Part 16 (1/2)

But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species of animal, she could not.

As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird, itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the plant, as it came there by falling from above.

A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it.

”So, _yegua_!” she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. ”I've been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds--it's only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they're holding a _velorio_ over it.”

She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.

”Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero.

Suppose we stay awhile and see?”

For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear.

The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard--strong as that may be--that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.

On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.

”A wounded bear or wolf!” is the muttered reflection of their mistress.

It has scarce pa.s.sed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake.

Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant--a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

”DOWN, DOGS!”

Notwithstanding her apparent _sang-froid_, and the presence of mind she surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted--far more than the vultures, that have soared higher at her approach.

And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition--the head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place!

Her first thought is to turn Lolita's head and hurry off from the spot.

Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger.

The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks--a wan, wasted look, that tells of suffering, not sin.

All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on towards the yucca.

When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and threatening to spring upon the stranger.

”_Abajo, perros! abajo, feos_!” (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!)

”_A tierra_!” she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. ”Do you not see the mistake you have made?” she goes on addressing the dogs; ”don't you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!” she adds, turning to the caballero, ”well that your skin is white. Had it been copper-coloured, I'm not certain I could have saved you from getting it torn. My pets are not partial to the American aboriginal.”

During these somewhat bizarre speeches and the actions that accompany them, Frank Hamersley--for it is he--stands staring in silent wonder.

What sees he before him? Two huge, fierce-looking dogs, a horse oddly caparisoned, a young girl, scarce a woman, strangely and picturesquely garbed. What has he heard? First, the loud baying of two bloodhounds, threatening to tear him to pieces; then a voice, sweet and musical as the warbling of a bird!

Is it all a dream?