Chapter Ninety.A Court Quickly Cleared.If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share—more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.The thing is not so difficult of explanation.Weknow that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart’s core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands “Silence in the Court!” the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.He continues his recital:—“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.“There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.“Instead of the angry scene I expected—perhaps had reason to expect—I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me—at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.“Need I tell you that I took that hand? Or how heartily I pressed it? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.“It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after—when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.“Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.“We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree.“Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange—the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.“It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself—from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket—taking his cloth cloak and Panama hat.“We then parted—he riding away, myself remaining.“I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation—by me so little looked for and so much desired.“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.“In three seconds I was asleep.“It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me—after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.“My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.“I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.“My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!“I sprang to my feet, and stood listening.“But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds—mysterious, because unexplained—often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.“Dismissing the thing from my mind, I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.“This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.“It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears—even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!“It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.“Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.“I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!“I saw—”“The Headless Horseman!” exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.“The Headless Horseman!” respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!“Yonder he goes—yonder! yonder!”“No, he’s coming this way! See! He’s making straight for the Fort!”The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the generaldébandade, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.The latter has paused only for an instant—just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild “whigher,” he wheels round, and goes off at full speed—followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!
If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.
It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share—more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.
The thing is not so difficult of explanation.Weknow that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.
It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.
Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart’s core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!
If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.
Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.
Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!
The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands “Silence in the Court!” the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.
He continues his recital:—
“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.
“There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.
“Instead of the angry scene I expected—perhaps had reason to expect—I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me—at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.
“Need I tell you that I took that hand? Or how heartily I pressed it? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.
“It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after—when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.
“Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.
“We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree.
“Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange—the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.
“It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself—from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket—taking his cloth cloak and Panama hat.
“We then parted—he riding away, myself remaining.
“I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation—by me so little looked for and so much desired.
“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.
“In three seconds I was asleep.
“It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me—after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.
“My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.
“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.
“I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.
“My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!
“I sprang to my feet, and stood listening.
“But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds—mysterious, because unexplained—often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.
“Dismissing the thing from my mind, I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.
“This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.
“It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.
“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears—even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!
“It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.
“Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.
“I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!
“I saw—”
“The Headless Horseman!” exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.
“The Headless Horseman!” respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.
Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?
There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!
“Yonder he goes—yonder! yonder!”
“No, he’s coming this way! See! He’s making straight for the Fort!”
The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.
Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.
The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.
There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.
Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the generaldébandade, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.
The latter has paused only for an instant—just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild “whigher,” he wheels round, and goes off at full speed—followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!
Chapter Ninety One.A Chase through a Thicket.The chase leads straight across the prairie—towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line—one after another falling off,—as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.The one coming after—but with a long interval between—is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death—as if some desperate necessity required it.The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight—as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks—now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.On go they, regardless of bush or brake—fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But thereisthis time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it—not three hundred yards behind me.“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.“By God!but there is a chance!”At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring theterrain, to see if it will suit.At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.On reflection the scheme is abandoned.“It won’t do!” he mutters. “There’s too many of them fellows coming after—some that can track, too? They’d find his carcase, sure,—maybe hear the shot?“No—no. It won’t do!”He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind—only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep abovehim!“Yes—he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!”Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above—were they gifted with the power of speech—could tell you so.They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.“What a foolI’vebeen in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward—fast as the circuitous track will allow him.Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt—surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle—with his head half buried among the bushes!Calhoun sees that it isheldthere, and by the bridle-rein,—that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!“Caught at last! Thank God—thank God!”He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman—that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!
The chase leads straight across the prairie—towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.
Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line—one after another falling off,—as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after—but with a long interval between—is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death—as if some desperate necessity required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight—as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks—now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake—fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.
“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But thereisthis time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it—not three hundred yards behind me.
“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.
“By God!but there is a chance!”
At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.
He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring theterrain, to see if it will suit.
At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.
Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.
On reflection the scheme is abandoned.
“It won’t do!” he mutters. “There’s too many of them fellows coming after—some that can track, too? They’d find his carcase, sure,—maybe hear the shot?
“No—no. It won’t do!”
He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind—only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep abovehim!
“Yes—he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!”
Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above—were they gifted with the power of speech—could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
“What a foolI’vebeen in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward—fast as the circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt—surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.
His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle—with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it isheldthere, and by the bridle-rein,—that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!
“Caught at last! Thank God—thank God!”
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman—that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!
Chapter Ninety Two.A Reluctant Return.Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his “cavortings.”After a brief struggle the animal is secured.The captor utters an exclamation of joy.It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.What is this purpose?It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serapé; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal—by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it, durn ye!”“What game?” rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. “What the devil are you talking about? This brute’s got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat—so as to make sure of him.”“Ah, thet’s what ye’re arter. Wal, I reck’n thur’s no need to cut the critter’s throat. We kin skewer it ’ithout thet sort o’ bloody bizness. It air the hoss’s throat ye mean, I s’pose?”“Of course I mean the horse.”“In coorse. As for the man, someb’y’s dud thet for him arready—if it be a man. What doyoumake o’ it, Mister Cash Calhoun?”“Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven’t had time to get a good look at it. I’ve just this minute come up. By heaven!” he continues, feigning a grand surprise, “I believe it’s the body of a man; and dead!”“Thet last air probibble enuf. ’Tain’t likely he’d be alive wi’ no head on his shoulders. Thar’s none under the blanket, is thar?”“No; I think not. There cannot be?”“Lift it a leetle, an see.”“I don’t like touching it. It’s such a cursed queer-looking thing.”“Durn it, ye wan’t so partickler a minnit ago. What’s kim over ye now?”“Ah!” stammers Calhoun, “I was excited with chasing it. I’d got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers.”“Never mind then,” interposes Zeb,—“I’ll make a inspecshun o’ it. Ye-es,” he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. “Ye-es, it’s the body o’ a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o’ ven’son in a hard frost!”“Hullo!” he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serapé, “it’s the body o’ the man whose murder’s bein’ tried—yur own cousin—young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!”“I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!”“Geehosophat!” proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, “this air the mysteeriousest thing o’ all. Wal; I reck’n thur’s no use in our stayin’ hyur to spek’late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do ’s to take the body back, jest as it’s sot in the seddle—which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck’n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he’ll kum along ’ithout much coaxin’. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know’d to him. Thur now! Don’t ye see it’s a preevious acquaintance o’ yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o’ late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin’ him. ’Tair some time since he’s hed a curry to his skin.”While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact—then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.“I thort so,” exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; “the stellyun’s boun to lead quietly enuf—so long as he’s in kumpny with the maar. ’T all events, ’twon’t be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin’ away. Now, Mister Calhoun,” he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; “don’t ye think we’d better start right away? The trial may still be goin’ on; an’, ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck’n thet we’ve got a witness hyur, as ’ll do somethin’ torst illoocidatin’ the case—either to the hangin’ the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin’ him althogither o’ the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?”“Oh, certainly. As you say, there’s no reason for our remaining here.”Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.Calhoun rides slowly—a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant’s notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb’s gesture is sufficient. It plainly says:—“Go back if ye dare!”The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind—with which hiscompagnon du voyageis compelled to put up.The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.It approaches the open prairie.At length the sky line comes in sight.Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?He would give all he owns in the world—all that he ever hopes to own—even Louise Poindexter herself—to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump—to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regardshimas the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?And after all, there may be nothing to be known?It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie—close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter—the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!
Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.
The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.
The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his “cavortings.”
After a brief struggle the animal is secured.
The captor utters an exclamation of joy.
It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.
What is this purpose?
It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.
After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.
A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serapé; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!
The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.
For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal—by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.
“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it, durn ye!”
“What game?” rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. “What the devil are you talking about? This brute’s got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat—so as to make sure of him.”
“Ah, thet’s what ye’re arter. Wal, I reck’n thur’s no need to cut the critter’s throat. We kin skewer it ’ithout thet sort o’ bloody bizness. It air the hoss’s throat ye mean, I s’pose?”
“Of course I mean the horse.”
“In coorse. As for the man, someb’y’s dud thet for him arready—if it be a man. What doyoumake o’ it, Mister Cash Calhoun?”
“Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven’t had time to get a good look at it. I’ve just this minute come up. By heaven!” he continues, feigning a grand surprise, “I believe it’s the body of a man; and dead!”
“Thet last air probibble enuf. ’Tain’t likely he’d be alive wi’ no head on his shoulders. Thar’s none under the blanket, is thar?”
“No; I think not. There cannot be?”
“Lift it a leetle, an see.”
“I don’t like touching it. It’s such a cursed queer-looking thing.”
“Durn it, ye wan’t so partickler a minnit ago. What’s kim over ye now?”
“Ah!” stammers Calhoun, “I was excited with chasing it. I’d got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers.”
“Never mind then,” interposes Zeb,—“I’ll make a inspecshun o’ it. Ye-es,” he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. “Ye-es, it’s the body o’ a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o’ ven’son in a hard frost!”
“Hullo!” he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serapé, “it’s the body o’ the man whose murder’s bein’ tried—yur own cousin—young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!”
“I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!”
“Geehosophat!” proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, “this air the mysteeriousest thing o’ all. Wal; I reck’n thur’s no use in our stayin’ hyur to spek’late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do ’s to take the body back, jest as it’s sot in the seddle—which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck’n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he’ll kum along ’ithout much coaxin’. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know’d to him. Thur now! Don’t ye see it’s a preevious acquaintance o’ yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o’ late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin’ him. ’Tair some time since he’s hed a curry to his skin.”
While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact—then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.
“I thort so,” exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; “the stellyun’s boun to lead quietly enuf—so long as he’s in kumpny with the maar. ’T all events, ’twon’t be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin’ away. Now, Mister Calhoun,” he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; “don’t ye think we’d better start right away? The trial may still be goin’ on; an’, ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck’n thet we’ve got a witness hyur, as ’ll do somethin’ torst illoocidatin’ the case—either to the hangin’ the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin’ him althogither o’ the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?”
“Oh, certainly. As you say, there’s no reason for our remaining here.”
Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.
Calhoun rides slowly—a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.
At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.
His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.
He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.
He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.
Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant’s notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb’s gesture is sufficient. It plainly says:—“Go back if ye dare!”
The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.
But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind—with which hiscompagnon du voyageis compelled to put up.
The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.
It approaches the open prairie.
At length the sky line comes in sight.
Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.
Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?
He would give all he owns in the world—all that he ever hopes to own—even Louise Poindexter herself—to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump—to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!
It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regardshimas the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!
After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?
And after all, there may be nothing to be known?
It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?
Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie—close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter—the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!
Chapter Ninety Three.A Body Beheaded.Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators—abandoned, by one-half of the jury—the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.There is no adjournment of the Court—only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired—strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.They are in hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.There is one among them who could explain the first—though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads—as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back—with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them—either with or without the wished-for captive.Is the trial to be further postponed?The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.There are paidclaquersin the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial—as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?”“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”“Asleep?”“Yes; in the sleep of death.”“Dead?”“More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”“What! His head cut off?”“Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face—with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour—the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”A sensation of horror runs through the auditory—accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.“Did you know the man?”“Alas! yes.”“Without seeing his face?”“It did not need that. The dress told who it was—too truly.”“What dress?”“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”A groan is again heard—rising above the hum of the excited hearers.“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by thebeheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere—in addition to that made by the knife.“It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serapé; that all around the place was saturated with blood.“On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body.”“In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?”“Most certainly it was. If not instantaneous, in a few minutes—perhaps seconds.”“The head was cut off, you say. Was it quite severed from the body?”“Quite; though it was lying close up—as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment.”“Was it a clean out—as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?”“It was.”“What sort of weapon would you say?”“It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade.”“Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?”“There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered.”“Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?”“Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect. I could scarce think it real.“When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.“But then there was his scalp untouched—even the hat still upon his head!”“You changed your mind about its being Indians?”“I did.”“Who did you then think it might be?”“At the time I did not think of any one. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy—either here or elsewhere. I have since had my suspicions. I have them now.”“State them.”“I object to the line of examination,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “We don’t want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner’s suspicions. Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with hisvery plausible tale?”“Let him proceed, then,” directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.“State how you yourself acted,” pursues the examiner. “What did you do, after making the observations you have described?”“For some time I scarce knew what to do—I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot—the same I had heard.“But who could have fired it? Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.“I thought of someprairie-pirate, who might have intended plunder. But this was equally improbable. My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. That would have been taken. It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!“I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.“I never had.“Besides, why had the head been cut off?“It was this that filled me with astonishment—with horror.“Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.“To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.“Then I thought of galloping back to the Fort, and getting assistance to carry it to Casa del Corvo.“But if I left it in the chapparal, the coyotés might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. Already the vultures were above—taking their early flight. They appeared to have espied it.“Mutilated as was the young man’s form, I could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. I thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it—in tears.”
Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators—abandoned, by one-half of the jury—the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.
There is no adjournment of the Court—only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.
The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.
There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired—strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.
The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.
They are in hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.
There is one among them who could explain the first—though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.
Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.
After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads—as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.
All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!
It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.
No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?
All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back—with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.
An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them—either with or without the wished-for captive.
Is the trial to be further postponed?
The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.
There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.
There are paidclaquersin the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!
The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial—as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.
So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.
The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.
“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?”
“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”
“Asleep?”
“Yes; in the sleep of death.”
“Dead?”
“More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”
“What! His head cut off?”
“Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face—with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!
“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.
“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour—the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.
“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.
“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”
A sensation of horror runs through the auditory—accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.
“Did you know the man?”
“Alas! yes.”
“Without seeing his face?”
“It did not need that. The dress told who it was—too truly.”
“What dress?”
“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”
A groan is again heard—rising above the hum of the excited hearers.
“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”
“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.
“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by thebeheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere—in addition to that made by the knife.
“It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serapé; that all around the place was saturated with blood.
“On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body.”
“In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?”
“Most certainly it was. If not instantaneous, in a few minutes—perhaps seconds.”
“The head was cut off, you say. Was it quite severed from the body?”
“Quite; though it was lying close up—as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment.”
“Was it a clean out—as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?”
“It was.”
“What sort of weapon would you say?”
“It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade.”
“Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?”
“There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered.”
“Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?”
“Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect. I could scarce think it real.
“When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.
“But then there was his scalp untouched—even the hat still upon his head!”
“You changed your mind about its being Indians?”
“I did.”
“Who did you then think it might be?”
“At the time I did not think of any one. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy—either here or elsewhere. I have since had my suspicions. I have them now.”
“State them.”
“I object to the line of examination,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “We don’t want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner’s suspicions. Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with hisvery plausible tale?”
“Let him proceed, then,” directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.
“State how you yourself acted,” pursues the examiner. “What did you do, after making the observations you have described?”
“For some time I scarce knew what to do—I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot—the same I had heard.
“But who could have fired it? Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.
“I thought of someprairie-pirate, who might have intended plunder. But this was equally improbable. My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. That would have been taken. It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!
“I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.
“I never had.
“Besides, why had the head been cut off?
“It was this that filled me with astonishment—with horror.
“Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.
“To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.
“Then I thought of galloping back to the Fort, and getting assistance to carry it to Casa del Corvo.
“But if I left it in the chapparal, the coyotés might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. Already the vultures were above—taking their early flight. They appeared to have espied it.
“Mutilated as was the young man’s form, I could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. I thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it—in tears.”
Chapter Ninety Four.The Mystery Made Clear.The accused pauses in his recital. No one offers any observation—either to interrupt, or hurry him on.There is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention.Judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes—many with mouths agape—are attentively turned upon the prisoner.Amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed.“My next idea was to cover the body with the cloak—as well as the serapé still around the shoulders. By so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards—at least till we could get back to fetch it away.“I had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself—one that appeared in every way better.“Instead of returning to the Port alone, I should take the body along with me. I fancied I could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo.“I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.“The animal was near by, browsing upon the grass—as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it.“As the bridle trailed upon the ground, I had no difficulty in catching hold of it. There was more in getting the horse to stand still—especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground.“Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle.“I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.“Besides, thehorsebecamegreatly excited, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.“After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.“I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me—one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home—strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.“Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?“I made the attempt—first trying to set him on his own horse.“But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.“There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.“I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.“In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect,—in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.“To make it thoroughly secure, I cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind.“A separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about.“The head still remained to be dealt with. It too must be taken along.“On lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, I found that this could not be done. It was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it—close as the skin itself.“Having no fear that they would fall apart, I tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.“This completed my preparations for the journey.“I mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me—he was accustomed to do so without leading—I started to ride back to the settlement.“In less than five minutes after, I was knocked out of my saddle—and my senses at the same time.“But for that circumstance I should not be standing here,—at all events, not in the unpleasant position I now hold.”“Knocked out of your saddle!” exclaims the judge. “How was that?”“A simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. On mounting the strange horse I neglected to take hold of the bridle. Accustomed to guide my own—often with only my voice and knees—I had grown regardless of the reins. I did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed.“The horse I was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where I had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.“I need not saysomething; for I knew what it was. He had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man.“I clutched at the bridle; but, before I could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed.“At first I was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. I supposed I should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand.“But I soon found this could not be so easily done. They had strayed forward, almost to the animal’s ears; and I could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck.“While endeavouring to secure the bridle, I took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. It was only when I felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that I discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal.“After that I had no time to make observations—no chance even to look after the lost reins. I was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle.“I managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches.“But there was one I could not avoid—the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. It was low down—on a level with my breast—and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it.“Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that—I believe, better than I. I can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which I knew anything about till two hours afterwards.“When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.“The sight of them, as well as my thirst—that was beginning to grow painful—prompted me to move away from the place.“On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.“To stay on that spot was to perish—at least I so thought at the time.“Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.“I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling,—partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket—I succeeded in reaching it.“Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.“I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotés.“There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear—knowing their cowardly nature—I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.“They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.“After a time they did so—clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.“I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.“With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.“For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.“I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God.”On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade—one ofttimes more faithful than man himself—my staghound, Tara.“The dog had been straying—perhaps in search of me—though I’ve since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.“The coyotés scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate—I may say, out of the jaws of death.“I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness—whichever it may have been.“On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacalé; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.“The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message—the staghound to be its bearer.“I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.“I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.“There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.“Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara’s neck.“With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.“It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.“Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep—again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy—one more terrible than I had yet encountered.“It was a jaguar.“A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it—with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.“All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams—painful phantasmagoria—mingled with pleasant visions—ah! some that were celestial—until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison—with a charge of murder hanging over my head!“Gentlemen of the jury! I have done.”“Si non vero e ben trovato,” is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it—one and all of them.And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple—too circumstantial—to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.His confession—irregular as it may have been—has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter—with or without Cassius Calhoun—with or without the Headless Horse, man—now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability—much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west—denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks—or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance—unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate—that section of it close to the Sierra Madro—and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.Their impatience may be traced to a different cause—a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground—every woman as well—chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line—where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.
The accused pauses in his recital. No one offers any observation—either to interrupt, or hurry him on.
There is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention.
Judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes—many with mouths agape—are attentively turned upon the prisoner.
Amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed.
“My next idea was to cover the body with the cloak—as well as the serapé still around the shoulders. By so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards—at least till we could get back to fetch it away.
“I had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself—one that appeared in every way better.
“Instead of returning to the Port alone, I should take the body along with me. I fancied I could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo.
“I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.
“The animal was near by, browsing upon the grass—as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it.
“As the bridle trailed upon the ground, I had no difficulty in catching hold of it. There was more in getting the horse to stand still—especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground.
“Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle.
“I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.
“Besides, thehorsebecamegreatly excited, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.
“After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.
“I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me—one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home—strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.
“Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?
“I made the attempt—first trying to set him on his own horse.
“But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.
“There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.
“I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.
“In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect,—in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.
“To make it thoroughly secure, I cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind.
“A separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about.
“The head still remained to be dealt with. It too must be taken along.
“On lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, I found that this could not be done. It was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it—close as the skin itself.
“Having no fear that they would fall apart, I tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.
“This completed my preparations for the journey.
“I mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me—he was accustomed to do so without leading—I started to ride back to the settlement.
“In less than five minutes after, I was knocked out of my saddle—and my senses at the same time.
“But for that circumstance I should not be standing here,—at all events, not in the unpleasant position I now hold.”
“Knocked out of your saddle!” exclaims the judge. “How was that?”
“A simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. On mounting the strange horse I neglected to take hold of the bridle. Accustomed to guide my own—often with only my voice and knees—I had grown regardless of the reins. I did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed.
“The horse I was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where I had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.
“I need not saysomething; for I knew what it was. He had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man.
“I clutched at the bridle; but, before I could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed.
“At first I was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. I supposed I should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand.
“But I soon found this could not be so easily done. They had strayed forward, almost to the animal’s ears; and I could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck.
“While endeavouring to secure the bridle, I took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. It was only when I felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that I discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal.
“After that I had no time to make observations—no chance even to look after the lost reins. I was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle.
“I managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches.
“But there was one I could not avoid—the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. It was low down—on a level with my breast—and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it.
“Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that—I believe, better than I. I can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which I knew anything about till two hours afterwards.
“When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.
“The sight of them, as well as my thirst—that was beginning to grow painful—prompted me to move away from the place.
“On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.
“To stay on that spot was to perish—at least I so thought at the time.
“Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.
“I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling,—partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket—I succeeded in reaching it.
“Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.
“I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotés.
“There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear—knowing their cowardly nature—I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.
“They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.
“After a time they did so—clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.
“I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.
“With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.
“For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.
“I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God.”
On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.
Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.
“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade—one ofttimes more faithful than man himself—my staghound, Tara.
“The dog had been straying—perhaps in search of me—though I’ve since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.
“The coyotés scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate—I may say, out of the jaws of death.
“I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness—whichever it may have been.
“On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacalé; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.
“The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message—the staghound to be its bearer.
“I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.
“I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.
“There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.
“Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara’s neck.
“With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.
“It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.
“Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep—again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy—one more terrible than I had yet encountered.
“It was a jaguar.
“A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it—with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.
“All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams—painful phantasmagoria—mingled with pleasant visions—ah! some that were celestial—until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison—with a charge of murder hanging over my head!
“Gentlemen of the jury! I have done.”
“Si non vero e ben trovato,” is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.
They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it—one and all of them.
And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple—too circumstantial—to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.
It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.
His confession—irregular as it may have been—has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.
Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.
Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?
Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter—with or without Cassius Calhoun—with or without the Headless Horse, man—now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.
It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability—much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west—denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.
They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks—or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance—unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!
But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate—that section of it close to the Sierra Madro—and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.
Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.
Their impatience may be traced to a different cause—a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.
It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground—every woman as well—chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.
Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line—where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.