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 Seventeen. 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, 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.”