Don Silvio Martinez was one of the few Mexican _ricos_, who had chosen
to remain in Texas, after the conquest of that country by the stalwart
colonisers from the North.
A man of more than mature age, of peaceful habits, and taking no part in
politics, he accepted the new situation without any great regret. He
was the more easily reconciled to it, from a knowledge, that his loss of
nationality was better than counterbalanced by his gain of security
against Comanche incursions; which, previous to the coming of the new
colonists, had threatened the complete depopulation of the country.
The savage was not yet entirely subdued; but his maraud was now
intermittent, and occurred only at long intervals. Even this was an
improvement on the old _regime_.
Don Silvio was a _ganadero_,--a grazier, on a grand scale. So grand
that his _ganaderia_ was leagues in length and breadth, and contained
within its limits many thousands of horses and horned cattle.
He lived in a large rectangular one-storied house--more resembling a
jail than a dwelling--surrounded by extensive enclosures--_corrales_.
It was usually a quiet place; except during the time of the _herradero_,
or cattle-branding; when for days it became the scene of a festivity
almost Homeric.
These occasions were only of annual occurrence.
At all other times the old haciendado--who was a bachelor to boot--led a
tranquil and somewhat solitary life; a sister older than himself being
his only companion. There were occasional exceptions to this rule: when
his charming _sobrina_ rode across from the Rio Grande to pay him and
his sister a visit. Then the domicile of Don Silvio became a little
more lively.
Isidora was welcome whenever she came; welcome to come and go when she
pleased; and do as she pleased, while under her uncle's roof. The
sprightliness of her character was anything but displeasing to the old
haciendado; who was himself far from being of a sombre disposition.
Those traits, that might have appeared masculine in many other lands,
were not so remarkable in one, where life is held by such precarious
tenure; where the country house is oft transformed into a fortress, and
the domestic hearth occasionally bedewed with the blood of its inmates!
Is it surprising that in such a land women should be found, endowed with
those qualities that have been ascribed to Isidora? If so, it is not
the less true that they exist.
As a general thing the Mexican woman is a creature of the most amiable
disposition; _douce_--if we may be allowed to borrow from a language
that deals more frequently with feminine traits--to such an extent, as
to have become a national characteristic. It is to the denizens of the
great cities, secure from Indian incursion, that this character more
especially applies. On the frontiers, harried for the last half century
by the aboriginal freebooter, the case is somewhat different. The
amiability still exists; but often combined with a _bravourie_ and
hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic.
Since Malinche, more than one fair heroine has figured in the history of
Anahuac.
Don Silvio Martinez had himself assisted at many a wild scene and
ceremony. His youth had been passed amid perils; and the courage of
Isidora--at times degenerating into absolute recklessness--so far from
offending, rather gave him gratification.
The old gentleman loved his darling _sobrina_, as if she had been his
own child; and had she been so, she would not have been more certain of
succeeding to his possessions.
Every one knew, that, when Don Silvio Martinez should take leave of
life, Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos would be the owner of--not his
broad acres, but--his _leagues_ of land, as also his thousands of horses
and horned cattle.
With this understanding, it is needless to say, that the senorita
carried respect with her wherever she went, or that the vassals of the
Hacienda Martinez honoured her as their future mistress.
Independently of this was she regarded. Hers were just the qualities to
win the esteem of the dashing _rancheros_; and there was not one upon
the estate, but would have drawn his _machete_ at her nod, and used it
to the shedding of blood.
Miguel Diaz spoke the truth, when he said he was in danger. Well might
he believe it. Had it pleased Isidora to call together her uncle's
_vaqueros_, and send them to chastise him, it would have been speedily
done--even to hanging him upon the nearest tree!
No wonder he had made such haste to get away from the glade.
As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of
the Rio Grande--separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda
Martinez. But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to
her relations upon the Leona.
There was no selfishness in the motive. The prospect of the rich
inheritance had nothing to do with it. She was an expectant heiress
without that: for her own father was a _rico_. But she liked the
company of her uncle and aunt. She also enjoyed the ride from river to
river--oft made by her between morning and night, and not unfrequently
alone!
Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.
Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives--fonder as
they grew older? If not, what was her motive?
Imitating her own frankness of character, it may at once be declared.
She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice
Gerald.
With like frankness may it be told, that she _loved_ him.
Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart. As
already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have
been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing
it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.
Perhaps, too, she saw in him other captivating qualities, less easily
defined. Whether these had been undesignedly exhibited, or with the
intention to effect a conquest, he alone can tell. He has himself said,
No; and respect is due to his declaration. But it is difficult to
believe, that mortal man could have gazed into the eyes of Isidora de
los Llanos without wishing them to look longingly upon him.
Maurice may have spoken the truth; but we could better believe him, had
he seen Louise Poindexter before becoming acquainted with Isidora.
The episode of the burnt prairie was several weeks subsequent to the
adventure with the intoxicated Indians.
Certainly something appears to have occurred between him and the Mexican
maiden, that leads her to believe she has a hope--if not a claim--upon
his affections.
It has come to that crisis, that she can no longer rest satisfied. Her
impulsive spirit cannot brook ambiguity. She knows that she loves
_him_. She has determined to make frank confession of it; and to ask
with like frankness whether her passion be reciprocated. Hence her
having made an appointment that could not be kept.
For that day Don Miguel Diaz had interfered between her and her purpose.
So thought she, as she galloped out of the glade, and hastened back to
the hacienda of her uncle.
Astride her grey steed she goes at a gallop.
Her head is bare; her coiffure disarranged; her rich black tresses
streaming back beyond her shoulders, no longer covered by scarf or
serape. The last she has left behind her, and along with it her
_vicuna_ hat.
Her eyes are flashing with excitement; her cheeks flushed to the colour
of carmine.
The cause is known.
And also why she is riding in such hot haste. She has herself declared
it.
On nearing the house, she is seen to tighten her rein. The horse is
pulled in to a slower pace--a trot; slower still--a walk; and, soon
after, he is halted in the middle of the road.
His rider has changed her intention; or stops to reflect whether she
should.
She sits reflecting.
"On second thoughts--perhaps--better not have him taken? It would
create a terrible scandal, everywhere. So far, no one knows of --.
Besides, what can I say myself--the only witness? Ah! were I to tell
these gallant Texans the story, my own testimony would be enough to have
him punished with a harsh hand. No! let him live. _Ladron_ as he is, I
do not fear him. After what's happened he will not care to come near
me. _Santa Virgen_! to think that I could have felt a fancy for this
man--short-lived as it was!
"I must send some one back to release him. One who can keep my secret--
who? Benito, the mayor-domo--faithful and brave. _Gracias a Dios_!
Yonder's my man--as usual busied in counting his cattle. Benito!
Benito!"
"At your orders, s'norita?"
"Good Benito, I want you to do me a kindness. You consent?"
"At your orders, s'norita?" repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low.
"Not _orders_, good Benito. I wish you to do me a _favour_."
"Command me, s'norita!"
"You know the spot of open ground at the top of the hill--where the
three roads meet?"
"As well as the corral of your uncle's hacienda."
"Good! Go there. You will find a man lying upon the ground, his arms
entangled in a lazo. Release, and let him go free. If he be hurt--by a
harsh fall he has had--do what you can to restore him; but don't tell
him who sent you. You may know the man--I think you do. No matter for
that. Ask him no questions, nor answer his, if he should put any. Once
you have seen him on his legs, let him make use of them after his own
fashion. You understand?"
"_Perfectamente, s'norita_. Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter."
"Thanks, good Benito. Uncle Silvio will like you all the better for it;
though _you_ mustn't tell him of it. Leave that to me. If he
shouldn't--if he shouldn't--well! one of these days there may be an
estate on the Rio Grande that will stand in need of a brave, faithful
steward--such an one as I know you to be."
"Every one knows that the Dona Isidora is gracious as she is fair."
"Thanks--thanks! One more request. The service I ask you to do for me
must be known to only three individuals. The third is he whom you are
sent to succour. You know the other two?"
"S'norita, I comprehend. It shall be as you wish it."
The mayor-domo is moving off on horseback, it need scarce be said. Men
of his calling rarely set foot to the earth--never upon a journey of
half a league in length.
"Stay! I had forgotten!" calls out the lady, arresting him. "You will
find a hat and serape. They are mine. Bring them, and I shall wait for
you here, or meet you somewhere along the way."
Bowing, he again rides away. Again is he summoned to stop.
"On second thoughts, Senor Benito, I've made up my mind to go along with
you. _Vamos_!"
The steward of Don Silvio is not surprised at caprice, when exhibited by
the niece of his employer. Without questioning, he obeys her command,
and once more heads his horse for the hill.
The lady follows. She has told him to ride in the advance. She has her
reason for departing from the aristocratic custom.
Benito is astray in his conjecture. It is not to caprice that he is
indebted for the companionship of the senorita. A serious motive takes
her back along the road.
She has forgotten something more than her wrapper and hat--that little
letter that has caused her so much annoyance.
The "good Benito" has not had _all_ her confidence; nor can he be
entrusted with this. _It_ might prove a scandal, graver than the
quarrel with Don Miguel Diaz.
She rides back in hopes of repossessing herself of the epistle. How
stupid not to have thought of it before!
How had El Coyote got hold of it? He must have had it from Jose!
Was her servant a traitor? Or had Diaz met him on the way, and forced
the letter from him?
To either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised.
On the part of Diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as
for Jose, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his
fidelity.
So run her thoughts as she re-ascends the slope, leading up from the
river bottom.
The summit is gained, and the opening entered; Isidora now riding side
by side with the mayor-domo.
No Miguel Diaz there--no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater
chagrin, not a scrap of paper!
There is her hat of vicuna wool--her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop
end of her lazo--nothing more.
"You may go home again, Senor Benito! The man thrown from his horse
must have recovered his senses--and, I suppose, his saddle too. Blessed
be the virgin! But remember, good Benito _Secrecy all the same.
Entiende, V_?"
"_Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora_."
The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of
the hill.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out
of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_
of a youthful hidalgo.
She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the
action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot
is for a second or two poised in the air.
Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure
to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the
horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce
have closed his eyes on the spectacle.
But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the
wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.
He is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the
strayed letter.
"What have you done with it, sirrah?"
"Delivered it, my lady."
"To whom?"
"I left it at--at--the _posada_," he replies, stammering and turning
pale. "Don Mauricio had gone out."
"A lie, _lepero_! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir!
I've seen it since."
"O Senora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty--indeed I am not."
"Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed
yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?"
"As I live, lady, it was not treason. He--he--forced it from me--by
threats--blows. I--I--was not paid."
"You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages
take that, and that, and that--"
For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each
repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.
He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by
the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the
excited horse.
Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the
chastisement cease.
"Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. _Al monte! al
monte_!"
With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the
discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide
himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket.
But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger
giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from
carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of
traitors!
Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be
present at a singular spectacle. The people--peons, vaqueros, and
employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral,
from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified
ejaculations. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the
woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the
intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the
Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.
"What is causing the commotion?"
This is the question asked by Isidora.
The mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the
individual thus interrogated.
A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.
The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of
Caso del Corvo--the son of the American haciendado himself.
Indians are reported to have done the deed.
Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio's
servitors.
It explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms.
The fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circumstance in that
land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more
especially when the man was a stranger, an "Americano."
But the report that Indians are abroad, is altogether a different
affair. In it there is an idea of danger.
The effect produced on Isidora is different. It is not fear of the
savages. The name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already
given her pain. She knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being
wonderfully beautiful. She has herself looked upon this beauty, and
cannot help believing in it.
A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this
peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There
is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother's death--only
the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.
The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the
fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.
Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful
interest; in short, an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the
murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man--by
_Maurice the mustanger_!
There are no Indians near.
This later edition of "novedades," while tranquilising Don Silvio's
servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under
the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her
horse in front of the village hotel.
For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to
the study of _La lengua Americana_. Her vocabulary of English words,
still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire
information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.
The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious
politeness.
She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with "full
particulars of the murder," so far as known.
With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez. On reaching
the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. The new cause of
excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so
regarded by the superstitious _peons_. A rare rumour has reached the
place. A man without a head--_un hombre descabezado_--has been seen
riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!
Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness
of the report. It is rife throughout the settlement. But there is
still surer confirmation of it. A party of Don Silvio's own people--
herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the _cavallero
descabezado_; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from
him, as they would have done from the devil!
The _vaqueros_--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the
account given. But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy
evidence of its truthfulness.
The sun goes down upon a _congeries_ of frightful rumours. Neither
these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent
their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly
to have formed--which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande. It makes no
difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will
have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly
apparition of a headless horseman! What to any other traveller should
cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.
She even proposes making the journey _alone_! Don Silvio offers an
escort--half a score of his _vaqueros_, armed to the teeth. The offer
is rejected. Will she take Benito? No. She prefers journeying alone.
In short, she is determined upon it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next morning she carries out this determination. By day-break she is in
the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the
direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!
Why has she thus deviated from her route? Is she straying?
She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression
upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps
confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by
the rein.
Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.
Happier for her, if she had.