Chapter Fourteen.
The Manada.
Had their guide held the prairies in complete control—its denizens subject to his secret will—responsible to time and place—he could not have conducted the excursionists to a spot more likely to furnish the sport that had summoned them forth.
Just as the sparkling Johannisberger—obtained from the German wine-stores of San Antonio—had imparted a brighter blue to the sky, and a more vivid green to the grass, the cry “Musteños!” was heard above the hum of conversation, interrupting the half-spoken sentiment, with the peal of merry laughter. It came from a Mexican vaquero, who had been stationed as a vidette on an eminence near at hand.
Maurice—at the moment partaking of the hospitality of his employers, freely extended to him—suddenly quaffed off the cup; and springing to his saddle, cried out—
“Cavallada?”
“No,” answered the Mexican; “manada.”
“What do the fellows mean by their gibberish?” inquired Captain Calhoun.
“Musteños is only the Mexican for mustangs,” replied the major; “and by ‘manada’ he means they are wild mares—a drove of them. At this season they herd together, and keep apart from the horses; unless when—”
“When what?” impatiently asked the ex-officer of volunteers, interrupting the explanation.