Sometimes I wished that I could see her again once before I died. And then reflection whispered me, it was better not. The knowledge of my fate would only add fresh bitterness to hers. Oh, these were fearful hours!
I looked at the savage tournament. There were feats of arms and feats of equitation. Men rode at a gallop, with one foot only to be seen over the horse, and in this attitude threw the javelin or shot the unerring shaft. Others vaulted from horse to horse, as they swept over the prairie at racing speed. Some leaped to their saddles, while their horses were running at a gallop, and some exhibited feats with the lasso. Then there was a mock encounter, in which the warriors unhorsed each other, as knights of the olden time.
It was, in fact, a magnificent spectacle—a grand hippodrome of the desert; but I had no eyes for it.
It had more attraction for Sanchez. I saw that he was observing every new feat with interested attention. All at once he became restless. There was a strange expression on his face; some thought, some sudden resolve, had taken possession of him.
“Say to your braves,” said he, speaking to one of our guards in the Navajo tongue; “say that I can beat the best of them at that. I could teach them to ride a horse.”
The savage reported what his prisoner had said, and shortly after several mounted warriors rode up, and replied to the taunt.
“You! a poor white slave, ride with the warriors of Navajo! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Can you ride upon your head?” inquired the torero.
“On our heads? How?”
“Standing upon your head while your horse is in a gallop.”