Some evidently knew who “Carlos the cibolero” was, though by far the greater number on the ground did not. Of the former, one was heard inquiring—
“Why hasn’t he come up before?—He could have done so if he had wished.”
“Carrambo! yes,” added another. “He might have done so. He only hung back to give the others a trial. He knew none of them could throw that bull. Mira!”
The speaker’s conjecture was, no doubt, correct.
It was plain, at first sight, that this rider could easily overtake the bull. His horse was still in a gentle gallop, and, though his ears were set and his red nostrils staring open, it was only through the excitement of the chase, and chafing at being hitherto checked. The bridle-rein was, in fact, still tightly drawn.
As the speaker uttered the cautionary phrase “Mira!” a change was suddenly observed in the manner of the horseman. He was about twenty paces from the chase and directly in the rear. All at once his horse sprang forward at double his former speed, and in a few stretches laid himself alongside the bull. The rider was observed to grasp the long outstretched tail, and then lean forward and downward. The next moment he raised himself with a sudden jerk, and the huge horned creature turned sprawling upon his back. The whole thing seemed to cost him no more effort than if the bull had been a tom-cat. Loud “vivas!” broke from the spectators, and the victorious horseman rode back in front of the stand, modestly bowed his thanks, and then retired into the depth of the crowd.
There were not wanting those who fancied that in bowing the eyes of the cibolero were directed on the fair Catalina de Cruces; and some went so far as to assert that she smiled and looked content; but that could not be. The heiress of the rich Don Ambrosio smile to a compliment from a cibolero!
There was one, however, who did smile. That was a fair-haired, fair-skinned girl, who stood upon one of the carretas, by the side of which the victor had placed himself. Side by side those two faces seemed one. They were of one blood,—one colour,—one race: were they not brother and sister? Yes,—the fair girl was the sister of the cibolero. She was smiling from happiness at the thought of her brother’s triumph.
A strange-looking woman was seated in the bottom of the carreta—an old woman, with long flowing hair, white as flax. She was silent, but her sharp eyes were bent upon the cibolero with a triumphant expression. Some regarded her with curiosity, but most with fear, akin to awe. These knew something of her, and whispered strange tales to one another.
“Esta una bruxa!—una hechicera!” (She is a witch! a charmer!) said they.