Who, or what is it?
Warned by the behaviour of her steed, Isidora faces to the thicket, and scans the path by which she has lately pa.s.sed through it. It is the road, or trail, leading to the Leona. "Tis only open to the eye for a straight stretch of about two hundred yards. Beyond, it becomes screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously.
No one is seen upon it--nothing save two or three lean coyotes, that skulk under the shadow of the trees--scenting the shod tracks, in the hope of finding some sc.r.a.p, that may have fallen from the hurrying hors.e.m.e.n.
It is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement. He sees them; but what of that? The prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither startling, nor rare. There is something else--something he has either scented, or heard.
Isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her. The howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in the joy of the daylight. She hears only this. Her thoughts again return to the "Tejanos"--especially to him who has last parted from her side. She is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation; when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse.
The animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air; snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than before!
This time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to be going along the road--though still hidden behind the trees. Their hoof-strokes are heard at the same time.
But not after. The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise!
Isidora conjectures the former. She believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own.
She quiets him, and listens.
A humming is heard through the trees. Though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men"s voices--holding a conversation in a low muttered tone.
Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent. The hors.e.m.e.n, whoever they are, continue halted--perhaps hesitating to advance.
Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed. Some travellers, perhaps, _en route_ for the Rio Grande--or, it may be, some stragglers from the Texan troop--who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. It is only natural--at a time, when Indians are known to be on the war-path.
Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers--whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side--placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening.
Not long, before discovering that the hors.e.m.e.n have commenced advancing towards her--not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket!
And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround!
She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution--perhaps of evil intent?
They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it? They may be riding to get round her--in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?
How is she to know that their intent is not hostile? She has enemies-- one well remembered--Don Miguel Diaz. Besides, there are the Comanches--to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer _en paz_.
She begins to feel alarm. It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen hors.e.m.e.n is at least suspicious. Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!
She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye pa.s.sing near. The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. She must soon be discovered.
At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse"s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.
Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards--beyond range of arrow, or bullet--then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing--whether friends, or to be feared.
If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the "Tejanos."
She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the hors.e.m.e.n, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself!
They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!
A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies--with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.
"_Los Indios_!" mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the _alhuehuete_.
A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. The glance tells her more,--that the pursuit is close and earnest--so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, _do not yell_!
Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!
Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. For years have they been _en paz_--both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink--just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of "navigators,"
who have been spending their day at the beer-house.
Isidora has pa.s.sed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it--with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to.
But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!
On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse,--all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!
She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless--silent as spectres!
Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one--and that one a woman!
There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.
She presses on for the _alhuehuete_.
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.
LOS INDIOS!
The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.
"_Dios me ampare_!" (G.o.d preserve me.)
G.o.d preserve her! She will be too late!
The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!
Before she can reach the head of the pa.s.s, the noose will be around her neck, and then--
And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind--thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.
The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacale.
With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the _alhuehuete_, she rides directly towards the bluff.
The change puzzles her pursuers--at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the "lay" of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.