“It needs no apology, señor. If I’m not mistaken, we have met before—upon the prairie, out near the Nueces.”
“True—true!” stammered Calhoun, not caring to dwell upon the remembrance. “It was not of that encounter I wished to speak; but what I saw afterwards, as you came galloping along the cliff. We all wondered what became of you.”
“There was not much cause for wonder, cavallero. The shot which some of your people fired from below, disembarrassed me of my pursuers. I saw that they had turned back, and simply continued my journey.”
Calhoun exhibited no chagrin at being thus baffled. The theme upon which he designed to direct his discourse had not yet turned up; and in it he might be more successful.
What it was might have been divined from his glance—half connoisseur, half horse-jockey—still directed toward the steed of Isidora.
“I do not say, señorita, that I was one of those who wondered at your sudden disappearance. I presumed you had your own reasons for not coming on to us; and, seeing you ride as you did, I felt no fear for your safety. It was your riding that astonished me, as it did all of my companions. Such a horse you had! He appeared to glide, rather than gallop! If I mistake not, it’s the same you are now astride of. Am I right, señora? Pardon me for asking such an insignificant question.”
“The same? Let me see? I make use of so many. I think I was riding this horse upon that day. Yes, yes; I am sure of it. I remember how the brute betrayed me.”
“Betrayed you! How?”
“Twice he did it. Once as you and your people were approaching. The second time, when the Indians—ay Dios! not Indians, as I’ve since heard—were coming through the chapparal.”
“But how?”