Иностранный язык: учимся у классиков - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

“But, Miss Poindexter,” stammered the guide, still doubting the powers of the spotted mustang, “suppose she cannot? If you have any doubts, had you not better abandon her? I know that my horse can bear us both to the other side, and with safety. If the mustang be left behind, in all likelihood we shall escape further pursuit. The wild steeds – ”

“Leave Luna behind! Leave her to be trampled to death, or torn to pieces – as you say she would! No – no, Mr Gerald. I prize the spotted mare too much for that. She goes with me: over the chasm, if we can. If not, we both break our necks at the bottom. Come, my pretty pet! This is he who chased, captured, and conquered you. Show him you’re not yet so subdued, but that you can escape, when close pressed, from the toils of either friend or enemy. Show him one of those leaps, of which you’ve done a dozen within the week. Now for a flight in the air!”

Without even waiting for the stimulus of example, the courageous Creole rode recklessly at the arroyo; and cleared it by one of those leaps of which she had “done a dozen within the week.”

There were three thoughts in the mind of the mustanger – rather might they be called emotions – as he sate watching that leap. The first was simple astonishment; the second, intense admiration. The third was not so easily defined. It had its origin in the words – “I prize the spotted mare too much for that.”

“Why?” reflected he, as he drove his spur-rowels into the flanks of the blood bay; and the reflection lasted as long as Castro was suspended in mid-air over the yawning abysm.

Cleverly as the chasm was crossed, it did not ensure the safety of the fugitives. It would be no obstruction to the steeds. Maurice knew it, and looked back with undiminished apprehension.

Rather was it increased. The delay, short as it was, had given the pursuers an advantage. They were nearer than ever! They would not be likely to make a moment’s pause, but clear the crevasse at a single bound of their sure-footed gallop.

And then – what then?

The mustanger put the question to himself. He grew paler, as the reply puzzled him.

On alighting from the leap, he had not paused for a second, but gone galloping on – as before, close followed by his fugitive companion. His pace, however, was less impetuous. He seemed to ride with irresolution, or as if some half-formed resolve was restraining him.

When about a score lengths from the edge of the arroyo, he reined up and wheeled round – as if he had suddenly formed the determination to ride back!

“Miss Poindexter!” he called out to the young lady, at that moment just up with him. “You must ride on alone.”

“But why, sir?” asked she, as she jerked the muzzle of the mustang close up to its counter, bringing it almost instantaneously to a stand.

“If we keep together we shall be overtaken. I must do something to stay those savage brutes. Here there is a chance – nowhere else. For heaven’s sake don’t question me! Ten seconds of lost time, and ’twill be too late. Look ahead yonder. You perceive the sheen of water. ’Tis a prairie pond. Ride straight towards it. You will find yourself between two high fences. They come together at the pond. You’ll see a gap, with bars. If I’m not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you.”

“And you, sir? You are going to undergo some great danger?”

“Have no fear for me! Alone, I shall run but little risk. ’Tis the mustang. – For mercy’s sake, gallop forward! Keep the water under your eyes. Let it guide you like a beacon fire. Remember to close the gap behind you. Away – away!”

For a second or two the young lady appeared irresolute – as if reluctant to part company with the man who was making such efforts to ensure her safety – perhaps at the peril of his own.

By good fortune she was not one of those timid maidens who turn frantic at a crisis, and drag to the bottom the swimmer who would save them. She had faith in the capability of her counsellor – believed that he knew what he was about – and, once more spurring the mare into a gallop, she rode off in a direct line for the prairie pond.

At the same instant, Maurice had given the rein to his horse, and was riding in the opposite direction – back to the place where they had leaped the arroyo!

On parting from his companion, he had drawn from his saddle holster the finest weapon ever wielded upon the prairies – either for attack or defence, against Indian, buffalo, or bear. It was the six-chambered revolver of Colonel Colt – not the spurious improvement of Deane, Adams, and a host of retrograde imitators – but the genuine article from the “land of wooden nutmegs,” with the Hartford[156] brand upon its breech.

“They must get over the narrow place where we crossed,” muttered he, as he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the arroyo.

“If I can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others from attempting the leap; or delay them – long enough for the mustang to make its escape. The big sorrel is leading. He will make the spring first. The pistol’s good for a hundred paces. He’s within range now!”

Simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter. The largest of the stallions – a sorrel in colour – rolled headlong upon the sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the leap.

Half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand; and then the whole cavallada!

The mustanger stayed not to note their movements. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond.

Whether dismayed by the fall of their chief – or whether it was that his dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the chasm could have been cleared at a leap – the stallions abandoned the pursuit; and Maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his fellow fugitive.

He overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the pond. She had obeyed him in everything – except as to the closing of the gap. He found it open – the bars lying scattered over the ground. He found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.

The peril was passed.

Chapter 17

The Mustang Trap

No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked interrogatively around her.

There was a small lake – in Texan phraseology a “pond” – with countless horse-tracks visible along its shores, proving that the place was frequented by wild horses – their excessive number showing it to be a favourite watering place. There was a high rail fence – constructed so as to enclose the pond, and a portion of the contiguous prairie, with two diverging wings, carried far across the plain, forming a funnel-shaped approach 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[157], 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 protegee 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 jacale, 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 – jacale – as you call it?”

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

The shadow became sensibly darker.

Before the mustanger could finish his speech, his listener had pictured to herself a certain image, that might answer to the description of his companion: a girl of her own age – perhaps more inclining to embonpoint[158] – with a skin of chestnut brown; eyes of almond shade, set piquantly oblique to the lines of the nose; teeth of more than pearly purity; a tinge of crimson upon the cheeks; hair like Castro’s tail; beads and bangles around neck, arms, and ankles; a short kirtle elaborately embroidered; mocassins covering small feet; and fringed leggings, laced upon limbs of large development. Such were the style and equipments of the supposed companion, who had suddenly become outlined in the imagination of Louise Poindexter.

“Your fellow tenant of the jacale might not like being intruded upon by visitors – more especially a stranger?”

“On the contrary, he’s but too glad to see visitors at any time – whether strangers or acquaintances. My foster-brother is the last man to shun society; of which, poor fellow! he sees precious little on the Alamo.”

“Your foster-brother?”

“Yes. Phelim O’Neal by name – like myself a native of the Emerald Isle[159], and shire of Galway; only perhaps speaking a little better brogue than mine.”

“Oh! the Irish brogue. I should so like to hear it spoken by a native of Galway. I am told that theirs is the richest. Is it so, Mr Gerald?”

“Being a Galwegian myself, my judgment might not be reliable; but if you will condescend to accept Phelim’s hospitality for half-an-hour, he will, no doubt, give you an opportunity of judging for yourself.”

“I should be delighted. ’Tis something so new. Let papa and the rest of them wait. There are plenty of ladies without me; or the gentlemen may amuse themselves by tracing up our tracks. ’Twill be as good a horse hunt as they are likely to have. Now, sir, I’m ready to accept your hospitality.”

“There’s not much to offer you, I fear. Phelim has been several days by himself, and as he’s but an indifferent hunter, his larder is likely to be low. ’Tis fortunate you had finished luncheon before the stampede[160].”

It was not Phelim’s larder that was leading Louise Poindexter out of her way, nor yet the desire to listen to his Connemara pronunciation. It was not curiosity to look at the jacale of the mustanger; but a feeling of a far more irresistible kind, to which she was yielding, as if she believed it to be her fate!

She paid a visit to the lone hut, on the Alamo; she entered under its roof; she scanned with seeming interest its singular penates; and noted, with pleased surprise, the books, writing materials, and other chattels that betokened the refinement of its owner; she listened with apparent delight to the palthogue[161] of the Connemara man, who called her a “coleen bawn;” she partook of Phelim’s hospitality – condescendingly tasting of everything offered, except that which was most urgently pressed upon her, “a dhrap of the crayther, drawn fresh from the dimmyjan;” and finally made her departure from the spot, apparently in the highest spirits.

Alas! her delight was short-lived: lasting only so long as it was sustained by the excitement of the novel adventure. As she recrossed the flower prairie, she found time for making a variety of reflections; and there was one that chilled her to the very core of her heart.

Was it the thought that she had been acting wrongly in keeping her father, her brother, and friends in suspense about her safety? Or had she become conscious of playing a part open to the suspicion of being unfeminine?

Not either. The cloud that darkened her brow in the midst of that blossoming brightness, was caused by a different, and far more distressing, reflection. During all that day, in the journey from the fort, after overtaking her in the chase, in the pursuit while protecting her, lingering by her side on the shore of the lake, returning across the prairie, under his own humble roof – in short everywhere – her companion had only been polite – had only behaved as a gentleman!

Chapter 18

Jealousy upon the Trail

Of the two-score rescuers, who had started in pursuit of the runaway, but few followed far. Having lost sight of the wild mares, the mustang, and the mustanger, they began to lose sight of one another; and before long became dispersed upon the prairie – going single, in couples, or in groups of three and four together. Most of them, unused to tracking up a trail, soon strayed from that taken by the manada; branching off upon others, made, perhaps, by the same drove upon some previous stampede.

The dragoon escort, in charge of a young officer – a fresh fledgling from West Point – ran astray upon one of these ramifications, carrying the hindmost of the field along with it.

It was a rolling prairie through which the pursuit was conducted, here and there intersected by straggling belts of brushwood. These, with the inequalities of the surface, soon hid the various pursuing parties from one another; and in twenty minutes after the start, a bird looking from the heavens above, might have beheld half a hundred horsemen, distributed into half a score of groups – apparently having started from a common centre – spurring at full speed towards every quarter of the compass!

But one was going in the right direction – a solitary individual, mounted upon a large strong-limbed chestnut horse; that, without any claim to elegance of shape, was proving the possession both of speed and bottom. The blue frock-coat of half military cut, and forage cap of corresponding colour, were distinctive articles of dress habitually worn by the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry – Cassius Calhoun. He it was who directed the chestnut on the true trail; while with whip and spur he was stimulating the animal to extraordinary efforts. He was himself stimulated by a thought – sharp as his own spurs – that caused him to concentrate all his energies upon the abject in hand.

Like a hungry hound he was laying his head along the trail, in hopes of an issue that might reward him for his exertions.

What that issue was he had but vaguely conceived; but on occasional glance towards his holsters – from which protruded the butts of a brace of pistols – told of some sinister design that was shaping itself in his soul.

But for a circumstance that assisted him, he might, like the others, have gone astray. He had the advantage of them, however, in being guided by two shoe-tracks he had seen before. One, the larger, he recollected with a painful distinctness. He had seen it stamped upon a charred surface, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie. Yielding to an undefined instinct, he had made a note of it in his memory, and now remembered it.

Thus directed, the ci-devant captain arrived among the copses, and rode into the glade where the spotted mustang had been pulled up in such a mysterious manner. Hitherto his analysis had been easy enough. At this point it became conjecture. Among the hoof-prints of the wild mares, the shoe-tracks were still seen, but no longer going at a gallop. The two animals thus distinguished must have been halted, and standing in juxtaposition.

Whither next? Along the trail of the manada, there was no imprint of iron; nor elsewhere! The surface on all sides was hard, and strewn with pebbles. A horse going in rude gallop, might have indented it; but not one passing over it at a tranquil pace.

And thus had the spotted mustang and blood bay parted from that spot. They had gone at a walk for some score yards, before starting on their final gallop towards the mustang trap.

The impatient pursuer was puzzled. He rode round and round, and along the trail of the wild mares, and back again, without discovering the direction that had been taken by either of the ridden horses.

He was beginning to feel something more than surprise, when the sight of a solitary horseman advancing along the trail interrupted his uncomfortable conjectures.

It was no stranger who was drawing near. The colossal figure, clad in coarse habiliments, bearded to the buttons of his blanket coat, and bestriding the most contemptible looking steed that could have been found within a hundred miles of the spot, was an old acquaintance. Cassius Calhoun knew Zebulon Stump, and Zeb Stump knew Cash Calhoun, long before either had set foot upon the prairies of Texas.

“You hain’t seed nuthin’ o’ the young lady, hev ye, Mister Calhoun?” inquired the hunter, as he rode up, with an unusual impressiveness of manner. “No, ye hain’t,” he continued, as if deducing his inference from the blank looks of the other. “Dog-gone my cats! I wonder what the hell hev becomed o’ her! Kewrious, too; sech a rider as she air, ter let the durned goat o’ a thing run away wi’ her. Wal! thur’s not much danger to be reeprehended. The mowstanger air putty sartin to throw his rope aroun’ the critter, an that ’ll put an eend to its capers. Why hev ye stopped hyur?”

“I’m puzzled about the direction they’ve taken. Their tracks show they’ve been halted here; but I can see the shod hoofs no farther.”

“Whoo! whoo! yur right, Mister Cashus! They hev been halted hyur; an been clost thegither too. They hain’t gone no further on the trail o’ the wild maars. Sartin they hain’t. What then?”

The speaker scanned the surface of the plain with an interrogative glance; as if there, and not from Cassius Calhoun, expecting an answer to his question.

“I cannot see their tracks anywhere,” replied the ex-captain.

“No, kan’t ye? I kin though. Lookee hyur! Don’t ye see them thur bruises on the grass?”

“No.”

“Durn it! thur plain es the nose on a Jew’s face. Thur’s a big shoe, an a little un clost aside o’ it. Thet’s the way they’ve rud off, which show that they hain’t follered the wild maars no further than hyur. We’d better keep on arter them?”

“By all means!”

Without further parley, Zeb started along the new trail; which, though still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous as he had figuratively declared it.

In a little while it became visible to his companion – on their arrival at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply indented the turf.

Shortly after their trail was again lost – or would have been to a scrutiny less keen than that of Zeb Stump – among the hundreds of other hoof-marks seen now upon the sward.

“Hilloo!” exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign. “What’s been a doin’ hyur? This air some ’at kewrious.”

“Only the tracks of the wild mares!” suggested Calhoun. “They appear to have made a circuit, and come round again?”

“If they hev it’s been arter the others rud past them. The chase must a changed sides, I reck’n.”

“What do you mean, Mr Stump?”

“That i’stead o’ them gallupin’ arter the maars, the maars hev been gallupin’ arter them.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Don’t ye see that the shod tracks air kivered by them o’ the maars? Maars – no! By the ’turnal airthquake! – them’s not maar-tracks. They air a inch bigger. Thur’s been studs this way – a hul cavayurd o’ them. Geehosofat! I hope they hain’t – ”

“Haven’t what?”

“Gone arter Spotty. If they hev, then thur will be danger to Miss Peintdexter. Come on!”

Without waiting for a rejoinder, the hunter started off at a shambling trot, followed by Calhoun, who kept calling to him for an explanation of his ambiguous words.

Zeb did not deign to offer any – excusing himself by a backward sweep of the hand, which seemed to say, “Do not bother me now: I am busy.”

For a time he appeared absorbed in taking up the trail of the shod horses – not so easily done, as it was in places entirely obliterated by the thick trampling of the stallions. He succeeded in making it out by piecemeal – still going on at a trot.

It was not till he had arrived within a hundred yards of the arroyo that the serious shadow disappeared from his face; and, checking the pace of his mare, he vouchsafed the explanation once more demanded from him.

“Oh! that was the danger,” said Calhoun, on hearing the explanation. “How do you know they have escaped it?”

“Look thur!”

“A dead horse! Freshly killed, he appears? What does that prove?”

“That the mowstanger hes killed him.”

“It frightened the others off, you think, and they followed no further?”

“They follered no further; but it wa’n’t adzackly thet as scared ’em off. Thur’s the thing as kep them from follerin’. Ole Hickory, what a jump!”

The speaker pointed to the arroyo, on the edge of which both riders had now arrived.

“You don’t suppose they leaped it?” said Calhoun. “Impossible.”

“Leaped it clur as the crack o’ a rifle. Don’t ye see thur toe-marks, both on this side an the t’other? An’ Miss Peintdexter fust, too! By the jumpin’ Geehosofat, what a gurl she air sure enuf! They must both a jumped afore the stellyun war shot; else they kedn’t a got at it. Thur’s no other place whar a hoss ked go over. Geeroozalem! wa’n’t it cunnin’ o’ the mowstanger to throw the stud in his tracks, jest in the very gap?”

“You think that he and my cousin crossed here together?”

“Not adzackly thegither,” explained Zeb, without suspecting the motive of the interrogatory. “As I’ve sayed, Spotty went fust. You see the critter’s tracks yonner on t’other side?”

“I do.”

“Wal – don’t ye see they air kivered wi’ them o’ the mowstanger’s hoss?”