As soon as a pause in the dance occurred I was introduced. The revolting history I had heard of this woman inspired me with a curiosity to know how such a fiend in human shape could exercise such a powerful sway over every man in the room.
Although she spoke but little English, there was a peculiar sweetness in every word she uttered. I thought I could detect something of the secret of her magical powers in her voice, which was the softest and most musical I had ever heard. There was a wild, sweet, almost unearthly cadence in it that vibrated upon the ear like the strains of an Æolian. Added to this, there was a power of alternate ferocity and tenderness in her deep, passionate eyes, that struck to the inner core wherever she fixed her gaze. I could not determine for my life which she resembled most—the untamed mustang, the royal game-bird, or the rattlesnake. There were flitting hints of each in her, and yet the comparison is feeble and inadequate. Sometimes she reminded me of Rachel—then the living, now the dead, Queen of Tragedy. Had it not been for a horror of her repulsive crimes, it is hard to say how far her fascinating powers might have affected me. As it was, I could only wonder whether she was most genius or devil. Not knowing how to dance, I could not offer my services in that way, and, after a few commonplace remarks, withdrew to a seat near the wall. The dance went on with great spirit. Absurd as it may seem, I could not keep my eyes off this woman. Whichever way she looked there was a commotion—a shrinking back among the women, or the symptoms of a jealous rage among the men. For her own sex she manifested an absolute scorn; for the other she had an inexhaustible fund of sweet glances, which each admirer might take to himself.
At a subsequent period of the evening I observed, for the first time, among the company a man of very conspicuous appearance, dressed in the very picturesque style of a Texan Ranger. His face was turned from me when I first saw him, but there was something manly and imposing about his figure and address that attracted my attention. While I was looking toward him he turned to speak to some person near him. My astonishment may well be conceived when I recognized in his strongly-marked features and dejected expression the face of the man "Griff," to whom I was indebted for my escape from the assassins near Soledad! There could be no doubt that this was the outlaw who had rendered me such an inestimable service, differently dressed, indeed, and somewhat disfigured by a ghastly wound across the temple, but still the same; still bearing himself with an air of determination mingled with profound sadness. It was evident the Colonel had misinformed me as to his death. Perhaps, judging from the wound on his temple, which was still unhealed, he might have been left for dead, and subsequently have effected his escape. At all events, there was no doubt that he now stood before me.
I was about to spring forward and grasp him by the hand, when the dreadful scene I had witnessed in the little adobe hut near San Miguel flashed vividly upon my mind, and, for the moment, I felt like one who was paralyzed. That hand might be stained with the blood of the unfortunate emigrants! Who could tell? He had disavowed any participation in the act, but his complicity, either remote or direct, could scarcely be doubted from his own confession. How far his guilt might render him amenable to the laws I could not of course conjecture. It was enough for me, however, that he had saved my life; but I could not take his hand.
While reflecting upon the course that it might become my duty to pursue under the circumstances, I observed that he was not exempt from the fascinating sway of the dark señorita, whose face he regarded with an interest even more intense than that manifested by her other admirers. He was certainly a person calculated to make an impression upon such a woman; yet, strange to say, he was the only man in the crowd toward whom she evinced a spirit of hostility. Several times he went up to her and asked her to dance. Whether from caprice or some more potent cause I could not conjecture, but she invariably repulsed him—once with a degree of asperity that indicated something more than a casual acquaintance. It was in vain he attempted to cajole her. She was evidently bitter and unrelenting in her animosity. At length, incensed at his pertinacity, she turned sharply upon him, and leaning her head close to his ear, whispered something, the effect of which was magical. He staggered back as if stunned, and, gazing a moment at her with an expression of horror, turned away and walked out of the room. The woman's face was a shade paler, but she quickly resumed her usual smile, and otherwise manifested no emotion.
This little incident was probably unnoticed by any except myself. I sat in a recess near the window, and could see all that was going on without attracting attention. I had resolved, after overcoming my first friendly impulses, not to discover myself to the outlaw until the fandango was over, and then determine upon my future course regarding him by the result of a confidential interview. I fully believed that he would tell me the truth, and nothing but the truth, in reference to the murder of the emigrants.
The dance went on. It was a Spanish waltz; the click-clack of the feet, in slow-measured time, was very monotonous, producing a peculiarly dreamy effect. I sometimes closed my eyes and fancied it was all a wild, strange dream. Visions of the beautiful country through which I had passed flitted before me—a country desecrated by the worst passions of human nature. Amid the rarest charms of scenery and climate, what a combination of dark and deadly sins oppressed the mind! What a cess-pool of wickedness was here within these very walls!
Half an hour may have elapsed in this sort of dreaming, when Griff, who had been so strangely repulsed by the dark señorita, came back and pushed his way through the crowd. This time I noticed that his face was flushed, and a gleam of desperation was in his eye. The wound in his temple had a purple hue, and looked as if it might burst out bleeding afresh. His motions were unsteady—he had evidently been drinking. Edging over toward the woman, he stood watching her till there was a pause in the dance. Her partner was a handsome young Mexican, very gayly dressed, whom I had before noticed, and to whom she now made herself peculiarly fascinating. She smiled when he spoke; laughed very musically at every thing he said; leaned up toward him, and assumed a wonderfully sweet and confidential manner. The Mexican was perfectly infatuated. He made the most passionate avowals, scarcely conscious what he was saying. I watched the tall Texan. The veins in his forehead were swollen; he strode to and fro restlessly, fixing fierce and deadly glances upon the loving couple. A terrible change had taken place in the expression of his features, which ordinarily had something sweet and sad in it. It was now dark, brutish, and malignant. Suddenly, as if by an ungovernable impulse, he rushed up close to where they stood, and, drawing a large bowie-knife, said to the woman, in a quick, savage tone,
"Dance with me now, or, damn you, I'll cut your heart out!"
She turned toward him haughtily—"Señor!"