Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?
His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things—even of the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.
She sees a caballada out upon the open prairie!
Indians? No. White men—less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the “stoor” of the parched plain.
“Los Tejanos!” is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality.
“A troop of their rangers scouring the country for Comanches, I suppose? The Indians are not here? If I’ve heard aright at the Settlement, they should be far on the other side.”
Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no desire to encounter “Los Tejanos.” They are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.
It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.
She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider.
It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken—especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her.