At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it.
His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.
He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky—no care being taken to shelter it from the sun.
His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.
A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face—paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.
His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep.
The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated.
Was the man dead?
Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought.
They were mistaken.
Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.
Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.
The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.
“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake?
Which is it?
Where am I?”
The sunlight was blinding him.
He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.
“Trees above—around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones.
A chapparal forest!
How came I into it?
“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree.
There it is—the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle.
My left leg pains me.
Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk.
By heavens, I believe it is broken!”
As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude.
It proved a failure.
His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint—either shattered or dislocated.
“Where is the horse?
Gone off, of course.
By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo.
I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.
“The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was!
No wonder it scared the one I was riding!
“What am I to do?
My leg may be broken.
I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me.
Ten chances to one—a hundred—a thousand—against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds.
Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!
“How long have I been lying here?
The surf don’t seem very high.
It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle.
I suppose I’ve been unconscious about an hour.
By my faith, I’m in a serious scrape?
In all likelihood a broken limb—it feels broken—with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal—the thicket around me, perhaps for miles—no chance to escape from it of myself—no hope of human creature coming to help me—wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air!
Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein?
I may have ridden my last ride!”
The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.
Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.