His eyes fell upon a fair young girl coming directly toward him on a sorrel mustang, the latter apparently wandering aimlessly at an easy amble. Her eyes were fixed on the distant plain beyond the hillock, and were wandering, as if she saw nothing to attract her attention.
“It is strange she does not see it!” observed Pedro—“very strange. But stay! the hillock is higher than its head, and so she does not perceive it. But she will—she will.”
But she did not, and came on directly toward the entrance. Suddenly, when quite close, the mustang snorted, tossed her head, and shied away from something in front of her.
“Ah!” he muttered, “then it was no optical illusion—it is, in truth, a spirit.”
But he was deceived. If the mustang saw the form behind the hill, the lady did not, and being higher than her steed had a better opportunity for discovering it.
“Be quiet, Dimple!” commanded the lady. “It is only some large burrow—it is nothing to alarm you. Be quiet, I say!”
Pedro stared. From where she was now (the mustang having darted to a point which allowed a full view of the hillock) she could have easily seen the form had he been there. But she did not, and of course he was not in sight—the pony was alarmed at the yawning entrance, which showed gloomily against the yellow hillock.
Pedro’s fears were over. Wondering why a lady—a white and beautiful American lady—should be alone on this wild, sterile plain, he resolved to make himself known. Perhaps she was in distress—mayhap she had just escaped from captivity and needed assistance.
Gallantry was one of his predominating traits.
Casting aside his weapons, and wearing an easy, good-natured air, which became him, he stepped carelessly out in full view. Lifting his sombrero, he said, with an assuring smile: