If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater
contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the
Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened
away from the _jacale_. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions,
revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from
giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of
her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are
not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky
smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock
her!
She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the
umbrageous cypress--fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade
appears more desirable than the sunlight above.
It is not this that has caused her to pull up. There is a thought in
her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. It is evinced by her
clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing
eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her
white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.
All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken--all
that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!
She has paused at the prompting of a demon--with an infernal purpose
half formed in her mind. Her muttered speeches proclaim it. "I should
have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly
strife?"
"If I killed her, what would it avail? It could not win me back _his_
heart--lost, lost, without hope! Yes; those words were from the secret
depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place!
Oh! there is no hope for me!
"'Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. If I kill him? Ah,
then; what would life be to me? Prom that hour an endless anguish!
"Oh! it is anguish now! I cannot endure it. I can think of no solace--
if not in revenge. Not only she, he also--both must die!
"But not yet--not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall
feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. Mother of God,
strengthen me to take vengeance!"
She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the
ravine.
On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop--even for the animal to
breathe itself--but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that
appears undetermined. Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the
guidance of her steed--only the spur to urge him on.
Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to
the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?
His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as
though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one
absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things--even of
the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black
cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her
steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.
She sees a _caballada_ out upon the open prairie!
Indians? No. White men--less by their colour, than the caparison of
their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show
it; but not their skins, discoloured by the "stoor" of the parched
plain.
"_Los Tejanos_!" is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed
in regard to their nationality.
"A troop of their _rangers_ scouring the country for Comanches, I
suppose? The Indians are not here? If I've heard aright at the
Settlement, they should be far on the other side."
Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no
desire to encounter "Los Tejanos." They are nothing to her, or her
purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way.
But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the
gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.
It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not
appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back
into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.
She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of
her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with
his rider.
It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so
inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of
being overtaken--especially among the winding ways of the chapparal,
well known to her.
At first she _is_ so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed.
Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx
of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.
Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.
"Rangers--no! Too well dressed for those ragged _vagabundos_? Must be
the party of `searchers,' of which I've heard--led by the father of--
Yes--yes it is they. _Ay Dios_! here is a chance of revenge, and
without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!"
Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open
ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the
horsemen, now near.
She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.
In another minute she is in their midst--the mounted circle close drawn
around her.
There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired--uniform
only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their
habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all;
scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.
Though it is an _entourage_ to cause trembling--especially in a woman--
Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She
anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded
her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than
middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to
question her.
But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the
murdered man--of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly,
shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!
"Can you speak French, mademoiselle?" asks Woodley Poindexter,
addressing her in this tongue--in the belief that it may give him a
better chance of being understood. "Speak better Inglees--very little,
sir."
"Oh! English. So much the better for us. Tell me, miss; have you seen
anybody out here--that is--have you met any one, riding about, or
camped, or halted anywhere?"
Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.
The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the
circumstances admit.
"May I ask where you live?"
"On the Rio Grande, senor?"
"Have you come direct from there?"
"No; from the Leona."
"From the Leona!"
"It's the niece of old Martinez," interposes one of the party. "His
plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter."
"Si--yes--true that. _Sobrina_--niece of Don Silvio Martinez. _Yo
soy_."
"Then you've come from his place, direct? Pardon me for appearing rude.
I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle
curiosity, or impertinence. We have serious reasons--more than serious:
they are solemn."
"From the Hacienda Martinez direct," answers Isidora, without appearing
to notice the last remark. "Two hours ago--_un pocito mas_--my uncle's
house I leave."
"Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a--murder--
committed?"
"Si, senor. Yesterday at uncle Silvio's it was told."
"But to-day--when you left--was there any fresh news in the Settlement?
We've had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. Have you
heard anything, miss?"
"That people were gone after the _asesinado_. Your party, senor?"
"Yes--yes--it meant us, no doubt. You heard nothing more?"
"Oh, yes; something very strange, senores; so strange, you may think I
am jesting."
"What is it?" inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the
eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.
"There is a story of one being seen without a head--on horseback--out
here too. _Valga me Dios_! we must now be near the place? It was by
the Nueces--not far from the ford--where the road crosses for the Rio
Grande. So the vaqueros said."
"Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?"
"Si, senores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the
spectacle."
Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a
strange story causes among the "Tejanos." There is an exhibition of
interest, but no astonishment. A voice explains:
"We've seen it too--that headless horseman--at a distance. Did your
vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?"
"_Santissima_! no."
"Can _you_ tell us, miss?"
"I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I've said. What it may be, _quien
sabe_?"
There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on
what they have heard.
The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original
interrogatory.
"Have you met, or seen, any one, miss--out here, I mean?"
"Si--yes--I have."
"You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe--"
"A lady."
"Lady!" echo several voices.
"Si, senores."
"What sort of a lady?"
"Una Americana."
"An American lady!--out here? Alone?"
"Si, senores."
"Who?"
"_Quien sabe_?"
"You don't know her? What was she like?"
"Like?--like?"
"Yes; how was she dressed?"
"_Vestido de caballo_."
"On horseback, then?"
"On horseback."
"Where did you meet the lady you speak of?"
"Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal."
"Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?"
"A _jacale_. I only know of that."