“Alto! o yo tiro” (Halt! or I fire), I cried aloud.
There was no reply: the mustang kept on!
“Halt!” I cried again, unwilling to take the life of a fellow-creature—“halt! or you are a dead man!”
No reply again!
There were not six yards between myself and the Mexican horseman. Riding straight behind him, I could have sent a bullet into his back. Some secret instinct restrained me; it was partly, though not altogether, a feeling of admiration: there was an indefinable idea in my mind at the moment. My finger rested on the trigger, and I could not draw it.
“He must not escape! He is nearing the trees! He must not be allowed to enter the thicket; I must cripple the horse.”
I looked for a place to aim at—his hips were towards me—should I hit him there he might still get off. Where should I aim?
At this moment the animal wheeled, as if guided by his own impulse—perhaps by the knees of his rider—and shot off in a new direction. The object of this manoeuvre was to throw me out of the track. So far it was successful; but it gave me just the opportunity to aim as I wanted; as it brought the mustang’s side towards me; and levelling my pistol, I sent a bullet through his kidneys. A single plunge forward was his last, and both horse and rider came to the ground.
In an instant the latter had disengaged himself from his struggling steed, and stood upon his feet. Fearing that he might still endeavour to escape to the cover of the thicket, I spurred forward, pistol in hand, and pointed the weapon at his head. But he made no attempt either at further flight or resistance. On the contrary, he stood with folded arms, fronting the levelled tube, and, looking me full in the face, said with an air of perfect coolness—
“No matame, amigo! Soy muger!” (Do not kill me, friend! I am a woman!)