As yet no such had arisen between Cassius Calhoun and Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.
If it had been possible, both might have been willing to avoid the encounter. Isidora certainly was.
She had no predilection for the ex-officer of dragoons; and besides the knowledge that he was the lover of her rival, there was another thought that now rendered his presence, if not disagreeable, at least not desirable.
She remembered the chase of the sham Indians, and its ending. She knew that among the Texans there had been much conjecture as to her abrupt disappearance, after appealing to them for protection.
She had her own motive for that, which she did not intend to declare; and the man about meeting her might be inclined to ask questions on the subject.
She would have passed with a simple salutation—she could not give less than that. And perhaps he might have done the same; but for a thought which at that moment came into his mind, entirely unconnected with the reflections already there engendered.
It was not the lady herself who suggested the thought. Despite her splendid beauty, he had no admiration for her. In his breast, ruthless as it might have been, there was no space left for a second passion—not even a sensual one—for her thus encountered in the solitude of the chapparal, with Nature whispering wild, wicked suggestions.
It was no idea of this that caused him to rein up in the middle of the path; remove the cap from his crown; and, by a courtly salutation, invite a dialogue with Isidora.
So challenged, she could not avoid the conversation; that commenced upon the instant—Calhoun taking the initiative.
“Excuse me, señorita,” said he, his glance directed more upon her steed than herself; “I know it’s very rude thus to interrupt your ride; especially on the part of a stranger, as with sorrow I am compelled to call myself.”