach it. There may be Indians upon the road! There must be, before daybreak in the morning!”
As Calhoun concluded this string of strange reflections, he had arrived at the door of another “shanty” – that of the Mexican mustanger. The jacalé was the goal of his journey.
Having slipped out of his saddle, and knotted his bridle to a branch, he set foot upon the threshold.
The door was standing wide open. From the inside proceeded a sound, easily identified as the snore of a slumberer.
It was not as of one who sleeps either tranquilly, or continuously. At short intervals it was interrupted – now by silent pauses – anon by hog-like gruntings, interspersed with profane words, not perfectly pronounced, but slurred from a thick tongue, over which, but a short while before, must have passed a stupendous quantity of alcohol.
“Carrambo! carrai! carajo – chingara! mil diablos!” mingled with more – perhaps less – reverential exclamations of “Sangre[228] de Cristo! Jesus! Santíssima Virgen! Santa Maria! Dios! Madre de Dios![229]” and the like, were uttered inside the jacalé, as if the speaker was engaged in an apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the Popish[230] antheon.
Calhoun paused upon the threshold, and listened.
“Mal – dit – dit – o!” muttered the sleeper, concluding the exclamation with a hiccup. “Buen – buenos nove-dad-es! Good news, por sangre Chrees – Chreest – o! Si S’ñor Merican – cano! Nove – dad – es s’perbos! Los Indyos Co – co – manchees on the war-trail – el rastro de guerra. God bless the Co – co – manchees!”
“The brute’s drunk!” said his visitor, mechanically speaking aloud.
“H’la S’ñor!” exclaimed the owner of the jacalé, aroused to a state of semi-consciousness by the sound of a human voice. “Quien llama! Who has the honour – that is, have I the happiness – I, Miguel Diaz – el Co – coyote, as the leperos[231] call me. Ha, ha! coyo – coyot. Bah! what’s in a name? Yours, S’ñor? Mil demonios! who are you?”
Partially raising himself from his reed couch, the inebriate remained for a short time in a sitting attitude – glaring, half interrogatively, half unconsciously, at the individual whose voice had intruded itself into his drunken dreams.
The unsteady examination lasted only for a score of seconds. Then the owner of the jacalé, with an unintelligible speech, subsided into a recumbent position; when a savage grunt, succeeded by a prolonged snore, proved him to have become oblivious to the fact that his domicile contained a guest.
“Another chance lost!” said the latter, hissing the words through his teeth, as he turned disappointedly from the door.
“A sober fool and a drunken knave – two precious tools wherewith, to accomplish a purpose like mine! Curse the luck! All this night it’s been against me! It maybe three long hours before this pig sleeps off the swill that has stupefied him. Three long hours, and then what would be the use of him? ’Twould be too late – too late!”
As he said this, he caught the rein of his bridle, and stood by the head of his horse, as if uncertain what course to pursue.
“No use my staying here! It might be daybreak before the damned liquor gets out of his skull. I may as well go back to the hacienda and wait there; or else – or else – ”
The alternative, that at this crisis presented itself, was nor, spoken aloud. Whatever it may have been, it had the effect of terminating the hesitancy that living over him, and stirring him to immediate action.
Roughly tearing his rein from the branch, and passing it over his horse’s head, he sprang into the saddle, and rode off from the jacalé in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it.
Chapter 36
Three Travellers on the same Track
No one can deny, that a ride upon a smooth-turfed prairie is one of the most positive pleasures of sublunary existence. No one will deny it, who has had the good fortune to experience the delightful sensation. With a spirited horse between your thighs, a well-stocked valise strapped to the cantle of your saddle, a flask of French brandy slung handy over the “horn,” and a plethoric cigar-case protruding from under the flap of your pistol holster, you may set forth upon a day’s journey, without much fear of feeling weary by the way.
A friend riding by your side – like yourself alive to the beauties of nature, and sensitive to its sublimities – will make the ride, though long, and otherwise arduous, a pleasure to be remembered for many, many years.
A friend riding by your side – like yourself alive to the beauties of nature, and sensitive to its sublimities – will make the ride, though long, and otherwise arduous, a pleasure to be remembered for many, many years.