On coming up with the _ganadero_, De Lara rides on silently by his side,
without exhibiting any desire to satisfy the other's curiosity. He but
piques it by saying, that Rocas has a made communication of an intensely
interesting kind; which he will impart to him, Faustino, in due time;
but now there are other matters of more importance to be attended to.
The fighting is before them; and that cannot be set aside.
Calderon wishes it could: for the flask has been for a time forgotten,
and the spirit has been getting cold within him.
"Take another pull!" counsels his companion; "you may need it. We'll
soon be in the town, and, perhaps, the first man we meet there will be
your yellow-haired rival."
Scarcely have the words passed De Lara's lips when something in front
fixes his attention, as also that of his companion. At some distance
along the road a cloud of dust is ascending; in its midst a darker
nucleus, distinguishable as the forms of horses with riders on their
backs. There appear to be four of them, filed two and two.
Plying their spurs, and galloping closer, the gamblers perceive that
this equestrian party is proceeding in the same direction as
themselves--towards the town.
But they are soon near enough to know that such is not their
destination. For, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no difficulty
in identifying the individuals before them. The horses are the same
seen that morning, saddled and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio's
house. Two of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez; the other
two--
At this point conjecture terminates. De Lara, certain, and no longer
able to control himself, cries out:
"_Carajo_! it's they returning from their excursion--paired off, as I
supposed they would be! So, Calderon, you have your chance sooner than
you expected. And without seeking it--a lucky omen! There's your
rival, riding by the side of your sweetheart, and pouring soft speech
into her ear! Now's your time to set things straight--insult him to
your heart's content. I feel like giving a fresh affront to mine."
He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. The _ganadero_ does the
same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, they see them two and two, each
pair some ten or twelve paces apart from the other. Crozier and Carmen
are in the advance, Cadwallader and Inez behind.
De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the
former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare
such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards
her escorting cavalier, and bend over--he to her--till their heads are
close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!
"_Carrai_! they're kissing!" he exclaims, in a tone of bitter
exasperation.
He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he
digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.
The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest
to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet
converse, dreamed not of danger.
The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time
hears De Lara's wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage
is intended--a repetition of the morning's work, with doubtless
something more.
Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere
pricking of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of
a man--if need be. This resolve can be read in his attitude, in his
eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless
boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits
his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may
cost life--in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.
De Lara sweeps past the midshipman without saying a word; without even
taking notice of him. His affair is with one further on.
But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the intent to assault, as
shown in his eyes.
Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade.
Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the
flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to
lower his plume, he too passes Cadwallader, without a word--riding on
after De Lara.
He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its
commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a
very different termination.
Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle,
and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance,
divines the intent. It is a _golpe de caballo_, or collision of
horses--a common mode of assault among Spanish Californians.
Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shropshire determines on a
different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels
confident he can stay there.
With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after
taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.
Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a
word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry
from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez Alvarez, heard simultaneously
with the shock.
When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road--
his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.
Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose
butt protrudes from his saddle-holster.
He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his
saddle, as if from a ship's shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.
Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the
middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do
nothing now, save storm and threaten--interlarding his threats with
curses--"_Carajos_!" spitefully pronounced.
The ladies, at Crozier's request, have ridden on ahead, so that their
ears are not offended.
After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen--Cadwallader
all the while loudly laughing--Crozier, in serious tone, says:
"Don Francisco De Lara--for your card tells me that is your name--take a
sailor's advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of
sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don't want you to
walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I
shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet.
The same advice to you, sir," he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands
near equally cowed and crestfallen.
After dictating these humiliating conditions--which, _nolens volens_,
the defeated bravos are obliged to accept--the young officers leap back
into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.
Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear
of its being again interrupted by a "_golpe de caballo_."