The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico. Reid Mayne

pointed at the tip, and carried like the brush of a running fox. Even while in gallop, his neck slightly curved, and his proud figure, displayed against the smooth sward, called forth expressions of admiration.

      The rider was a young man of twenty or over; and his light curling hair and white-red complexion distinguished him from all his competitors – who were, without exception, dark-skinned men. He was dressed in full ranchero costume, with its rich broidery and trappings; and instead of the usual “serapé,” he wore a purple manga– a more graceful, as well as costlier garment. The long skirts of this he had flung behind him, in order to have his arms free; and its folds, opening to the breeze, added to the gracefulness of his carriage in the saddle.

      The sudden appearance of this splendid horseman – for, hanging in the rear with folded manga, he seemed not to have been noticed before, – caused unusual attention, and many were heard inquiring his name.

      “Carlos the cibolero!” cried a voice, loud enough to satisfy all at once.

      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.

      This they muttered in low tones lest they might be heard by Carlos or the girl. She was their mother!

      Chapter Four

      The sports continue. The bull thrown by the cibolero, now cowed, walks moodily across the plain. He would not serve for a second run, so he is lazoed and led off, – to be delivered to the victor as his prize.

      A second is brought forth and started, with a fresh dozen of horsemen at his heels.

      These seem to be better matched, or rather the bull has not run off so well, as all overtake him at once, riding past him in their headlong speed. Most unexpectedly the animal turns in his tracks, and runs back, heading directly for the stand!

      Loud screams are heard from the poblanas in the carretas – from the señoras and señoritas. No wonder. In ten seconds the enraged brute will be in their midst!

      The pursuing horsemen are still far behind him. The sudden turning in their headlong race threw them out of distance. Even the foremost of them cannot come up in time.

      The other horsemen are all dismounted. No man on foot will dare to check the onward rush of a goaded bull!

      Confusion and loud shouting among the men, terror and screaming among the women, are the characteristics of the scene. Lives will be lost – perhaps many. None know but that they themselves may be the victims!

      The strings of carretas filled with their terrified occupants flank the stand on each side; but, running farther out into the plain, form with it a sort of semicircle. The bull enters this semicircle, and guided by the carretas rushes down, heading directly for the benches, as though determined to break through in that direction. The ladies have risen to their feet, and, half-frantic, seem as though they would leap down upon the very horns of the monster they dread! It is a fearful crisis for them.

      Just at this moment a man is seen advancing, lazo in hand, in front of the carretas. He is afoot. As soon as he has detached himself from the crowd, he spins the lazo round his head, and the noose shooting out is seen to settle over the horns of the bull.

      Without losing a moment the man runs to a small tree that stands near the centre of the semicircle, and hastily coils the other end of the lazo around its trunk. Another moment, and he would have been too late.

      The knot is scarcely tied, when a heavy pluck announces that the bull has reached the end of his rope, and the foiled brute is now seen thrown back upon his hips, with the lazo tightly noosed over his horns. He has fallen at the very feet of the spectators!

      “Bravo! viva!” cried a hundred voices, as soon as their owners had sufficiently recovered from their terror to call out.

      “Viva. Viva! Carlos the cibolero!”

      It was he who had performed this second feat of skill and daring.

      The bull was not yet conquered, however. He was only confined within a certain range – the circle of the lazo – and, rising to his feet, with a furious roar he rushed forward at the crowd. Fortunately the lazo was not long enough to enable him to reach the spectators on either side; and again he tumbled back upon his haunches. There was a scattering on all sides, as it was feared he might still slip the noose; but the horsemen had now come up. Fresh lazoes were wound about his neck, others tripped up his legs, and he was at length flung violently upon the ground and his quarters well stretched.

      He was now completely conquered, and would run no more; and as but two bulls had been provided for the occasion, the “coleo de toros” was for that day at an end.

      Several lesser feats of horsemanship were next exhibited, while preparations were being made for another of the grand games of the day. Those were by way of interlude, and were of various kinds. One was throwing the lazo upon the foot of a person running at full speed, noosing him around the ankle, and of course tripping him up. This was done by men both mounted and afoot; and so many accomplished it, that it could hardly be deemed a “feat:” nor was it regarded as such among the more skilful, who disdained to take part in it.

      Picking up the hat was next exhibited. This consisted in the rider throwing his hat upon the ground, and then recovering it from the saddle, while his horse swept past at full gallop. Nearly every rider on the spot was equal to this feat, and only the younger ones looked upon it as a proof of skill. Of these some twenty could now be seen wheeling about at a gallop and ducking down for their sombreros, which they had previously dropped.

      But it is not so easy to pick