“Dey boaf ’pected home berry soon, de young massr and de ole massr, and Mass Ca’houn too. Ho! ho! dar’s agwine to be big dooin’s ’bout dis yar shanty – yer see dat fo’ yeseff by de smell ob de kitchen. Ho! ho! All sorts o’ gran’ feassin’ – do roas’ an de bile, an de barbecue; de pot-pies, an de chicken fixins. Ho! ho! ain’t thar agwine to go it hyar jess like de ole times on de coass ob de Massippy! Hoora fo’ ole Mass Poindex’er! He de right sort. Ho! ho! ’tranger! why you no holla too: you no friend ob de massr?”
“Durn you, nigger, don’t ye remember me? Now I look into yur ugly mug, I recollex you.”
“Gorramighty! ’tain’t Mass ’Tump – ’t use to fotch de ven’son an de turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun? By de jumbo, it am, tho’. Law, Mass ’Tump, dis nigga ’members you like it wa de day afore yesserday. Ise heern you called de odder day; but I war away from ’bout de place. I’m de coachman now – dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de ’tablishment – de bewful Missy Loo. Lor, massr, she berry fine gal. Dey do say she beat Florinday into fits. Nebba mind, Mass ’Tump, you better wait till ole massr come home. He am a bound to be hya, in de shortess poss’ble time.”
“Wal, if thet’s so, I’ll wait upon him,” rejoined the hunter, leisurely lifting his leg over the saddle – in which up to this time he had retained his seat. “Now, ole fellur,” he added, passing the bridle into the hands of the negro, “you gi’e the maar half a dozen yeers o’ corn out o’ the crib. I’ve rid the critter better ’n a score o’ miles like a streak o’ lightnin’ – all to do yur master a sarvice.”
“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.
“I thought it was,” continued the young lady, coming up to the railings, “though I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You said you were going upon a long journey. Well – I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner. You have not dined, I know. You are dusty – you’ve been travelling? Here, Morinda! Haste you to the sideboard, and pour out some drink. Mr Stump will be thirsty, I’m sure, this hot day. What would you prefer – port, sherry, claret? Ah, now, if I recollect, you used to be partial to Monongahela whisky. I think there is some. Morinda, see if there be! Step into the verandah, dear Mr Stump, and take a seat. You were inquiring for papa? I expect him home every minute. I shall try to entertain you till he come.”
Had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have received an immediate reply. Even as it was, some seconds elapsed before Zeb made rejoinder. He stood gazing upon her, as if struck speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration.
“Lord o’ marcy, Miss Lewaze!” he at length gasped forth, “I thort when I used to see you on the Massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the airth; but now, I think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in hewing. Geehosofat!”
The old hunter’s praise was scarce exaggerated. Fresh from the toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe of India muslin[127] – white and semi-translucent – certainly did Louise Poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth – if not in heaven.
“Geehosofat!” again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary speech, “I hev in my time seed what I thort war some putty critters o’ the sheemale kind – my ole ’ooman herself warn’t so bad-lookin’ when I fast kim acrost her in Kaintuck – thet she warn’t. But I will say this, Miss Lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o’ all o’ them war clipped out an then jeined thegither agin, they wudn’t make up the thousanth part o’ a angel sech as you.”
“Oh – oh – oh! Mr Stump – Mr Stump! I’m astonished to hear you talk in this manner. Texas has quite turned you into a courtier. If you go on so, I fear you will lose your character for plain speaking! After that I am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink. Haste, Morinda! I think you said you would prefer whisky?”
“Ef I didn’t say it, I thunk it; an that air about the same. Yur right, miss, I prefar the corn afore any o’ them thur furrin lickers; an I sticks to it whuriver I kin git it. Texas hain’t made no alterashun in me in the matter o’ lickerin’.”
“Mass ’Tump, you it hab mix wif water?” inquired Florinda, coming forward with a tumbler about one-half full of “Monongahela.”
“No, gurl. Durn yur water! I hev hed enuf o’ thet since I started this mornin’. I hain’t hed a taste o’ licker the hul day – ne’er as much as the smell o’ it.”
“Dear Mr Stump! surely you can’t drink it that way? Why, it will burn your throat! Have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?”
“Speil it, miss. It air sweet enuf ’ithout that sort o’ docterin’; ’specially arter you hev looked inter the glass. Yu’ll see ef I can’t drink it. Hyur goes to try!”
The old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of Florinda. A loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid.
“Burn my throat, ye say? Ne’er a bit. It hez jest eiled thet ere jugewlar, an put it in order for a bit o’ a palaver I wants to hev wi’ yur father – ’bout thet ere spotty mow-stang.”
“Oh, true! I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t either; but I did not suppose you had time to have news of it. Have you heard anything of the pretty creature?”
“Putty critter ye may well pernounce it. It ur all o’ thet. Besides, it ur a maar.”
“A ma-a-r! What is that, Mr Stump? I don’t understand.”
“A maar I sayed. Shurly ye know what a maar is?”
“Ma-a-r – ma-a-r! Why, no, not exactly. Is it a Mexican word? Mar in Spanish signifies the sea.”
“In coorse it air a Mexikin maar – all mowstangs air. They air all on ’em o’ a breed as wur oncest brought over from some European country by the fust o’ them as settled in these hyur parts – leesewise I hev heern so.”
“Still, Mr Stump, I do not comprehend you. What makes this mustang a ma-a-r?”
“What makes her a maar? ’Case she ain’t a hoss; thet’s what make it, Miss Peintdexter.”
“Oh – now – I – I think I comprehend. But did you say you have heard of the animal – I mean since you left us?”
“Heern o’ her, seed her, an feeled her.”
“Indeed!”
“She air grupped.”
“Ah, caught! what capital news! I shall be so delighted to see the beautiful thing; and ride it too. I haven’t had a horse worth a piece of orange-peel since I’ve been in Texas. Papa has promised to purchase this one for me at any price. But who is the lucky individual who accomplished the capture?”
“Ye mean who grupped the maar?”
“Yes – yes – who?”
“Why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger.”
“A mustanger?”
“Ye-es – an such a one as thur ain’t another on all these purayras – eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one. Yo may talk about yur Mexikins! I never seed neery Mexikin ked manage hoss-doin’s like that young fellur; an thur ain’t a drop o’ thur pisen blood in his veins. He ur es white es I am myself.”
“His name?”
“Wal, es to the name o’ his family, that I niver heern. His Christyun name air Maurice. He’s knowed up thur ’bout the Fort as Maurice the mowstanger.”
The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer.
Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.
“La, Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen’l’m – he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?”
“Geehosofat[128], yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “Now I think o’t, he told me o’ thet suckumstance this very mornin’, afore we started. He air the same. Thet’s the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin’ the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump’ny wi’ about a dozen others o’ the same cavyurd. He oughter be hyur afore sundown. I pushed my ole maar ahead, so ’s to tell yur father the spotty war comin’, and let him git the fust chance o’ buyin’. I know’d as how thet ere bit o’ hosdoin’s don’t get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb’dy snaps her up. I thort o’ you, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt ye ’bout the critter. Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. Ole Zeb Stump ’ll be yur bail for thet.”
“Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you! I am very, very grateful. You will now excuse me for a moment. Father will soon be back. We have a dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many people. Florinda, see that Mr Stump’s luncheon is set out for him. Go, girl – go at once about it!”
“And, Mr Stump,” continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, “if the young – young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here – perhaps he don’t know them – will you see that he is not neglected? There is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. You know what I mean, dear Mr Stump?”
“Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly. I kin unnerstan’ all thet ere ’bout the licker’ an other fixins. But who air the young gen’leman yur speakin’ o’? Thet’s the thing as bamboozles me.”
“Surely you know who I mean! The young gentleman – the young man – who, you say, is bringing in the horses.”
“Oh! ah! Maurice the mowstanger! That’s it, is it? Wal, I reck’n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling him a gen’leman; tho’ it ain’t offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. He air one, every inch o’ him – a gen’leman by barth, breed, an raisin’ – tho’ he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet.”
The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.
“I must tell ye, howsomdiver,” continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, “it won’t do to show that ’ere young fellur any sort o’ second-hand hospertality. As they used to say on the Massissippi, he air ‘as proud as a Peintdexter.’ Excuse me, Miss Lewaze, for lettin’ the word slip. I did think o’t thet I war talkin’ to a Peintdexter – not the proudest, but the puttiest o’ the name.”
“Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me. You know that I could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!”
“He’d be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin’ to offend you, miss.”
“Thanks! thanks! I know your honest heart – I know your devotion. Perhaps some time – some time, Mr Stump,” – she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning – “I might stand in need of your friendship.”
“Ye won’t need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin promise ye, Miss Peintdexter. He’d be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn’t stan’ by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o’ breath left in the inside o’ his body.”
“A thousand thanks – again and again! But what were you going to say? You spoke of second-hand hospitality?”
“I dud.”
“You meant – ?”
“I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”
The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.
“Never mind about it,” she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. “Never mind, Mr Stump. You need not invite him. Only let me know when he arrives – unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. But if he should come at that time, you detain him – won’t you?”
“Boun’ to do it, ef you bid me.”
“You will, then; and let me know he is here. I shall ask him to eat.”
“Ef ye do, miss, I reck’n ye’ll speil his appetite. The sight o’ you, to say nothin’ o’ listenin’ to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin’ wolf o’ bein’ hungry. When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. Neow I don’t care a durn about eatin’. I ked go ’ithout chawin’ meat for month.”
As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the “cocina[129],” carrying a light tray – followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted.
“You great giant!” was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; “I won’t believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack. Yonder come Pluto and Morinda. They bring something that will prove more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it. Good bye, Zeb – good bye, or, as the natives say here, hasta luego!”
Gaily were these words spoken – lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the covered corridor. Only after entering her chamber, and finding herself chez soi-même[130], did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning: —
“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
“Durn you, nigger, don’t ye remember me? Now I look into yur ugly mug, I recollex you.”
“Gorramighty! ’tain’t Mass ’Tump – ’t use to fotch de ven’son an de turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun? By de jumbo, it am, tho’. Law, Mass ’Tump, dis nigga ’members you like it wa de day afore yesserday. Ise heern you called de odder day; but I war away from ’bout de place. I’m de coachman now – dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de ’tablishment – de bewful Missy Loo. Lor, massr, she berry fine gal. Dey do say she beat Florinday into fits. Nebba mind, Mass ’Tump, you better wait till ole massr come home. He am a bound to be hya, in de shortess poss’ble time.”
“Wal, if thet’s so, I’ll wait upon him,” rejoined the hunter, leisurely lifting his leg over the saddle – in which up to this time he had retained his seat. “Now, ole fellur,” he added, passing the bridle into the hands of the negro, “you gi’e the maar half a dozen yeers o’ corn out o’ the crib. I’ve rid the critter better ’n a score o’ miles like a streak o’ lightnin’ – all to do yur master a sarvice.”
“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.
“I thought it was,” continued the young lady, coming up to the railings, “though I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You said you were going upon a long journey. Well – I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner. You have not dined, I know. You are dusty – you’ve been travelling? Here, Morinda! Haste you to the sideboard, and pour out some drink. Mr Stump will be thirsty, I’m sure, this hot day. What would you prefer – port, sherry, claret? Ah, now, if I recollect, you used to be partial to Monongahela whisky. I think there is some. Morinda, see if there be! Step into the verandah, dear Mr Stump, and take a seat. You were inquiring for papa? I expect him home every minute. I shall try to entertain you till he come.”
Had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have received an immediate reply. Even as it was, some seconds elapsed before Zeb made rejoinder. He stood gazing upon her, as if struck speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration.
“Lord o’ marcy, Miss Lewaze!” he at length gasped forth, “I thort when I used to see you on the Massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the airth; but now, I think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in hewing. Geehosofat!”
The old hunter’s praise was scarce exaggerated. Fresh from the toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe of India muslin[127] – white and semi-translucent – certainly did Louise Poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth – if not in heaven.
“Geehosofat!” again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary speech, “I hev in my time seed what I thort war some putty critters o’ the sheemale kind – my ole ’ooman herself warn’t so bad-lookin’ when I fast kim acrost her in Kaintuck – thet she warn’t. But I will say this, Miss Lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o’ all o’ them war clipped out an then jeined thegither agin, they wudn’t make up the thousanth part o’ a angel sech as you.”
“Oh – oh – oh! Mr Stump – Mr Stump! I’m astonished to hear you talk in this manner. Texas has quite turned you into a courtier. If you go on so, I fear you will lose your character for plain speaking! After that I am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink. Haste, Morinda! I think you said you would prefer whisky?”
“Ef I didn’t say it, I thunk it; an that air about the same. Yur right, miss, I prefar the corn afore any o’ them thur furrin lickers; an I sticks to it whuriver I kin git it. Texas hain’t made no alterashun in me in the matter o’ lickerin’.”
“Mass ’Tump, you it hab mix wif water?” inquired Florinda, coming forward with a tumbler about one-half full of “Monongahela.”
“No, gurl. Durn yur water! I hev hed enuf o’ thet since I started this mornin’. I hain’t hed a taste o’ licker the hul day – ne’er as much as the smell o’ it.”
“Dear Mr Stump! surely you can’t drink it that way? Why, it will burn your throat! Have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?”
“Speil it, miss. It air sweet enuf ’ithout that sort o’ docterin’; ’specially arter you hev looked inter the glass. Yu’ll see ef I can’t drink it. Hyur goes to try!”
The old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of Florinda. A loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid.
“Burn my throat, ye say? Ne’er a bit. It hez jest eiled thet ere jugewlar, an put it in order for a bit o’ a palaver I wants to hev wi’ yur father – ’bout thet ere spotty mow-stang.”
“Oh, true! I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t either; but I did not suppose you had time to have news of it. Have you heard anything of the pretty creature?”
“Putty critter ye may well pernounce it. It ur all o’ thet. Besides, it ur a maar.”
“A ma-a-r! What is that, Mr Stump? I don’t understand.”
“A maar I sayed. Shurly ye know what a maar is?”
“Ma-a-r – ma-a-r! Why, no, not exactly. Is it a Mexican word? Mar in Spanish signifies the sea.”
“In coorse it air a Mexikin maar – all mowstangs air. They air all on ’em o’ a breed as wur oncest brought over from some European country by the fust o’ them as settled in these hyur parts – leesewise I hev heern so.”
“Still, Mr Stump, I do not comprehend you. What makes this mustang a ma-a-r?”
“What makes her a maar? ’Case she ain’t a hoss; thet’s what make it, Miss Peintdexter.”
“Oh – now – I – I think I comprehend. But did you say you have heard of the animal – I mean since you left us?”
“Heern o’ her, seed her, an feeled her.”
“Indeed!”
“She air grupped.”
“Ah, caught! what capital news! I shall be so delighted to see the beautiful thing; and ride it too. I haven’t had a horse worth a piece of orange-peel since I’ve been in Texas. Papa has promised to purchase this one for me at any price. But who is the lucky individual who accomplished the capture?”
“Ye mean who grupped the maar?”
“Yes – yes – who?”
“Why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger.”
“A mustanger?”
“Ye-es – an such a one as thur ain’t another on all these purayras – eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one. Yo may talk about yur Mexikins! I never seed neery Mexikin ked manage hoss-doin’s like that young fellur; an thur ain’t a drop o’ thur pisen blood in his veins. He ur es white es I am myself.”
“His name?”
“Wal, es to the name o’ his family, that I niver heern. His Christyun name air Maurice. He’s knowed up thur ’bout the Fort as Maurice the mowstanger.”
The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer.
Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.
“La, Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen’l’m – he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?”
“Geehosofat[128], yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “Now I think o’t, he told me o’ thet suckumstance this very mornin’, afore we started. He air the same. Thet’s the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin’ the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump’ny wi’ about a dozen others o’ the same cavyurd. He oughter be hyur afore sundown. I pushed my ole maar ahead, so ’s to tell yur father the spotty war comin’, and let him git the fust chance o’ buyin’. I know’d as how thet ere bit o’ hosdoin’s don’t get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb’dy snaps her up. I thort o’ you, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt ye ’bout the critter. Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. Ole Zeb Stump ’ll be yur bail for thet.”
“Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you! I am very, very grateful. You will now excuse me for a moment. Father will soon be back. We have a dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many people. Florinda, see that Mr Stump’s luncheon is set out for him. Go, girl – go at once about it!”
“And, Mr Stump,” continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, “if the young – young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here – perhaps he don’t know them – will you see that he is not neglected? There is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. You know what I mean, dear Mr Stump?”
“Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly. I kin unnerstan’ all thet ere ’bout the licker’ an other fixins. But who air the young gen’leman yur speakin’ o’? Thet’s the thing as bamboozles me.”
“Surely you know who I mean! The young gentleman – the young man – who, you say, is bringing in the horses.”
“Oh! ah! Maurice the mowstanger! That’s it, is it? Wal, I reck’n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling him a gen’leman; tho’ it ain’t offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. He air one, every inch o’ him – a gen’leman by barth, breed, an raisin’ – tho’ he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet.”
The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.
“I must tell ye, howsomdiver,” continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, “it won’t do to show that ’ere young fellur any sort o’ second-hand hospertality. As they used to say on the Massissippi, he air ‘as proud as a Peintdexter.’ Excuse me, Miss Lewaze, for lettin’ the word slip. I did think o’t thet I war talkin’ to a Peintdexter – not the proudest, but the puttiest o’ the name.”
“Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me. You know that I could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!”
“He’d be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin’ to offend you, miss.”
“Thanks! thanks! I know your honest heart – I know your devotion. Perhaps some time – some time, Mr Stump,” – she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning – “I might stand in need of your friendship.”
“Ye won’t need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin promise ye, Miss Peintdexter. He’d be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn’t stan’ by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o’ breath left in the inside o’ his body.”
“A thousand thanks – again and again! But what were you going to say? You spoke of second-hand hospitality?”
“I dud.”
“You meant – ?”
“I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”
The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.
“Never mind about it,” she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. “Never mind, Mr Stump. You need not invite him. Only let me know when he arrives – unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. But if he should come at that time, you detain him – won’t you?”
“Boun’ to do it, ef you bid me.”
“You will, then; and let me know he is here. I shall ask him to eat.”
“Ef ye do, miss, I reck’n ye’ll speil his appetite. The sight o’ you, to say nothin’ o’ listenin’ to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin’ wolf o’ bein’ hungry. When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. Neow I don’t care a durn about eatin’. I ked go ’ithout chawin’ meat for month.”
As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the “cocina[129],” carrying a light tray – followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted.
“You great giant!” was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; “I won’t believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack. Yonder come Pluto and Morinda. They bring something that will prove more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it. Good bye, Zeb – good bye, or, as the natives say here, hasta luego!”
Gaily were these words spoken – lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the covered corridor. Only after entering her chamber, and finding herself chez soi-même[130], did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning: —
“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”
Chapter 12
Taming a Wild Mare
The pleasantest apartment in a Mexican house is that which has the roof for its floor, and the sky for its ceiling – the azotea. In fine weather – ever fine in that sunny clime – it is preferred to the drawing-room; especially after dinner, when the sun begins to cast rose-coloured rays upon the snow-clad summits of Orizava, Popocatepec, Toluca, and the “Twin Sister;” when the rich wines of Xeres[131] and Madeira[132] have warmed the imaginations of Andalusia’s sons and daughters – descendants of the Conquistadores – who mount up to their house-tops to look upon a land of world-wide renown, rendered famous by the heroic achievements of their ancestors.
Then does the Mexican “cavallero,” clad in embroidered habiliments, exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some señorita – at the same time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks. Then does the dark-eyed donçella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some distant hacienda – the home of him she truly loves.
So enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the housetop, could not fail to be followed by any one who chanced to be the occupant of a Mexican dwelling; and the family of the Louisiana planter had adopted it, as a matter of course.
On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage; and as the sun descended towards the horizon, his slanting rays fell upon a throng as gay, as cheerful, and perhaps as resplendent, as ever trod the azotea of Casa del Corvo. Moving about over its tessellated tiles, standing in scattered groups, or lined along the parapet with faces turned towards the plain, were women as fair and men as brave as had ever assembled on that same spot – even when its ancient owner used to distribute hospitality to the hidalgos[133] of the land – the bluest blood in Coahuila[134] and Texas.
The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, could also boast of this last distinction. They were the élite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant. There were guests from Gonzales, from Castroville, and even from San Antonio – old friends of the planter, who, like him, had sought a home in South-Western Texas, and who had ridden – some of them over a hundred miles – to be present at this, his first grand “reception.”
The planter had spared neither pains nor expense to give it éclat[135]. What with the sprinkling of uniforms and epaulettes, supplied by the Fort – what with the brass band borrowed from the same convenient repository – what with the choice wines found in the cellars of Casa del Corvo, and which had formed part of the purchase – there could be little lacking to make Poindexter’s party the most brilliant ever given upon the banks of the Leona.
And to insure this effect, his lovely daughter Louise, late belle[136] of Louisiana – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.
On that occasion was she the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more: for not all were blessed who beheld her beauty.
Was she herself happy?
The interrogatory may appear singular – almost absurd. Surrounded by friends – admirers – one, at least, who adored her – a dozen whose incipient love could but end in adoration – young planters, lawyers, embryo statesmen, and some with reputation already achieved – sons of Mars in armour, or with armour late laid aside – how could she be otherwise than proudly, supremely happy?
A stranger might have asked the question; one superficially acquainted with Creole character – more especially the character of the lady in question.
But mingling in that splendid throng was a man who was no stranger to either; and who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. Cassius Calhoun was the individual thus occupied.
She went not hither, nor thither, without his following her – not close, like a shadow; but by stealth, flitting from place to place; upstairs, and downstairs; standing in corners, with an air of apparent abstraction; but all the while with eyes turned askant upon his cousin’s face, like a plain-clothes policeman employed on detective duty.
Strangely enough he did not seem to pay much regard to her speeches, made in reply to the compliments showered upon her by several would-be winners of a smile – not even when these were conspicuous and respectable, as in the case of young Hancock of the dragoons. To all such he listened without visible emotion, as one listens to a conversation in no way affecting the affairs either of self or friends.
It was only after ascending to the azotea, on observing his cousin near the parapet, with her eye turned interrogatively towards the plain, that his detective zeal became conspicuous – so much so as to attract the notice of others. More than once was it noticed by those standing near: for more than once was repeated the act which gave cause to it.
At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress of Casa del Corvo might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.
Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.
When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the garish light of the setting sun – when the spectators upon the azotea pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavallada.
Another appeared to feel an equal interest in its advent, though perhaps from a different motive. Long before the horse-drove had attracted the observation of Poindexter’s guests, his daughter had noted its approach – from the time that a cloud of dust soared up against the horizon, so slight and filmy as to have escaped detection by any eye not bent expressly on discovering it.
From that moment the young Creole, under cover of a conversation carried on amid a circle of fair companions, had been slyly scanning the dust-cloud as it drew nearer; forming conjectures as to what was causing it, upon knowledge already, and as she supposed, exclusively her own.
“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger, who occasionally helps our men to a remount. He appears to be coming this way – direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”
“If it be the young fellow you have named, that’s not unlikely,” replied the owner of Casa del Corvo. “I bargained with him to catch me a score or two; and maybe this is the first instalment he’s bringing me.”
“Yes, I think it is,” he added, after a look through the telescope.
“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell the horseman yonder to be Maurice Gerald.”
The planter’s daughter could have done the same; though she made no display of her knowledge. She did not appear to be much interested in the matter – indeed, rather indifferent. She had become aware of being watched by that evil eye, constantly burning upon her.
The cavallada came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo.
“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house, quivering with excitement at a scene so new to it.
“It’s worth a journey to the ground to look at such an animal!” suggested the major’s wife, a lady of enthusiastic inclinings. “I propose we all go down! What say you, Miss Poindexter?”
“Oh, certainly,” answered the mistress of the mansion, amidst a chorus of other voices crying out —
“Let us go down! Let us go down!”
Led by the majoress[137], the ladies filed down the stone stairway – the gentlemen after; and in a score of seconds the horse-hunter, still seated in his saddle, became, with his captive, the centre of the distinguished circle.
Henry Poindexter had hurried down before the rest, and already, in the frankest manner, bidden the stranger welcome.
Between the latter and Louise only a slight salutation could be exchanged. Familiarity with a horse-dealer – even supposing him to have had the honour of an introduction – would scarce have been tolerated by the “society.”
Of the ladies, the major’s wife alone addressed him in a familiar way; but that was in a tone that told of superior position, coupled with condescension. He was more gratified by a glance – quick and silent – when his eye changed intelligence with that of the young Creole.
Hers was not the only one that rested approvingly upon him. In truth, the mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him. The prairie breeze had freshened the colour upon his cheeks; and his full round throat, naked to the breast-bone, and slightly bronzed with the sun, contributed to the manliness of his mien. Even the dust clinging to his curled hair could not altogether conceal its natural gloss, nor the luxuriance of its growth; while a figure tersely knit told of strength and endurance beyond the ordinary endowment of man. There were stolen glances, endeavouring to catch his, sent by more than one of the fair circle. The pretty niece of the commissary smiled admiringly upon him. Some said the commissary’s wife; but this could be only a slander, to be traced, perhaps, to the doctor’s better half – the Lady Teazle of the cantonment.
“Surely,” said Poindexter, after making an examination of the captured mustang, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”
“It ur thet eyedenticul same,” answered the individual so described, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him. “Ye-es, Mister Peintdexter; the eyedenticul critter – a maar, es ye kin all see for yurselves – ”
“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interposed the planter, not desiring any further elucidation.
“The young fellur hed grupped her afore I got thur; so I wur jess in the nick o’ time ’bout it. She mout a been tuck elswhar, an then Miss Lewaze thur mout a missed hevin’ her.”
“It is true indeed, Mr Stump! It was very thoughtful of you. I know not how I shall ever be able to reciprocate your kindness?”
“Reciperkate! Wal, I spose thet air means to do suthin in return. Ye kin do thet, miss, ’ithout much difeequilty. I han’t dud nothin’ for you, ceptin’ make a bit o’ a journey acrost the purayra. To see yur bewtyful self mounted on thet maar, wi’ yur ploomed het upon yur head, an yur long-tailed pettykote streakin’ it ahint you, ’ud pay old Zeb Stump to go clur to the Rockies, and back agin.”
“Oh, Mr Stump! you are an incorrigible flatterer! Look around you! you will see many here more deserving of your compliments than I.”
“Wal, wal!” rejoined Zeb, casting a look of careless scrutiny towards the ladies, “I ain’t a goin’ to deny thet thur air gobs o’ putty critters hyur – dog-goned putty critters; but es they used to say in ole Loozyanney, thur air but one Lewaze Peintdexter.”
A burst of laughter – in which only a few feminine voices bore part – was the reply to Zeb’s gallant speech.
“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”
“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the planter, drawing back with an air of proud disappointment; while his brother planters, as well as the officers of the Fort, looked astonished at the refusal of such a munificent price. Two hundred dollars for an untamed mustang, when the usual rate of price was from ten to twenty! The mustanger must be mad?
He gave them no time to descant upon his sanity.
“Mr Poindexter,” he continued, speaking in the same good-humoured strain, “you have given me such a generous price for my other captives – and before they were taken too – that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a ‘luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur[138], not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this Hibernian[139] fashion into the settlements of Texas?”
“Certainly, by all means!” responded several voices, two or three of them unmistakably with an Irish accentuation.
“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, his conservatism giving way to the popular will – “as you please about that.”
“Thanks, gentlemen – thanks!” said the mustanger, with a patronising look towards men who believed themselves to be his masters. “This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me. Had she been the most cruel of coquettes, she could scarce have been more difficult to subdue.”
“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – for the first time prominently proclaiming herself, and stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested inquiringly on the countenance of the mustanger – “a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She but trembles in fear of the unknown future. She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”
“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” continued the major, turning towards the company, “this is something worth your seeing – those of you who have not witnessed the spectacle before. Come, Maurice; mount, and show us a specimen of prairie horsemanship. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”
“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole; who, with all her assumed courage, retired tremblingly behind the circle of spectators.
“No matter, my man,” pursued the major, in a tone intended for encouragement. “In spite of that devil sparkling in her eye, I’ll lay ten to one you’ll take the conceit out of her. Try!”
Without losing credit, the mustanger could not have declined acceding to the major’s request. It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess – a thing not lightly esteemed upon the prairies of Texas.
He proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.
The only preliminary called for was the clearing of the ground. This was effected in an instant – the greater part of the company – with all the ladies – returning to the azotea.
With only a piece of raw-hide rope looped around the under jaw, and carried headstall fashion behind the ears – with only one rein in hand – Maurice sprang to the back of the wild mare.
It was the first time she had ever been mounted by man – the first insult of the kind offered to her.
A shrill spiteful scream spoke plainly her appreciation of and determination to resent it. It proclaimed defiance of the attempt to degrade her to the condition of a slave!
With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Her rider, anticipating the trick, had thrown his arms around her neck; and, close clasping her throat, appeared part of herself. But for this she might have poised over upon her back, and crushed him beneath her.
The uprearing of the hind quarters was the next “trick” of the mustang – sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without being thrown. From sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the prairies – to tame the naked steed.
He performed it without them. As the mare raised her hind quarters aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him.
Twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but, springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to have no goal this side the ending of the earth.
It must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer’s return.
Conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return. Why Louise Poindexter, daughter of the proud Louisiana sugar-planter – a belle – a beauty of more than provincial repute – who could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and noblest in the land – why she should have fixed her fancy, or even permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of Texas, was a mystery that even her own intellect – by no means a weak one – was unable to fathom.
Perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him. She did not think so herself. Had she thought so, and reflected upon it, perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her mind.
She was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a strange individual – one who had presented himself in a fashion that favoured fanciful reflections – one who differed essentially from the common-place types introduced to her in the world of social distinctions.
She was conscious, too, that this interest – originating in a word, a glance, a gesture – listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie – instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase!
It was not diminished when Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him – but with lowered crest and mien submissive, acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master!
Without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young Creole was inspired with a similar reflection.
“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, and without making any acknowledgment to the plaudits that were showered upon him – “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”
A prude would have paltered with the proposal – a coquette would have declined it – a timid girl have shrunk back.
Not so Louise Poindexter – a descendant of one of the filles-à-la-casette. Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of prudery or fear – she stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope; whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang; and led the captive off towards the caballeriza[140] of Casa del Corvo.
As she did so, the mustanger’s words were ringing in her ears, and echoing through her heart with a strange foreboding weird signification.
“She will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”
Then does the Mexican “cavallero,” clad in embroidered habiliments, exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some señorita – at the same time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks. Then does the dark-eyed donçella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some distant hacienda – the home of him she truly loves.
So enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the housetop, could not fail to be followed by any one who chanced to be the occupant of a Mexican dwelling; and the family of the Louisiana planter had adopted it, as a matter of course.
On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage; and as the sun descended towards the horizon, his slanting rays fell upon a throng as gay, as cheerful, and perhaps as resplendent, as ever trod the azotea of Casa del Corvo. Moving about over its tessellated tiles, standing in scattered groups, or lined along the parapet with faces turned towards the plain, were women as fair and men as brave as had ever assembled on that same spot – even when its ancient owner used to distribute hospitality to the hidalgos[133] of the land – the bluest blood in Coahuila[134] and Texas.
The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, could also boast of this last distinction. They were the élite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant. There were guests from Gonzales, from Castroville, and even from San Antonio – old friends of the planter, who, like him, had sought a home in South-Western Texas, and who had ridden – some of them over a hundred miles – to be present at this, his first grand “reception.”
The planter had spared neither pains nor expense to give it éclat[135]. What with the sprinkling of uniforms and epaulettes, supplied by the Fort – what with the brass band borrowed from the same convenient repository – what with the choice wines found in the cellars of Casa del Corvo, and which had formed part of the purchase – there could be little lacking to make Poindexter’s party the most brilliant ever given upon the banks of the Leona.
And to insure this effect, his lovely daughter Louise, late belle[136] of Louisiana – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.
On that occasion was she the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more: for not all were blessed who beheld her beauty.
Was she herself happy?
The interrogatory may appear singular – almost absurd. Surrounded by friends – admirers – one, at least, who adored her – a dozen whose incipient love could but end in adoration – young planters, lawyers, embryo statesmen, and some with reputation already achieved – sons of Mars in armour, or with armour late laid aside – how could she be otherwise than proudly, supremely happy?
A stranger might have asked the question; one superficially acquainted with Creole character – more especially the character of the lady in question.
But mingling in that splendid throng was a man who was no stranger to either; and who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. Cassius Calhoun was the individual thus occupied.
She went not hither, nor thither, without his following her – not close, like a shadow; but by stealth, flitting from place to place; upstairs, and downstairs; standing in corners, with an air of apparent abstraction; but all the while with eyes turned askant upon his cousin’s face, like a plain-clothes policeman employed on detective duty.
Strangely enough he did not seem to pay much regard to her speeches, made in reply to the compliments showered upon her by several would-be winners of a smile – not even when these were conspicuous and respectable, as in the case of young Hancock of the dragoons. To all such he listened without visible emotion, as one listens to a conversation in no way affecting the affairs either of self or friends.
It was only after ascending to the azotea, on observing his cousin near the parapet, with her eye turned interrogatively towards the plain, that his detective zeal became conspicuous – so much so as to attract the notice of others. More than once was it noticed by those standing near: for more than once was repeated the act which gave cause to it.
At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress of Casa del Corvo might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.
Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.
When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the garish light of the setting sun – when the spectators upon the azotea pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavallada.
Another appeared to feel an equal interest in its advent, though perhaps from a different motive. Long before the horse-drove had attracted the observation of Poindexter’s guests, his daughter had noted its approach – from the time that a cloud of dust soared up against the horizon, so slight and filmy as to have escaped detection by any eye not bent expressly on discovering it.
From that moment the young Creole, under cover of a conversation carried on amid a circle of fair companions, had been slyly scanning the dust-cloud as it drew nearer; forming conjectures as to what was causing it, upon knowledge already, and as she supposed, exclusively her own.
“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger, who occasionally helps our men to a remount. He appears to be coming this way – direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”
“If it be the young fellow you have named, that’s not unlikely,” replied the owner of Casa del Corvo. “I bargained with him to catch me a score or two; and maybe this is the first instalment he’s bringing me.”
“Yes, I think it is,” he added, after a look through the telescope.
“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell the horseman yonder to be Maurice Gerald.”
The planter’s daughter could have done the same; though she made no display of her knowledge. She did not appear to be much interested in the matter – indeed, rather indifferent. She had become aware of being watched by that evil eye, constantly burning upon her.
The cavallada came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo.
“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house, quivering with excitement at a scene so new to it.
“It’s worth a journey to the ground to look at such an animal!” suggested the major’s wife, a lady of enthusiastic inclinings. “I propose we all go down! What say you, Miss Poindexter?”
“Oh, certainly,” answered the mistress of the mansion, amidst a chorus of other voices crying out —
“Let us go down! Let us go down!”
Led by the majoress[137], the ladies filed down the stone stairway – the gentlemen after; and in a score of seconds the horse-hunter, still seated in his saddle, became, with his captive, the centre of the distinguished circle.
Henry Poindexter had hurried down before the rest, and already, in the frankest manner, bidden the stranger welcome.
Between the latter and Louise only a slight salutation could be exchanged. Familiarity with a horse-dealer – even supposing him to have had the honour of an introduction – would scarce have been tolerated by the “society.”
Of the ladies, the major’s wife alone addressed him in a familiar way; but that was in a tone that told of superior position, coupled with condescension. He was more gratified by a glance – quick and silent – when his eye changed intelligence with that of the young Creole.
Hers was not the only one that rested approvingly upon him. In truth, the mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him. The prairie breeze had freshened the colour upon his cheeks; and his full round throat, naked to the breast-bone, and slightly bronzed with the sun, contributed to the manliness of his mien. Even the dust clinging to his curled hair could not altogether conceal its natural gloss, nor the luxuriance of its growth; while a figure tersely knit told of strength and endurance beyond the ordinary endowment of man. There were stolen glances, endeavouring to catch his, sent by more than one of the fair circle. The pretty niece of the commissary smiled admiringly upon him. Some said the commissary’s wife; but this could be only a slander, to be traced, perhaps, to the doctor’s better half – the Lady Teazle of the cantonment.
“Surely,” said Poindexter, after making an examination of the captured mustang, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”
“It ur thet eyedenticul same,” answered the individual so described, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him. “Ye-es, Mister Peintdexter; the eyedenticul critter – a maar, es ye kin all see for yurselves – ”
“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interposed the planter, not desiring any further elucidation.
“The young fellur hed grupped her afore I got thur; so I wur jess in the nick o’ time ’bout it. She mout a been tuck elswhar, an then Miss Lewaze thur mout a missed hevin’ her.”
“It is true indeed, Mr Stump! It was very thoughtful of you. I know not how I shall ever be able to reciprocate your kindness?”
“Reciperkate! Wal, I spose thet air means to do suthin in return. Ye kin do thet, miss, ’ithout much difeequilty. I han’t dud nothin’ for you, ceptin’ make a bit o’ a journey acrost the purayra. To see yur bewtyful self mounted on thet maar, wi’ yur ploomed het upon yur head, an yur long-tailed pettykote streakin’ it ahint you, ’ud pay old Zeb Stump to go clur to the Rockies, and back agin.”
“Oh, Mr Stump! you are an incorrigible flatterer! Look around you! you will see many here more deserving of your compliments than I.”
“Wal, wal!” rejoined Zeb, casting a look of careless scrutiny towards the ladies, “I ain’t a goin’ to deny thet thur air gobs o’ putty critters hyur – dog-goned putty critters; but es they used to say in ole Loozyanney, thur air but one Lewaze Peintdexter.”
A burst of laughter – in which only a few feminine voices bore part – was the reply to Zeb’s gallant speech.
“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”
“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the planter, drawing back with an air of proud disappointment; while his brother planters, as well as the officers of the Fort, looked astonished at the refusal of such a munificent price. Two hundred dollars for an untamed mustang, when the usual rate of price was from ten to twenty! The mustanger must be mad?
He gave them no time to descant upon his sanity.
“Mr Poindexter,” he continued, speaking in the same good-humoured strain, “you have given me such a generous price for my other captives – and before they were taken too – that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a ‘luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur[138], not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this Hibernian[139] fashion into the settlements of Texas?”
“Certainly, by all means!” responded several voices, two or three of them unmistakably with an Irish accentuation.
“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, his conservatism giving way to the popular will – “as you please about that.”
“Thanks, gentlemen – thanks!” said the mustanger, with a patronising look towards men who believed themselves to be his masters. “This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me. Had she been the most cruel of coquettes, she could scarce have been more difficult to subdue.”
“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – for the first time prominently proclaiming herself, and stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested inquiringly on the countenance of the mustanger – “a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She but trembles in fear of the unknown future. She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”
“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” continued the major, turning towards the company, “this is something worth your seeing – those of you who have not witnessed the spectacle before. Come, Maurice; mount, and show us a specimen of prairie horsemanship. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”
“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole; who, with all her assumed courage, retired tremblingly behind the circle of spectators.
“No matter, my man,” pursued the major, in a tone intended for encouragement. “In spite of that devil sparkling in her eye, I’ll lay ten to one you’ll take the conceit out of her. Try!”
Without losing credit, the mustanger could not have declined acceding to the major’s request. It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess – a thing not lightly esteemed upon the prairies of Texas.
He proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.
The only preliminary called for was the clearing of the ground. This was effected in an instant – the greater part of the company – with all the ladies – returning to the azotea.
With only a piece of raw-hide rope looped around the under jaw, and carried headstall fashion behind the ears – with only one rein in hand – Maurice sprang to the back of the wild mare.
It was the first time she had ever been mounted by man – the first insult of the kind offered to her.
A shrill spiteful scream spoke plainly her appreciation of and determination to resent it. It proclaimed defiance of the attempt to degrade her to the condition of a slave!
With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Her rider, anticipating the trick, had thrown his arms around her neck; and, close clasping her throat, appeared part of herself. But for this she might have poised over upon her back, and crushed him beneath her.
The uprearing of the hind quarters was the next “trick” of the mustang – sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without being thrown. From sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the prairies – to tame the naked steed.
He performed it without them. As the mare raised her hind quarters aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him.
Twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but, springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to have no goal this side the ending of the earth.
It must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer’s return.
Conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return. Why Louise Poindexter, daughter of the proud Louisiana sugar-planter – a belle – a beauty of more than provincial repute – who could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and noblest in the land – why she should have fixed her fancy, or even permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of Texas, was a mystery that even her own intellect – by no means a weak one – was unable to fathom.
Perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him. She did not think so herself. Had she thought so, and reflected upon it, perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her mind.
She was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a strange individual – one who had presented himself in a fashion that favoured fanciful reflections – one who differed essentially from the common-place types introduced to her in the world of social distinctions.
She was conscious, too, that this interest – originating in a word, a glance, a gesture – listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie – instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase!
It was not diminished when Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him – but with lowered crest and mien submissive, acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master!
Without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young Creole was inspired with a similar reflection.
“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, and without making any acknowledgment to the plaudits that were showered upon him – “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”
A prude would have paltered with the proposal – a coquette would have declined it – a timid girl have shrunk back.
Not so Louise Poindexter – a descendant of one of the filles-à-la-casette. Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of prudery or fear – she stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope; whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang; and led the captive off towards the caballeriza[140] of Casa del Corvo.
As she did so, the mustanger’s words were ringing in her ears, and echoing through her heart with a strange foreboding weird signification.
“She will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”
Chapter 13
A Prairie Pic-Nic
The first rays from a rosy aurora[141], saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell with a more subdued light upon an assemblage of objects occupying the parade-ground below – in front of the “officers’ quarters.”
A small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached to it a double span of tight little Mexican mules, whose quick impatient “stomping,” tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were impatient to move off – warning the bystanders, as well, against a too close approximation to their heels.
Literally speaking, there were no bystanders – if we except a man of colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as Zeb Stump, the hunter.
He was not standing either, but seated astride his “ole maar,” that showed less anxiety to be off than either the Mexican mules or her own master.
The other forms around the vehicle were all in motion – quick, hurried, occasionally confused – hither and thither, from the waggon to the door of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle.
There were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in the colour of their skins. Most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though of different arms of the service. Two would be taken to be mess-cooks; and two or three more, officers’ servants, who had been detailed from the ranks.
A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of valet de tout[142] to the major in command of the cantonment. A sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables – in short, the paraphernalia[143] of a pic-nic.
That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the impedimenta[144]. There were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to Texas.
However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. The dissatisfied Lucullus[145] was Zeb Stump.
“Lookee hyur, surgint,” said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, “I hain’t seed neery smell o’ corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an’, I reck’n, thet out on the purayra, thur’ll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o’ thet theer furrin French stuff. Sham-pain, ye call it, I b’lieve.”
“Prefer corn to champagne! The horses you mean?”
“Hosses be durned. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout hoss corn. I mean M’nongaheela.”
“Oh – ah – I comprehend. You’re right about that, Mr Stump. The whisky mustn’t be forgotten, Pomp. I think I saw a jar inside, that’s intended to go?”
“Yaw – yaw, sagint,” responded the dark-skinned domestic; “dar am dat same wesicle. Hya it is!” he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon.
Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off.
“Ain’t ye riddy, surgint?” he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups.
“Not quite, Mr Stump. The cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take ’em along.”
“Durn the chickens, an the cook too! What air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi’ a wild turkey o’ the purayra; an how am I to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? The major sayed I war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. ’Tain’t so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi’ a clamjamferry like this comin’ clost upon a fellur’s heels? Ye mustn’t surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o’ a fort. Of all the cunnin’ critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun’ one o’ ’em, ye must be up along wi’ the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier.”
“True, Mr Stump. I know the major wants a wild turkey. He told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way.”
“No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi’ a baffler’s tongue, an hump – seein’ as thur ain’t sech a anymal on the purayras o’ South Texas – nor hain’t a been for good twenty yurs past – noterthstandin’ what Eur-op-ean writers o’ books hev said to the contrary, an ’specially French ’uns, as I’ve heern. Thur ain’t no burner ’bout hyur. Thur’s baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o’ gobblers; but to hev one o’ these critters for yur dinner, ye must git it urly enuf for yur breakfist. Unless I hev my own time, I won’t promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both. So, surgint, ef ye expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye’ll do well to be makin’ tracks for the purayra.”
Stirred by the hunter’s representation, the sergeant did all that was possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-coloured company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with Zeb Stump as its guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between the Leona and the “River of Nuts.”
The parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling upon the same spot.
There were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the “meet” in an English hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to accompany them – their friends and acquaintances – fathers, brothers, lovers, and husbands. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.
The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion of the entertainment at Casa del Corvo.
A small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached to it a double span of tight little Mexican mules, whose quick impatient “stomping,” tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were impatient to move off – warning the bystanders, as well, against a too close approximation to their heels.
Literally speaking, there were no bystanders – if we except a man of colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as Zeb Stump, the hunter.
He was not standing either, but seated astride his “ole maar,” that showed less anxiety to be off than either the Mexican mules or her own master.
The other forms around the vehicle were all in motion – quick, hurried, occasionally confused – hither and thither, from the waggon to the door of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle.
There were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in the colour of their skins. Most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though of different arms of the service. Two would be taken to be mess-cooks; and two or three more, officers’ servants, who had been detailed from the ranks.
A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of valet de tout[142] to the major in command of the cantonment. A sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables – in short, the paraphernalia[143] of a pic-nic.
That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the impedimenta[144]. There were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to Texas.
However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. The dissatisfied Lucullus[145] was Zeb Stump.
“Lookee hyur, surgint,” said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, “I hain’t seed neery smell o’ corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an’, I reck’n, thet out on the purayra, thur’ll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o’ thet theer furrin French stuff. Sham-pain, ye call it, I b’lieve.”
“Prefer corn to champagne! The horses you mean?”
“Hosses be durned. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout hoss corn. I mean M’nongaheela.”
“Oh – ah – I comprehend. You’re right about that, Mr Stump. The whisky mustn’t be forgotten, Pomp. I think I saw a jar inside, that’s intended to go?”
“Yaw – yaw, sagint,” responded the dark-skinned domestic; “dar am dat same wesicle. Hya it is!” he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon.
Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off.
“Ain’t ye riddy, surgint?” he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups.
“Not quite, Mr Stump. The cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take ’em along.”
“Durn the chickens, an the cook too! What air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi’ a wild turkey o’ the purayra; an how am I to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? The major sayed I war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. ’Tain’t so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi’ a clamjamferry like this comin’ clost upon a fellur’s heels? Ye mustn’t surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o’ a fort. Of all the cunnin’ critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun’ one o’ ’em, ye must be up along wi’ the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier.”
“True, Mr Stump. I know the major wants a wild turkey. He told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way.”
“No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi’ a baffler’s tongue, an hump – seein’ as thur ain’t sech a anymal on the purayras o’ South Texas – nor hain’t a been for good twenty yurs past – noterthstandin’ what Eur-op-ean writers o’ books hev said to the contrary, an ’specially French ’uns, as I’ve heern. Thur ain’t no burner ’bout hyur. Thur’s baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o’ gobblers; but to hev one o’ these critters for yur dinner, ye must git it urly enuf for yur breakfist. Unless I hev my own time, I won’t promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both. So, surgint, ef ye expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye’ll do well to be makin’ tracks for the purayra.”
Stirred by the hunter’s representation, the sergeant did all that was possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-coloured company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with Zeb Stump as its guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between the Leona and the “River of Nuts.”
The parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling upon the same spot.
There were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the “meet” in an English hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to accompany them – their friends and acquaintances – fathers, brothers, lovers, and husbands. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.
The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion of the entertainment at Casa del Corvo.