The second time, when the Indians—ay Dios! not Indians, as I’ve since heard—were coming through the chapparal.”
“But how?”
“By neighing.
He should not have done it.
He’s had training enough to know better than that.
No matter.
Once I get him back to the Rio Grande he shall stay there. I shan’t ride him again.
He shall return to his Pastures.”
“Pardon me, senorita, for speaking to you on such a subject; but I can’t help thinking that it’s a pity.”
“What’s a pity?”
“That a steed so splendid as that should be so lightly discarded.
I would give much to possess him.”
“You are jesting, cavallero.
He is nothing beyond the common; perhaps a little pretty, and quick in his paces.
My father has five thousand of his sort—many of them prettier, and, no doubt, some faster than he.
He’s a good roadster; and that’s why I’m riding him now.
If it weren’t that I’m on my way home to the Rio Grande, and the journey is still before me, you’d be welcome to have him, or anybody else who cared for him, as you seem to do.
Be still, musteno mio!
You see there’s somebody likes you better than I do.”
The last speech was addressed to the mustang, who, like its rider, appeared impatient for the conversation to come to a close.
Calhoun, however, seemed equally desirous of prolonging, or, at all events, bringing it to a different termination.
“Excuse me, senorita,” said he, assuming an air of businesslike earnestness, at the same time speaking apologetically; “if that be all the value you set upon the grey mustang, I should be only too glad to make an exchange with you.
My horse, if not handsome, is estimated by our Texan dealers as a valuable animal.
Though somewhat slow in his paces, I can promise that he will carry you safely to your home, and will serve you well afterwards.”
“What, senor!” exclaimed the lady, in evident astonishment, “exchange your grand American frison for a Mexican mustang!
The offer is too generous to appear other than a jest.
You know that on the Rio Grande one of your horses equals in value at least three, sometimes six, of ours?”
Calhoun knew this well enough; but he knew also that the mustang ridden by Isidora would be to him worth a whole stableful of such brutes as that he was bestriding.
He had been an eye-witness to its speed, besides having heard of it from others. It was the thing he stood in need of—the very thing.
He would have given, not only his “grand frison” in exchange, but the full price of the mustang by way of “boot.”
Fortunately for him, there was no attempt at extortion. In the composition of the Mexican maiden, however much she might be given to equestrian tastes, there was not much of the “coper.”
With five thousand horses in the paternal stables, or rather straying over the patrimonial plains, there was but slight motive for sharp practice; and why should she deny such trifling gratification, even though the man seeking it was a stranger—perhaps an enemy?
She did not.
“If you are in earnest, senor,” was her response, “you are welcome to what you want.”
“I am in earnest, senorita.”
“Take him, then!” said she, leaping out of her saddle, and commencing to undo the girths, “We cannot exchange saddles: yours would be a mile too big for me!”
Calhoun was too happy to find words for a rejoinder.
He hastened to assist her in removing the saddle; after which he took off his own.
In less than five minutes the horses were exchanged—the saddles and bridles being retained by their respective owners.
To Isidora there was something ludicrous in the transference.
She almost laughed while it was being carried on.
Calhoun looked upon it in a different light.
There was a purpose present before his mind—one of the utmost importance.
They parted without much further speech—only the usual greetings of adieu—Isidora going off on the frison; while the ex-officer, mounted on the grey mustang, continued his course in the direction of Casa del Corvo.
Chapter Seventy Nine. An Untiring Tracker.
Zeb was not long in arriving at the spot where he had “hitched” his mare.
The topography of the chapparal was familiar to him; and he crossed it by a less circuitous route than that taken by the cripple.
He once more threw himself upon the trail of the broken shoe, in full belief that it would fetch out not a hundred miles from Casa del Corvo.
It led him along a road running almost direct from one of the crossings of the Rio Grande to Fort Inge.
The road was a half-mile in width—a thing not uncommon in Texas, where every traveller selects his own path, alone looking to the general direction.