The uprearing of the hind quarters was the next “trick” of the mustang—sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without being thrown. From sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the prairies—to tame the naked steed.
He performed it without them. As the mare raised her hind quarters aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him.
Twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but, springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to have no goal this side the ending of the earth.
It must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer’s return.
Conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression—almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return. Why Louise Poindexter, daughter of the proud Louisiana sugar-planter—a belle—a beauty of more than provincial repute—who could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and noblest in the land—why she should have fixed her fancy, or even permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of Texas, was a mystery that even her own intellect—by no means a weak one—was unable to fathom.
Perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him. She did not think so herself. Had she thought so, and reflected upon it, perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her mind.
She was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a strange individual—one who had presented himself in a fashion that favoured fanciful reflections—one who differed essentially from the common-place types introduced to her in the world of social distinctions.
She was conscious, too, that this interest—originating in a word, a glance, a gesture—listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie—instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase!
It was not diminished when Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs—no more wild—no longer desiring to destroy him—but with lowered crest and mien submissive, acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master!
Without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young Creole was inspired with a similar reflection.