The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ to a gap; which, when its bars were up, completed an enclosure that no horse could either enter or escape from.

      “What is it for?” inquired the lady, indicating the construction of split rails.

      “A mustang trap,” said Maurice.

      “A mustang trap?”

      “A contrivance for catching wild horses. They stray between the wings; which, as you perceive, are carried far out upon the plain. The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. Once within the corral, there is no trouble in taking them. They are then lazoed at leisure.”

      “Poor things! Is it yours? You are a mustanger? You told us so?”

      “I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way. I prefer being alone, and rarely consort with men of my calling. Therefore I could not make use of this contrivance, which requires at least a score of drivers. My weapon, if I may dignify it by the name, is this—the lazo.”

      “You use it with great skill? I’ve heard that you do; besides having myself witnessed the proof.”

      “It is complimentary of you to say so. But you are mistaken. There are men on these prairies ‘to the manner born’—Mexicans—who regard, what you are pleased to call skill, as sheer clumsiness.”

      “Are you sure, Mr. Gerald, that your modesty is not prompting you to overrate your rivals? I have been told the very opposite.”

      “By whom?”

      “Your friend, Mr. Zebulon Stump.”

      “Ha—ha! Old Zeb is but indifferent authority on the subject of the lazo.”

      “I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole. “They tell me ’tis not a lady-like accomplishment. What matters—so long as it is innocent, and gives one a gratification?”

      “Not lady-like! Surely ’tis as much so as archery, or skating? I know a lady who is very expert at it.”

      “An American lady?”

      “No; she’s Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes across to the Leona—where she has relatives.”

      “A young lady?”

      “Yes. About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter.”

      “Size?”

      “Not so tall as you.”

      “But much prettier, of course? The Mexican ladies, I’ve heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain Americanos.”

      “I think Creoles are not included in that category,” was the reply, worthy of one whose lips had been in contact with the famed boulder of Blarney.

      “I wonder if I could ever learn to fling it?” pursued the young Creole, pretending not to have been affected by the complimentary remark. “Am I too old? I’ve been told that the Mexicans commence almost in childhood; that that is why they attain to such wonderful skill?”

      “Not at all,” replied Maurice, encouragingly. “ ’Tis possible, with a year or two’s practice, to become a proficient lazoer. I, myself, have only been three years at; and—”

      He paused, perceiving he was about to commit himself to a little boasting.

      “And you are now the most skilled in all Texas?” said his companion, supplying the presumed finale of his speech.

      “No, no!” laughingly rejoined he. “That is but a mistaken belief on the part of Zeb Stump, who judges my skill by comparison, making use of his own as a standard.”

      “Is it modesty?” reflected the Creole. “Or is this man mocking me? If I thought so, I should go mad!”

      “Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?” said Maurice, observing her abstracted air. “Your father may be alarmed by your long absence? Your brother—your cousin—”

      “Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed either pique, or compunction. “I was not thinking of that. Thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. Let us go back!”

      Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur—both acts being performed with an air of languid reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the “mustang trap.”

      Once more upon the prairie, Maurice conducted his protégée by the most direct route towards the spot where they had parted from the picnic party.

      Their backward way led them across a peculiar tract of country—what in Texas is called a “weed prairie,” an appellation bestowed by the early pioneers, who were not very choice in their titles.

      The Louisianian saw around her a vast garden of gay flowers, laid out in one grand parterre, whose borders were the blue circle of the horizon—a garden designed, planted, nurtured, by the hand of Nature.

      The most plebeian spirit cannot pass through such a scene without receiving an impression calculated to refine it. I’ve known the illiterate trapper—habitually blind to the beautiful—pause in the midst of his “weed prairie,” with the flowers rising breast high around him, gaze for a while upon their gaudy corollas waving beyond the verge of his vision; then continue his silent stride with a gentler feeling towards his fellow-man, and a firmer faith in the grandeur of his God.

      “Pardieu! ’tis very beautiful!” exclaimed the enthusiastic Creole, reining up as if by an involuntary instinct.

      “You admire these wild scenes, Miss Poindexter?”

      “Admire them? Something more, sir! I see around me all that is bright and beautiful in nature: verdant turf, trees, flowers, all that we take such pains to plant or cultivate; and such, too, as we never succeed in equalling. There seems nothing wanting to make this picture complete—’tis a park perfect in everything!”

      “Except the mansion?”

      “That would spoil it for me. Give me the landscape where there is not a house in sight—slate, chimney, or tile—to interfere with the outlines of the trees. Under their shadow could I live; under their shadow let me—”

      The word: “love” uppermost in her thoughts—was upon the tip of her tongue.

      She dexterously restrained herself from pronouncing it—changing it to one of very different signification—“die.”

      It was cruel of the young Irishman not to tell her that she was speaking his own sentiments—repeating them to the very echo. To this was the prairie indebted for his presence. But for a kindred inclination—amounting almost to a passion—he might never have been known as Maurice the mustanger.

      The romantic sentiment is not satisfied with a “sham.” It will soon consume itself, unless supported by the consciousness of reality. The mustanger would have been humiliated by the thought, that he chased the wild horse as a mere pastime—a pretext СКАЧАТЬ