“A jacale. I only know of that.”
Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish:
“A jacale?”
“They give that name to their shanties.”
“To whom does it belong—this jacale?”
“Don Mauricio, el mustenero.” “Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter. A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd.
After two days of searching—fruitless, as earnest—they have struck a trail,—the trail of the murderer!
Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.
“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez—if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”
“It takes me a little out of my way—though not far.
Come on, cavalleros!
I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”
Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal—followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.
She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.
“Yonder!” says she, pointing over the plain; “you see that black spot on the horizon?
It is the top of an alhuehuete.
Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo.
Go there!
There is a canon leading down the cliff. Descend.
You will find, a little beyond, the jacale of which I’ve told you.”
The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions.
Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.
One of the party alone lingers—not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora.
He is one who knows Isidora’s language, as well as his own native tongue.
“Tell me, nina,” says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude—almost of entreaty—“Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?”
“Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero!
Who could help noticing it?”
“The colour?” gasps the inquirer.
“Un musteno pintojo.”
“A spotted mustang!
Holy Heaven!” exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers—leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!
Chapter Sixty One. Angels on Earth.
The retreat of her rival—quick and unexpected—held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound.
She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision—bewildered by what she saw. But the moment before she had looked into the jacale—had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.
What was she to think of that sudden desertion?
Why that took of spiteful hatred?
Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?
In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification.
Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.
At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.
“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catre. “Maurice—wounded—dying!
Who has done this?”
There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.
“Maurice!
Maurice! speak to me!
Do you not know me?
Louise!
Your Louise!
You have called me so? Say it—O say it again!”
“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven!