Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

She was still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.

The peril was passed.

No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked interrogatively around her.

“What is it for?” inquired the lady, indicating the construction.

Maurice explained to her that they were in a mustang trap – a contrivance for catching wild horses.

“The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. Once within the corral, there is no trouble in taking them.”

“Poor things! Is it yours? You are a mustanger? You told us so?”

“I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way. I prefer being alone. My weapon is this – the lazo.”

“I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole.

“Not lady-like! Surely it is as much so as skating? I know a lady who is very expert at it.”

“An American lady?”

“No; she’s Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes across to the Leona – where she has relatives.”

“A young lady?”

“Yes. About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter.

“Size?”

“Not so tall as you.”

“But much prettier, of course? The Mexican ladies, I’ve heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain Americans.”

“I think Creoles are not included in that category,” was the reply. “Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?” said Maurice, observing her abstracted air. “Your father may be alarmed by your long absence? Your brother – your cousin-”

“Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed pique.

Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur – both acts being performed with an air of reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the “mustang trap.