Part 4 (1/2)
”What mean you, Cash?” inquired the uncle.
”I mean, uncle, that that fellow's been misleading us. I won't say it for certain; but it looks ugly. We've come more than five miles--six, I should say--and where's the tree? I've examined the horizon, with a pair of as good eyes as most have got, I reckon; and there isn't such a thing in sight.”
”But why should the stranger have deceived us?”
”Ah--why? That's just it. There may be more reasons than one.”
”Give us one, then!” challenged a silvery voice from the carriole.
”We're all ears to hear it!”
”You're all ears to take in everything that's told you by a stranger,”
sneeringly replied Calhoun. ”I suppose if I gave my reason, you'd be so charitable as to call it a false alarm!”
”That depends on its character, Master Ca.s.sius. I think you might venture to try us. We scarcely expect a false alarm from a soldier, as well as traveller, of your experience.”
Calhoun felt the taunt; and would probably have withheld the communication he had intended to make, but for Poindexter himself.
”Come, Ca.s.sius, explain yourself!” demanded the planter, in a tone of respectful authority. ”You have said enough to excite something more than curiosity. For what reason should the young fellow be leading us astray?”
”Well, uncle,” answered the ex-officer, retreating a little from his original accusation, ”I haven't said for certain that he _is_; only that it looks like it.”
”In what way?”
”Well, one don't know what may happen. Travelling parties as strong, and stronger than we, have been attacked on these plains, and plundered of every thing--murdered.”
”Mercy!” exclaimed Louise, in a tone of terror, more affected than real.
”By Indians,” replied Poindexter.
”Ah--Indians, indeed! Sometimes it may be; and sometimes, too, they may be whites who play at that game--not all Mexican whites, neither. It only needs a bit of brown paint; a horsehair wig, with half a dozen feathers stuck into it; that, and plenty of hullabalooing. If we were to be robbed by a party of _white_ Indians, it wouldn't be the first time the thing's been done. We as good as half deserve it--for our greenness, in trusting too much to a stranger.”
”Good heavens, nephew! this is a serious accusation. Do you mean to say that the despatch-rider--if he be one--is leading us into--into an ambuscade?”
”No, uncle; I don't say that. I only say that such things have been done; and it's possible he _may_.”
”But not _probable_,” emphatically interposed the voice from the carriole, in a tone tauntingly quizzical.
”No!” exclaimed the stripling Henry, who, although riding a few paces ahead, had overheard the conversation. ”Your suspicions are unjust, cousin Ca.s.sius. I p.r.o.nounce them a calumny. What's more, I can prove them so. Look there!”
The youth had reined up his horse, and was pointing to an object placed conspicuously by the side of the path; which, before speaking, he had closely scrutinised. It was a tall plant of the _columnar cactus_, whose green succulent stem had escaped scathing by the fire.
It was not to the plant itself that Henry Poindexter directed the attention of his companions; but to a small white disc, of the form of a parallelogram, impaled upon one of its spines. No one accustomed to the usages of civilised life could mistake the ”card.” It was one.
”Hear what's written upon it!” continued the young man, riding nearer, and reading aloud the directions pencilled upon the bit of pasteboard.
”The cypress in sight!”
”Where?” inquired Poindexter.
”There's a hand,” rejoined Henry, ”with a finger pointing--no doubt in the direction of the tree.”