The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise!
Isidora conjectures the former.
She believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own.
She quiets him, and listens.
A humming is heard through the trees.
Though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men’s voices—holding a conversation in a low muttered tone.
Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent.
The horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted—perhaps hesitating to advance.
Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed.
Some travellers, perhaps, en route for the Rio Grande—or, it may be, some stragglers from the Texan troop—who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. It is only natural—at a time, when Indians are known to be on the war-path.
Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers—whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side—placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening.
Not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing towards her—not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket!
And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround!
She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution—perhaps of evil intent?
They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it?
They may be riding to get round her—in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?
How is she to know that their intent is not hostile?
She has enemies—one well remembered—Don Miguel Diaz.
Besides, there are the Comanches—to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer en paz.
She begins to feel alarm.
It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious.
Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!
She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near.
The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way.
She must soon be discovered.
At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse’s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.
Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards—beyond range of arrow, or bullet—then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing—whether friends, or to be feared.
If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the “Tejanos.”
She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself! They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!
A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies—with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.
“Los Indios!” mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the alhuehuete.
A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that.
The glance tells her more,—that the pursuit is close and earnest—so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, do not yell!
Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!
Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie.
For years have they been en paz—both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink—just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of “navigators,” who have been spending their day at the beer-house. Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it—with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to. But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes.
They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!
On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse,—all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!
She alone speaks.
Her pursuers are voiceless—silent as spectres!
Only once does she glance behind.
There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one—and that one a woman!
There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.
She presses on for the alhuehuete.
Chapter Sixty Seven. Los Indios!
The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers.
She once more glances behind her.
“Dios me ampare!” (God preserve me.) God preserve her!
She will be too late!
The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!