The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ sat upon his horse, on its very edge, as calm as if he had been on the banks of the zequia, and directed the marking of the line. His horse showed no symptoms of nervousness. It was evident he was well-trained to such situations. Now and then he stretched out his neck, gazed down into the valley, and, recognising some of his kind below, uttered a shrill neigh. Carlos purposely kept him on the cliff, in order to accustom him to it before making the terrible trial.

      The line was soon traced, less than two lengths of the horse from the last grass on the turf. Vizcarra and Roblado would have insisted upon short measure; but their proposal to curtail it was received with murmurs of disapprobation and mutterings of “Shame!”

      What did these men want? Though not evident to the crowd, they certainly desired the death of the cibolero. Both had their reasons. Both hated the man. The cause or causes of their hatred were of late growth—with Roblado still later than his Comandante. He had observed something within the hour that had rendered him furious. He had observed the waving of that white kerchief; and as he stood by the stand he had seen to whom the “adios” was addressed. It had filled him with astonishment and indignation; and his language to Carlos had assumed a bullying and brutal tone.

      Horrible as such a supposition may seem, both he and Vizcarra would have rejoiced to see the cibolero tumble over the bluff. Horrible indeed it seems; but such were the men, and the place, and the times, that there is nothing improbable in it. On the contrary, cases of equal barbarity—wishes and acts still more inhuman—are by no means rare under the skies of “Nuevo Mexico.”

      The young ranchero, who had accompanied the party to the upper plain, insisted upon fair play. Though but a ranchero, he was classed among the “ricos,” and, being a fellow of spirit, urged Carlos’ rights, even in the face of the moustached and scowling militarios.

      “Here, Carlos!” cried he, while the arrangements were progressing; “I see you are bent on this madness; and since I cannot turn you from it, I shall not embarrass you. But you sha’n’t risk yourself for such a trifle. My purse! bet what sum you will.”

      As he said this, he held out a purse to the cibolero, which, from its bulk, evidently contained a large, amount.

      Carlos regarded the purse for a moment without making answer. He was evidently gratified by the noble offer. His countenance showed that he was deeply touched by the kindness of the youth. “No,” said he, at length; “no, Don Juan. I thank you with all my heart, but I cannot take your purse—one onza, nothing more. I should like to stake one against the Comandante.”

      “As many as you please,” urged the ranchero.

      “Thank you, Don Juan! only one—that with my own will be two.—Two onzas!—that, in faith, is the largest bet I have ever made. Vaya! a poor cibolero staking a double onza!”

      “Well, then,” replied Don Juan, “if you don’t, I shall. Colonel Vizcarra!” said he aloud, addressing himself to the Comandante, “I suppose you would like to win back your wager. Carlos will now take your bet for the onza, and I challenge you to place ten.”

      “Agreed!” said the Comandante, stiffly.

      “Dare you double it?” inquired the ranchero.

      “Dare I, sir?” echoed the Colonel, indignant at being thus challenged in the presence of the spectators. “Quadruple it, if you wish, sir.”

      “Quadruple then!” retorted the other. “Forty onzas that Carlos performs the feat!”

      “Enough! deposit your stakes!”

      The golden coins were counted out, and held by one of the bystanders, and judges were appointed.

      The arrangements having been completed, the spectators drew back upon the plain, and left the cibolero in full possession of the promontory—alone with his horse.

Chapter Seven.

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      All stood watching him with interested eyes. Every movement was noted.

      He first alighted from the saddle, stripped off his manga, had it carried back and placed out of the way. He next looked to his spurs, to see that the straps were properly buckled. After this he re-tied his sash, and placed the sombrero firmly on his head. He buttoned his velveteen calzoneros down nearly to his ankles, so that their leathern bottoms might not flap open and discommode him. His hunting-knife along with his “whip” were sent back to the charge of Don Juan.

      His attention was next turned to his horse, that stood all this while curving his neck proudly as though he divined that he was to be called upon for some signal service. The bridle was first scrutinised. The great bit—a Mameluke—was carefully examined, lest there might be some flaw or crack in the steel. The head-strap was buckled to its proper tightness, and then the reins were minutely scanned. These were of the hair of wild horses’ tails closely and neatly plaited. Leather might snap, there was no fear of breaking such cords as these.

      The saddle now had its turn. Passing from side to side, Carlos tried both stirrup-leathers, and examined the great wooden blocks which formed the stirrups. The girth was the last as well as most important object of his solicitude. He loosed the buckles on both sides, and then tightened them, using his knees to effect his purpose. When drawn to his liking, the tip of the finger could not have been passed under the strong leathern band.

      No wonder he observed all this caution. The snapping of a strap, or the slipping of a buckle, might have hurled him into eternity.

      Having satisfied himself that all was right, he gathered up the reins, and leaped lightly into the saddle.

      He first directed his horse at a walk along the cliff, and within a few feet of its edge. This was to strengthen the nerves both of himself and the animal. Presently the walk became a trot, and then a gentle canter. Even this was an exhibition fearful to behold. To those regarding it from below it was a beautiful but terrible spectacle.

      After a while he headed back towards the plain, and then stretching into a fair gallop—the gait in which he intended to approach the cliff—he suddenly reined up again, so as to throw his horse nearly on his flanks. Again he resumed the same gallop and again reined up; and this manoeuvre he repeated at least a dozen times, now with his horse’s head turned towards the cliffs, and now in the direction of the plain. Of course this gallop was far from being the full speed of the animal. That was not bargained for. To draw a horse up at race-course speed within two lengths of himself would be an utter impossibility, even by sacrificing the life of the animal. A shot passing through his heart would not check a racer in so short a space. A fair gallop was all that could be expected under the circumstances, and the judges expressed themselves satisfied with that which was exhibited before them. Carlos had put the question.

      At length he was seen to turn his horse towards the cliff, and take his firmest seat in the saddle. The determined glance of his eyes showed that the moment had come for the final trial.

      A slight touch of the spur set the noble brute in motion, and in another second he was in full gallop, and heading directly for the cliff!

      The gaze of all was fixed with intense earnestness upon that reckless horseman. Every heart heaved with emotion; and, beyond their quick breathing, not an utterance escaped from the spectators. The only sounds heard were the hoof-strokes of the horse as they rang back СКАЧАТЬ