The War Trail | Page 9

This declaration scarcely astonished me; I was half prepared for it.
During our wild gallop, I had noticed one or two circumstances which
led me to suspect that the spy I pursued was a female. As the mustang
sprung over the zequia, the flowing skirt of the manga was puffed
upward, and hung for some moments spread out in the air. A velvet
bodice beneath, a tunic-like skirt, the tournure of the form, all
impressed me as singular for a cavallero, however rich and young. The
limbs I could not see, as the goat-skin armas-de-agua were drawn over
them; but I caught a glimpse of a gold spur, and a heel of a tiny red
boot to which it was attached. The clubbed hair, too, loosened by the
violent motion, had fallen backward, and in two thick plaits, slightly
dishevelled, rested upon the croup of the horse. A young Indian's might
have been equally as long, but his tresses would have been jet-black
and coarse-grained, whereas those under my eyes were soft, silky, and
nut-brown. Neither the style of riding--a la Duchesse de Berri--nor the
manlike costume of manga and hat, were averse to the idea that the
rider was a woman. Both the style and costume are common to the
rancheras of Mexico. Moreover, as the mustang made his last double, I
had caught a near view of the side face of the rider. The features of no
man--not of the Trojan shepherd, not of Adonis or Endymion--were so
exquisitely chiselled as they. Certainly a woman! Her declaration at

once put an end to my conjectures, but, as I have said, did not astonish
me.
I was astonished, however, by its tone and manner. Instead of being
uttered in accents of alarm, it was pronounced as coolly as if the whole
thing had been a jest! Sadness, not supplication, was the prevailing tone,
which was further carried out as she knelt to the ground, pressed her
lips to the muzzle of the still breathing mustang, and exclaimed--
"Ay-de-mi! pobre yegua! muerte! muerte!" (Alas me! poor mare! dead!
dead!)
"A woman?" said I, feigning astonishment. My interrogatory was
unheeded; she did not even look up.
"Ay-de-mi! pobre yegua! Lola, Lolita!" she repeated, as coolly as if the
dead mustang was the only object of her thoughts, and I, the armed
assassin, fifty miles from the spot! "A woman?" I again ejaculated--in
my embarrassment scarcely knowing what to say.
"Si, senor; nada mas--que quiere V.?" (Yes, sir nothing more--what do
you want?)
As she made this reply, she rose to her feet, and stood confronting me
without the slightest semblance of fear. So unexpected was the answer,
both in tone and sentiment, that for the life of me I could not help
breaking into a laugh.
"You are merry, sir. You have made me sad; you have killed my
favourite!"
I shall not easily forget the look that accompanied these words--sorrow,
anger, contempt, defiance, were expressed in one and the same glance.
My laughter was suddenly checked; I felt humiliated in that proud
presence.
"Senorita," I replied, "I deeply regret the necessity I have been under: it
might have been worse--"

"And how, pray?--how worse?" demanded she, interrupting me.
"My pistol might have been aimed at yourself, but for a suspicion--"
"Carrambo!" cried she, again interrupting me, "it could not have been
worse! I loved that creature dearly--dearly as I do my life--as I love my
father--pobre yegua--yeguita--ita--ita!"
And as she thus wildly expressed herself, she bent down, passed her
arms around the neck of the mustang, and once more pressed her lips to
its velvet muzzle. Then gently closing its eyelids, she rose to an erect
attitude, and stood with folded arms, regarding the lifeless form with a
sad and bitter expression of countenance.
I scarcely knew what to do. I was in a dilemma with my fair captive. I
would have given a month of my "payroll" to have restored the spotted
mustang to life; but as that was out of the question, I bethought me of
some means of making restitution to its owner. An offer of money
would not be delicate. What then?
A thought occurred to me, that promised to relieve me from my
embarrassment. The eagerness of the rich Mexicans to obtain our large
American horses--frisones, as they term them--was well known
throughout the army. Fabulous prices were often paid for them by these
ricos, who wanted them for display upon the Paseo. We had many
good half-bred bloods in the troop; one of these, thought I, might be
acceptable even to a lady who had lost her pet.
I made the offer as delicately as I could. It was rejected with scorn!
"What, senor!" cried she, striking the ground with her foot till the
rowels rang--"what?