The Headless Horseman (Horror Classic). Майн Рид

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      “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 to keep him upon the prairies. At first, he might have condescended to make such an acknowledgment—but he had of late become thoroughly imbued with the pride of the professional hunter.

      His reply might have appeared chillingly prosaic.

      “I fear, miss, you would soon tire of such a rude life—no roof to shelter you—no society—no—”

      “And you, sir; how is it you have not grown tired of it? If I have been correctly informed—your friend, Mr Stump, is my authority—you’ve been leading this life for several years. Is it so?”

      “Quite true: I have no other calling.”

      “Indeed! I wish I could say the same. I envy you your lot. I’m sure I could enjoy existence amid these beautiful scene for ever and ever!”

      “Alone? Without companions? Without even a roof to shelter you?”

      “I did not say that. But, you’ve not told me. How do you live? Have you a house?”

      “It does not deserve such a high-sounding appellation,” laughingly replied the mustanger. “Shed would more correctly serve for the description of my jacalé, which may be classed among the lowliest in the land.”

      “Where is it? Anywhere near where we’ve been to-day?”

      “It is not very far from where we are now. A mile, perhaps. You see those tree-tops to the west? They shade my hovel from the sun, and shelter it from the storm.”

      “Indeed! How I should like to have a look at it! A real rude hut, you say?”

      “In that I have but spoken the truth.”

      “Standing solitary?”

      “I know of no other within ten miles of it.”

      “Among trees, and picturesque?”

      “That depends upon the eye that beholds it.”

      “I should like to see it, and judge. Only a mile you say?”

      “A mile there—the same to return—would be two.”

      “That’s nothing. It would not take us a score of minutes.”

      “Should we not be trespassing on the patience of your people?”

      “On your hospitality, perhaps? Excuse me, Mr Gerald!” continued the young lady, a slight shadow suddenly overcasting her countenance. “I did not think of it! Perhaps you do not live alone? Some other shares your—jacalé—as you call it?”

      “Oh, yes, I have a companion—one who has been with me ever since I—”

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