Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid. Майн Рид

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the lorgnette to her eyes, and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure. “Who can she be?” was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down, and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny. “A Mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. Some grand señora, I suppose? I thought they had all gone to the other side of the Rio Grande. A basket carried by the attendant. I wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the Port – it may be the village. ’Tis the third time I’ve seen her passing within this week? She must be from some of the plantations below!”

      What an outlandish style of riding! Par Dieu! I’m told it’s not uncommon among the daughters of Anahuac. What if I were to take to it myself? No doubt it’s much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle were seen in the States it would be styled unfeminine. How our Puritan mammas would scream out against it! I think I hear them. Ha, ha, ha!

      The mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration. There came a change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun. It was not a return to that melancholy so late shadowing it; though something equally serious – as might be told by the sudden blanching of her cheeks.

      The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. An antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. The creature appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the horse – a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full gallop in pursuit of the affrighted “pronghorn;” while his rider, with her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air!

      “What is the woman going to do?” was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. “Ha! As I live, ’tis a lazo!”

      The señora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the national implement: – by flinging its noose around the antelope’s neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks!

      The attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to administer the coup de grace. Then, flinging the carcass over the croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after his mistress – who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf, and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for!

      It was at that moment – when the noose was seen circling in the air – that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole. It was not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character – a thought far more unpleasant.

      Nor did it pass speedily away. It was still there – though a white hand holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being seen – still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the screening of the acacias.

      “I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she! My own age, he said – not quite so tall. The description suits – so far as one may judge at this distance. Has her home on the Rio Grande. Comes occasionally to the Leona, to visit some relatives. Who are they? Why did I not ask him the name? I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she!”

      Chapter 25

      A Gift Ungiven

      For some minutes after the lady of the lazo and her attendant had passed out of sight, Louise Poindexter pursued the train of reflection – started by the somewhat singular episode of which she had been spectator. Her attitude, and air, of continued dejection told that her thoughts had not been directed into a more cheerful channel.

      Rather the reverse. Once or twice before had her mind given way to imaginings, connected with that accomplished equestrienne[182]; and more than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road. The incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature.

      It was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump the hunter.

      The face of the Creole became bright again – almost to gaiety. There was something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest backwoodsman.

      “The man I was wanting to see!” she exclaimed in joyous accents. “He can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who she is. He must have met her on the road. That will enable me to introduce the subject, without Zeb having any suspicion of my object. Even with him I must be circumspect – after what has happened. Ah, me! Not much should I care, if I were sure of his caring for me. How provoking his indifference! And to me – Louise Poindexter! Par dieu! Let it proceed much further, and I shall try to escape from the toils if – if – I should crush my poor heart in the attempt!”

      It need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted, was not Zeb Stump.

      Her next speech, however, was addressed to Zeb, as he reined up in front of the hacienda.

      “Dear Mr Stump!” hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. “I’m so glad to see you. Dismount, and come up here! I know you’re a famous climber, and won’t mind a flight of stone stairs. There’s a view from this housetop that will reward you for your trouble.”

      “Thur’s suthin’ on the house-top theear,” rejoined the hunter, “the view o’ which ’ud reward Zeb Stump for climbin’ to the top o’ a steamboat chimbly; ’an thet’s yurself, Miss Lewaze. I’ll kum up, soon as I ha’ stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Gee-up, ole gal!” he continued, addressing himself to the mare, after he had dismounted, “Hold up yur head, an may be Plute hyur ’ll gie ye a wheen o’ corn shucks for yur breakfist.”

      “Ho – ho! Mass ’Tump,” interposed the sable coachman, making his appearance in the patio. “Dat same do dis nigga – gub um de shucks wi’ de yaller corn inside ob dem. Ho – ho! You gwup ’tairs to de young missa; an Plute he no ’gleck yar ole mar.”

      “Yur a dod-rotted good sample o’ a nigger, Plute; an the nix occashun I shows about hyur, I’ll fetch you a ’possum – wi’ the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. Thet’s what I’m boun’ ter do.”

      After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride.

      He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.

      Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.

      “Tell me, Mr Stump!” said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb’s grey eye – “You must know all. How is he? Are his wounds of a dangerous nature?”

      “If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon – ”

      “No – СКАЧАТЬ