I am in possession of it, and of what for many a day I have been seeking; a proof, not that you had ceased to care for me—for this I had good reason to know—but that you had begun to care for him.
This tells that you love him—words could not speak plainer.
You long to look into his beautiful eyes.
Mil demonios! you shall never see them again!”
“What means this, Don Miguel Diaz?”
The question was put not without a slight quivering of the voice that seemed to betray fear.
No wonder it should. There was something in the aspect of El Coyote at that moment well calculated to inspire the sentiment.
Observing it, he responded,
“You may well show fear: you have reason.
If I have lost you, my lady, no other shall enjoy you. I have made up my mind about that.”
“About what?”
“What I have said—that no other shall call you his, and least of all Maurice the mustanger.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay, indeed!
Give me a promise that you and he shall never meet again, or you depart not from this place!”
“You are jesting, Don Miguel?”
“I am in earnest, Dona Isidora.”
The manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech.
Coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks, whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his machete.
Despite her Amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of uneasiness.
She saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of averting it.
Something of this she had felt from the first moment of the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change its character.
During the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for the sound of a horse’s hoof—casting occasional and furtive glances through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it.
This hope was no more.
The sight of her own letter told its tale: it had not reached its destination.
Deprived of this hope—hitherto sustaining her—she next thought of retreating from the spot.
But this too presented both difficulties and dangers.
It was possible for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet. The butt of El Coyote’s pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his machete.
She was fully aware of the danger.
Almost any other woman would have given way to it. Not so Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. She did not even show signs of being affected by it.
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of well dissembled incredulity. “You are making sport of me, Senor.
You wish to frighten me.
Ha! ha! ha!
Why should I fear you?
I can ride as well—fling my lazo as sure and far as you, Look at this I see how skilfully I can handle it!”
While so speaking—smiling as she spoke—she had lifted the lazo from her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate her observations.
The act had a very different intent, though it was not perceived by Diaz; who, puzzled by her behaviour, sate speechless in his saddle.
Not till he felt the noose closing around his elbows did he suspect her design; and then too late to hinder its execution.
In another instant his arms were pinioned to his sides—both the butt of his pistol and the hilt of his machete beyond the grasp of his fingers!
He had not even time to attempt releasing himself from the loop. Before he could lay hand upon the rope, it tightened around his body, and with a violent pluck jerked him out of his saddle—throwing him stunned and senseless to the ground.
“Now, Don Miguel Diaz!” cried she who had caused this change of situation, and who was now seen upon her horse, with head turned homeward, the lazo strained taut from the saddle-tree. “Menace me no more!
Make no attempt to release yourself.
Stir but a finger, and I spur on!
Cruel villain! coward as you are, you would have killed me—I saw it in your eye.
Ha! the tables are turned, and now—”
Perceiving that there was no rejoinder, she interrupted her speech, still keeping the lazo at a stretch, with her eyes fixed upon the fallen man.
El Coyote lay upon the ground, his arms enlaced in the loop, without stirring, and silent as a stick of wood.
The fall from his horse had deprived him of speech, and consciousness at the same time.
To all appearance he was dead—his steed alone showing life by its loud neighing, as it reared back among the bushes.
“Holy Virgin! have I killed him?” she exclaimed, reining her horse slightly backward, though still keeping him headed away, and ready to spring to the spur. “Mother of God! I did not intend it—though I should be justified in doing even that: for too surely did he intend to kill me!