Should I confess all, and throw myself on their mercy? It was a queer-looking gang by the gateway. They wouldn’t wish better sport than to chuck me into a horse-pond, or string me up to the limb of a tree. No, it would never do to confess. I must account for the broken bridle to save a broken head. I need hardly mention that these were only silent thoughts. But at that moment a plan of escape from my dilemma came into my mind.
By that time the gentlemen, headed by the old don, had descended into the patio and approached the mare, upon whose back I still kept my seat. Hitherto they had exhibited indications of alarm. They supposed at first that a troop of Texan Rangers was at my heels. Becoming satisfied, in consequence of the reports of the rancheros, that I was alone, they now surrounded me with stern, inquiring looks. There was no time to be lost. I must not allow them to speculate on how the bridle came to be broken, or that they were indebted to the mare alone, for my visit. No, that would never do; so, throwing my legs over the croup, I landed upon the pavement with as much deliberation as if I had been dismounting at my own stable-door. Assuming all the sang-froid I could muster, I walked up to the old gentleman in grey, and making him a polite bow, said interrogatively—
“Don Miguel Castro?”
“Si señor,” replied he, in a hurried manner, and, as I fancied, somewhat angrily.
“This is your mare?”
“Si señor,” in the same tone and manner.
“She was lately stolen from you?”
“Si señor,” with the like emphasis.
“By a Texan Ranger?”
“Por un ladron,” (by a robber), replied the Mexican, with an angry look, which I observed was copied by very dark countenances appearing all around me.