"_Vamos_, Lolita! hold up, my pretty pet! Two leagues more, and you
shall bury that velvet snout of yours in the soft _gramma_ grass, and
cool your heated hoof in a crystal stream. Ay, and you shall have a
half peck of pinon nuts for your supper, I promise you. You have done
well to-day, but don't let us get belated. At night, as you know, we
might be lost on the Llano, and the wicked wolves eat us both up. That
would be a sad thing, _mia yegua_. We must not let them have a chance
to dispose of us in that manner. _Adelante_!"
Lolita is a mustang pony of clear chestnut colour, with white mane and
tail; while the person thus apostrophising her is a young girl seated
astride upon its back.
A beautiful girl, apparently under twenty of age, but with a certain
commanding mien that gives her the appearance of being older. Her
complexion, though white, has a tinge of that golden brown, or olive,
oft observed in the Andalusian race; while scimitar shaped eyebrows,
with hair of silken texture, black as the shadows of night, and a dark
down on the upper lip, plainly proclaim the Moorish admixture.
It is a face of lovely cast and almost Grecian contour, with features of
classic regularity; while the absence of obliquity in the orbs of the
eye--despite the dusky hue of her akin--forbids the belief in Indian
blood.
Although in a part of the world where such might be expected, there is,
in truth, not a taint of it in her veins. The olivine tint is Hispano
Moriscan--a complexion, if not more beautiful, certainly more
picturesque than that of the Saxon blonde.
With the damask-red dancing out upon her cheeks, her eyes aglow from the
equestrian exercise she has been taking, the young girl looks the
picture of physical health; while the tranquil expression upon her
features tells of mental contentment.
Somewhat singular is her costume, as the equipment. As already said,
she bestrides her mustang man-fashion, the mode of Mexico; while a light
fowling-piece, suspended _en bandouliere_, hangs down behind her back.
A woollen seraph of finest wool lies scarf-like across her left
shoulder, half concealing a velveteen vest or spencer, close-buttoned
over the rounded hemispheres of her bosom. Below, an embroidered
skirt--the _enagua_--is continued by a pair of white _calzoncillas_,
with fringe falling over her small feet, they are booted and spurred.
On her head is a hat of soft vicuna wool, with a band of bullion, a
bordering of gold lace around the rim, and a plume of heron's feather
curving above the crown.
This, with her attitude on horseback, might seem _outre_ in the eyes of
a stranger to the customs of her country. The gun and its concomitant
accoutrements give her something of a masculine appearance, and at the
first glance might cause her to be mistaken for a man--a beardless
youth.
But the long silken tresses scattered loosely over her shoulders, the
finely-cut features, the delicate texture of the skin, the petticoat
skirt, the small hand, with slender tapering fingers stretched forward
to caress the neck of the mustang mare, are signs of femininity not to
be misunderstood.
A woman--a huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of
hounds--large dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breed--following at the
heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the
chase--as proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together,
lying like saddle-bags across the croup.
The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known
voice. At the word _adelante_ (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a
wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds
loping after in long-stretching trot.
For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart
the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolita's muzzle, causes
her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up.
The bird is a black vulture--a zopilote. It is not slowly soaring in
the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow
sent from the bow.
This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she
remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight.
It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like
specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any
particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry
that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched
it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at
times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes
with which the plain is thickly beset.
These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground;
though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse
of zopilotes. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to
understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It
not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation.
"Something gone down yonder, and not yet dead?" she mutters, in
interrogative soliloquy. "I wonder what it can be! I never look on
those filthy birds without fear. _Santissima_! how they made me shudder
that time when they flapped their black wings in my own face! I pity
any poor creature threatened by them--even where it but a coyote. It
may be that, or an antelope. Nothing else likely to become their prey
on this bare plain. Come, Lolita! let us go on and see what they're
after. It will take us a little out of our way, and give you some extra
work. You won't mind that, my pet? I know you won't."
The mare wheels round at a slight pressure upon the rein; and then
commenced her canter in the direction of the soaring flock.
A mile is passed over, and the birds are brought near; but still the
object attracting them cannot be seen. It may be down among the
artemisias, or perhaps behind a large yucca, whose dark whorl rises
several feet above the sage, and over which the vultures are wheeling.
As the rider of Lolita arrives within gun-shot distance of the
yucca-tree she checks the mustang to a slower pace--to a walk in short.
In the spectacle of death, in the throes and struggles of an expiring
creature, even though it be but a dumb brute, there is something that
never fails to excite commiseration, mingled with a feeling of awe.
This last has come over the young girl, as she draws near the spot where
the birds are seen circling.
It has not occurred to her that the cause of their presence may be a
human being, though it is a remembrance of this kind that now prompts
her to ride forward reflectively. For once in her life, with others
around her who were near and dear, she has been herself an object of
like eager solicitude to a flock of zopilotes.
But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature
that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so
rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species
of animal, she could not.
As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark
green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird,
itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the
plant, as it came there by falling from above.
A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it.
"So, _yegua_!" she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning
her. "I've been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable
birds--it's only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they're
holding a _velorio_ over it."
She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.
"Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are
cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That
would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero.
Suppose we stay awhile and see?"
For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a
moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts
from scientific curiosity to something of fear.
The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain,
now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on
towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard--strong as
that may be--that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial
to their sanguinary instincts.
On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then
spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has
suddenly brought them to bay.
"A wounded bear or wolf!" is the muttered reflection of their mistress.
It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake.
Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of
a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear
above the spikes of the plant--a hand clutching the hilt of a
long-bladed knife!