Литагент «АСТ»c9a05514-1ce6-11e2-86b3-b737ee03444a Майн Рид. Всадник без головы / Mayne Reid. The Headless Horseman АСТ Москва 2014 978-5-17-084121-9

Майн Рид. Всадник без головы / Mayne Reid. The Headless Horseman

Адаптация текста, составление упражнений, комментариев и словаря И. С. Маевской

© Маевская И. С., адаптация текста, упражнения, комментарии, словарь

© ООО «Издательство АСТ»

Chapter One

On the great plain of Texas, about a hundred miles southward from the old Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar, the noonday sun is shedding his beams from a sky of cerulean brightness. Under the golden light appears a group of objects.

The objects in question are easily identified – even at a great distance. They are waggons. Slowly crawling across the savannah, it could scarce be told that they are in motion.

There’re ten large waggons, each hauled by eight mules; their contents are: plenteous provisions, articles of costly furniture, live stock in the shape of coloured women and children; the groups of black and yellow bondsmen, walking alongside; the light travelling carriage in the lead, drawn by a span of Kentucky mules, and driven by a black Jehu.

The train[1] is the property of a planter who has landed at Indianola, on the Gulf of Matagorda; and is now travelling overland.

In the cortège that accompanies it, riding at its head, is the planter himself – Woodley Poindexter – a tall thin man of fifty, with a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe. He is simply though not inexpensively dressed. His features are shaded by a broad-brimmed hat.

Two horsemen are riding alongside – one on his right, the other on the left – a stripling scarce twenty, and a young man six or seven years older. The former is his son – a youth, whose open cheerful countenance contrasts, not only with the severe aspect of his father, but with the somewhat sinister features on the other side, and which belong to his cousin.

There is another horseman riding near. The keel-coloured “cowhide” clutched in his right hand, and flirted with such evident skill, proclaim him the overseer.

The travelling carriage, which is a “carriole”,[2] has two occupants. One is a young lady of the whitest skin; the other a girl of the blackest. The former is the daughter of Woodley Poindexter – his only daughter. The latter is the young lady’s handmaid.

The emigrating party is from the “coast” of the Mississippi – from Louisiana. The planter is not himself a native of this State. Woodley Poindexter is a grand sugar planter of the South; one of the highest of his class.

The sun is almost in the zenith. Slowly the train moves on. There is no regular road. The route is indicated by the wheel-marks of some vehicles that have passed before – barely conspicuous, by having crushed the culms of the shot grass.

Notwithstanding the slow progress, the teams are doing their best. The planter hopes to reach the end of his journey before night: hence the march continued through the mid-day heat.

Unexpectedly the drivers are directed to pull up, by a sign from the overseer; who has been riding a hundred yards in the advance, and who is seen to make a sudden stop – as if some obstruction had presented itself.

“What is it, Mr Sansom?” asked the planter, as the man rode up.

“The grass is burnt. The prairie’s been afire.”

“Been on fire! Is it on fire now?” hurriedly inquired the owner of the waggons. “Where? I see no smoke!”

“No, sir – no,” stammered the overseer, becoming conscious that he had caused unnecessary alarm; “I didn’t say it is afire now: only that it has been, and the whole ground is as black as the ten of spades.”[3]

“What of that? I suppose we can travel over a black prairie, as safely as a green one? What nonsense of you, Josh Sansom, to raise such a row about nothing!”

“But, Captain Calhoun,” protested the overseer, in response to the gentleman who had reproached him; “how are we to find the way?”

“Find the way! What are you talking about? We haven’t lost it – have we?”

“I’m afraid we have, though. The wheel-tracks are no longer to be seen. They’re burnt out, along with the grass.”

“What matters that? I reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie, without wheel-marks to guide us? We’ll find them again on the other side. Whip up, niggers!” shouted Calhoun, spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed.

The teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of the burnt tract, are once more brought to a stand.

Far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour – black. There is nothing green!

In front – on the right and left – extends the scene of desolation. Over it the cerulean sky is changed to a darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than shine.

The overseer has made a correct report – there is no trail visible. The action of the fire has eliminated the impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route.

“What are we to do?”

The planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a vacillating spirit.

“What else but keep straight on, uncle Woodley? The river must be on the other side? If we don’t hit the crossing, to a half mile or so, we can go up, or down the bank – as the case may require.”

“Well, nephew, you know best: I shall be guided by you.”

The ex-officer of volunteers with confident air trots onward. The waggon-train is once more in motion.

A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of starting. Then there is a halt. The self-appointed guide has ordered it. He appears to be puzzled about the direction.

“You’ve lost the way, nephew?” said the planter, riding rapidly up.

“Damned if I don’t believe I have, uncle!” responded the nephew, in a tone of not very respectful mistrust. “No, no!” he continued, reluctant to betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up. “I see now. We’re all right yet. The river must be in this direction. Come on!”

Once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road – where a half-score[4] of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them. And not long before: the hoof-prints of the animals fresh as if made within the hour. A train of waggons, not unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie!

Like themselves, it could only be going towards the Leona. In that case they have only to keep in the same track.

For a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed. The countenance of Cassius Calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes clouded. It assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have been made by ten Pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole – the same that are now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling all the way from the Gulf of Matagorda!

***

Beyond doubt, the waggons of Woodley Poindexter were going over ground already traced by the tiring of their wheels.

“Our own tracks!” muttered Calhoun on making the discovery.

“Our own tracks! What mean you, Cassius? You don’t say we’ve been travelling—”

“On our own tracks. I do, uncle; that very thing. That’s the very hill we went down as we left our last stopping place. We’ve made a couple of miles for nothing.”

Embarrassment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the speaker. It has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame. He feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes become witnesses of his discomfiture.

There is a general halt, succeeded by an animated conversation among the white men. The situation is serious: the planter himself believes it to be so. He cannot that day reach the end of his journey – a thing upon which he had set his mind.

How are they to find their way?

Calhoun no longer volunteers to point out the path.

A ten minutes’ discussion terminates in nothing. No one can suggest a feasible plan of proceeding.

Another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom. Then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness resume its sway. The cause? A horseman riding in the direction of the train!

An unexpected sight: who could have looked for human being in such a place? All eyes simultaneously sparkle with joy; as if, in the approach of the horseman, they beheld the advent of a saviour!

“A Mexican!” whispered Henry, drawing his deduction from the habiliments of the horseman.

“So much the better,” replied Poindexter, in the same tone of voice; “he’ll be all the more likely to know the road.”

“Not a bit of Mexican about him,” muttered Calhoun,” excepting the rig. I’ll soon see. Buenos dias, cavallero! Esta V. Mexicano?” (Good day, sir! are you a Mexican?)

“No, indeed,” replied the stranger, with a protesting smile. “I can speak to you in Spanish, if you prefer it; but I dare say you will understand me better in English: which, I presume, is your native tongue?”

“American, sir,” replied Poindexter. Then, as if fearing to offend the man from whom he intended asking a favour, he added: “Yes, sir; we are all Americans – from the Southern States.”

“That I can perceive by your following.” An expression of contempt showed itself upon the countenance of the speaker, as his eye rested upon the groups of black bondsmen. “I can perceive, too,” he added, “that you are strangers to prairie travelling. You have lost your way?”

“We have, sir; and have very little prospect of recovering it, unless we may count upon your kindness to direct us.”

“Not much kindness in that. By chance I came upon your trail, as I was crossing the prairie. I saw you were going astray; and have ridden this way to set you right.”

“It is very good of you. We shall be most thankful, sir. My name is Woodley Poindexter, of Louisiana. I have purchased a property on the Leona river, near Fort Inge. We were in hopes of reaching it before nightfall. Can we do so?”

“There is nothing to hinder you: if you follow the instructions I shall give.”

On saying this, the stranger rode a few paces apart; and appeared to scrutinise the country – as if to determine the direction which the travellers should take.

A blood-bay[5] steed, such as might have been ridden by an Arab sheik. On his back a rider – a young man of not more than five-and-twenty – of noble form and features, dressed in the picturesque costume of a Mexican rancher[6]. Thus looked the horseman, upon whom the planter and his people were gazing.

Through the curtains of the travelling carriage he was regarded with glances that spoke of a singular sentiment. For the first time in her life, Louise Poindexter looked upon that – hitherto known only to her imagination—a man of heroic mould.[7] Proud might he have been, could he have guessed the interest which his presence was exciting in the breast of the young Creole.[8]

“By my faith!” he declared, facing round to the owner of the waggons, “I can discover no landmarks for you to steer by. For all that, I can find the way myself. You will have to cross the Leona five miles below the Fort; and, as I have to go by the crossing myself, you can follow the tracks of my horse. But you may not be able to distinguish them”, said the horseman after a pause, “the more so, that in these dry ashes all horse-tracks are so nearly alike.”

“What are we to do?” despairingly asked the planter.

“I am sorry, Mr Poindexter, I cannot stay to conduct you, I am riding express, with a despatch for the Fort. If you should lose my trail, keep the sun on your right shoulders: so that your shadows may fall to the left, at an angle of about fifteen degrees to your line of march. Go straight forward for about five miles. You will then come in sight of the top of a tall tree – a cypress.[9] Head direct for this tree. It stands on the bank of the river; and close by is the crossing.”

The young horseman, once more drawing up his reins, was about to ride off; when something caused him to linger. It was a pair of dark lustrous eyes – observed by him for the first time – glancing through the curtains of the travelling carriage.

He perceived, moreover, that they were turned upon himself – fixed, as he fancied, in an expression that betokened interest – almost tenderness!

He returned it with an involuntary glance of admiration, which he made but an awkward attempt to conceal.

“You are very kind, sir,” said Poindexter; “but with the directions you have given us, I think we shall be able to manage. The sun will surely show us —”

“No: now I look at the sky, it will not. There are clouds looming up on the north. In an hour, the sun may be obscured – at all events, before you can get within sight of the cypress. It will not do. Stay!” he continued, after a reflective pause, “I have a better plan still: follow the trail of my lazo!”

While speaking, he had lifted the coiled rope and flung the loose end to the earth – the other being secured to a ring in the pommel. Then raising his hat in graceful salutation – more than half directed towards the travelling carriage – he gave the spur to his steed.

The lazo, lengthening out, tightened over the hips of his horse; and, dragging a dozen yards behind, left a line upon the cinereous surface.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who is the owner of the train? Where is he from? Where is he going to?

2) Who accompanies the planter?

3) Why is it hard to find the way?

4) Why did the overseer stop? Who becomes a new guide?

5) Who had left those wheel-tracks that Cassius Calhoun decided to follow?

6) Why did Calhoun’s confident look become clouded?

7) Who helped the travellers find the way? How did he do it?

8) Why didn’t the horseman stay with the travellers to conduct them?

Chapter Two

“An exceedingly curious fellow!” remarked the planter, as they stood gazing after the horseman. “I ought to have asked him his name?”

“An exceedingly conceited fellow, I should say,” muttered Calhoun; who had not failed to notice the glance sent by the stranger in the direction of the carriole, nor that which had challenged it.

“Come, cousin Cash,” protested young Poindexter; “you are unjust to the stranger. He appears to be educated – in fact, a gentleman.”

During this brief conversation, the fair occupant of the carriole was seen to bend forward; and direct a look of evident interest, after the form of the horseman fast receding from her view.

To this, perhaps, might have been traced the acrimony observable in the speech of Calhoun.

“What is it, Loo?” he inquired, riding close up to the carriage, and speaking in a voice not loud enough to be heard by the others. “You appear impatient to go forward? Perhaps you’d like to ride off along with that fellow? It isn’t too late: I’ll lend you my horse.”

The young girl threw herself back upon the seat – evidently displeased, both by the speech and the tone in which it was delivered. A clear ringing laugh was her only reply.

“So, so! I thought there must be something – by the way you behaved yourself in his presence. You looked as if you would have relished a tete-a-tete with this despatch-bearer. No doubt the letter carrier, employed by the officers at the Fort!”

“A letter carrier, you think? Oh, how I should like to get love letters by such a postman!”

“You had better hasten on, and tell him so. My horse is at your service.”

“Ha! ha! ha! What a simpleton you show yourself! Suppose, I did have a fancy to overtake this prairie postman! It couldn’t be done upon that dull steed of yours: not a bit of it! Oh, no! he’s not to be overtaken by me, however much I might like it; and perhaps I might like it!”

“Don’t let your father hear you talk in that way.”

“Don’t let him hear you talk in that way,” retorted the young lady, for the first time speaking in a serious strain. “Though you are my cousin, and papa may think you the pink of perfection,[10] I don’t! I never told you I did – did I?” A frown, evidently called forth by some unsatisfactory reflection, was the only reply to this interrogative.

“You are my cousin,” she continued, “but you are nothing more – nothing more – Captain Cassius Calhoun! You have no claim to be my counsellor. I shall remain mistress of my own thoughts – and actions, too – till I have found a master who can control them. It is not you!”

The closing curtains indicated that further conversation was not desired.

***

The travellers felt no further uneasiness about the route. The snake-like trail was continuous; and so plain that a child might have followed it.

Cheered by the prospect of soon terminating a toilsome journey – as also by the pleasant anticipation of beholding his new purchase – the planter was in one of his happiest moods. The planter’s high spirits were shared by his party, Calhoun alone excepted.

However this joyfulness should was after a time interrupted by causes and circumstances over which they had not the slightest control.

“Look, father! don’t you see them?” said Henry in a voice that betokened alarm.

“Where, Henry – where?”

“Behind the waggons. You see them now?”

“I do – though I can’t say what they are. They look like – like – I really don’t know what.”

Against the northern horizon had suddenly lifted a number of dark columns – half a score of them – unlike anything ever seen before. They were constantly changing size, shape, and place.

In the proximity of phenomena never observed before – unknown to every individual of the party – it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm.

A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. The animals – mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand. The danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!

Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers. The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!

At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief – despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered.

Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop – riding direct towards them.

The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. For all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.

“Onward!” he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. “On – on! as fast as you can drive!”

“What is it?” demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. “Is there a danger?”

“There is. I did not anticipate it, as I passed you. It was only after reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it.”

“Of what, sir?”

“The norther.”[11]

“I never heard of its being dangerous,” interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but—”

“You’ll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, “I tell you, that you and your party are in peril. A norther is not always to be dreaded. Those black pillars are nothing – only the precursors of the storm. Look beyond! Don’t you see a black cloud spreading over the sky? That’s what you have to dread. You have no chance to escape it, except by speed. If you do not make haste, it will be too late. Order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can!”

The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. The order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed.

The travelling carriage moved in front, as before. The stranger alone threw himself in the rear – as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger.

At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.

Perceiving it, the planter approached, and asked him:

“Is there still a danger?”

“I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative,” said he: “Are your mules doing their best?”

“They are: they could not be driven faster.”

“I fear we shall be too late, then!”

“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”

The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting – his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.

“There is!” joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. “There is a chance. I did not think of it before. We cannot shun the storm – the danger we may. Quick, Mr Poindexter! Order your men to muffle the mules – the horses too – otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. When that’s done, let all seek shelter within the waggons.”

The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage.

Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle.

“Once again, sir, I adjure you to get inside! If you do not you’ll have cause to repent it. Within ten minutes’ time, you may be a dead man!”

The ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance – intended to save appearances – he clambered into the carriage.

To describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen. No eye beheld the spectacle: for none dared look upon it. In five minutes after the muffling of the mules, the train was enveloped in worse than Cimmerian darkness[12].

In another instant the norther was around them; and the waggon train was enveloped in an atmosphere, akin to that which congeals the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean! Nothing more was seen – nothing heard, save the whistling of the wind, or its hoarse roaring.

For over an hour did the atmosphere carry this cinereous cloud.

At length a voice, speaking close by the curtains of the carriole, announced their release.

“You can come forth!” said the stranger. “You will still have the storm to contend against. But you have nothing further to fear. The ashes are all swept off.”

“Sir!” said the planter, hastily descending the steps of the carriage, “we have to thank you for – for—”

“Our lives, father!” cried Henry, supplying the proper words. “I hope, sir, you will favour us with your name?”

“Maurice Gerald!” returned the stranger; “though, at the Fort, you will find me better known as Maurice the mustanger”.[13]

“A mustanger!” scornfully muttered Calhoun, but only loud enough to be heard by Louise.

“For guide, you will no longer need either myself, or my lazo,” said the hunter of wild horses. “The cypress is in sight: keep straight towards it. After crossing, you will see the flag over the Fort. I must say goodbye.”

Satan himself, astride a Tartarean steed,[14] could not have looked more like the devil than did Maurice the Mustanger, as he separated for the second time from the planter and his party. But neither his ashy envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, could damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already predisposed in his favour – Louise Poindexter.

“Maurice Gerald!” muttered the young Creole, “whoever you are – whence you have come – whither you are going – what you may be – henceforth there is a fate between us! I feel it – I know it– sure as there’s a sky above!”

Answer the following questions:

1) What was the reason of the quarrel between Captain Calhoun and Louise?

2) What frightened Woodley Poindexter and his companions? How did they avoid the danger?

3) What is the horseman’s name? How is he known at the Fort? Why?

4) What is Louise’s attitude to Maurice?

Chapter Three

On the banks of the Alamo stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.

The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. It could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. Its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its inconspicuousness.

The house was a mere cabin – with only a single aperture, the door – if we except the flue of a chimney. The doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it.

In the rear was an open shed, around this was a small enclosure.

A still more extensive enclosure, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. Its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints told of its use: a “corral”[15] for wild horses – mustangs.

The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. The sheeting of mustang-skins covered the walls. The furniture consisted of a bed, a couple of stools and a rude table. Something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner.

What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and also a newspaper lying upon the table.

Further proofs of civilization presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun, a drinking cup, a hunter’s horn, and a dog-call.

Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn,[16] evidently containing something stronger than the water of the Alamo.

Such was the structure of the mustanger’s dwelling – such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants – two in number.

On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.

He was a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish.

Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire was a huge Irish staghound,[17] that looked as if he understood the speech of the man.

Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.

“Oh, Tara, my jewel!” exclaimed the man fraternally interrogating the hound; “don’t you wish now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wouldn’t you like to be once more in the courtyard of the old castle! But there’s no knowing when the young master will go back, and take us along with him.

“I’d like a drop now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the jar. “No-no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out of the demijohn, and take a smell at it. Sure the master won’t know anything about that; and if he did, he wouldn’t mind it!”

During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.

He took up the demijohn and drew out the stopper. After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.

“Tara, you old thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that tempted me! No matter, man: the master will never miss it; besides, he’s going soon to the Fort, and can lay in a fresh supply.

“I wonder,” muttered he, “what makes Master Maurice so anxious to get back to the Settlements. He says he’ll go whenever he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. I suppose it must be something beyond the common. He says he won’t give it up, till he catches it. Hush! what’s that?”

Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.

“Phelim!” called a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”

“It’s the master,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.

Phelim was not mistaken. It was the voice of his master, Maurice Gerald. As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse.

The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo – drawn from the saddle tree – was a captive. It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen. The colour of the mustang was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black – with white spots distributed over it.

The creature was of perfect shape. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse.

Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back – as he often did – with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.

“Master Maurice, you have caught the spotty at last!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive. “It’s a mare! Where will you put her, master? Into the corral, with the others?”

“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim – I mean in the way of horseflesh?”

“Never, Master Maurice; never, in all my life!

The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree.

The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the spotted mustang had cost him a long and arduous chase – such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.

Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.

For several nights he had slept uneasily till not only his henchman[18] Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.

At length Phelim determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude.

“Master Maurice, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Phelim – nothing! What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Why, that whenever you close your eyes and think you are sleeping, you begin palavering! You are always trying to pronounce a big name that appears to have no ending, though it begins with a point!”

“A name! What name?”

“I can’t tell you exactly. It’s too long for me to remember, seeing that my education was entirely neglected. But there’s another name that you put before it; and that I can tell you. It’s Louise that you say, Master Maurice; and then comes the point.”

“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard – somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!”

“In your dreams, master, you talk about a girl looking out of a carriage with curtains to it, and telling her to close them against some danger that you are going to save her from.”

“I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head? But come! You forget that I haven’t tasted food since morning. What have you got?”

“There’s only the cold venison and the corn-bread. If you like I’ll put the venison in the pot”.

“Yes, do so. I can wait.”

Phelim was about stepping outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution.

The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger’s cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other.

He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin. A deerskin undershirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a “blanket coat,” that had once been green. He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter. There was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing. Everything was plain almost to rudeness.

The individual was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect.

It was Zebulon Stump, or “Old Zeb Stump,” as he was better known to the very limited circle of his acquaintances.

“Kentuckian, by birth and raising,”—as he would have described himself, if asked the country of his nativity. The hunter had passed the early part of his life among the forests of the Lower Mississippi; and now, at a later period, he was living and hunting in the wilds of south-western Texas.

The behaviour of the staghound told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

“Evening!” laconically saluted Zeb.

“Good evening, Mr Stump!” rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. “Step inside, and take a seat! On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?”

“No: I got my old creature out there, tied to a tree.”

“Let Phelim take her round to the shed. You’ll have something to eat? Phelim was just getting supper ready. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything very dainty. I’ve been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me.”

“What sort of a mustang?” inquired the hunter.

“A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground – a splendid creature!”

“That’s the very business that’s brought me over to you. I’ve seen that mustang several times out on the prairie, and I just wanted you to go after her. I’ll tell you why. I’ve been to the Leona settlements since I saw you last, and since I saw her too. Well, there has come a man that I knew on the Mississippi. He is a rich planter, his name is Poindexter.”

“Poindexter?”

“That is the name – one of the best known on the Mississippi from Orleans to Saint Louis. He was rich then; and, I reckon, isn’t poor now – seeing as he’s brought about a hundred niggers along with him. Beside, there’s his nephew, by name Calhoun. He’s got the dollars, and nothing to do with them but lend them to his uncle – the which, for a certain reason, I think he will. Now, young fellow, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. That planter has got a daughter, she’s fond of horses. She heard me telling her father about the spotted mustang; and nothing would content her there and then, till he promised he’d offer a big price for catching the creature. He said he’d give a couple of hundred dollars for the animal. So, saying nothing to nobody, I came over here, fast as my old mare could fetch me.”

“Will you step this way, Mr Stump?” said the young Irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation.

Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired—

“Does that look anything like the mustang you’ve been speaking of?”

“Dog-gone my cats, if it’s not the same! Caught already! Two hundred dollars! Young fellow, you’re in luck: two hundred, – and the animal’s worth every cent of the money! Won’t Miss Poindexter be pleased!”

Answer the following questions:

1) How does Maurice’s dwelling characterize its owner? Describe it.

2) Who is Phelim?

3) Who is Maurice’s new captive?

4) Why was Maurice unable to obtain repose? What did he talk about in his dreams?

5) Who is Zeb Stump? What did he come for?

Chapter Four

The estate, or “hacienda,”[19] known as Casa del Corvo, extends along the wooded bottom of the Leona River. A structure of superior size whose white walls show conspicuously against the green background of forest with which it is half encircled. It is the newly acquired estate of the Louisiana planter and his family.

Louise Poindexter flung herself into a chair in front of her dressing-glass, and directed her maid Florinda to prepare her for the reception of guests. It was the day fixed for the “house-warming,”[20] and about an hour before the time appointed for dinner to be on the table.

Soon they loud voices were heard in the courtyard.

“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” continued the young lady, “you said you were going upon a long journey. Well – I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner.

Zeb told Louise that he had come to talk to her father about the spotted mustang that he’d promised to purchase for her. She asked who caught it, and the hunter told her it was a mustanger.

“His name?”

“Well, as to the name of his family, I’ve never heard it. He’s known up there about the Fort as Maurice the mustanger.”

The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer. Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

“Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “that’s the name of the brave young white gentleman – that saved us in the black prairie?”

“Yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “He told me of that circumstance this very morning, before we started. That’s the very fellow as has trapped the spotty; and he is trotting the creature along at this identical minute, in company with about a dozen others. He ought to be here before sundown. I pushed my old mare ahead, to tell your father the spotty was coming, and let him get the first chance of buying. I thought of you, Miss Louise!”

Lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the corridor. Only after entering her chamber, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning —

“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”

***

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, were the elite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant.

His lovely daughter Louise – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

To say that Louise Poindexter was beautiful would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point – strangers as well as acquaintances.

She was the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more.

But mingling in that splendid crowd was a man who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. It was Cassius Calhoun.

At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.

Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.

When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the light of the setting sun – when the spectators pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavalcade.

“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger. He appears to be coming direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”

“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell that horseman to be Maurice Gerald.”

The cavalcade came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo. The mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him.

“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house.

“Surely,” said Poindexter, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”

“Ye-es, Mister Poindexter; the identical creature – a mare,” answered Zeb Stump, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him.

“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”

“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale. You have given me such a generous price for my other captives that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a `luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur, not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this fashion into the settlements of Texas?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, “as you please about that.”

“This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me.”

“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested on the countenance of the mustanger—”a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”

“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”

“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole.

It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess[21]—and he proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.

It was the first time the wild mare had ever been mounted by man. With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Twice or three times the mustang tried to throw off her rider, but the endeavours were foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal sprang away from the spot and entered upon a gallop.

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Soon Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him.

“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will.”

Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of fear – Louise stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope and whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang.

Answer the following questions:

1) What was Louise preparing for?

2) What news did Zeb Stump bring?

3) Read this extract again:

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Who are these two?

4) Did Maurice sell the spotted mustang? What did he do with it?

Chapter Five

The first rays of light, saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell upon a small waggon that stood in front of the “officers’ quarters”. A party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling on the parade-ground. They were preparing for a picnic. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.

The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang.

The affair was a reciprocal treat – a simple return of hospitality; the major and his officers being the hosts, the planter and his friends the invited guests. The entertainment about to be provided was equally appropriate to the time and place. The guests of the cantonment were to be gratified by witnessing a spectacle – a chase of wild steeds! The arena of the sport could only be upon the wild-horse prairies – some twenty miles to the southward of Fort Inge.

The party was provided with a guide – a horseman completely costumed and equipped, mounted upon a splendid steed.

“Come, Maurice!” cried the major, on seeing that all had assembled, “we’re ready to be conducted to the game. Ladies and gentlemen! this young fellow is thoroughly acquainted with the haunts and habits of the wild horses. If there’s a man in Texas, who can show us how to hunt them, it is Maurice the mustanger.”

***

“To the saddle!” was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every tongue when a drove of wild mares was seen in the distance. Before a hundred could have been deliberately counted, every one, ladies and gentlemen alike, was in the stirrup.

By this time the wild mares appeared coming over the crest of the ridge. They were going at mad gallop, as if fleeing from a pursuer – some dreaded creature that was causing them to snort! They were chased by donkey, almost as large as any of the mustangs.

“I must stop him!” exclaimed Maurice, “or the mares will run on till the end of daylight.”

Half a dozen springs of the blood bay, guided in a diagonal direction, brought his rider within casting distance; and like a flash of lightning, the loop of the lazo was seen descending over the long ears. Then the animal was seen to rise erect on its hind legs, and fall heavily backward upon the grass.

The incident caused a postponement of the chase. All awaited the action of the guide, when he suddenly sprang to his saddle with a quickness that betokened some new cause of excitement.

The cause for the eccentric change of tactics was that Louise Poindexter, mounted on the spotted mustang, had suddenly separated from the company, and was galloping off after the wild mares!

That unexpected start could scarcely be an intention – except on the part of the spotted mustang? Maurice had recognised the drove, as the same from which he had himself captured it: and, no doubt, with the design of rejoining its old associates, it was running away with its rider!

Stirred by gallantry, half the field spurred off in pursuit. But few, if any, of the gentlemen felt actual alarm. All knew that Louise Poindexter was a splendid equestrian. There was one who did not entertain this confident view. It was he who had been the first to show anxiety – the mustanger himself.

The sun, looking down from the zenith, gave light to a singular tableau. A herd of wild mares going at reckless speed across the prairie; one of their own kind, with a lady upon its back, following about four hundred yards behind; at a like distance after the lady, a steed of red bay colour, bestridden by the mustanger, and apparently intent upon overtaking her; still further to the rear a string of mounted men.

In twenty minutes the herd gained distance upon the spotted mustang; the mustang upon the blood bay; and the blood bay – ah! his competitors were no longer in sight.

For another mile the chase continued, without much change.

“What if I lose sight of her? In truth, it begins to look queer! It would be an awkward situation for the young lady. Worse than that – there’s danger in it – real danger. If I should lose sight of her, she’d be in trouble to a certainty!”

Thus muttering, Maurice rode on: his eyes now fixed upon the form still flitting away before him; at intervals interrogating, with uneasy glances, the space that separated him from it.

At this crisis the drove disappeared from the sight both of the blood-bay and his master; and most probably at the same time from that of the spotted mustang and its rider.

The effect produced upon the runaway[22] appeared to proceed from some magical influence. As if their disappearance was a signal for discontinuing the chase, it suddenly slackened pace; and the instant after came to a standstill!

“Miss Poindexter!” Maurice said, as he spurred his steed within speaking distance: “I am glad that you have recovered command of that wild creature. I was beginning to be alarmed about—”

“About what, sir?” was the question that startled the mustanger.

“Your safety – of course,” he replied, somewhat stammeringly.

“Oh, thank you, Mr Gerald; but I was not aware of having been in any danger. Was I really so?”

“Any danger!” echoed the Irishman, with increased astonishment. “On the back of a runaway mustang – in the middle of a pathless prairie!”

“And what of that? The thing couldn’t throw me. I’m too clever in the saddle, sir.”

“I know it, madame; but suppose you had fallen in with—”

“Indians!” interrupted the lady, without waiting for the mustanger to finish his hypothetical speech. “And if I had, what would it have mattered?”

“No; not Indians exactly – at least, it was not of them I was thinking.”

“Some other danger? What is it, sir? You will tell me, so that I may be more cautious for the future?”

Maurice did not make immediate answer. A sound striking upon his ear had caused him to turn away. They heard a shrill scream, succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of hoofs.

It was no mystery to the hunter of horses.

“The wild stallions!” he exclaimed, in a tone that betokened alarm. “I knew they must be among those hills; and they are!”

“Is that the danger of which you have been speaking?”

“It is. At other times there is no cause to fear them. But just now, at this season of the year, they become as savage as tigers, and equally as vindictive.”

“What are we to do?” inquired the young lady, now, for the first time, giving proof that she felt fear – by riding close up to the man who had once before rescued her from a situation of peril. “Why should we not ride off at once, in the opposite direction?”

“‘It would be of no use. There’s no cover to conceal us, on that side – nothing but open plain. The place we must make for – the only safe one I can think of – lies the other way. You are sure you can control the mustang?”

“Quite sure,” was the prompt reply.

***

It was a straight unchanging chase across country – a trial of speed between the horses without riders, and the horses that were ridden. Speed alone could save the riders.

“Miss Poindexter!” the mustanger called out to the young lady. “You must ride on alone.”

“But why, sir?” asked she, bringing the mustang almost instantaneously to a stand.

“If we keep together we shall be overtaken. I must do something to stay those savage animals. For heaven’s sake don’t question me! Ten seconds of lost time, and it’ll be too late. Look ahead yonder. Do you see a pond? Ride straight towards it. You will find yourself between two high fences. They come together at the pond. You’ll see a gap, with bars. If I’m not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you.”

“And you, sir?”

“Have no fear for me! Alone, I shall run but little risk. For mercy’s sake, gallop forward! Keep the water under your eyes. Let it guide you. Remember to close the gap behind you.”

***

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

The peril was passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole. “They tell me it is not a lady-like accomplishment.”

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

“An American lady?”

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

“A young lady?”

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

“Size?”

“Not so tall as you.”

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

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

“Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed pique. “I was not thinking of that. Thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. Let us go back!”

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

Answer the following questions:

1) Who organized the picnic? What entertainment was provided?

2) What happened in the prairie? Was Louise scared?

3) Who saved her and how?

4) What lady did Maurice tell Louise about?

Chapter Six

In the incipient city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the “hotel” was the most conspicuous building.

The hotel, or tavern, “Rough and Ready,” though differing but little from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. Its proprietor was a German – in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. Oberdoffer was the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by his Texan customers into “Old Duffer.”

There was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the “Rough and Ready,” though it was not uncommon elsewhere. The building was shaped like a capital T; the bar-room representing the head of the letter. The counter extended along one side; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the city.

With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the “Rough and Ready” was necessary as a “nightcap”[23] before retiring to rest.

One of the groups assembled in the bar-room consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers: the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants.

Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority. He was the commandant of the cantonment.

These gentlemen were conversing about the incidents of the day.

“Now tell us, major!” said lieutenant Hancock: “you must know. Where did the girl gallop to?”

“How should I know?” answered the officer appealed to. “Ask her cousin, Mr Cassius Calhoun.”

“We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. It’s clear he knows no more than we. He only met them on the return”

“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry.

“He did look rather unhappy,” replied the major; “but surely, Captain Sloman, you don’t attribute it to—?”

“Jealousy. I do, and nothing else.”

“What! of Maurice the mustanger? impossible – at least, very improbable.”

“And why, major?”

“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald—”

“May be a gentleman—”

“A trader in horses!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “the major is right – the thing’s impossible.”

“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he is what I have some reason to suspect—”

“Whatever he is,” interrupted the major, looking at the door, “he’s there to answer for himself.”

Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.

“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which he saluted the landlord.

The officers were about to interrogate the mustanger – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.

The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.

It could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink.

“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “Drinks all round. What say you?”

“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.

“You, major?”

“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”

The whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.

Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.

This brought him in juxtaposition[24] with Maurice Gerald, who alone was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.

The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.

“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter. “America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”

On delivering the toast, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips. The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.

No one believed it was an accident – even for a moment.

Having deposited his glass upon the counter, the mustanger had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.

In silence everybody awaited the development.

“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.

“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig.”

“I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching[25] yours in a similar fashion.”

So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before Calhoun could get out of the way, the remains of the whisky were “swilled” into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.

All saw that the quarrel was a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.

On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter,[26] and drawn it from its holster. He only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his enemy.

The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist – shot for shot.

“Hold!” commanded the major in a loud authoritative tone, interposing the long blade of his his sabre between the disputants.

“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty[27] I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger!”

“Why?” shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion. “Why, Major Ringwood? After an insult like that, and from a low fellow—”

“You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun.”

“Damn me if I care! I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. Stand out of the way, major.”

“I’m not the man to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel,” answered the major. “You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it pleases you. But not just now. You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance.”

Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an Irishman.

“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.

“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun apologises for what he has said, and also what he has done—”

“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.

“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun isn’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”

“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”

“Stay!” cried the major. “There should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Neither of you can object?”

“I shan’t object to anything that’s fair,” said the Irishman.

***

It was decided that Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald would go outside along with everybody and then enter again – one at each door.

The duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance – perhaps into eternity! They only waited for a signal to cross the threshold. It was to be given by ringing the tavern bell.

A loud voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable—

“Ring!”

At the first dong of the bell both duellists had re-entered the room. A hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel – that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold.

Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. Both kept their feet, though both were wounded – their blood spurting out over the sanded floor.

The spectators outside saw only a cloud of smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the lamps. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle – the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor – at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men. The crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. The reports of the pistols[28] were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. Eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.

Instead of it their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.

“My pistol is at your head! I have one shot left – an apology, or you die!”

At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”

Answer the following questions:

1) What were the officers talking about in the bar-room?

2) How did the conflict begin?

3) Did anybody try to prevent a duel?

4) Where did the duel take place?

5) How did it end?

Chapter Seven

After the duel Maurice was compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, nevertheless made it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in the hotel.

How the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell. He was no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the “Rough and Ready;” though the cause of his absence was well understood. He was confined to his couch by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might lead to death.

He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core. To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections was too much to be endured with equanimity.

He had no idea of enduring it. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.

In the solitude of his chamber he set about maturing his plans. Maurice, the mustanger, must die! He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?

Unluckily he knew the very man. There was a Mexican at the time living in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate. It was Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote.”

Calhoun remembered having met him in the bar-room of the hotel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.

The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!

The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the woman who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.

***

Louise was standing upon the edge of the azotea[29] that fronted towards the east. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.

In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow.

“He may be dangerously wounded – perhaps even to death? I may not send to inquire. I dare not even ask after him. He may be in some poor place – perhaps neglected? Would that I could convey to him a message without any one knowing it! I wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?”

The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge. Zeb Stump should come that way. He was not in sight; nor was any one else. She looked at the plain in the opposite quarter and saw a horse stepping out from among the trees. He was ridden by one, who, at first sight, appeared to be a man, dressed in a sort of Arab costume; but who, on closer scrutiny, was unquestionably of the other sex – a lady.

The loosely falling folds of the lady’s scarf didn’t hinder the observer from coming to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face.

The man following upon the mule by his costume – as well as the respectful distance observed – was evidently an attendant.

“Who can that woman be?” was the muttered interrogatory of Louise Poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes. “A Mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. Some grand senora, I suppose? A basket carried by the attendant. I wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the Port – it may be the village. It is the third time I’ve seen her passing within this week? She must be from some of the plantations below!”

There came a change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun.

The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. An antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. The woman with her scarf suddenly flung from her face, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air!

“What is the woman going to do?” was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. “Ha! As I live, it is a lazo!”

The senora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the lazo – by flinging its noose around the antelope’s neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks!

It was at that moment – when the lazo was seen circling in the air – that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole. It was not surprise that caused it, but a thought far more unpleasant.

“I wonder – oh, I wonder if it is she! My own age, he said – not quite so tall. The description suits – so far as one may judge at this distance. Has her home on the Rio Grande. Comes occasionally to the Leona, to visit some relatives. Why did I not ask him the name? I wonder – oh, I wonder if it is she!”

It was a relief to Louise Poindexter, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal;[30] a still greater relief, when he was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump the hunter.

“The man I was wanting to see!” she exclaimed in joyous accents. “He can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who she is. He must have met her on the road.”

“Dear Mr Stump!” called a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. “I’m so glad to see you. Dismount, and come up here!”

Zeb was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.

She asked him about Maurice, and Zeb told her that the mustanger didn’t have any dangerous wounds and would be all right in a couple of days. When Louise learned that after the duel Maurice was staying at the hotel she said she wished to send something to him.

“Stay here, Mr Stump, till I come up to you again.”

The young lady lightly descended the stone stairway. Presently she reappeared – bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which was evidently filled with eatables.

“Now dear old Zeb, you will take this to Mr Gerald? It’s only some little things that Florinda has put up, such as sick people at times have a craving for. They are not likely to be kept in the hotel. Don’t tell him where they come from – neither him, nor any one else.”

“You may depend on Zeb Stump for that, Miss Louise. Though, for the matter of cakes and kickshaws, and all that sort of thing, the mustanger hasn’t had much reason to complain. He has been supplied with enough of them.”

“Supplied already! By whom?”

“Well, I can’t inform you, Miss Louise; Maurice doesn’t know it himself. I only heard they were fetched to the tavern in baskets, by some sort of a serving-man, a Mexican. I’ve seen the man myself. Fact, I’ve just this minute met him, riding after a woman. He had a basket just like one Maurice had got already.”

There was no need to trouble Zeb Stump with further cross-questioning. A whole history was supplied by that single speech. The case was painfully clear. In the regard of Maurice Gerald, Louise Poindexter had a rival – perhaps something more. The lady of the lazo was either his fiancée, or his mistress!

For the first time in her life Louise Poindexter felt the pangs of jealousy. It was her first real love: for she was in love with Maurice Gerald.

The mistress of Casa del Corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied herself on this score. As soon as Zeb Stump had taken his departure, she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on the opposite side.

Advancing in the direction of the Fort, as she expected, she soon encountered the Mexican senora on her return; no senora according to the exact signification of the term, but a senorita – a young lady, not older than herself.

Good breeding permitted only a glance at her in passing; which was returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger.

“Beautiful!” said Louise, after passing her supposed rival upon the road. “Yes; too beautiful to be his friend! I cannot have any doubt,” continued she, “of the relationship that exists between them – He loves her! – he loves her! It accounts for his cold indifference to me?

Answer the following questions:

1) How did Calhoun feel after his defeat? What plan was he maturing?

2) Who is Miguel Diaz? Why did he dislike Maurice Gerald?

3) Where did Maurice stay after the duel? Who supplied him with delicacies?

4) How did Louise feel after she’d learned who it was? Why?

Chapter Eight

During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once again had she seen – from the housetop as before – the lady of the lazo, as before accompanied by her attendant with the basket.

She knew more now about her rival, though not much. The Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos – daughter of a wealthy landowner, who lived upon the Rio Grande, and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the boundaries of her father’s new purchase. An eccentric young lady, as some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything else excepting her own caprices.

One day Louise was upon the azotea, looking towards the quarter whence the senorita might have been expected to come.

On turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld – that which caused her something more than surprise. She saw Maurice Gerald, mounted on horseback, and riding down the road!

On recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet.

The invalid was convalescent. He no longer needed to be visited by his nurse.

Cowering behind the parapet Louise Poindexter watched the passing horseman. She felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face at intervals and fixed his regard upon Casa del Corvo. It was increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road, and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion.

Then he rode on and became lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.

Where was he going? To visit Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

***

As on the day before, Louise stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the mustanger ride past.

He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. Her heart fluttered between hope and fear. There was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself. Fear prevailed; and in the next instant he was gone.

The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. In less than twenty minutes after, a steed was seen upon the same road – and in the same direction – with a lady upon its back.

She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. There was a mansion in sight surrounded by tall trees. It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the uncle of Dona Isidora. So much had she learnt already.

No one appeared either at the house, or near it.

Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?

With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it – riding directly towards her.

It was too late for Louise to shun him. The spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. Its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.

“Good day, Miss Poindexter?” said he. “Alone?”

“Alone, sir. And why not?”

“True: I think I’ve heard you say you prefer solitary rides?”

“You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?”

“In faith I do like it. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or `hotel,’ as my host is pleased to call it; and one gets very tired of the noises – especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be. A ride along this quiet road would invigorate anyone. Don’t you think so, Miss Poindexter?”

“You should know best, sir,” was the reply vouchsafed, after some seconds of embarrassment. “You, who have so often tried it.”

“Often! I have been only twice down this road since I have been able to sit in my saddle. But, Miss Poindexter, may I ask how you knew that I have been this way at all?”

“Oh!” rejoined Louise, “how could I help knowing it? I am in the habit of spending much time on the housetop. Our roof commands a view of this road. Being up there, I could not avoid seeing you as you passed. The distance is scarce six hundred yards. Even a lady, mounted upon a steed much smaller than yours, was sufficiently conspicuous to be identified. When I saw her display her wonderful skill, by strangling a poor little antelope with her lazo, I knew it could be no other than she whose accomplishments you were so good as to give me an account of.”

“Isidora? Ah; true! She has been here for some time.”

“And has been very kind to Mr Maurice Gerald?”

“Indeed, it is true. She has been very kind; though I have had no chance of thanking her. I have not met her for many months; and may not for months to come – now that she has gone back to her home on the Rio Grande.”

“Are you speaking the truth, sir? You have not seen her since – she is gone away from the house of her uncle?”

“She has,” replied Maurice, exhibiting surprise. “Of course, I have not seen her. I only knew she was here by her sending me some delicacies while I was ill. In truth, I stood in need of them. The Dona Isidora has been but too grateful for the slight service I once did her.”

“A service! May I ask what it was, Mr Gerald?”

“Oh, certainly. It was merely a chance. I had the opportunity of being useful to the young lady, in once rescuing her from some rude Indians, into whose hands she had fallen, while making a journey from the Rio Grande to visit her uncle on the Leona – Don Silvio Martinez, whose house you can see from here.”

“A slight service, you call it? You are modest in your estimate, Mr Gerald. A man who should do that much for me!”

“What would you do for him?” asked the mustanger, placing a significant emphasis on the final word.

“I should love him,” was the prompt reply.

“Then,” said Maurice, spurring his horse close up to the side of the spotted mustang, and whispering into the ear of its rider, with an earnestness strangely contrasting to his late reticence, “I would give half my life to see you in the hands of Wild Cat and his drunken comrades – the other half to deliver you from the danger.”

“Do you mean this, Maurice Gerald? Do not trifle with me: I am not a child. Speak the truth! Do you mean it?”

“I do! As heaven is above me, I do!”

The fondest embrace ever received by Maurice Gerald, was that given by Louise Poindexter; when, standing up in her stirrup, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she cried in an agony of earnest passion—

“I love you, I love you!”

Answer the following questions:

1) Who was the lady of the lazo? Why was Louise jealous?

2) Where did Louise decide to ride after seeing the mustanger and why?

3) Why did Isidora send delicacies to Maurice?

4) How did the encounter end?

Chapter Nine

Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, but, on leaving the sala instead of returning to his own chamber, he went out of the house.

In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda and the Fort, he arrived at the terminus of his expedition. It was the domicile of Miguel Diaz, the Mexican mustanger – a lair appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the distinctive appellation of El Coyote (“Prairie Wolf”).

Calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety. He was not exactly intoxicated – having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence.

“Hola!”[31] he exclaimed as his visitor came in. “Who’d have expected to see you? Be seated. Take a chair. There’s one. Ha! ha! ha!”

Calhoun, fatigued with his promenade, accepted the invitation of his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull.

He did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of his errand.

“Senor Diaz!” said he, “I have come for—”

“Senor Americano!” exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting short the explanation, “why waste words upon that? I know well enough for what you’ve come. You want me to wipe out that devilish Irishman!”

“Well!”

“Well; I promised you I would do it – at the proper time and opportunity. Miguel Diaz never played false to his promise. But the time’s not come, captain; nor yet the opportunity. To kill a man outright requires skill. It can’t be done – even on the prairies – without danger of detection. I hate that Irishman as much as you; but I’m not going to chop off my nose to spite my own face. I must wait for the time, and the chance.”

“Both have come!” exclaimed the tempter. “You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian trouble going on?”

“Of course I said so—”

“You have not heard the news, then?”

“What news?”

“That the Comanches[32] are starting on the war trail.”[33]

“Carajo!” exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch, and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the scent of prey. “Do you speak the truth, captain?”

“Neither more nor less. The news has just reached the Fort. I have it on the best authority – the officer in command.”

“In that case,” answered the Mexican reflecting! – ”in that case, Don Mauricio may die. The Comanches can kill him. Ha! ha! ha!”

“You are sure of it?”

“I should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead of five hundred.”

“It is worth that sum.”

“What sum?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“You promise it?”

“I do.”

“Then the Comanches shall scalp him. You may return to Casa del Corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair. You understand?”

“I do.”

“What a magnificent fluke of fortune!” exclaimed the ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. “A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on my own account! The Comanches upon the war trail! Can it be true? If so, I must look up my old disguise – gone to neglect through these three long years of accursed peace. Viva la guerra de los Indios!”

***

Little suspected the proud planter – perhaps prouder of his daughter than anything else he possessed – that she was daily engaged in an act of rebellion.

His own daughter – his only daughter – of the best blood of Southern aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a splendid alliance – holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter!

Twice had they stood together in the garden grove – twice had they exchanged love vows – under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a third interview had been arranged between them.

It was nearer the hour of midnight – when a horseman rode away from the door of Oberdoffer’s hotel and took the down-river road that passed the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, at some distance from the house.

On reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the underwood; by a path that zigzagged down the bluff – and with which he appeared familiar – he descended to the river “bottom.”

He scanned the shrubbery on the other side of the stream; in the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its shadow.

Becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his lazo and giving it half a dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream. With the help of the lazo he towed the skiff to the side on which he stood.

Stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars and pulled the boat back to its moorings.[34]

Taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree, he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one, expected by appointment.

At the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a small white hand – decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon – opened a window that looked to the rear of the hacienda.

The hour of assignation had arrived. With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her.

“Tomorrow night you will meet me again – tomorrow night, dearest Maurice?”

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, – if I were free to say the word.”

“And why not? Why are you not free to say it?”

“Tomorrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo.”

“Why should you go?”

“I have excellent reasons for going,” was the reply she received.

“Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?”

“My follower Phelim – no one else. I sent him out about ten days ago – before there was any tidings of these Indian troubles. I know that my relations with you are of a questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of them. It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo.”

“And to stay there?”

“Only for a single day, or two at most. Only to gather up my household goods, and bid farewell[35] to my prairie life.”

“I cannot comprehend you. Perhaps I never shall!”

“It is very simple – the resolve I have taken. I know you will forgive me, when I make it known to you.”

“Forgive you, Maurice! For what?”

“For keeping it a secret from you, that – that I am not what I seem.”

“God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me – noble, grand, beautiful, rare among men! Oh, Maurice! you know not how I esteem – how I love you!”

“Not more than I esteem and love you. It is that very esteem that now counsels me to a separation.”

Maurice said he had received the summons from his native country – Ireland – and had to go there for a short time.

“I shall be able soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor horse-hunter who won his daughter’s heart – have I won it, Louise?”

“Idle questioner! You know you have more than won it – conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape.”

During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech there was silence perfect and profound.

But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. A footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.

That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a witness to both their passionate speeches and their excited actions. Within easy earshot, he could hear every word – even the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery light of the moon he could detect their slightest gestures.

It was Cassius Calhoun.

How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning?

Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell.

He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow’s day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.

He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.

Despite the terrible temptation to put a termination to the intolerable tete-a-tete – and with a blow of his bowie-knife[36] lay his rival low – something hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance and prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, hurry back in the direction of the house.

Answer the following questions:

1) Where did Calhoun go? What news did he bring?

2) What did El Coyote promise to do for a thousand dollars?

3) Where did the lovers meet?

4) Where did Maurice intend to go the next day after the date and why?

5) Who was spying upon the lovers?

Chapter Ten

Where went Cassius Calhoun?

He went to the chamber of his cousin, young Henry Poindexter.

“Awake, Henry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.

“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indians, I hope?”

“Worse than that – worse! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace – the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”

Obedient to the command of his cousin – without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth – Henry was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.

“What is it, Cash?” he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. “What does it all mean?”

Calhoun pointed to the two figures standing between the trees. He told Henry that the man was Maurice the mustanger and the woman in his arms was Henry’s sister Louise. As if a shot had struck Henry through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.

“Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “On, my boy! Don’t give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife.”

In six seconds Henry was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.

“Low villain!” he cried, “unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! Aside, sister! Aside, I say!”

Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, Maurice Gerald appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.

For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister’s life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger.

Louise, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother.

“Go, go!” she shouted to Maurice, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. “My brother is deceived by appearances. Leave me to explain. Away, Maurice! away!”

“Henry Poindexter,” said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, “I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me. Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin. I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence – her love – then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight”.[37]

A plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home.

“Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!” were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. “Oh, Henry, if you but knew how noble he is! Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not – if only the common man you take him for – I could not help what I have done – I could not, for I love him!”

“Louise! tell me the truth! From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man. Has he taken advantage of your – your-unfortunate passion?”

Louise assured him that Maurice was too noble for that and was completely innocent.

“Why – oh! brother! why did you insult him?”

“Have I done so?”

“You have, Henry – rudely, grossly.”

“I shall go after, and apologise. If you speak truly, sister, I owe him that much. I shall go this instant. I liked him from the first – you know I did? I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. I cannot rest till I have made reparation for my rudeness.”

So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, he hastily returned to the hacienda – intending to go after the young Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been considered excusable.

As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.

He, too, had thoughts of going after the mustanger.

“I wonder,” muttered Cassius Calhoun, “whether he is in earnest?[38] Going after to apologise to the man who has made a fool of his sister! Ha-ha! It would be a good joke were it not too serious to be laughed at.”

Just as Calhoun turned his eye upon the door of the stable, his cousin Henry coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him.

“Fool! So – you’ve let him off?” spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as the other came within whispering distance. “Give me back my bowie and pistol. They’re not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours! Where are you going?”

“After Maurice the mustanger – to apologise to him for my misconduct.”

The young gentleman sprang to his saddle; and rode hurriedly away.

Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance.

Then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the verandah to his own room; reappeared in a rough overcoat; crossed back to the stable; came out with his own horse saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his back, and rode rapidly away.

For a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by Henry Poindexter. It could not have been with any idea of overtaking the latter: proceeding at a slower pace, Calhoun did not ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin. He had taken the up-river road.

“A chance still left”, muttered he, “a good one, though not so cheap as the other. It will cost me a thousand dollars. What of that, so long as I get rid of this Irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence! If true to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the morning. There’s yet time for the Coyote to get before him on the road! I know that. He spoke of his hut upon the Alamo. That’s the name of the creek where we had our picnic. The Mexican must know the place, or the trail leading to it.”

***

On the same night that witnessed the tender and stormy scenes in the garden of Casa del Corvo, three travellers made the crossing of the plain that stretches south-westward from the banks of the Leona River.

The foremost of these nocturnal travellers seemed absorbed in some thought, sufficiently engrossing to render him unobservant of outward objects. Leaving his horse to its own guidance, he rode tranquilly over the prairie, till lost to view – through the dimness of the light.

Almost on the instant of his disappearance a second horseman spurred out from the suburbs of the village; and proceeded along the same path. He appeared intent on overtaking someone. It might be the individual whose form had just faded out of sight?

This was all the more probable from the style of his equitation – at short intervals he bent forward in his saddle, and scanned the horizon before him.

He also disappeared from view – exactly at the same point, where his precursor had ceased to be visible.

Just at that very instant a third horseman rode forth from the outskirts of the little Texan town. He was proceeding at a slow pace. But his manner betokened a state of mind far from tranquil.

At intervals he would slue himself round in the stirrups and scan the track over which he had passed; all the while listening, as though he expected to hear some one who should be coming after him.

An hour later, and at a point of the prairie ten miles farther from Fort Inge, the relative positions of the three travellers had undergone a considerable change.

The foremost was just entering into a sort of alley or gap in the chapparal forest; which here extended right and left across the plain, far as the eye could trace it.

Though he saw not him, he was seen by the cavalier in the cloak, following upon the same track, and now scarce half a mile behind.

The latter, on beholding him, gave utterance to a slight exclamation. It was joyful, nevertheless; as if he was gratified by the prospect of at length overtaking the individual whom he had been for ten miles so earnestly pursuing.

Without hesitation, he rode after.

It was a longer interval before the third and hindmost of the horsemen approached the pass that led through the chapparal; but instead of riding into it, as the others had done, he turned off at an angle towards the edge of the wood; and, after leaving his horse among the trees, crossed a corner of the thicket, and came out into the opening on foot.

An hour elapsed, during which the nocturnal voices of the chapparal had kept up their choral cries by a thousand stereotyped repetitions.

Then there came an interruption; abrupt in its commencement, and of long continuance. It was the report of a gun, quick, sharp, and clear. But no other sound succeeded the shot – neither the groan of a wounded man, nor the scream of a stricken animal.

Answer the following questions:

1) Why did Calhoun awaken Henry?

2) What did Henry do when he saw Louise and Maurice together? What did Calhoun want him to do?

3) How did Louise and Maurice behave when Henry appeared?

4) Why did Henry want to overtake the mustanger?

5) Where did Calhoun go after the scene in the garden?

6) Who were the three horsemen?

Chapter Eleven

The planter’s family assembled in the sala were about to begin breakfast, when it was discovered that one of its members was missing.

Henry was the absent one.

“Very strange Henry not being here to his breakfast! Where can the boy be?” asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.

None was made by either of the other two guests at the table.

“Surely he is not in bed till this hour? No-no – he never lies so late. He may be in his room? It is just possible. Pluto!”

He called Pluto, the sable coachee, and ordered him to go to Henry’s sleeping-room and, if he was there, tell him they were half through with breakfast.

“He’s not there, Master Woodley.”

“You have been to his room?”

“I haven’t been to the room itself; but I’ve been to the stable, to look after Master Henry’s horse. That old horse is not there; nor hasn’t been all of this morning. No horse there, no saddle, no bridle; and of course no Master Henry.”

“It don’t follow that Master Henry himself is not in his room. Go instantly, and see!”

“There’s something strange in all this,” pursued the planter, as Pluto shuffled out of the sala. “Henry from home; and at night too. Where can he have gone? I can’t think of any one he would be visiting at such unseasonable hours!”

“Why is Henry still absent?” reflected the young Creole. “I’ve sat up all night waiting for him. He must have overtaken Maurice, and they have fraternised. I hope so; even though the tavern may have been the scene of their reconciliation.”

Her reflections were interrupted by the reappearance of Pluto; whose important air proclaimed him the bearer of eventful tidings.

In a voice that betrayed a large measure of emotion Pluto told the planter that Henry wasn’t in his room but his horse was there – at the gate.

“Ah, Master Woodley,” added he, “I fear that the old horse has lost his rider! Come to the gate and see for yourself.”

Not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their way to the outside gate of the hacienda.

A sight was there awaiting them, inspired all three with the most terrible apprehensions.

A negro man – one of the field slaves of the plantation – stood holding a horse, that was saddled and bridled. The animal was snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part. He was speckled with dark spots that were all of the colour of coagulated blood.

The horse came from the prairies. The negro had caught him, on the outside plain, as, with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying towards the hacienda.

All present knew him to be the horse of Henry Poindexter. And the dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted from the veins of Henry Poindexter. They had no other thought.

***

Hastily construing the sinister evidence, the half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct for the Fort.

Calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after.

The news soon spread abroad. Rapid riders carried it up and down the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement.

Henry Poindexter – the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all Texas! Who but Indians could have spilled such innocent blood? Only the Comanches could have been so cruel?

Among the horsemen, who came quickly together on the parade ground of Port Inge, no one doubted that the Comanches had done the deed. It was simply a question of how, when, and where.

These were the questions discussed by the mixed council of settlers and soldiers, presided over by the commandant of the For.

It was decided that the searchers should proceed in a body.[39] A proposal to separate the command into several parties, and proceed in different directions, met with little favour from any one.

The direction still remained the subject of discussion.

What direction had been last taken by the man who was supposed to be murdered? Who last saw Henry Poindexter?

His father had last seen his son at the supper table; and supposed him to have gone thence to his bed.

The answer of Calhoun was less direct, and, perhaps, less satisfactory. He had conversed with his cousin at a later hour, and had bidden him good night, under the impression that he was retiring to his room.

While the inquiry was going on, light came in from a quartet hitherto unthought of. The landlord of the Rough and Ready, who had come uncalled to the council, after forcing his way through the crowd, proclaimed himself willing to communicate some facts worth their hearing – in short, the very facts they were trying to find out: when Henry Poindexter had been last seen, and what the direction he had taken.

Oberdoffer’s testimony was to the effect: that Maurice the mustanger – who had been staying at his hotel ever since his fight with Captain Calhoun – had that night ridden out at a late hour, as he had done for several nights before.

He had returned to the hotel at a still later hour; and finding it open, had done that which he had not done for a long time before – demanded his bill, and to Old Duffer’s astonishment settled every cent of it!

Where he had procured the money God only knew, or why he left the hotel in such a hurry.

What had all this to do with the question before the council? Much indeed. About twenty minutes after the mustanger had taken his departure from the hotel, Henry Poindexter knocked at the door, and inquired after Mr Maurice Gerald; on being told the latter was gone, as also the time, and probable direction he had taken, the young gentleman rode off at a quick pace, as if with the intention of overtaking him.

The information, though containing several points but ill understood, furnished a sort of clue to the direction the expeditionary party ought to take. If the missing man had gone off with Maurice the mustanger, or after him, he should be looked for on the road the latter himself would be likely to have taken.

Did any one know where the horse-hunter had his home?

No one could state the exact locality; though there were several who believed it was somewhere among the head-waters of the Nueces, on a creek called the “Alamo.”

To the Alamo, then, did they determine upon proceeding in quest of the missing man, or his dead body – perhaps, also, to find that of Maurice the mustanger; and, at the same time, avenge upon the savage assassins two murders instead of one.

***

Notwithstanding its number, the expedition pursued its way with considerable caution.

There was reason. The Indians were upon the war-trail. Scouts were sent out in advance; and professed “trackers”[40] employed to pick up, and interpret the “sign.”

Shortly after entering an opening, through which passes a path that leads to the Alamo, one of the trackers, Spangler, was seen standing by the edge of the thicket, as if waiting to announce some recently discovered fact.

“What is it?” demanded the major, spurring ahead of the others, and riding up to the tracker. “Sign?”

Spangler answered that there were plenty of them. He pointed to the tracks of two horses that had gone up the opening, and come back again. He said he hadn’t been far enough up the opening to make out what it meant– only far enough to know that a man had been murdered. Though he hadn’t seen a dead body, not even a hair of the head.

“What then?” asked the major.

“Blood, a regular pool of it. Come and see for yourself. But, “continued the scout in a muttered undertone, “if you wish me to follow up the sign as it ought to be done, you’ll order the others to stay back.”

About fifty yards further on, Spangler stopped, and the major had a chance to get evidence of the trackers’ words. There was a big pool of blood on ground.

“Whose do you think it is, Spangler?”

“That of the man we’re in search of – the son of the old gentleman down there. That’s why I didn’t wish him to come forward. We need to find out how the young fellow has come to be thrown in his tracks. That’s what is puzzling me.”

“How! by the Indians, of course? The Comanches have done it?”

Spangler didn’t think so. If the Indians had been here, there would be forty horse-tracks instead of four, and they’re made by only two horses. Both these were ridden by white men. One set of the tracks has been made by a mustang, though it was a big one. The other is the hoof of an American horse.

“We must follow up the tracks of the horses, after they started from this. There’s nothing more to be learnt here. We may as well go back, major. Am I to tell Mr Poindexter?”

“You are convinced that his son is the man who has been murdered?”

“Oh, no; not so much as that comes to. Only convinced that the horse the old gentleman is now riding is one of the two that’s been over this ground last night – the States horse I feel sure. I have compared the tracks; and if young Poindexter was the man who was on his back, I fear there’s not much chance for the poor fellow.”

“Have you any suspicion as to who the other may be?”

“Not a spark, major. If it hadn’t been for the tale of Old Duffer I’d never have thought of Maurice the mustanger. True, it’s the track of a shod mustang; but I don’t know it to be his. Surely it can’t be? The young Irishman isn’t the man to stand nonsense from nobody; but he is not the one to do a deed like this – that is, if it’s been cold-blooded killing”

“I think as you about that.”

“As to the disappearance of the dead body – for them two quarts of blood could only have come out of a body that’s now dead. We must follow the trail, however; and maybe it’ll fetch us to some sensible conclusion.”

***

The party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them along a fresh trail.

In his own mind Spangler had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was following. He knew it to be a mustang – the same whose hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human blood.

The tracks went not direct; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider was asleep in the saddle!

Spangler did not know what to think. He was mystified more than ever. A spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes – simultaneously seen by every individual of the party – so far from solving the mystery, had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable.

When a man is seen mounted on a horse’s back, seated firmly in the saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding the rein – in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider; when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still closer scrutiny, that this something is the head, it would be strange if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the very core of his heart.

And this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously to rein up. The eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or the best counterfeit that could have been contrived.

What was it?

There could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror. No one even offered a conjecture.

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

“It is old Nick[41] upon horseback!” cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise. “It’s the devil himself.”

The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman. Wheeling suddenly round – his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble – he commenced galloping away.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who was absent at breakfast? Why?

2) What did the planter’s family see at the gate? Why did it “inspire all three with the most terrible apprehensions”?

3) Who was thought to be the murderer of Henry Poindexter?

4) What had happened in the hotel according to its owner’s account? Where did the expedition head for?

5) Why was Spangler sure that somebody had been killed?

6) Whose tracks did Spangler find? What conclusion did he draw?

7) What did the party see? Why did it scare them?

Chapter Twelve

The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.

Long before a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces. They were all Mexicans.

One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. He rode a better horse and was more richly appareled. He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age. But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality – if not with positive cruelty – the individual in question might have been described as handsome.

It was not his looks but his deeds and disposition that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas. “El Coyote.”

How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning-apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others – when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his dwelling – so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor?

On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning – El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous sleep.

He was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. This to some extent sobered him.

He took a large two-headed gourd[42] and gave it a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. So he decided to go to the “Rough and Ready.”

In twenty minutes after, he was there. Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers. Seeing that Diaz was in a hurry, Oberdoffer made a conjecture that he was going to the horse prairie.

“If there’s anything good among the droves,” said Oberdoffer, “I’m afraid that the Irishman will pick it up before you. He went off last night. He left my house at a late hour – after midnight it was. But he’s a queer customer that mustanger, Mister Maurice Gerald. Nobody knows his ways. I shouldn’t say anything against him. He has paid his bill like a rich man.”

On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the prairie, Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!

He didn’t go home until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own.

It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut.

“The Capitan Americano has been here in the night!” he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, “I remember something – I thought I had dreamt it. I can guess his errand. He has heard of Don Mauricio’s departure. The thing’s all understood; and I don’t need any further instructions from him, till I’ve earned his thousand dollars. Once gained, I shall go back to the Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora.”

***

On the morning that succeeded that night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of black vultures flying above the tops of the trees.

It was a human being – a man!

A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape – so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form – with a face fair to look upon, even in death.

He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky. His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. The eyes were but half closed. Was the man dead?

Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. They were mistaken.

Whether it was the glint of the sun, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.

Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.

“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Where am I? Trees above – around me! A chapparal forest! How came I into it?

“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is – the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk.”

As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure.

“Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one – a hundred – against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds.”

Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. The shouting caused thirst. The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else – even the pain of his wounds – became of trifling consideration.

“It will kill me, if I stay here?” reflected the sufferer. “I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there’s a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. I may lose my senses, and then – the wolves – the vultures—”

The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:

“If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!”

***

Once more the mustanger’s hut! Once more his henchman, astride of a stool in the middle of the floor! Once more his hound lying astretch upon the skin-covered hearth!

“In the name of all the angels, I wonder what’s keeping the master! He’s all of ten hours beyond his time. He said he would be here by eight o’clock in the morning, and it’s now good six in the afternoon, if there’s any truth in a Texas sun. Sure there’s something detaining him? Don’t you think so, Tara?”

This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative “sniff”—having poked his nose too far into the ashes.

An idea came across Phelim’s mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master.

“Come, Tara!” cried he, walking towards the door. “Let us step up to the bluff beyond, and take a look over the big plain. If master’s coming at all, he should be in sight by this.”

Taking the path through the wooded bottom – with the staghound close at his heels – Phelim ascended the bluff and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.

He bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him.

Soon his vigil was rewarded. A horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.

He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. The striped serape[43] of brilliant hues was not to be mistaken. Phelim only wondered, why his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a hot evening!

“It looks queer, Tara, doesn’t it? It’s hot enough to roast a steak upon these stones; and yet the master doesn’t seem to think so. I hope he hasn’t caught a cold from staying in that close crib at old Duffer’s tavern.”

The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman – by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer.

“Mother of Moses!” cried he. “What can the master mean? He’s got the blanket over his head! He’s playing us a trick, Tara. He wants to give you and me a surprise. He wants to have a joke against us!”

“But it’s queer anyhow. It looks as if he had no head. Ach! what can it mean? it’s enough to frighten one, if they didn’t know it was the master!

“Is it the master? It’s too short for him! The head? Saint Patrick preserve us, where is it? There’s no shape there! There’s something wrong! What does it mean, Tara?”

The tone of the speaker was now close bordering upon terror – as was also the expression of his countenance.

The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. He stood a little in advance with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman.

Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object. Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger.

As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay – which Phelim had long before identified as his master’s horse – turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!

While performing the wheel, Phelim saw – or fancied he saw – that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.

It was a head – that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider’s hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!

Phelim saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!

Answer the following questions:

1) Who were the four horsemen? Who was their leader? Where were they going?

2) What made Miguel Diaz leave the tavern in a hurry?

3) Who had visited El Coyote at night? How did he know about it?

4) Who was the man that lay in the chapparal? What had happened to him?

5) Why did Phelim ascend the bluff? What scared him so much?

Chapter Thirteen

There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger. Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Passing through the alternations of light and shadow – apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible – goes a group of mounted men.

Though few in number – as there are only four of them – they are formidable to look upon.

They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts.[44]

They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacale[45] of Maurice Gerald is evidently their destination.

They dismount at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continue their advance on foot.

Their stealthy tread and the precaution to keep inside the shadow proclaim design, to reach the jacale unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.

The four Comanches steal up to the door. It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears and stand silently listening.

No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!

“It is possible,” says their chief – speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Spanish, “just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this.”

The chief goes to the shed to find out if the horse is there. Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. No horse in it.

“He’s not here, nor has he been this day!” he exclaims.

The savages decide to go inside and make sure. They enter the hut and see a man lying in the middle of the floor!

“Is he asleep?”

“He must be dead not to have heard us?”

“Neither,” says the chief, after examining him, “only dead drunk! He’s the servitor of the Irishman. I’ve seen this fellow before.”

The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him. The chief is especially anxious to see him.

What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?

Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there. They have come to murder him!

Their chief will gain a thousand dollars by the deed – besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. The others are only his instruments and assistants.

The travesty need not be carried any further. Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.

“He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. The rest remain here with me. He must come that way from the Leona. We can meet him under the big cypress tree. Take your stand at the top of the gorge. From that point you have a view of the whole plain. He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. As soon as you’ve set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know.”

Barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacale, proceeds to his post upon the top of the cliff.

The others seat themselves inside the hut. A pack of Spanish cards is soon displayed upon the table. Absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without note being taken of the time.

All at once a stertorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game.

It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacale.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their ma-chetes.

Phelim is only saved by a contingency – another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent.

Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath.

“He is coming – on the bluff already – quick, comrades, quick!”

In a score of seconds they are under the cliff. They take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the approach of their victim.

“Don’t kill him!” mutters Miguel Diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest tone. “I want to have him alive – for the matter of an hour or so. I have my reasons. Lay hold of him and his horse. If there is resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first.”

Soon he for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the slope, and is passing under the shadow of the cypress.

“Down with your weapons. To the ground!” cries El Coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the saddle.

There is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest!

The horse alone shows resistance. He rears upon his hind legs, makes ground backward, and draws his captors after him.

He carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the shadow.

Merciful heaven! what does it mean?

His captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout. It is a scream of wild terror!

Not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have been left tied.

Mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away.

They have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more courageous than theirs – a horseman without a head!

***

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

So questioned El Coyote and his terrified companions. So, too, had Phelim interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the terror.

In a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others, to whom the headless horseman had shown himself – the party of searchers who accompanied the major.

Though frightened by the strange phenomenon, they were none the less puzzled to explain it.

“What do you make of it, gentlemen?” said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: “I confess it mystifies me.”

“An Indian trick?” suggested one. “Some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?”

“I don’t think it’s Indian,” said the major; “I don’t know what to think. What’s your opinion of it, Spangler?”

“I know no more than yourself, major,” replied he. “It must either be a man, or a dummy! By all means. We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. Forward!”

They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider. But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail.

They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal. The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward. It was no longer a mere rumour.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations.

The civilians might have stayed. There was no intention to abandon the search. That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them – what he had hitherto kept back – the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker’s interpretation of it. As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, but duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger’s guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found – one or both, living or dead.

***

Zeb Stump has just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder.” The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house.

When he asked for Mr Poindexter, Pluto told him that master had been there a quarter of an hour ago. He’d gone to “the horse prairies with Master Calhoun, and lots of other white gentlemen”.

“And your young Master Henry – is he gone too?” asked Zeb.

“Oh Master Stump! That’s the trouble. That’s the whole of it. Master Henry has gone too. He’s never come back. The horse has been brought home all covered over with blood. Ho! ho! The folks say Master Henry is dead.”

“Dead! Are you in earnest?”

“Oh! I am, Master Stump. They all have gone to search after the body.”

“Here! Take these things to the kitchen. There’s a gobbler, and some chickens. Where can I find Miss Louise?”

“Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!” replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it. “Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you. My brother is missing. He has not been seen since the night before last. His horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. Oh Zeb! it’s fearful to think of it!”

“Sure enough that is ugly news. As they’re still searching I might be some help at that business; and maybe you won’t mind telling me the particulars?”

She told him everything she knew. The garden scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people – that Maurice was the murderer.

“It’s a lie!” cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: “the thing’s impossible. The mustanger isn’t the man to do such a deed as that. If there had been a quarrel and hot blood between them—”

“No – no!” cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. “It was all over. Henry was reconciled. He said so; and Maurice—”

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears.

“Hoh – oh!” muttered Zeb; “there has been something? Do you say, Miss Louise, there was a quarrel between your brother—”

“Dear, dear Zeb!” cried she, removing her hands, “promise me, you will keep my secret? Promise it, as a friend – as a brave true-hearted man! You will – you will?”

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man – except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence.

“It is for that I’ve been so anxious to see you. There are many rough men along with papa. As they went away I heard them use wild words. They talked of lynching and the like. Dear Zeb, for my sake – for his, whom you call friend-reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger!”

“There’s some truth in what you say,” interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. “There might be a smell of danger for the young fellow; and I’ll do what I can to avert it.”

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance and striding out of the verandah.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who were the four Comanches? Why did they come to the mustanger’s hut?

2) Who was there in the jacale? What was he doing?

3) Who did the Mexicans take the headless horseman for?

4) Who became the party of searchers’ new suspect? Why? Who didn’t believe in his guilt?

5) What secret did Louise confide to Zeb? What did she ask him for?

Chapter Fourteen

It was nearly noon when Phelim awoke from his sleep; and only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.

It was Zeb Stump who administered the douche.

After parting from Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had taken the road, or rather trail, which he knew to be the most direct one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.

From what Louise Poindexter had told him – from a knowledge of the people who composed the party of searchers – he knew that Maurice Gerald was in danger.

Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them – coupled with caution to keep out of their way.

Phelim, however, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself.

As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.

It was the first time that Zeb Stump had heard of the Headless Horseman.

At first Zeb wasn’t disposed to believe Phelim. He was puzzled, however, by Phelim’s persistence in declaring it to be a fact.

“How could I be mistaken?” argued the Irishman. “Didn’t I see Master Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minute? All except the head. And haven’t I told you that Tara went away after him, and then I heard the dog growling, just before the Indians—”

“Indians!” exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. “Indians playing with Spanish cards! White Indians, I reckon.”

“Do you think they weren’t Indians, after all?”

“Never a matter what I think. There’s no time to talk of that now. Go on, and tell me of all you’ve seen and heard.”

***

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult conglomeration of circumstances – events without causes – causes without sequence – crimes committed without any probable motive – mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter – a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery – Maurice having departed for the prairies – Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness – in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men – he did not believe them to be Indians – had been making free with the mustanger’s hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed.

So absorbed was he with these thoughts, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature’s presence. A shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.

“Oh, Mister Stump, look at Tara! See! there’s something tied about his neck. It wasn’t there when he left. What do you think it is?”

The hunter’s eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal’s neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides – a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!

The packet was laid open; it contained a card!

There was a name upon the card, and writing – writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was blood!

Zeb Stump soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.

“Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; “and thank my old schoolmaster. He lives, Phelim! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can’t read. No matter. He lives!”

“Who? Master Maurice? Then the Lord be thanked—”

“Wagh! there’s no time to thank him now. Get a blanket and some pieces of horse-hide thong. You can do it while I catch up the old mare. Quick! Half an hour lost, and we may be too late!”

Guided by the instructions written upon the card, Zeb Stump had made all haste towards the rendezvous there given.

He had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the spot, at that critical moment when a jaguar was preparing to spring upon the mustanger who in despair steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal. But instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!

A man of colossal size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph.

“I can see no wound worth making a mess about,” said Zeb after stooping down and giving a short examination. “There’s a considerable swelling of the knee; but the leg isn’t fractured, else he couldn’t stand up on it.”

Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around the mustanger. He had already noticed the Panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through his mind.

He knew that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican sombrero – a very different kind of head-gear.

Zeb fancied he had seen that hat before, and on some other head.

On looking inside the hat he read the name well known to him —

“HENRY POINDEXTER.”

The cloak now came under his notice. It, too, carried marks, by which he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner.

“Hats, heads, and everything. Hats on the wrong head; heads in the wrong place! There’s something gone astray! It is no use looking to him,” he added, glancing towards Maurice, “for an explanation; at least till he’s slept off this delirium that’s on him.”

***

It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the jacale.

In strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose.

He was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces bending over him. He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with inconsequence.

Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sat up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer. Zeb had requested Phelim to lie down – telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake.

And alone he sat throughout the live-long night.

Maurice’s speeches were disjointed – incongruous, and almost unintelligible. Comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances already known to him, before the morning light had entered the jacale, Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no longer a living man!

Answer the following questions:

1) Who woke Phelim up?

2) What did Phelim relate to Zeb?

3) Who brought the news about Maurice? How?

4) What was about to happen when Zeb and Phelim arrived?

5) Whose hat and cloak did Zeb find?

6) Why was there no use talking to Maurice?

Chapter Fifteen

As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of the Rio Grande – separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda Martinez. But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to her uncle and aunt upon the Leona.

Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.

Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives – fonder as they grew older? If not, what was her motive?

She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice Gerald.

With like frankness may it be told, that she loved him.

Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart. As already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.

Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people are hurrying to and fro,[46] from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified exclamations.

“What is causing the commotion?”

This is the question asked by Isidora.

The son of the American landowner, who have lately taken possession of Casa del Corvo, has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.

Indians are reported to have done the deed.

Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio’s servitors.

The name of the victim recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that his sister is said to be wonderfully beautiful, and that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother’s death – only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

Some hours later, and this feeling becomes changed to an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man – by Maurice the mustanger!

This later edition of the news while tranquilising Don Silvio’s servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with “full particulars of the murder,” so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez; and by day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding along the banks of the Alamo!

***

All night long the invalid lay awake. All night long the hunter sat by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal howl, and come running scared-like into the hut.

Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be. But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that resembled the clinking of a horse’s shoe struck against a loose stone.

He soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct – a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back – both horse and man distinctly seen in dark silhouette against the clear sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.

That of the man could be traced – only from the saddle to the shoulders. Above, there was nothing – not even the semblance of a head!

Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. Even if he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same – a horseman without a head.

Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame.

“The Irish has been right after all. I thought he had dreamt of it in his drink. But no. He has seen something; and so have I myself. “

“Why can’t I get closer to it?” he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. “I must have a try! I reckon it won’t eat me – not if it is old Nick; and if it’s him, I’ll just satisfy myself whether a bullet can go through his infernal carcass without throwing him out of the saddle.”

The hunter stalked off through the trees – upon the path that led up to the bluff.

The horse stood at a halt. He was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into the gorge. His rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine; or, what was more likely, scented him.

Zeb Stump was firm enough to carry out the purpose that had prompted him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he had to deal with a human being, or the devil!

In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon the heart of the Headless Horseman.

In another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that just then flashed across the brain of the hunter.

Maybe he was about to commit murder? What if it was a human creature?

“Hello stranger! You’re out for a pretty late ride, aren’t you? Haven’t you forgotten to fetch your head with you?” said the hunter.

There was no reply. Only the horse snorted, on hearing the voice.

“Look here, stranger! Old Zeb Stump from the State of Kentucky, is the individual who’s now speaking to you. He isn’t one of that sort to be trifled with. I warn you to declare your game. If you’re playing possum,[47] you’d better throw up your hand; or you may lose both your stake and your cards! Speak out now, before you are shot!”

Less response than before.

“Six seconds more – I’ll give you six more; and if you don’t show speech by that time, I’ll let drive at your guts. If you’re but a dummy it won’t do you any harm. But if you’re a man playing possum, you deserve to be shot for being such a damned fool! One-two-three-four-five-six!”

Where “seven” should have come in, had the count been continued, was heard the sharp crack of a rifle; then the dull “thud” as the deadly missile buried itself in some solid body.

The only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of the horse. The rider still kept his seat in the saddle!

The animal went off at a furious gallop; leaving Zeb Stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.

He was not only surprised at the result, but terrified. He was certain that his bullet had passed through the man’s heart – or where it should be – as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs.

As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him.

It was time to awaken Phelim, so that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid.

Phelim, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, was ready to undertake the task.

However, his vigil was of short duration. Scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse’s hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.

He could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the jacale. But the hoofstroke told him there was only one; and this it was that excited his apprehension.

His fears were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.

It was a woman. It was Isidora.

It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden – the first that hers had ever rested upon him. They were equally unknown to one another.

Isidora, speaking in the best american she could command, asked Phelim if Maurice Gerald lived in that place. On hearing a positive answer, she asked if he was at home and said that she wished to see him. Phelim told her that she couldn’t see his master because he wasn’t in a condition to see anyone—”unless it was the priest or a doctor.”

“Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?”

“Don’t I tell you! What would be the use of concealing it? It would do no good; neither can it do him any harm to speak about it? You might say it before his face, and he won’t contradict you. He wouldn’t know you from his great grandmother.”

“All the more reason why I should see him. I may be of service. I am his friend – the friend of Don Mauricio.”

“How am I to know that? For all your pretty face, you might be his deadliest enemy.”

“I must see him – I must – I will – I shall!”

As Isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle, and advanced in the direction of the door.

At that moment Zeb Stump appeared at the door of the hut, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance.

“I beg your pardon, senorita. You can speak a bit of American, can you? So much the better. You’ll be able to tell me what you want out here. You haven’t lost your way, have you?”

“No, senor,” was the reply, after a pause.

Isidora told Zeb that she was a friend of Maurice and wanted to see him.

“Well; I reckon, there can be no objection to your seeing him,” answered Zeb. “He is wounded a bit; and just now a little delirious. But I don’t see any harm in it. Women make the best of nurses. If you want to take a spell by the side of the young fellow, you’re welcome – seeing you’re his friend. You can look after him, till we get back.”

“Oh! I shall nurse him tenderly!”

“If you’re bound to stay then,” rejoined Zeb after a pause, “don’t you mind what he’ll be palavering about. You may hear some queer talk out of him, about a man being murdered, and the like. That’s natural for any one who is delirious. Don’t be scared at it. Beside, you may hear him talking a deal about a woman, as he’s got upon his mind.”

“A woman! What is her name?”

“Well, it is the name of his sister, I reckon. Fact, I’m sure of it being his sister.”

“Oh! Mister Stump. If you are speaking of Master Maurice—”

“Shut up, you damned fool! What is it to you what I’m speaking about? You can’t understand such things. Come along!” he continued, moving off, and motioning Phelim to follow him.

Isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion!

And yet it was but a word – a little word – of only two syllables!

Answer the following questions:

1) Why did Isidora’s visits to her relations upon the Leona become more frequent?

2) What news made Isidora go to the village hotel? Where did she go after that?

3) What did Zeb Stump decide to do when he saw the headless horseman?

4) What did Zeb tell Isidora before leaving her with Maurice?

5) What word made Isidora recoil from Maurice?

Chapter Sixteen

As the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, Louise Poindexter was seen upon her spotted mustang, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel – on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!

As the men of the place were all absent – some on the track of the assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. But he thought it was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news.

On hearing she was not the first woman who had that day made inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.

A night was spent in the agony of unrest. The morning brought with it a daring determination to ride to the Alamo alone.

There was no one to stay her – none to say no. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions.

***

She set foot upon the threshold of the jacale; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain.[48]

There was a woman within the hut!

Like an echo, was the cry from Isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been pronounced – the “Louise” so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain. Isidora had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her that she was supplanted, to have any doubt as to their sincerity.

Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse the two stood eyeing each other.

Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort – those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!

It was an attitude of silent hostility. Not a word was exchanged between them.

It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other’s dress. The same thought was in her heart – perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

The grey horse stood nearest – the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount – the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.

The retreat of her rival – quick and unexpected – held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, but remained in a state of indecision – bewildered by what she saw.

What was she to think of her rival’s sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?

In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.

At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.

“Maurice – wounded – dying! Who has done this?”

There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.

“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it again!”

“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so – to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are – there are. I know one – that excels you all, you angels in heaven! Heaven would be a pleasant place, if she were here.”

“Maurice, dear Maurice! Do you remember her name?”

She bent over him with ears upon the strain – with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.

“Her name is—”

“Is?”

“Louise – Louise – Louise. Why should I conceal it from you – you up here, who know everything that’s down there? Surely you know her – Louise? You should: you could not help loving her – ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine – all – all!”

Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow – upon those pale lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.

***

When after a while Phelim entered the hut, he was very surprised at seeing Louise there.

“But what does it all mean?” said he, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. “Where’s the young lady? Didn’t you see nothing of a woman, Miss Poindexter?”

“Yes – yes.”

“Oh! you did. And where is she now?”

“Gone away, I believe.”

“Gone away! She hasn’t remained long. I left her here in the cabin not ten minutes ago. She said she was a friend of the master, and wanted to nurse him. Gone, you say? Well, I’m not sorry to hear it. I’m glad to see you, miss; and sure so would the master, if—”

“Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened. Has any one else been to this place?”

Phelim said that there had been plenty of people of all sorts. He told her about the rider without a head who looked liked Master Maurice—”with his horse under him, and his Mexican blanket about his shoulders, and everything just as the young master looks, when he’s mounted”.

Louise assumed that the strange horseman was “someone playing a trick” upon Phelim.

“A trick, miss! Truth that’s just what old Zeb said.”

“He has been here, then?”

“Yes – but not till long after the others.”

“What others?”

“Why the Indians, to be sure – a whole tribe of them. But what’s that?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear something? Hush! There it is again! It’s the tramping of horses! They’re just outside.”

Phelim rushed towards the door.

“The place is surrounded with men on horseback. There’s a thousand of them!”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the Creole, “It is they! My father, and I here! How shall I explain it? Holy Virgin, save me from shame!”

Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act.

Besides, her own steed was in front – that spotted creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!

But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat.

He was in danger – from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?

“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father – friends – all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”

***

Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.

“Pull up, damn you! It’s no use trying to escape. Pull up, I say!”

“Sure, gentlemen, I had no such intentions. I was only going to—”

“Run off, if you’d got the chance. You’d made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton!”

“Ho! what’s this?” inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. “Why – it – it’s Looey’s mustang!”

“It is, uncle,” answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.

“I wonder who’s brought the beast here?”

“Loo herself, I reckon.”

“Nonsense! You’re jesting, Cash?”

“No, uncle; I’m in earnest.”

“You mean to say my daughter has been here?”

“Has been – still is, I take it. Look yonder!”

The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.

“Good God, Louise what means this? A wounded man! Is it he – Henry?”

Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat – Henry’s!

“It is; he’s alive! Thank heaven!” He runs towards the couch.

The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.

“Great God!” gasps the planter; “what is it? Can you explain, Louise?”

“I cannot, father. I’ve been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious.”

Louise tells her father that Mr Gerald was alone when she entered. She couldn’t stay at home alone and endure the uncertainty any longer. She came to the hut because she thought she might find Henry there.

“But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”

“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt – when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”

Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it.

“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent – indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come away! This is no place for a lady. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Someone will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.

The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front. They stand in groups – some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around Phelim who lies upon the grass, tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.

On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them.

Most of them know the young lady by sight – all by fame, or name. They feel surprise – almost wonder – at seeing her there – alone. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!

“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.”

“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?”

“It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”

***

The searchers were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling a circle.

Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous – among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief. Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun.

It was a trial for Murder – a trial before Justice Lynch[49]—with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground – all except the prisoners.

Of these there are two – Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.

They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.

Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.

The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.

In the minds of most – already predisposed to it – there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.

Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale – the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.

The explanations given by Phelim, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.

There are some who will scarce stay to hear them – some who impatiently cry out, “Let the murderer be hanged!”

As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose it’s a perfect piece of cord.

The vote is taken viva voce.[50]

Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die.

And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. No one seems willing to lay hold of the rope!

Why is the sentence of death not carried out?

For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action – for want of the proofs to produce it.

There is a minority not satisfied – that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered “No.”

Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself – Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the verdict. He was of the opinion that there was a doubt in the case, and they had to give the accused the benefit of it – till he was able to answer the questions. So he suggested postponing the trial.

“What’s the use of postponing it?” cries a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered – I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother – you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”

“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”

“Can you give them, Mister Cassius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.

“Perhaps I can.”

“Let’s have them, then!”

“God knows you’ve had evidence enough – and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it.

“Gentlemen!” says he, “what I’ve got to say now I could have told you long ago. But I didn’t think it was needed. You all know what’s happened between this man and myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful. I’m not; and if it wasn’t that I’m sure he has done the deed – I should still say nothing of what I’ve seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing.”

“What did you hear, Mr Calhoun?” demands the Regulator Chief. “And where, and when, did you hear it?”

“It was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn’t miss him till the morning. Last Tuesday night. I’d gone to bed; and thought Henry had done the same. But what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn’t get any sleep.”

It must have been about midnight when he went up the roof of the hacienda to get cool. While he was smoking, he heard voices. There were two of them. They were up the river, a good way off, in the direction of the town.

“There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were quarrelling. As I listened, I recognised one of the voices; and then the other. The first was my cousin Henry’s – the second that of the man who has murdered him.”

“Please proceed, Mr Calhoun! Let us hear the whole of the evidence you have promised to produce. It will be time enough then to state your opinions.”

“Well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, I was no little surprised at hearing my cousin’s voice – supposing him asleep in his bed. But I knew it was his voice; and I was quite as sure that the other was that of the horse-catcher.

“I thought it uncommonly queer, in Henry being out at such a late hour: as he was never much given to that sort of thing. But out he was. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.”

He listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but he couldn’t make out anything that was said on either side. He just heard Henry calling the mustanger by some strong names, as if his cousin had been first insulted. And then he heard the Irishman threatening to make him regret it.

“I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but before I could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be all over.

“I waited for half an hour, for Henry to come home. He didn’t come; but, as I supposed he had gone back to Oberdoffer’s and fallen in with some of the fellows from the Fort, I concluded he might stay there for a while, and I went back to my bed.

“Now, gentlemen, I’ve told you all I know. My poor cousin never came back to Casa del Corvo – never more laid his side on a bed, – for that we found by going to his room next morning.”

Calhoun’s story went far to produce conviction of the prisoner’s guilt. The concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamorous demand for the execution to proceed.

“Hang! hang!” is the cry from fourscore voices.

The judge himself seems to waver. The minority has been diminished – no longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry.

A ruffian rushes towards the rope. Though none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of Calhoun – with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation.

He lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck of the condemned man – alike unconscious of trial and condemnation.

No one steps forward to oppose the act. The ruffian has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney.[51]

The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. Most express a mute approval. A few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner.

The rope is around his neck – the end with the noose upon it. The other is being swung over the tree.

Answer the following questions:

1) What did Louise learn at the hotel? Where did she ride the next day?

2) Who did Louise see in the jacale? What did the two women feel?

3) What did Louise do after Isidora rode away?

4) Who was Maurice talking about in his delirium?

5) Who were the people that came to the hut? What did they want?

6) Was Calhoun’s story true?

7) What sentence was passed upon Maurice? Who was about to carry it out?

Chapter Seventeen

Thank heaven, there is an interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.

“A woman! a beautiful woman!”

It is only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. Like a meteor she glides on without giving a glance on either side – without speech, without halt – till she stoops over the condemned man.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”

They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues —

“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel – condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? My scorn upon you – not men, but murderers!”

“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad – Loo! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away – this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”

“Father, it does concern me!”

“How? – oh true – as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother.”

“I will not – cannot believe it. There was no motive. O men! if you are men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then – then—”

“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Never a doubt about his being guilty. It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else.”

“Justice must take its course!” shouts one. “We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”

“Come, Loo! You must come away. You refuse! Good God! Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!”

“No, father, I will not – till you have promised – till these men promise—”

“We can’t promise you anything, miss – however much we might like it. It’s not a question for women. There’s been a crime committed – a murder, as you yourself know. There’s no mercy for a murderer!”

“No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices. “Let him be hanged – hanged– hanged!”

The lady is led aside – dragged rather than led – by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her – wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd – beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

The lazo is once more passed over the branch; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end.

Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end. Even love has proved powerless to save him! What power on earth can be appealed to after this?

The hangmen, too, appear in a hurry – as if they were in dread of another interruption. They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners.

“Now then, Bill! Are you ready?” shouts one to the other. “Let’s go at it again – both together.”

“No you don’t!” calls out a loud voice; while a man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into the thick of the crowd.

“No you don’t!” he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope. “You, Bill Griffin; pull that piece of horse-hair but the eighth of an inch tighter, and you’ll get a blue pill in your stomach as won’t agree with you. Drop the rope! Drop it!”

Zeb Stump was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by many. Among the last were Bill Griffin, and his fellow rope-holder.

“What damned foolery’s this, boys?” continues the colossus, addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise. “You don’t mean hanging, do you?”

“We do,” answers a stern voice. “And why not?”

“Why not! You’d hang a fellow-citizen without trial?”

“Not much of a fellow-citizen – so far as that goes. Besides, he’s had a trial – a fair trial.”

“Indeed. A human creature to be condemned with his brain in a state of delirium! Sent out of the world without knowing that he’s in it! You call that a fair trial, do you?”

“What matters it, if we know he’s guilty? We’re all satisfied about that.”

“The hell you are! I’m not going to waste words with such as you, Jim Stoddars. But for you, Sam Manly, and yourself, Mister Poindexter – surely you aren’t agreed to this which, in my opinion, would be neither more nor less than murder?”

“You haven’t heard all, Zeb Stump,” interposes the Regulator Chief, with the design to justify his acquiescence in the act. “There are facts—”

“I don’t want to hear them. It’ll be time enough for that, when the thing comes to a regular trial; the which surely nobody here’ll object to.”

“You take too much upon you, Zeb Stump. What is it your business, we’d like to know? The man that’s been murdered wasn’t your son; nor your brother, nor your cousin neither! If he had been, you’d be of a different way of thinking, I take it.”

It is Calhoun who has made this interpolation – spoken before with so much success to his scheme.

“It concerns me – first, because this young fellow’s a friend of mine, though he is Irish, and a stranger; and secondly, because Zeb Stump isn’t going to stand by, and see foul play.”

“Foul play! There’s nothing of the sort. Boys! you’re not going to be scared from your duty by such swagger as this? Let’s make a finish of what we’ve begun. The blood of a murdered man cries out to us. Lay hold of the rope!”

“Do it – one of you – if you dare. You may hang this poor creature as high as you like; but not till you’ve laid Zebulon Stump stretched dead upon the grass, with some of you alongside of him.”

Zeb’s speech is followed by a profound silence. The people keep their places – partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly from the respect due to his courage and generosity. Also, because there is still some doubt in the minds of the Regulators, both as to the expediency, and fairness, of the course which Calhoun is inciting them to take.

With a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has gained, and presses it.

“Give the young fellow a fair trial,” urges he. “Let’s take him to the settlement, and have him tried there. You’ve got no clue proof, that he’s had any hand in the black business. I know how he felt towards young Poindexter. Instead of being his enemy, there isn’t a man on this ground that had more of a liking for him.”

The Regulator Chief says they have proof that there was “bad blood[52] between Gerald and young Poindexter”. But on hearing that the story about their quarrel was told by Calhoun, Zeb says he didn’t believe a word of it. He also has facts that’ll “go a good way towards explication of this mysterious business.”

“What facts?” demands the Regulator Chief. “Let’s hear them, Stump.”

“There’s more than one. First place what do you make of the young fellow being wounded himself? I don’t talk of the scratches you see; I believe they’re done by coyotes that attacked him, after they saw he was wounded. But look at his knee. Something else than coyotes did that. What do you make of it, Sam Manly?”

“Well – some of the boys here think there’s been a struggle between him and the man that’s missing.”

“Yes, that’s he who we mean,” speaks one of the “boys” referred to. “They’ve had a fight, and the mustanger fell among the rocks. That’s what’s given him the swelling in the knee. Besides, there’s the mark of a blow upon his head – looks like it had been the butt of a pistol.[53] As for the scratches, we can’t tell what’s made them. Thorns may be; or wolves if you like. That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won’t do for us.”

Zeb confirmed Phelim’s story about the jaguar and said he’d seen the animal himself and saved the mustanger from its claws. When he was about to tell what he though about the Indians that had been in the hut, according to Phelim, the clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, saluted the ear of everybody at the same instant of time.

Along the top of the cliff, and close to its edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop. There is a woman – a lady – upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her – the string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away!

That woman equestrian – man-seated in the saddle – once seen was never more to be forgotten. It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. Why was she riding at such a dangerous pace?

“Los Indios! Los Indios!” comes the cry of the strange equestrian.

To those who hear it at the jacale it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians.

There are four of them going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

The leading savage has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head! At this moment the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen, – or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. He beholds a hundred men, with a hundred gun barrels!

His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff.

The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger’s hut. The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who interrupted “the stern ceremonial of death”? Did she succeed in saving Maurice?

2) Who interrupted the trial for the second time?

3) How did the assembled party react to the old hunter’s words? What did he suggest?

4) Who was seen by the party? How did it change the state of affairs?

Chapter Twenty

Civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo came back on the same day and reported: that no Indians had been there!

They came provided with proofs of their statement which consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles – wigs of horse-hair, cocks’ feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the hollow of a cottonwood tree!

There still were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the story of a party of white men “playing Indian”; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse[54]—mad as a maniac!

***

Zeb Stump headed his horse in the direction of the Port.

The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of Fort Inge. Looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entree at all times, and could go in without countersign. The adjutant announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment.

From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.

“Ah! Mr Stump! Glad to see you so soon. Have you made any discovery in this queer affair? From your quick return, I can almost say you have. Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still adhere to my old opinion – that he’s innocent. What have you learnt?”

“Well, Major,” answered Zeb, removing his hat; “what I’ve learnt isn’t much, though enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn’t intend to come, till I’d gone a bit of a journey across the prairies. I came back here to have a word with you.”

Zeb told the major that he was going to make “a short excursion across to the Nueces” and asked him to keep back the trial. The old hunter had his own ideas concerning the case and needed time to verify them.

“Can you promise me three days? Before the trial comes on?” asked Zeb.

“I think there will be no difficulty about that. I shall undertake to do that.”

The hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.

On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare against the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.

“It’s no use beginning near the Fort or the town. The ground about both on them is paddled with horse tracks. I’d better strike out into the prairie at once, and take a track crossways of the Rio Grande route. By doing that I may fluke on the footmark I’m in search of. Yes! that’s the most sensible idea.”

***

In the midst of the open prairie there is a coppice, or clump of trees – of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. About two hundred yards from its edge a horse is quietly pasturing. He is the same that carries the headless rider.

The weird equestrian seems indifferent to a score of large dark birds that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. Three times one of the birds has alighted upon him – first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between – upon the spot where the head should be!

This scene was seen by human eyes; and they belong to the only man in all Texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.

He gazed upon it from the “shore” of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.

His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter.

“If he’d only come twenty yards nearer, I could fetch him. My gun won’t carry that distance. I’d miss him for sure, and then it’ll be all up. I may never get the chance again.”

Leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, the speaker continued to scan the strange shape.

“It’s his horse – sure as shooting! His saddle, serape, and all. How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”

Another pause of reflection.

“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing got stuck there, I’ve got to get it back.”

Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.

“Proh-proh-proshow! Come kindly! come, old horse!”

The Texan steed did not seem to understand the invitation; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him. And the horse carried his rider straight off over the prairie.

A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.

Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman passing rapidly beyond reach – unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him.

***

Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history, Zeb Stump strode on, translating the “sign” of the prairie. Alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention directed.

A sound startled him from his all-engrossing occupation. It was the report of a rifle.

Instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes.

A horseman, just clearing himself from the cloud of smoke – now falling, dispersed over the prairie – came galloping on towards the spot where Zeb stood. It was the horseman without a head.

Going at full speed, he went past the trembling hunter, and the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump’s optics a form well known to him. The horse, the saddle, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers – even the hat upon the head – were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same – notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.

The episode – strange as unexpected – seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by?

While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie.

Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them.

Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw a man on horseback – a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders. He was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse.

There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider. He was soon within identifying distance. It was Captain Cassius Calhoun.

“I might have known it would be him”, muttered the backwoodsman; “and if I’m not mistaken about it, here’s going to be another chapter out of the same book – another link that’ll help me to complete the chain of evidence I’m in search for.”

Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun trotted past.

If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless Horseman, it was redoubled now. With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.

Answer the following questions:

1) What was found in the hollow of a tree? What did it prove?

2) What did Zeb ask the major for? What did he need three days for?

3) Who was stalking the headless horseman? Why?

4) Who did Zeb see in the prairie? What did he decide to do?

Chapter Twenty-One

On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser.[55] There was no regular practitioner in the place. But a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!

It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.

The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.

This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of Ireland. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!

The Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.

The Irish lawyer was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison – as often as it seemed good to him. Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege.

On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.

Only once had Zeb Stump been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone – both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business – in search of deer, or gobbler.

It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air – a horseman without a head!

***

Cassius Calhoun was alone in his chamber.

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She loves him – she loves him! She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it – except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself. She shall never have him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.

“She shall speak it, if she doesn’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything – Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”

The soliloquy was interrupted by Woodley Poindexter. Sad and silent, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew – more by chance than from any purpose.

“Want me! For what, nephew?”

There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man.

“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.

It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about.

“If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean marriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now – while death is in our house!”

It was evident the planter did not relish the proposed alliance.

This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate – in his own mind – and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.

It was only after the move into Texas, that the planter had a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.

“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage – that is, not now. Only something that will secure it – when the proper time arrives. What I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty – as you know; and I don’t intend to keep single any longer. I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no uncertainty.”

“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”

“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”

“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced – against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”

“Well, I only know that I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement – in all Texas, for that matter.”

Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.

***

It was the third time Calhoun had been flatly refused; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple “No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple “Never!”

Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly – in all probability – he expected it.

But his features remained firm.

“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”

“I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?”

“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”

“Upon what?”

“Many things.”

“Name them!”

“Well, for one – the way I love you.”

She made no rejoinder.

“A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; “a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It is no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day – the same hour – I first saw you.

“On my first visit to your father’s house – now six years ago – you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden – while dinner was being got ready.

“You were a woman in beauty – as beautiful as you are at this moment.

“No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, has been able to efface.”

Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. Still did the Creole keep silence.

Calhoun continued —

“From the hour you first caught hold of my hand I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate– I’ve been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself.”

“Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think-”

“I know what you are going to say. I’ll say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.’ Those were the words upon your lips.

“I don’t say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: “I don’t accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”

“I must be frank with you, Cassius. I do not – I cannot, love you.”

“You will not marry me then?”

“That, at least, is an idle question. I’ve said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient.”

“And I’ve said I love you. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there are others. Are you desirous of hearing them?”

“State them! What have I to fear?”

“I won’t say what you have; but what your father has.”

“I’m aware that my father’s in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master of me!”

“Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness – or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial—”

“Who?”

“How innocent you are!”

“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”

“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”

“Do with me! You talk as if I were your slave! I’m not!”

Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.

“What is this threat? she continued, “what is to be my destiny? I’m impatient to have it declared.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald will stand before the bar – accused of murdering your brother.”

“It is false! Maurice Gerald never—”

“Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. It will be; and from your own lips will come the words that’ll prove it – to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury.”

It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.

“I know not what you mean,” she at length rejoined. “You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who – I can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody.”

“Yes can you; a great deal more.”

Calhoun told her everything he knew about her meeting with Maurice Gerald, his quarrel with Henry and their parting on the night of the murder.

She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. “Well!”

“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced. “You wish me to speak further?”

“As you please, sir.”

“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin – yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“You will not refuse me now?”

“Now more than ever!”

Answer the following questions:

1) How many counselors did Maurice have? Who were they?

2) What subject did Calhoun want to discuss with the planter? Why did Woodley Poindexter avoid that subject?

3) Did Louise accept Calhoun’s proposal?

4) What was Calhoun going to do with Louise in case of her refusal?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. There is a spectacle – at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.

It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.

All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem.

Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest – friends and relatives of the man supposed to have been murdered.

Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.

There is no court-house,[56] although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided to sit under a tree – a gigantic oak, extending its shadow afar over the green prairie.

A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it. The judge, instead of a wig, wears his Panama hat. The remaining chairs are occupied by lawyers; the sheriff; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.

A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together. It is the jury.

Around the Texan judge and jury there is a crowd that may well be called nondescript.

The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner Maurice Gerald; the latter the sheriff’s officers in charge of him.

There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.

Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.

There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest – a gaze soft, but steadfast – in which fear and fondness seem strangely mixed.

***

The trial begins.

“Gentlemen of the jury!” says the judge. “We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered – the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar[57] is accused of having committed the crime.”

The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality, – ”Guilty, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.

The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.

First called is Franz Oberdoffer.

He is requested to state what he knows of the affair.

Oberdoffer’s evidence coincides with the tale already told by him and on the whole is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting.

But why should Henry Poindexter have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour?

Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?

Captain Cassius Calhoun is called up.

After declaring his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.

The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise – alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators.

A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from Woodley Poindexter.

But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained carriage, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.

The crier’s[58] voice pronounces the name—

“Louise Poindexter!”

Calhoun has kept his word.

Conducted by an officer of the Court, Louise takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.

Without fear she faces towards the Court.

Miss Poindexter tells the Court about the meeting in the garden that she had on the night when her brother was last seen.

“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it – in the execution of my duty – What was the nature – the object I should rather term it – of this appointment?”

The question is put by the State counsel.

Casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, the witness replies—

“I have no intention to conceal the motive. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved – whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”

“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel,[59] “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”

“Quite true.”

The answer sends a thrill through the crowd – a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun.

“My brother did not follow him in anger,” pursues the witness, without being further questioned. “He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise.”

After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.

She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt! She remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!

Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.

His story, confusedly told, full of incongruities – and in many parts altogether improbable – rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.

The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short – having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.

That other is next announced.

“Zebulon Stump!”

Taking three or four strides forward, the most noted hunter of the Settlement comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.

After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unusual agitation.

The spectators stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.

“Well, Mister Judge!” says he; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know about the business; but if it’s all the same to yourself, and the Jury, I’d prefer that Maurice Gerald should give his version first. I could then follow with mine, which might certify and confirm his.”

The judge and the “twelve” have no objection to Zeb’s request.

Answer the following questions:

1) Where did the Court establish itself? Who was present at the trial?

2) Who was called up a witness? What effect did their testimony produce?

3) Why did Louise “go back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart”?

4) What was Zeb Stump’s suggestion?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Directed by the judge, the accused stands forward.

“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he; “First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial – which to you appear inexplicable – my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.

“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”

The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail.

“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. It is also true that our interview was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.

“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.

“But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”

“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship – I might say affection – on mine.”

“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge. “Where did it take place?”

“About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed.”

It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!

“You mean the place where some blood was found?” interrogates the judge.

“I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated.”

There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court – expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son!

“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.

“Quite sure,” responds the accused.

“Go on!” says the judge. “Let us hear all you have to say.”

“It has been made known to you how we parted – Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.

“On leaving them I went to the hotel. The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar. I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.

“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible.”

“I travelled slowly. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it – on the prairie, or under the roof of my jacale. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak.

“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal.

“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.

“It was more from habit – by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians – that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.

“He did so shortly after.

“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself – only him.

“Was he still in the same temper? Had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed his sister to have sustained?

“I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.

“I was determined there should be no concealment – no cowardly shrinking on my part. I loved his sister with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”

Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy appears on Louise Poindexter’s face, as she listens to the daring declaration. It is but the echo of her own; and she makes no attempt to conceal it.

The prisoner continues his recital —

“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.

“Instead of the angry scene I expected, 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? 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.

“We rode together for a short distance; and then stopped 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 cloak and Panama hat.

“We then parted – he riding away, myself remaining.

“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; I dismounted; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.

“In three seconds I was asleep.

“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.

“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 I had been mistaken.

“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.

“I was about to continue my journey.

“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears. 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.

It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!

“He’s making straight for the Fort!”

As if to contradict that assertion, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands observing 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.

Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses.

***

The chase leads straight across the prairie – towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant. But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman.

The two men are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.

In a short time both are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.

On through the thicket rush the three horsemen.

“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 there is this time. That old hound’s coming on through the thicket.”

Calhoun rides forward – fast as the 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 standing among some low trees. The horse has become engaged in a sort of struggle – with his head half buried among the bushes. Calhoun sees that it is held there, and it has become entangled around the stem of a tree!

“Caught at last! Thank God – thank God!”

In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman!

Calhoun clutches at the bridle. The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. The rider pays no attention, nor makes any attempt to avoid the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle.

Suddenly the captor draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serape; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!

But the blow is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal – by the edge of which Zeb Stump has just made his appearance.

“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it!”

***

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.

Everyone 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.

After a while the pursuers return. 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.

An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them – either with or without the captive.

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.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who overtook Maurice? What did he want?

2) What did Maurice and Henry do after their reconciliation?

3) Who interrupted Maurice’s account?

4) Who managed to overtake the headless horseman? What was Calhoun about to do when Zeb appeared?

Chapter Twenty-Four

“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. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”

“What! His head cut off?”

“Just so. He was upon his face – with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!

“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived 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 that the head was severed from the shoulders!”

A sensation of horror runs through the auditory.

“Did you know the man?”

“Alas! yes.”

“Without seeing his face?”

“It did not need that. The dress told who it was – too truly. 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.”

“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time.

“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the beheading. 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 serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood.

“On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot[60] 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.”

“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. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy – either here or elsewhere.

“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.

“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 coyotes might discover it; and both they and the vultures would be at it before we could get back.

“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.”

Maurice’s next idea was to cover the body with the cloak in order to protect it from both wolves and vultures – at least till he could get back. But a different plan suggested itself – to take the body along with him to the Port, by laying it across the croup.

“I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I saw another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.

“I had no difficulty in catching hold of the bridle. Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and tried to place it crosswise in the saddle.”

The body was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it. Maurice was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to him.

“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, 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.”

He decided to 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 would answer admirably for the purpose.”

In a short while he had the body in it, seated erect – in the natural position. He secured it with the help of his lazo.

Then he lifted the head from the ground and tried to detach it from the hat, but that couldn’t be done.

“Having no fear that they would fall apart, I hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.

“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.

“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.

Something caused the horse to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.

“He had 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.”

Before Maurice could lay my hand upon the bridle, the horse was at his full speed. Trying to secure the bridle, he didn’t notice that the horse had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying him 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 trees.

“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 horse, 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 better than I. I can only tell you, that 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.

“On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk.

“To stay on that spot was to perish – at least I so thought at the time.

“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 coyotes. They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.

“After a time they did so. I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. With the knife I was able to keep them off.

“I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have died, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.

“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade – my staghound, Tara.

“The dog had been straying – perhaps in search of me, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer. I was saved from the coyotes.

“I had another spell of sleep. On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacale; which I also knew to be several miles distant.

“I decided to send a message to Phelim – 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.

“Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, 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.

“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 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.

“All I can remember since then is a series of dreams – 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.”

***

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. 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, waiting 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.

There were few people upon the ground who were not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate. Texans know they are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay, where the corpse of mortal man, 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!

Answer the following questions:

1) Whose dead body did Maurice see? What was the cause of death?

2) What did he do with the body?

3) How did Maurice find himself in the chapparal? What happened to him there?

4) What is the peculiarity of the Texan climate?

Chapter Twenty-Five

The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.

Finally the figures of three horsemen are seen coming in the direction of the tree!

Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter seems satisfied at being conducted in company.

Calhoun rides slowly – a close observer might say reluctantly at the back.

The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.

Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.

Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes mixed with the crowd. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.

Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree – into the presence of the Court.

“Now, judge!” says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, “and you twelve of the jury! here’s a witness that is likely to let a gleam of daylight into your deliberations.”

An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, “O God, it is he!” A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. It is his father!

A cry proceeds from a more distant point – a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before fainting. It is his sister!

Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the “witness-box.”

The old hunter is called to tell what he knows of the affair.

“I first heard of this ugly business on the second day after young Poindexter was missing. Heard there was a suspicion about the mustanger having committed the murder. I knew he wasn’t the man to do such; but, to be satisfied, rode out to his hut to see him. He wasn’t at home, though his man Phelim was; so scared about one thing and the other he could give no clear account of anything.

“Well, while we were talking, in came the dog, with something tied round his neck – the which, on being examined, proved to be the mustanger’s card. There were words on it; wrote in red ink, which I thought to be blood.

“Those words told to whosoever should read them, where the young fellow was to be found.

“I went there, taking Phelim and the hound along with me.

“We got to the ground just in time to save the mustanger from the jaguar.

“He was out of his senses. We took him home; and there he stayed, till the searchers came to the shanty and found him.”

The witness gives a full and particular account of everything that occurred – up to the time of the prisoner being incarcerated in the guard-house.

“Now,” says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, “since you’ve made me tell all I know about that part of the business, there’s something you haven’t thought of asking, and the which I’m bound to tell you.”

“Proceed, Mr Stump!” says he of San Antonio.

“Well, what I’m going to say now hasn’t so much to do with the prisoner at the bar, as with a man that in my opinion ought to be standing in his place. I won’t say who that man is. I’ll tell you what I know, and have found out, and then you of the jury may reckon it up for yourselves.”

There is an impression that the old hunter can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.

“Thinking as I did that the Irish was innocent, I became determined to discover the truth. And so I went to the prairie to have a squint[61] at the sign.

“I knew there must be horse-tracks leading to the place, and horse tracks going from it; and there were too many of them, going everywhere.

“But there was one particular set that I determined to follow up to the end.

“They were the footmarks of an American horse, having one shoe[62] with a bit broken off the end of it. Here’s the identical piece of iron!”

The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.

“The horse that carried this shoe went across the prairie the same night that the murder was committed. He went after the man that was murdered, as well as him that stands there accused of it. He went right upon the track of both, and stopped short of the place where the crime was committed.

“But the man that rode him didn’t stop short. He kept on till he was close up to the bloody spot; and it was through him it afterwards became bloody. It was the third horse – him with the broken shoe – that carried the murderer!”

“The man I’m speaking of took stand in the thicket, from which stand he fired the shot that killed poor young Poindexter.”

“What man? Who was it? Give his name!” simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.

“I reckon you’ll find it there.”

“Where?”

“Where! In that body as sits without a head!

The old hunter suggests taking out the bullet that is still inside the body.

Nobody objects. Two or three of the spectators – Sam Manly one of them – step forward; and proceed to remove the serape.

Around the waist – twice twined around it – is a piece of plaited rope. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. Everything as the accused has stated.

Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.

“It,” says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, “it signifies nothing. It’s the bullet I fired myself. You observe there’s no blood about it: which proves that it was a dead body when it entered. The other is different. It was the shot as killed him; and if I’m not mistaken, you’ll find the bit of lead still inside of the corpse.”

With respectful carefulness the body is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it – Sam Manly acting as the chief.

A leaden bullet is extracted; and submitted to the examination of the jury.

There is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.

“What’s your explanation, Mr Stump?” asks the counsel for the accused.

“Don’t need much, I reckon,” is the reply. “It’s clear as the light of day, that young Poindexter was shot by that very bullet.”

“By whom?”

“Well; that appears to be equally clear. When a man signs his name to a message, there’s no chance of mistaking who it comes from. There’s only the initials there; but they’re plain enough, I reckon, and speak for themselves.”

“I see nothing in all this,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “There’s a marked bullet, it is true – with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his. What of that? It wouldn’t be the first time that a murder has been committed – by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed.”

“What do you call this?” asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the end of the lawyer’s speech.

Zeb takes from his pocket a piece of paper – crumpled and scorched along the edges.

“This I found,” says he,” stuck fast on the thorn of a tree. It came out of the same gun as discharged that bullet – to which it had served for wadding. There’s a name on it, which has a curious corresponding with the initials on the bit of lead. The jury can read the name for themselves.”

The foreman[63] takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing it out, reads aloud —

Captain Cassius Calhoun!

The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.

It is accompanied by a cry – sent up by the spectators. It is not a cry of surprise. It has a double meaning: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.

The scrap of paper is the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though the motive is an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.

After a short time spent in examining the envelope the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.

He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions – those that originally prompted him to seek for “sign” upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; and of the chase that succeeded. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught – giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.

The eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him.

“Let the Irishman go – he is innocent! We don’t want any farther evidence. We’re convinced of it. Let him go free!”

Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.

“Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It’s he that’s done the deed! That’s why he’s shown so bitter against the other! If he’s innocent, he’ll be able to prove it. Come, judge; order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court.”

The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.

The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.

The spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand over the plain.

Proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate.

“It is he! It is Calhoun!” cries the voice of one who has recognised him.

“Trying to steal off!” proclaims another.

“Follow him!” shouts the judge. “Follow, and bring him back!”

Giving a wild glance backward, Calhoun heads his horse towards the prairie – going off at a gallop.

Scores of men rush simultaneously towards their horses.

Answer the following questions:

1) What did the footmarks that Zeb had found testify?

2) How many bullet holes were there in the corpse? Why?

3) What was inscribed on the bullet extracted from the body?

4) What was the last evidence against Cassius Calhoun? What effect did it produce?

Chapter Twenty-Six

The first use Maurice the mustanger makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider – as all know – his own.

The animal recognises its master; proclaims it by giving utterance to a glad neigh.

In the next instant Maurice is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.

The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decided that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before the tribunal by the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony.[64]

A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a carriage – her glance telling of a thought different that felt by the common spectators.

In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer – tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued.

***

Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger – the man he was so near devoting – to the most disgraceful of deaths!

From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!

His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death – not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.

He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!

He is too late to seek concealment in the thicket, and with a cry he reins up.

It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver.

But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a whistling sound; and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!

Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke.

He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot – no time even to avoid the lazo’s loop. Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, “Surrender, you assassin!” In the next instant, he experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!

The assassin lies stretched along the earth – his arms embraced by the rope – to all appearance dead.

But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint.

“Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head!” mutters the mustanger to himself. “There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell, – or himself, if he is still alive.

***

The Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.

Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar!

His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered. There is but one missing link – the motive.

Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?

In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech.

He looks wildly around. On the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.

He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin.

“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”

“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”

The spectators are astonished beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.

“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter – shot him dead in the chapparal.”

The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.

Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it – proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man.

“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.

“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”

“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”

“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t – that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the man I see standing before me.”

In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.

“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.

“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.

“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot – meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”

There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that cruel deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.

“Now!” cries he, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”

While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.

The spectators have just time to see the pistol when two shots are heard in quick succession.

With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!

One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger, – the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

***

Joy!

There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.

Her happiness was heightened, on learning how her lover’s life had been preserved – as it might seem miraculously.

The aim of the assassin had been true enough. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a token of love – the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place – turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet!

Not quite harmless, however, was it to him for whom it had been intended.

But no longer lay his body in danger – in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by vultures, – in a hut, where he was but ill attended – in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.

There was now no one to object to Louise Poindexter nursing him; not even her own father, who, instead of a “nobody,” got a nobleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald – before known as Maurice the mustanger!

Answer the following questions:

1) What did Calhoun feel while trying to escape?

2) Who caught him? How?

3) Did Calhoun deny that he had killed his cousin? Who did he intend to kill?

4) What did he do after admitting his guilt?

5) What saved Maurice from death?

***

In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the moral, it is often the restorer. Nowhere has it effected greater changes than in Texas – during the last decade – and especially in the settlements of the Nueces and Leona.

There are new names for men, places, and things.

For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient hacienda – still known as Casa del Corvo.

You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for your hostess one of its most beautiful women – both still this side of middle life.

Living under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of aristocratic air and venerable aspect – chatty and cheerful – who would conduct you around the corrals, show you the stock, and never tire of talking about the hundreds – thousands – of horses and horned cattle,[65] seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.

You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more especially of his beautiful daughter – the mistress of the mansion – and the half-dozen pretty children who call him their “dear grandpa.”

Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other individuals attached to the establishment. One is the groom – by name Phelim O’Neal – who has full charge of the horses. The other is a coachman of sable skin, called Pluto.

There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot fail to become acquainted. You will hear it mentioned, almost every time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of a rifle that rarely misses its aim.

During the course of the meal – but much more over the wine – you will hear talk of “Zeb Stump the hunter.” You may not often see him. He will be gone from the hacienda, before you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired.

While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story connected with the place – now almost reduced to a legend.

The domestics will tell it to you, but only in whispers: since they know that it is a theme tabooed by the master and mistress of the mansion, in whom it excites sad souvenirs.

It is the story of the Headless Horseman.

Exercises

1. True or false?

1) Woodley Poindexter comes from Minnesota

2) Cassius Calhoun is Woodley Poindexter’s nephew.

3) The name of the planter’s son is Harry.

4) The emigrating party found the way to Fort Inge due to Calhoun.

5) Maurice Gerald is from Ireland.

6) Maurice saved the planter’s family from the norther.

7) Maurice lived alone in his hut.

8) Zeb Stump is an Irishman.

9) Woodley Poindexter knew Zeb Stump before coming to Texas.

10) Maurice caught the spotted mustang because he knew that Louise liked it.

11) Louise was a good equestrian.

12) It was Calhoun who started the quarrel in the bar-room.

13) Maurice was seriously injured while fighting a duel with Calhoun.

14) Maurice visited Isidora after recovery.

15) Maurice once saved Isidora from Indians.

16) El Coyote wanted to kill Maurice only to get money from Calhoun.

17) Calhoun witnessed the first date of Louise and Maurice in the garden grove.

18) Calhoun had known about their appointment in advance.

19) After Henry had left, Calhoun went to the hut of El Coyote.

20) Maurice didn’t think that Henry would come to apologize.

21) At first everybody thought that Henry had been killed by Indians.

22) Woodley Poindexter was the first one who saw a pool of blood.

23) Phelim took the Headless Horseman for his master.

24) Phelim read the card brought by Tara.

25) Isidora was in love with Maurice.

26) Isidora heard Maurice talking about Louise in a delirium.

27) Louise saved Maurice from being hanged.

28) Calhoun didn’t know that the bullet was still inside Henry’s body.

29) Louise used to be in love with Cassius Calhoun before she met Maurice.

30) Calhoun was Woodley Poindexter’s creditor.

31) The planter wanted his daughter to marry Calhoun.

32) Zeb was the only one who suspected Calhoun of killing Henry.

33) There were few people at the trial who believed Maurice’s story.

34) Calhoun didn’t try to escape.

35) Calhoun wanted to kill Maurice when the latter was trying to overtake him.

36) Calhoun didn’t say why he intended to kill Maurice Gerald.

37) Maurice survived because Calhoun’s bullet missed the aim.

38) Maurice Gerald turned out to be a nobleman.

2. Who said the following words? Under what circumstances?

1) “You have no claim to be my counsellor. I shall remain mistress of my own thoughts – and actions, too – till I have found a master who can control them.”

2) “Whoever you are – whence you have come – whither you are going – what you may be – henceforth there is a fate between us! I feel it – I know it– sure as there’s a sky above!”

3) “America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”

4) “I would give half my life to see you in the hands of Wild Cat and his drunken comrades – the other half to deliver you from the danger.”

5) “To kill a man outright requires skill. It can’t be done – even on the prairies – without danger of detection.”

6) “I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence – her love – then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight.”

7) “He said he would be here by eight o’clock in the morning, and it’s now good six in the afternoon, if there’s any truth in a Texas sun. Sure there’s something detaining him?”

8) “I want to have him alive – for the matter of an hour or so. I have my reasons. Lay hold of him and his horse. If there is resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first.”

9) “Six seconds more – I’ll give you six more; and if you don’t show speech by that time, I’ll let drive at your guts.”

10) “Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so – to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are – there are. I know one – that excels you all, you angels in heaven!”

11) “Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing got stuck there, I’ve got to get it back.”

12) “I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty – as you know; and I don’t intend to keep single any longer.”

13) “No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, has been able to efface.”

14) “Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that better than I. I can only tell you, that 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.”

15) “Well, what I’m going to say now hasn’t so much to do with the prisoner at the bar, as with a man that in my opinion ought to be standing in his place. I won’t say who that man is. I’ll tell you what I know, and have found out, and then you of the jury may reckon it up for yourselves.”

16) “You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”

3. Who is described?

1) “a tall thin man of fifty, with a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe. He is simply though not inexpensively dressed. His features are shaded by a broad-brimmed hat”

2) “a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish”

3) “a man of between thirty and forty years of age. But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality – if not with positive cruelty – the individual in question might have been described as handsome”

4) “there was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing. Everything was plain almost to rudeness. The individual was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect”

4. Fill in the blanks with the following words in the right form:

flutter, linger, recoil, repose, overtake, predispose, chamber, obsequious, tidings, overtake, equestrian

1) The young horseman, once more drawing up his reins, was about to ride off; when something caused him to ____.

2) But neither his ashy envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, could damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already ____ in his favour – Louise Poindexter.

3) Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – he was unable to obtain ____.

4) But few, if any, of the gentlemen felt actual alarm. All knew that Louise Poindexter was a splendid ____.

5) The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, nevertheless made it necessary for him to keep to his _____ – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in the hotel.

6) Her heart ____ between hope and fear. There was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself.

7) The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with ____ politeness.

8) Isidora advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then ____ from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion!

9) Her reflections were interrupted by the reappearance of Pluto; whose important air proclaimed him the bearer of eventful ____.

10) Suppose, I did have a fancy to ____ this prairie postman! It couldn’t be done upon that dull steed of yours: not a bit of it!

5. Tell the story from the person of:

1) Maurice Gerald

2) Cassius Calhoun

3) Louise Poindexter

4) Zeb Stump

5) Woodley Poindexter

Vocabulary

abdomen n брюшная полость; живот

accomplice n сообщник

accursed a проклятый; ненавистный

acquiescence n уступка, согласие

acrimony n язвительность, злость

adhere v прилипать, приставать

advent n прибытие

afflict v беспокоить; причинять боль

afire adv в огне

agitation n волнение; возбуждение

ajar a приоткрытый

akin a родственный; похожий

alight v спускаться; приземляться

ambuscade n засада

anticipate v ожидать, предвидеть

aperture n отверстие

apparel v наряжать

arduous a трудный; напряженный

arraign v предъявлять обвинение, привлекать к суду

assignation n тайная встреча; любовное свидание

associate n товарищ; партнер

astir a на ногах

astound v изумлять

astray adv сбившись с пути, заблудившись

avenge v отомстить

avert v предотвращать

awe n страх, трепет

barren a неплодородный

bars n решетка; прутья

behold v увидеть, заметить

benignant a добрый, милостивый

bestride v сидеть верхом

betoken v означать; показывать

betray v выдавать (тайну, секрет)

bewilder v ставить в тупик; сбивать с толку

blade n лезвие, клинок

bluff n утес; отвесный берег

boisterous a громогласный

bondsman n невольник, раб

bridle v взнуздывать

broad-brimmed (hat) a широкополая (шляпа)

bucket n ведро

bystander n очевидец; наблюдатель

cabin n хижина, лачуга

cantonment n военный городок; казармы

caress v гладить, ласкать

cast v бросать; отбрасывать (тень)

cavalier n всадник

cease v прекращать(ся)

cement v скреплять (об отношениях)

cerulean a небесно-голубого цвета, лазурный

cessation n прекращение

chagrin n досада, огорчение, недовольство

chamber n комната

chaplain n священник

chink n щель

cinereous a пепельного цвета

clamber v карабкаться; взбираться

clamorous a громкий; шумный

clink v звенеть; звякать

cloak n плащ; мантия

clump n заросли

coachee n кучер

coagulate v сгущаться, свертываться

coffin n гроб

coiled a скрученный

compel v заставлять, вынуждать

complexion n цвет лица

compliance n согласие

conceited a самодовольный, самоуверенный

congeal v замораживать

conjecture v строить догадки, предполагать

conspicuous a видный, заметный

consternation n ужас; испуг

construe v толковать, объяснять

contend v бороться, противостоять

contiguous a соприкасающийся; смежный

contingency n случайность

contrivance n приспособление

contrive v придумывать, изобретать

convalescent a выздоравливающий

copse n рощица; лесок

corrugation n морщина, складка

countenance n лицо, выражение лица

counterfeit n подделка

countersign n пароль

covetous a жадный; жаждущий

cower v съеживаться

cowhide n плеть из кожи

crescent n полумесяц

crippled a покалеченный

crouch v согнуться, сжаться

croup n круп (лошади)

crumpled a мятый

culm n стебель

cynosure n центр внимания

dainty a лакомый, вкусный

decoy n приманка; подсадная утка

defiance n вызов; пренебрежение

defilement n загрязнение

delirium n бред, расстройство сознания

despairingly adv в отчаянии; безнадежно

+despatch n донесение

despondency n отчаяние, уныние

detection n выявление, обнаружение

dimness n тусклость

discomfiture n поражение

disinclination n нерасположение; нежелание

disjointed a несвязный (о речи)

dismal a мрачный; унылый

dismount v спешиваться

dodge v увертываться, уклоняться

domicile n место проживания

doom n рок; смерть

double-barrelled (gun) a двуствольное (ружье)

douceur n зд. подарок

drove n стадо

dummy n чучело

dwelling n жилище

efface v стирать, удалять; изглаживать

elapse v проходить, истекать

embroidery n вышивка

enclosure n огороженное место

endeavour v пытаться, стараться

endure v выдержать; терпеть

engrossing a всепоглощающий; захватывающий

equanimity n хладнокровие; спокойствие

equine a конский, лошадиный

exhume v выкапывать, извлекать из земли

expediency n рациональность; целесообразность

expostulation n увещевание

feasible a выполнимый, осуществимый

fervour n пыл, страсть

fiance€e n невеста

fillet n повязка

flank n бок

flatly adv категорически, прямо

flee v убегать, спасаться бегством

flit v проноситься быстро, мелькать

fluke n везение

flutter v трепетать

foil v мешать (исполнению чего-л.)

foremost a передовой, находящийся впереди других

forfeit v поплатиться чем-л.; лишиться чего-л.

formidable a грозный; пугающий

forsake v оставлять, покидать

frantic a безумный, яростный

glen n узкая горная долина

go astray заблудиться, сбиться с пути

gobbler n индюк

gorge n узкое ущелье, теснина

gravelled a покрытый гравием

grit (the teeth) v стискивать (зубы)

grove n лесок, роща

growl n рык

guise n внешний вид; одежда

habiliments n одеяние; снаряжение

halloo v громко кричать; криком привлекать внимание

halt n остановка

hammering n стук, удары

hamper n корзина с крышкой

handmaid n служанка

harness n упряжь, сбруя

harrow v мучить; разрывать

haul v тащить, тянуть

head-gear n головной убор

hearth n камин; каменная плита под очагом

henceforth adv с этого времени, впредь

hind a задний

hinder v задерживать; препятствовать

hindmost a последний (по порядку, по времени)

hitherto adv до настоящего времени, до сих пор

holster n кобура

hoof-print n след копыт

hostility n враждебность

hovel n хибара, лачуга

hue n оттенок, цвет

hut n лачуга, хижина

imputation n вменение в вину, обвинение

incarcerate v заключать в тюрьму

incipient a начинающийся, зарождающийся

incite v подстрекать; побуждать

incongruous a несочетаемый, нелепый

indent v делать вмятину; наносить отпечаток

indiscretion n неблагоразумный поступок

inebriate n пьяница

innuendo n косвенный намек

insolence n дерзость, наглость

instantaneously adv незамедлительно

instigation n подстрекательство

intent a полный решимости

interloper n человек, вмешивающийся в чужие дела

invigorate v давать силы, укреплять

jehu n возница, извозчик

jest v шутить

juror n присяжный

keenly adv сильно, горячо

kickshaw n лакомство

laceration n мука, терзание

lair n берлога, логовище

laughing-stock n посмешище

lavish v дарить, расточать

lazo n лассо

lead n свинец; пуля

limb n конечность; ветвь, сук

lineaments n pl черты (лица)

linger v задерживаться; медлить

loathsome a отталкивающий, омерзительный

loom v виднеться вдали; разрастаться

lump n опухоль, шишка

mare n кобыла

mercy n милосердие; жалость

mingle v смешиваться

miscellaneous a смешанный, разнообразный

misconduct n плохое, ненадлежащее поведение

misconstruction n неверное толкование

missile n снаряд (метательный; реактивный)

muffle v закутывать, окутывать

mutilate v калечить, увечить

muzzle n дуло

namesake n тезка

neigh n ржание

nonchalance n беззаботность

oar n весло

oath n клятва; ругательство

obeisance n поклон, реверанс

obsequious a подобострастный

obstruction n препятствие, преграда

onset n атака, нападение

onward adv вперед; дальше

ooze v просачиваться

outermost a крайний

overseer n надзиратель, надсмотрщик

overtake v догнать, наверстать

palaver v болтать

pang n внезапная острая боль

pant v тяжело дышать

parade-ground n учебный плац

paramount a первостепенный

pebble n галька, гравий

peerless a несравненный

peril n опасность

phenomenon n явление

pillar n столб, колонна

pique n обида, негодование

plump a полный; пухлый

plunder n трофеи; добыча

plunge n прыжок, ныряние

pommel n лука (седла)

prairie n прерия, степь

prattle n лепет; пустая болтовня

precursor n предшественник, предвестник

predispose v предрасполагать

preside v председательствовать

prey n добыча

projection n выступ, выступающая часть

pull up v останавливать(ся)

pursuit n преследование; погоня

purveyor n поставщик

quail v трусить, пасовать

quarters n жилье; казармы

ravine n лощина, овраг

rear n тыл; задняя часть

recede v удаляться

reciprocal a взаимный

recoil v отскочить, отпрянуть

reconciliation n примирение

reconnoitre v вести разведку

recumbent a лежачий; лежащий

reins n поводья

rejoin v отвечать

reluctant a делающий что-л. с большой неохотой, сопротивляющийся

repent v раскаиваться; сожалеть

repose n отдых; сон

restive a упрямый; норовистый (о лошади)

reticence n немногословность; сдержанность

retort v возражать; отвечать на оскорбление

revelation n разоблачение; откровение

revenge v мстить

rifle n винтовка

rig n одежда, внешний вид человека

ringing a звонкий; звучный

roaring n рев; гул

ruddy a румяный

ruffian n бандит, головорез

russet a красновато-коричневый

sable a черного цвета

sallowish a желтоватый, землистый

scaffold n эшафот; плаха

scantily adv скудно

scorch v обжигать, подпаливать; выжигать

scornfully adv презрительно; насмешливо

scoundrel n негодяй, мерзавец

scowl v смотреть сердито, хмуриться

scrap n клочок, обрывок

screech n визг, хрип

scrutinise v внимательно всматриваться, пристально разглядывать

seducer n соблазнитель

semblance n сходство; внешность

servitor n слуга

sheath n ножны

shed n навес, сарай

shed v распространять, излучать; проливать, лить

sheeting n обшивка

shield v защищать; спасать

shiver v раскалываться, разбиваться вдребезги

shod a подкованный (о лошади)

shrubbery n кустарник

shudder v вздрагивать, содрогаться

shun v беречься, избегать

shy v броситься в сторону, шарахнуться

simile n сравнение

simpleton n простак, дурачок

skiff n небольшая гребная лодка

skulk v красться; скрываться

skull n череп

slacken v замедлять

slight v пренебрегать

slue v поворачивать

sobriety n трезвость

sod n дерн; земля

sojourn v временно жить; останавливаться

soliloquy n монолог; разговор с самим собой

speckle v испещрять, пятнать

spell-bound a завороженный; ошеломленный

spur v пришпоривать (лошадь)

spurt v бить струей

stable n конюшня; стойло

stalk v преследовать; выслеживать

stallion n жеребец

stammer v запинаться, произносить с остановкой

steal up v подкрадываться

stealthily adv втихомолку, украдкой

stealthy a осторожный, незаметный

steed n конь

steer v следовать, идти (по определенному курсу)

stertorous a тяжелый, хрипящий

stipulate v ставить условием; требовать

stirrup n стремя

stretcher n носилки

stripling n юноша

stupefied a остолбеневший

subjection n зависимость, подневольность

sue v просить

suffice v быть достаточным, хватать

summons n pl вызов (обычно в суд)

supplant v вытеснить; занять (чье-л.) место

surpass v превосходить

suspend v приостанавливать, откладывать; подвешивать

sustain v испытывать; переносить

swagger v расхаживать с важным видом

swelling n опухоль

swill v полоскать, обливать водой

tableau n картина, сцена

tame v приручать; укрощать

thicket n чаща

thong n ремень

thorn n колючка, шип

threshold n порог

thud n глухой звук, стук

tidings n известия

toilsome a тяжелый, утомительный

tow v тянуть на бечеве; буксировать

tract n полоса, участок

trample v топтать

tread n поступь

trifle v шутить, играть (с кем-л.)

trigger n спусковой крючок

trot v идти рысью

turf n дерн

unarmed a невооруженный

underwood n подлесок

unscathed a невредимый, неповрежденный

utensil n посуда, утварь

vacillate v колебаться, проявлять нерешительность

vagary n причуда; выходка

venerable a почтенный, уважаемый

vengeance n месть

venison n оленина

vigil n дежурство

vile a низкий, подлый

villain n злодей, негодяй

vindictive a мстительный

vouchsafe v удостаивать

vow n клятва, обет

vulture n гриф

wad v забивать пыж ружья

wander v блуждать

whim n прихоть; причуда

wig n парик

wipe (out) v стирать, уничтожать

writhe v мучиться, терзаться

yelp n лай; скуление

yonder adv в ту сторону, туда

zealous a рьяный, усердный