“When they are attacked by asses,” innocently answered the major.
A general peal of laughter rendered doubtful the naïvété of the major’s response—imparting to it the suspicion of a personality not intended.
For a moment Calhoun writhed under the awkward misconception of the auditory; but only for a moment. He was not the man to succumb to an unlucky accident of speech. On the contrary, he perceived the chance of a triumphant reply; and took advantage of it.
“Indeed!” he drawled out, without appearing to address himself to any one in particular. “I was not aware that mustangs were so dangerous in these parts.”
As Calhoun said this, he was not looking at Louise Poindexter or he might have detected in her eye a glance to gratify him.
The young Creole, despite an apparent coolness towards him, could not withhold admiration at anything that showed cleverness. His case might not be so hopeless?
The young dragoon, Hancock, did not think it so; nor yet the lieutenant of rifles. Both observed the approving look, and both became imbued with the belief that Cassius Calhoun had—or might have—in his keeping, the happiness of his cousin.
The conjecture gave a secret chagrin to both, but especially to the dragoon.
There was but short time for him to reflect upon it; the manada was drawing near.
“To the saddle!” was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every tongue.