The beautiful captive was in the midst of a crowd, proudly curving his neck, as if conscious of the admiration he excited. The rangers, the poblanas, the hucksters of the piazza, even some sulky leperos, stood near, gazing with wondering eyes upon the wild-horse.
“Splendid present!” thought I—“worthy the acceptance of a princess!”
It had been my intention to make the offering in person—hence the care bestowed upon my toilette. After more mature reflection, I abandoned this design.
I was influenced by a variety of considerations—one among others, being a delicate apprehension that a persona visit from me might compromise the family at the hacienda. The patriotic sentiment was every day growing more intense. Even the acceptance of a present was a dangerous matter; but the steed was not to be a gift—only a return for the favourite that had fallen by my hand—and I was not to appear in the character of a donor.
My sable groom, therefore, would convey the beautiful captive. Already the white lazo, formed into a halter, was adjusted around the animal’s head, and the negro only awaited orders to lead him away.
I confess that at that moment I felt somewhat annoyed at the publicity of my affair. My rough rangers were men of keen intelligence. I could tell from some whispers that had reached me, that one and all of them knew why I had gone upon the wild hunt, and I dreaded their good-humoured satire. I would have given something at that moment to have rendered the steed invisible—to have been able to transport him to his destination, Venus-like, under cover of a cloud. I thought of waiting for the friendly shelter of night.
Just then, however, an incident occurred which gave me the very opportunity I wanted—a scene so ludicrous, that the steed was no longer the cynosure of admiring eyes.
The hero of this scene was Elijah Quackenboss.
Of all the men in my band, “Dutch Lige” was the worst clad. Not that there was less money expended upon his outward man; but partly from his ungainly form and loose untidy habits, and more, perhaps, from the wear and tear caused by his botanising excursions, a suit of broadcloth did not keep sound upon him for a week. He was habitually in tatters.
The skirmish of the night had been profitable to Lige; it was his true aim that had brought down one of the live guerrilleros. On his asserting this, his comrades had laughed at it, as an idle vaunt; but Quackenboss proved his assertion to be correct by picking his bullet out of the man’s body, and holding it up before their eyes. The peculiar “bore” of his rifle rendered the bullet easy of identification, and all agreed that Lige had shot his man.