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

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Chapter Five.

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      Carlos, seated in his saddle, was silent for a while. He seemed puzzled for a reply. The manner of the two officers, as well as Roblado’s speech, stung him. To have proceeded to the performance of this very common feat after all others had given over, merely on the banter of Roblado and the Comandante, would have been vexatious enough; and yet to refuse it would lay him open to jeers and insinuations; and, perhaps, this was their design.

      He had reason to suspect some sinister motive. He knew something of both the men—of their public character—he could not otherwise, as they were lords paramount of the place. But of their private character, too, he had some knowledge, and that was far from being to their credit. With regard to Roblado, the cibolero had particular reasons for disliking him—very particular reasons; and but that the former was still ignorant of a certain fact, he had quite as good a reason for reciprocating the dislike. Up to this moment Roblado knew nothing of the cibolero, who for the most part of his time was absent from the valley. Perhaps the officer had never encountered him before, or at all events had never changed words with him. Carlos knew him better; and long ere this encounter, for reasons already hinted at, had regarded him with dislike.

      This feeling was not lessened by the conduct of the officer on the present occasion. On the contrary, the haughty jeering tones fell bitterly upon the ear of the cibolero. He replied, at length, “Captain Roblado, I have said it is not worth my while to perform what a muchachito of ten years old would hardly deem a feat. I would not wrench my horse’s mouth for such a pitiful exhibition as running him up on the edge of that harmless gutter; but if—”

      “Well, if what?” eagerly inquired Roblado, taking advantage of the pause, and half suspecting Carlos’ design.

      “If you feel disposed to risk a doubloon—I am but a poor hunter, and cannot place more—I shall attempt what a muchachito of ten years would consider a feat perhaps.”

      “And what may that be, Señor Cibolero?” asked the officer, sneeringly.

      “I will check my horse at full gallop on the brow of yonder cliff!”

      “Within two lengths from the brow?”

      “Within two lengths—less—the same distance that is traced here on the banks of the zequia!”

      The surprise created by this announcement held the bystanders for some moments in silence. It was a proposal of such wild and reckless daring that it was difficult to believe that the maker of it was in earnest. Even the two officers were for a moment staggered by it, and inclined to fancy the cibolero was not serious but mocking them.

      The cliff to which Carlos had pointed was part of the bluff that hemmed in the valley. It was a sort of promontory, however, that jutted out from the general line, so as to be a conspicuous object from the plain below. Its brow was of equal height with the rest of the precipice, of which it was a part—a sort of buttress—and the grassy turf that appeared along its edge was but the continuation of the upper plateau. Its front to the valley was vertical, without terrace or ledge, although horizontal seams traversing its face showed a stratification of lime and sandstone alternating with each other. From the sward upon the valley to the brow above the height was one thousand feet sheer. To gaze up to it was a trial to delicate nerves—to look down put the stoutest to the proof.

      Such was the cliff upon whose edge the cibolero proposed to rein up his steed. No wonder the proposal was received with a surprise that caused a momentary silence in the crowd. When that passed, voices were heard exclaiming—“Impossible!”

      “He is mad!”

      “Pah! he’s joking!”

      “Esta burlando los militarios!” (He’s mocking the military gents); and such-like expressions.

      Carlos sat playing with his bridle-rein, and waiting for a reply.

      He had not long to wait. Vizcarra and Roblado muttered some hasty words between themselves; and then, with an eagerness of manner, Roblado cried out—

      “I accept the wager!”

      “And I another onza!” added the Comandante.

      “Señores,” said Carlos, with an air of apparent regret, “I am sorry I cannot take both. This doubloon is all I have in the world; and it’s not likely I could borrow another just now.”

      As he said this Carlos regarded the crowd with a smile, but many of these were in no humour for smiling. They were really awed by the terrible fate which they believed awaited the reckless cibolero. A voice, however, answered him:—

      “Twenty onzas, Carlos, for any other purpose. But I cannot encourage this mad project.”

      It was the young ranchero, his former backer, who spoke.

      “Thank you, Don Juan,” replied the cibolero. “I know you would lend them. Thank you all the same. Do not fear! I’ll win the onza. Ha! ha! ha! I haven’t been twenty years in the saddle to be bantered by a Gachupino.”

      “Sir!” thundered Vizcarra and Roblado in a breath, at the same time grasping the hilts of their swords, and frowning in a fierce threatening manner.

      “Oh! gentlemen, don’t be offended,” said Carlos, half sneeringly. “It only slipped from my tongue. I meant no insult, I assure you.”

      “Then keep your tongue behind your teeth, my good fellow,” threatened Vizcarra. “Another slip of the kind may cost you a fall.”

      “Thank you, Señor Comandante,” replied Carlos, still laughing. “Perhaps I’ll take your advice.”

      The only rejoinder uttered by the Comandante was a fierce “Carrajo!” which Carlos did not notice; for at this moment his sister, having heard of his intention, sprang down from the carreta and came running forward, evidently in great distress.

      “Oh, brother Carlos!” she cried, reaching out her arms, and grasping him by the knees, “Is it true? Surely it is not true?”

      “What, hermanita?” (little sister), he asked with a smile.

      “That you—”

      She could utter no more, but turned her eyes, and pointed to the cliff.

      “Certainly, Rosita, and why not? For shame, girl! Don’t be alarmed—there’s nought to fear, I assure you—I’ve done the like before.”

      “Dear, dear Carlos, I know you are a brave horseman—none braver—but oh! think of the danger—Dios de mi alma! think of—”

      “Pshaw, sister! don’t shame me before the people—come to mother!—hear what she will say. I warrant she won’t regard it.” And, so saying, the cibolero rode up to the carreta, followed by his sister.

      Poor Rosita! Eyes gleamed upon you at that moment that saw you for the first time—eyes in whose dark orbs lay an expression that boded you no good. Your fair form, the angelic beauty of your face—perhaps СКАЧАТЬ