Chapter Fifty
A CONFLICT WITH COYOTES.
The purple shadows of a Texan twilight were descending upon the earth, when the wounded man, whose toilsome journey through the chapparal has been recorded, arrived upon the banks of the streamlet.
After quenching his thirst to a surfeit, he stretched himself along the grass, his thoughts relieved from the terrible strain so long and continuously acting upon them.
His limb for the time pained him but little; and his spirit was too much worn to be keenly apprehensive as to the future.
He only desired repose; and the cool evening breeze, sighing through the feathery fronds of the acacias, favoured his chances of obtaining it.
The vultures had dispersed to their roosts in the thicket; and, no longer disturbed by their boding presence, he soon after fell asleep.
His slumber was of short continuance. The pain of his wounds, once more returning, awoke him.
It was this--and not the cry of the coyote--that kept him from sleeping throughout the remainder of the night.
Little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies--a true jackal-- that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying.
He did not believe that he was dying.
It was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would never dawn.
The light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him. Along with it came the birds, and the beasts went not away.
Over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended their shadowy wings. Around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyote, in a hundred hideous repetitions.
Crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst.
He now hungered; and looked round for something to eat.
A pecan tree stood, near. There were nuts upon its branches, within six feet of the ground.
He was able to reach the pecan upon his hands and knees; though the effort caused agony.
With his crutch he succeeded in detaching some of the nuts; and on these broke his fast.
What was the next step to be taken?
To stir away from the spot was simply impossible. The slightest movement gave him pain; at the same time assuring him of his utter inability to go anywhere.
He was still uncertain as to the nature of the injuries he had sustained--more especially that in his leg, which was so swollen that he could not well examine it. He supposed it to be either a fracture of the knee-cap, or a dislocation of the joint. In either case, it might be days before he could use the limb; and what, meanwhile, was he to do?
He had but little expectation of any one coming that way. He had shouted himself hoarse; and though, at intervals, he still continued to send forth a feeble cry, it was but the intermittent effort of hope struggling against despair.
There was no alternative but stay where he was; and, satisfied of this, he stretched himself along the sward, with the resolve to be as patient as possible.
It required all the stoicism of his nature to bear up against the acute agony he was enduring. Nor did he endure it altogether in silence. At intervals it elicited a groan.
Engrossed by his sufferings, he was for a while unconscious of what was going on around him. Still above him wheeled the black birds; but he had become accustomed to their presence, and no longer regarded it--not even when, at intervals, some of them swooped so near, that he could hear the "wheep" of their wings close to his ears.
Ha! what was that--that sound of different import?
It resembled the pattering of little feet upon the sandy channel of the stream, accompanied by quick breathings, as of animal in a state of excitement.
He looked around for an explanation.
"Only the coyotes!" was his reflection, on seeing a score of these animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream, and "squatting" upon the grass.
Hitherto he had felt no fear--only contempt--for these cowardly creatures.
But his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and attitudes. The former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening. Clearly did the coyotes mean mischief.
He now remembered having heard, that these animals--ordinarily innocuous, from sheer cowardice--will attack man when disabled beyond the capability of defending himself. Especially will they do so when stimulated by the smell of blood.
His had flowed freely, and from many veins--punctured by the spines of the cactus. His garments were saturated with it, still but half dry.
On the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour. The coyotes could not help scenting it.
Was it this that was stirring them to such excited action--apparently making them mad?
Whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to attack him.
He had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place in his belt. His rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been carried off by his horse.
He drew the knife; and, resting upon his right knee, prepared to defend himself.
He did not perform the action a second too soon. Emboldened by having been so long left to make their menaces unmolested--excited to courage by the smell of blood, stronger as they drew nearer--stimulated by their fierce natural appetites--the wolves had by this time reached the turning point of their determination: which was, to spring forward upon the wounded man.
They did so--half a dozen of them simultaneously--fastening their teeth upon his arms, limbs, and body, as they made their impetuous onset.
With a vigorous effort he shook them off, striking out with his knife. One or two were gashed by the shining blade, and went howling away. But a fresh band had by this time entered into the fray, others coming up, till the assailants counted a score. The conflict became desperate, deadly. Several of the animals were slain. But the fate of their fallen comrades did not deter the survivors from continuing the strife. On the contrary, it but maddened them the more.
The struggle became more and more confused--the coyotes crowding over one another to lay hold of their victim. The knife was wielded at random; the arm wielding it every moment becoming weaker, and striking with less fatal effect. The disabled man was soon further disabled. He felt fear for his life. No wonder--death was staring him in the face.
At this crisis a cry escaped his lips. Strange it was not one of terror, but joy! And stranger still that, on hearing it, the coyotes for an instant desisted from their attack!
There was a suspension of the strife--a short interval of silence. It was not the cry of their victim that had caused it, but that which had elicited the exclamation.
There was the sound of a horse's hoofs going at a gallop, followed by the loud baying of a hound.
The wounded man continued to exclaim,--in shouts calling for help. The horse appeared to be close by. A man upon his back could not fail to hear them.
But there was no response. The horse, or horseman, had passed on.
The hoof-strokes became less distinct. Despair once more returned to the antagonist of the coyotes.
At the same time his skulking assailants felt a renewal of their courage, and hastened to renew the conflict.
Once more it commenced, and was soon raging fiercely as before--the wretched man believing himself doomed, and only continuing the strife through sheer desperation.
Once more was it interrupted, this time by an intruder whose presence inspired him with fresh courage and hope.
If the horseman had proved indifferent to his calls for help, not so the hound. A grand creature of the staghound species--of its rarest and finest breed--was seen approaching the spot, uttering a deep sonorous bay, as with impetuous bound it broke through the bushes.
"A friend! thank Heaven, a friend!"
The baying ceased, as the hound cleared the selvage of the chapparal, and rushed open-mouthed among the cowed coyotes--already retreating at his approach!
One was instantly seized between the huge jaws; jerked upward from the earth; shaken as if it had been only a rat; and let go again, to writhe over the ground with a shattered spine!
Another was served in a similar manner; but ere a third could be attacked, the terrified survivors dropped their tails to the sward, and went yelping away; one and all retreating whence they had come--into the silent solitudes of the chapparal.
The rescued man saw no more. His strength was completely spent. He had just enough left to stretch forth his arms, and with a smile close them around the neck of his deliverer. Then, murmuring some soft words, he fainted gradually away.
His syncope was soon over, and consciousness once more assumed away.
Supporting himself on his elbow, he looked inquiringly around.
It was a strange, sanguinary spectacle that met his eyes. But for his swoon, he would have seen a still stranger one. During its continuance a horseman had ridden into the glade, and gone out again. He was the same whose hoofstroke had been heard, and who had lent a deaf ear to the cries for help. He had arrived too late, and then without any idea of offering assistance. His design appeared to be the watering of his horse.
The animal plunged straight into the streamlet, drank to its satisfaction, climbed out on the opposite bank, trotted across the open ground, and disappeared in the thicket beyond.
The rider had taken no notice of the prostrate form; the horse only by snorting, as he saw it, and springing from side to side, as he trod amidst the carcases of the coyotes.
The horse was a magnificent animal, not large, but perfect in all his parts. The man was the very reverse--having no head!
There was a head, but not in its proper place. It rested against the holster, seemingly held in the rider's hand!
A fearful apparition.
The dog barked, as it passed through the glade, and followed it to the edge of the underwood. He had been with it for a long time, straying where it strayed, and going where it went.
He now desisted from this fruitless fellowship; and, returning to the sleeper, lay down by his side.
It was then that the latter was restored to consciousness, and remembered what had made him for the moment oblivious.
After caressing the dog he again sank into a prostrate position; and, drawing the skirt of the cloak over his face to shade it from the glare of the sun, he fell asleep.
The staghound lay down at his feet, and also slumbered; but only in short spells. At intervals it raised its head, and uttered an angry growl, as the wings of the vultures came switching too close to its ears.
The young man muttered in his sleep. They were wild words that came from his unconscious lips, and betokened a strange commingling of thoughts: now passionate appeals of love--now disjointed speeches, that pointed to the committal of murder!
Chapter Fifty One
TWICE INTOXICATED.
Our story takes us back to the lone hut on the Alamo, so suddenly forsaken by the gambling guests, who had made themselves welcome in the absence of its owner.
It is near noon of the following day, and he has not yet come home. The ci-devant stable-boy of Bally-ballagh is once more sole occupant of the jacale--once more stretched along the floor, in a state of inebriety; though not the same from which we have seen him already aroused. He has been sober since, and the spell now upon him has been produced by a subsequent appeal to the Divinity of drink.
To explain, we must go back to that hour between midnight and morning, when the monte players made their abrupt departure.
The sight of three red savages, seated around the slab table, and industriously engaged in a game of cards, had done more to restore Phelim to a state of sobriety than all the sleep he had obtained.
Despite a certain grotesqueness in the spectacle, he had not seen such a ludicrous sight, as was proved by the terrific screech with which he saluted them. There was nothing laughable in what followed. He had no very clear comprehension of what did follow. He only remembered that the trio of painted warriors suddenly gave up their game, flung their cards upon the floor, stood over him for a time with naked blades, threatening his life; and then, along with a fourth who had joined them, turned their backs abruptly, and rushed pellmell out of the place!
All this occupied scarce twenty seconds of time; and when he had recovered from his terrified surprise, he found himself once more alone in the jacale!
Was the sleeping, or awake? Drunk, or dreaming? Was the scene real? Or was it another chapter of incongruous impossibilities, like that still fresh before his mind?
But no. The thing was no fancy. It could not be. He had seen the savages too near to be mistaken as to their reality. He had heard them talking in a tongue unknown to him. What could it be but Indian jargon? Besides, there were the pieces of pasteboard strewn over the floor!
He did not think of picking one up to satisfy himself of their reality. He was sober enough, but not sufficiently courageous for that. He could not be sure of their not burning his fingers--those queer cards? They might belong to the devil?
Despite the confusion of his senses, it occurred to him that the hut was no longer a safe place to stay in. The painted players might return to finish their game. They had left behind not only their cards, but everything else the jacale contained; and though some powerful motive seemed to have caused their abrupt departure, they might re-appear with equal abruptness.
The thought prompted the Galwegian to immediate action; and, blowing out the candle, so as to conceal his movements, he stole softly out of the hut.
He did not go by the door. The moon was shining on the grass-plat in front. The savages might still be there.
He found means of exit at the back, by pulling one of the horse hides from its place, and squeezing himself through the stockade wall.
Once outside, he skulked off under the shadow of the trees.
He had not gone far when a clump of dark objects appeared before him. There was a sound, as of horses champing their bitts, and the occasional striking of a hoof. He paused in his steps, screening his body behind the trunk of a cypress.
A short observation convinced him, that what he saw was a group of horses. There appeared to be four of them; no doubt belonging to the four warriors, who had turned the mustanger's hut into a gaming-house. The animals appeared to be tied to a tree, but for all that, their owners might be beside them.
Having made this reflection, he was about to turn back and go the other way; but just at that moment he heard voices in the opposite direction-- the voices of several men speaking in tones of menace and command.
Then came short, quick cries of affright, followed by the baying of a hound, and succeeded by silence, at intervals interrupted by a swishing noise, or the snapping of a branch--as if several men were retreating through the underwood in scared confusion!
As he continued to listen, the noises sounded nearer. The men who made them were advancing towards the cypress tree.
The tree was furnished with buttresses all around its base, with shadowy intervals between. Into one of these he stepped hastily; and, crouching close, was completely screened by the shadow.
He had scarce effected his concealment, when four men came rushing up; and, without stopping, hastened on towards the horses.
As they passed by him, they were exchanging speeches which the Irishman could not understand; but their tone betrayed terror. The excited action of the men confirmed it. They were evidently retreating from some enemy that had filled them with fear.
There was a glade where the moon-beams fell upon the grass. It was just outside the shadow of the cypress. To reach the horses they had to cross it; and, as they did so, the vermilion upon their naked skins flashed red under the moonlight.
Phelim identified the four gentlemen who had made so free with the hospitality of the hut.
He kept his place till they had mounted, and rode off--till he could tell by the tramp of their horses that they had ascended the upper plain, and gone off in a gallop--as men who were not likely to come back again.
"Doesn't that bate Banagher?" muttered he, stepping out from his hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment. "Be japers! it diz. Mother av Moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow? What are them divvils afther? An fwhat's afther them? Shure somethin' has given them a scare--that's plain as a pikestaff. I wondher now if it's been that same. Be me sowl it's jist it they've encounthered. I heerd the hound gowlin, an didn't he go afther it. O Lard! what cyan it be? May be it'll be comin' this way in purshoot av them?"
The dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree; where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense.
"Afther all, it must be some thrick av Masther Maurice. Maybe to give me a scare; an comin' back he's jist been in time to frighten off these ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too. Sowl! I hope it is that. How long since I saw it first? Trath! it must be some considerable time. I remimber having four full naggins, an that's all gone off. I wondher now if them Indyins has come acrass av the dimmyjan? I've heerd that they're as fond of the crayther as if their skins was white. Sowl! if they've smelt the jar there won't be a dhrap in it by this time. I'll jist slip back to the hut an see. If thare's any danger now it won't be from them. By that tarin' gallop, I cyan tell they've gone for good."
Once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards the jacale.
He approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself that no one was near.
Notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself, he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman-- who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it.
But for the hope of finding a "dhrap" in the demijohn, he would not have ventured back that night. As it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped doubtfully into the darkness.
He made no attempt to rekindle the light. Every inch of the floor was familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find the demijohn.
He tried for it. An exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment told that it was not there.
"Be dad!" muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; "it looks as if they'd been at it. Av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its place? I lift it thare--shure I lift it thare."
"Ach, me jewel! an it's thare yez are yet," he continued, as his hand came in contact with the wickerwork; "an' bad luck to their imperence-- impty as an eggshill! Ach! ye greedy gutted bastes! If I'd a known yez were goin' to do that, I'd av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye--jist fwhat yez wants. Divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin' a man's liquor when he's aslape! Och-an-anee! fwhat am I to do now? Go to slape agane? I don't belave I cyan, thinkin' av tham an the tother, widout a thrifle av the crayther to comfort me. An' thare isn't a dhrap widin twenty--Fwhat--fwhat! Howly Mary! Mother av Moses! Sant Pathrick and all the others to boot, fwhat am I talkin' about? The pewther flask-- the pewther flask! Be japers! it's in the thrunk--full to the very neck! Didn't I fill it for Masther Maurice to take wid him the last time he went to the sittlements? And didn't he forget to take it? Lard have mercy on me! If the Indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon that I shall be afther takin' lave at me sinses."
"Hoo--hoop--hoorro!" he cried, after an interval of silence, during which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau. "Hoo--hoop--hoorro! thanks to the Lord for all his mercies. The rid-skins haven't been cunnin' enough to look thare. The flask as full as a tick--not wan av them has had a finger on it. Hoo--hoop--hoorro!"
For some seconds the discoverer of the spirituous treasure, giving way to a joyous excitement, could be heard in the darkness, dancing over the floor of the jacale.
Then there was an interval of silence, succeeded by the screwing of a stopper, and after that a succession of "glucks," that proclaimed the rapid emptying of a narrow-necked vessel.
After a time this sound was suspended, to be replaced by a repeated, smacking of lips, interlarded with grotesque ejaculations.
Again came the gluck-gluck, again the smackings, and so on alternately, till an empty flask was heard falling upon the floor.
After that there were wild shouts--scraps of song intermingled with cheers and laughter--incoherent ravings about red Indians and headless horsemen, repeated over and over again, each time in more subdued tones, till the maudlin gibberish at length ended in loud continuous snoring!
Chapter Fifty Two
AN AWAKENER.
Phelim's second slumber was destined to endure for a more protracted term than his first. It was nearly noon when he awoke from it; and then 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 the precincts of 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.
Without staying to notice tracks or other "sign," he rode straight across the prairie, and into the avenue already mentioned.
Prom 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.
He knew that if he came up with the Regulators, equivocation would be a dangerous game; and, nolens volens, he should be compelled to guide them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer.
On turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently engaged in the examination of "sign."
At the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was rewarded, by himself remaining unseen.
"Durn them!" he muttered, with bitter emphasis. "I mout a know'd they'd a bin hyur. I must go back an roun' the tother way. It'll deelay me better'n a hour. Come, ole maar! This air an obstruckshun you, won't like. It'll gi'e ye the edition o' six more mile to yur journey. Ee-up, ole gal! Roun' an back we go!"
With a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue.
Once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering it by the path which on the day before had been taken by Diaz and his trio of confederates. From this point he proceeded without pause or adventure until he had descended to the Alamo bottom-land, and arrived within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger's dwelling.
Instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and leaving her behind him, approached the jacale with his customary caution.
The horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out. What was the meaning of that?
Zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture.
It increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope.
He kept round by the rear--so as to avail himself of the cover afforded by the trees; and at length, having crouched into the horse-shed at the back, he knelt down and listened.
There was an opening before his eyes; where one of the split posts had been pushed out of place, and the skin tapestry torn off. He saw this with some surprise; but, before he could shape any conjecture as to its cause, his ears were saluted with a sonorous breathing, that came out through the aperture. There was also a snore, which he fancied he could recognise, as proceeding from Irish nostrils.
A glance through the opening settled the point. The sleeper was Phelim.
There was an end to the necessity for stealthy manoeuvring. The hunter rose to his feet, and stepping round to the front, entered by the door-- which he found unbolted.
He made no attempt to rouse the sleeper, until after he had taken stock of the paraphernalia upon the floor.
"Thur's been packin' up for some purpiss," he observed, after a cursory glance. "Ah! Now I reccollex. The young fellur sayed he war goin' to make a move from hyur some o' these days. Thet ere anymal air not only soun' asleep, but dead drunk. Sartin he air--drunk as Backis. I kin tell that by the smell o' him. I wonder if he hev left any o' the licker? It air dewbious. Not a drop, dog-gone him! Thur's the jar, wi' the stop plug out o' it, lyin' on its side; an thur's the flask, too, in the same preedikamint--both on 'em fall o' empiness. Durn him for a drunken cuss! He kin suck up as much moister as a chalk purayra.
"Spanish curds! A hul pack on 'em scattered abeout the place. What kin he ha' been doin' wi' them? S'pose he's been havin' a game o' sollatury along wi' his licker."
"But what's cut the hole in the door, an why's the tother broken out at the back? I reckon he kin tell. I'll roust him, an see. Pheelum! Pheelum!"
Phelim made no reply.
"Pheelum, I say! Pheelum!"
Still no reply. Although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the slumberer to show that he even heard it.
A rude shaking administered by Zeb had no better effect. It only produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same stentorous respiration.
"If 'twa'n't for his snorin' I mout b'lieve him to be dead. He air dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o' his toe-nails. Kickin' him 'ud be no use. Dog-goned, ef I don't try this."
The old hunter's eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in a corner of the cabin. It was full of water, which Phelim, for some purpose, had fetched from the creek. Unfortunately for himself, he had not wasted it.
With a comical expression in his eye, Zeb took up the pail; and swilled the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the sleeper.
It had the effect intended. If not quite sobered, the inebriate was thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud cachinnations of the hunter.
It was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit of the two men entering upon a serious conversation.
Phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, 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, as concisely as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.
It was the first that Zeb Stump had heard of the Headless Horseman.
Although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning broadly scattered around Fort Inge, and along the Leona, Zeb, having passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at Casa del Corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such a startling item of intelligence. In fact, he had exchanged speech only with Pluto and Louise Poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by the party of searchers. The planter, for some reason or another, had been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse with any of the others.
At first Zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head. He called it "a fantassy of Pheelum's brain, owin' to his havin' tuk too much of the corn-juice."
He was puzzled, however, by Phelim's persistence in declaring it to be a fact--more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known to him.
"Arrah, now, how could I be mistaken?" argued the Irishman. "Didn't I see Masther Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minnit? All except the hid, and that I had a peep at as he turned to gallop away. Besides, thare was the Mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth, and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty horse? An' havn't I towld yez that Tara went away afther him, an thin I heerd the dog gowlin', jist afore the Indyins--"
"Injuns!" exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. "Injuns playin' wi' Spanish curds! White Injuns, I reck'n."
"Div yez think they waren't Indyins, afther all?"
"Ne'er a matter what I think. Thur's no time to talk o' that now. Go on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern."
When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon the grass.
His object was, as he said himself, to have "a good think;" which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while "hampered wi' a house abeout him."
It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.
Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before.
Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands! This last might be a trick. What else could it be?
Still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should be playing them!
Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather 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. More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.
That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief. Only by the evidence of his eyes could Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.
After spending a full half hour at his "think," he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circumstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.
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. But the presence of these men at the jacale, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!
A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind. He entertained for the young Irishman a peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart.
He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance.
So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, 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. And then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.
"What is it, Pheelum? What's wrong? Hes a snake bit ye?"
"Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara! See! thare's somethin' tied about his neck. It wasn't there when he lift. What do yez 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!
Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in fear.
A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again.
The thong was severed, the packet 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!
The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. Even Zeb Stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.
As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!
"Thank the Almighty for this!" he added; "and thank my ole Katinuck schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my Webster's spellin'-book. He lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can't read. No matter. He lives! he lives!"
"Who? Masther Maurice? Thin the Lord be thanked--"
"Wagh! thur's no time to thank him now. Get a blanket an some pieces o' horse-hide thong. Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar. Quick! Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!"
Chapter Fifty Three
JUST IN TIME.
"Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!"
They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.
They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger--once more surrounded by the coyotes.
But it was not these he had need to fear. A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.
Maurice Gerald--by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat--after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.
With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.
He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.
The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. But to what end? The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger--perhaps of the wounds he had received?
He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position.
At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. Tara might take a message to the hut!
"If I could but get him to go," said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. "Come hither, old fellow!" he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; "I want you to play postman for me--to carry a letter. You understand? Wait till I've got it written. I shall then explain myself more fully."
"By good luck I've got a card," he added, feeling for his case. "No pencil! That don't matter. There's plenty of ink around; and for a pen I can use the thorn of yonder maguey."
He crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyote that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it.
With a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the lining of the Panama hat.
It only remained to despatch the canine post upon his errand. This proved a somewhat difficult task. The dumb creature, despite a wondrous intelligence, could not comprehend why he should forsake the side of one he had so faithfully befriended; and for a long time resisted the coaxings and chidings, meant to warn him away.
It was only after being scolded in a tone of assumed anger, and beaten by the black-jack crutch--stricken by the man whose life he had so lately saved, that he had consented to leave the spot. Even canine affection could not endure this; and with repeated looks of reproach, cast backwards as he was chased off, he trotted reluctantly into the chapparal.
"Poor fellow!" soliloquised Maurice, as the dog disappeared from his view. "'Tis like boating one's self, or one's dearest friend! Well, I shall make up for it in extra kindness if I have the good fortune to see him again.
"And now, that he is gone, I must provide against the coming back of these villainous coyotes. They will be sure to come, once they discover that I'm alone."
A scheme had been already considered.
A tree stood near--the pecan already alluded to--having two stout branches that extended horizontally and together, at six or seven feet from the ground.
Taking off his cloak, and spreading it out upon the grass, with his knife he cut a row of holes along each edge.
Then unwinding from his waist the sash of china crape, he tore it up the middle, so as to make two strips, each several yards long.
The cloak was now extended between the branches, and fast tied by the strips of crape--thus forming a sort of hammock capable of containing the body of a man laid out at full length.
The maker of it knew that the coyotes are not tree climbers; and, reclining on his suspended couch, he could observe with indifference their efforts to assail him.
He took all this trouble, feeling certain they would return. If he had any doubt, it was soon set at rest, by seeing them, one after the other, come skulking out of the chapparal, lopping a pace or two, at intervals, pausing to reconnoitre, and then advancing towards the scene of their late conflict.
Emboldened by the absence of the enemy most dreaded by them, the pack was soon reassembled, once more exhibiting the truculent ferocity for which these cowardly creatures are celebrated.
It was first displayed in a very unnatural manner--by the devouring of their own dead--which was done in less time than it would have taken the spectator in the tree to have counted a score.
To him their attention was next directed. In swinging his hammock, he had taken no pains to conceal it. He had suspended it high enough to be out of their reach; and that he deemed sufficient for his purpose.
The cloak of dark cloth was conspicuous, as well as the figure outlined within it. The coyotes clustered underneath--their appetites whetted by the taste of blood. It was a sight to see them lick their red lips after their unnatural repast--a fearful sight!
He who saw it scarce regarded them--not even when they were springing up to lay hold of his limbs, or at times attempting to ascend by the trunk of the tree! He supposed there was no danger.
There was danger, however, on which he had not reckoned; and not till the coyotes have desisted from their idle attempts, and stretched themselves, panting, under the tree, did he begin to perceive it.
Of all the wild denizens, either of prairie or chapparal, the coyote is that possessed of the greatest cunning. The trapper will tell you it is the "cunningest varmint in creation." It is a fox in astuteness--a wolf in ferocity. It may be tamed, but it will turn at any time to tear the hand that caresses it. A child can scare it with a stick, but a disabled man may dread its attack. Alone it has the habit of a hare; but in packs--and it hunts only in packs--its poltroonery is less observable; sometimes under the influence of extreme hunger giving place to a savageness of disposition that assumes the semblance of courage.
It is the coyotes' cunning that is most to be feared; and it was this that had begun to excite fresh apprehension in the mind of the mustanger.
On discovering that they could not reach him--a discovery they were not long in making--instead of scattering off from the spot, the wolves, one and all, squatted down upon the grass; while others, stragglers from the original troop, were still coming into the glade. He saw that they intended a siege.
This should not have troubled him, seeing that he was secure in his suspended couch.
Nor would it, but for another source of trouble, every moment making itself more manifest--that from which he had so lately had such a narrow escape. He was once more on the eve of being tortured by thirst.
He blamed himself for having been so simple, as not to think of this before climbing up to the tree. He might easily have carried up a supply of water. The stream was there; and for want of a better vessel, the concave blades of the maguey would have served as a cistern.
His self-reproaches came too late. The water was under his eyes, only to tantalise him; and by so doing increase his eagerness to obtain it. He could not return to the stream, without running the gauntlet of the coyotes, and that would be certain death. He had but faint hopes that the hound would return and rescue him a second time--fainter still that his message would reach the man for whom it was intended. A hundred to one against that.
Thirst is quick in coming to a man whose veins are half-emptied of their blood. The torture proclaimed itself apace. How long was it to continue?
This time it was accompanied by a straying of the senses. The wolves, from being a hundred, seemed suddenly to have increased their number tenfold. A thousand appeared to encompass the tree, filling the whole ground of the glade! They came nearer and nearer. Their eyes gave out a lurid light. Their red tongues lapped the hanging cloth; they tore it with their teeth. He could feel their fetid breath, as they sprang up among the branches!
A lucid interval told him that it was all fancy. The wolves were still there; but only a hundred of them--as before, reclining upon the grass, pitiably awaiting a crisis! It came before the period of lucidity had departed; to the spectator unexpected as inexplicable. He saw the coyotes suddenly spring to their feet, and rush off into the thicket, until not one remained within the glade.
Was this, too, a fancy? He doubted the correctness of his vision. He had begun to believe that his brain was distempered.
But it was clear enough now. There were no coyotes. What could have frightened them off?
A cry of joy was sent forth from his lips, as he conjectured a cause. Tara had returned? Perhaps Phelim along with him? There had been time enough for the delivery of the message. For two hours he had been besieged by the coyotes.
He turned upon his knee, and bending over the branch, scanned the circle around him. Neither hound nor henchman was in sight. Nothing but branches and bushes!
He listened. No sound, save an occasional howl, sent back by the coyotes that still seemed to continue their retreat! More than ever was it like an illusion. What could have caused their scampering?
No matter. The coast was clear. The streamlet could now be approached without danger. Its water sparkled under his eyes--its rippling sounded sweet to his ears.
Descending from the tree, he staggered towards its bank, and reached it.
Before stooping to drink, he once more looked around him. Even the agony of thirst could not stifle the surprise, still fresh in his thoughts. To what was he indebted for his strange deliverance?
Despite his hope that it might be the hound, he had an apprehension of danger.
One glance, and he was certain of it. The spotted yellow skin shining among the leaves--the long, lithe form crawling like a snake out of the underwood was not to be mistaken. It was the tiger of the New World-- scarce less dreaded than his congener of the Old--the dangerous jaguar.
Its presence accounted for the retreat of the coyotes.
Neither could its intent be mistaken. It, too, had scented blood, and was hastening to the spot where blood had been sprinkled, with that determined air that told it would not be satisfied till after partaking of the banquet.
Its eyes were upon him, who had descended from the tree--its steps were towards him--now in slow, crouching gait; but quicker and quicker, as if preparing for a spring.
To retreat to the tree would have been sheer folly. The jaguar can climb like a cat. The mustanger knew this.
But even had he been ignorant of it, it would have been all the same, as the thing was no longer possible. The animal had already passed that tree, upon which he had found refuge, and there was t'other near that could be reached in time.
He had no thought of climbing to a tree--no thought of any thing, so confused were his senses--partly from present surprise, partly from the bewilderment already within his brain.
It was a simple act of unreasoning impulse that led him to rush on into the stream, until he stood up to his waist in the water.
Had he reasoned, he would have known that this would do nothing to secure his safety. If the jaguar climbs like a cat, it also swims with the ease of an otter; and is as much to be dreaded in the water as upon the land.
Maurice made no such reflection. He suspected that the little pool, towards the centre of which he had waded, would prove but poor protection. He was sure of it when the jaguar, arriving upon the bank above him, set itself in that cowering attitude that told of its intention to spring.
In despair he steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal.
He had nought wherewith to repel it--no knife--no pistol--no weapon of any kind--not even his crutch! A struggle with his bare arms could but end in his destruction.
A wild cry went forth from his lips, as the tawny form was about launching itself for the leap.
There was a simultaneous scream from the jaguar. Something appeared suddenly to impede it; and instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!
Like an echo of his own, a cry came from the chapparal, close following a sound that had preceded it--the sharp "spang" of a rifle.
A huge dog broke through the bushes, and sprang with a plunge into the pool where the jaguar had sunk below the surface. 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.
To the wounded man these sights and sounds were more like a vision than the perception of real phenomena. They were the last thoughts of that day that remained in his memory. His reason, kept too long upon the rack, had given way. He tried to strangle the faithful hound that swam fawningly around him and struggled against the strong arms that, raising him out of the water, bore him in friendly embrace to the bank!
His mind had passed from a horrid reality, to a still more horrid dream--the dream of delirium.
Chapter Fifty Four
A PRAIRIE PALANQUIN.
The friendly arms, flung around Maurice Gerald, were those of Zeb Stump.
Guided by the instructions written upon the card, the hunter 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 the jaguar was preparing to spring.
His bullet did not prevent the fierce brute from making the bound--the last of its life--though it had passed right through the animal's heart.
This was a thing thought of afterwards--there was no opportunity then.
On rushing into the water, to make sure that his shot had proved fatal, the hunter was himself attacked; not by the claws of the jaguar, but the hands of the man just rescued from them.
Fortunate for Zeb, that the mustanger's knife had been left upon land. As it was, he came near being throttled; and only after throwing aside his rifle, and employing all his strength, was he able to protect himself against the unlooked-for assault.
A struggle ensued, which ended in Zeb flinging his colossal arms around the young Irishman, and bearing him bodily to the bank.
It was not all over. As soon as the latter was relieved from the embrace, he broke away and made for the pecan tree;--as rapidly as if the injured limb no longer impeded him.
The hunter suspected his intent. Standing over six feet, he saw the bloody knife-blade lying along the cloak. It was for that the mustanger was making!
Zeb bounded after; and once more enfolding the madman in his bear-like embrace, drew him back from the tree.
"Speel up thur, Pheelum!" shouted he. "Git that thing out o' sight. The young fellur hev tuck leeve o' his seven senses. Thur's fever in the feel o' him. He air gone dullerious!"
Phelim instantly obeyed; and, scrambling up the tree-trunk took possession of the knife.
Still the struggle was not over. The delirious man wrestled with his rescuer--not in silence, but with shouts and threatening speeches--his eyes all the time rolling and glaring with a fierce, demoniac light.
For full ten minutes did he continue the mad wrestling match.
At length from sheer exhaustion he sank back upon the grass; and after a few tremulous shiverings, accompanied by sighs heaved from the very bottom of his breast, he lay still, as if the last spark of life had departed from his body!
The Galwegian, believing it so, began uttering a series of lugubrious cries--the "keen" of Connemara.
"Stop yur gowlin, ye durned cuss!" cried Zeb. "It air enuf to scare the breath out o' his karkidge. He's no more dead than you air--only fented. By the way he hev fit me, I reck'n there ain't much the matter wi' him. No," he continued, after stooping down and giving a short examination, "I kin see no wound worth makin' a muss about. Thur's a consid'able swellin' o' the knee; but the leg ain't fructered, else he kudn't a stud up on it. As for them scratches, they ain't much. What kin they be? 'Twarnt the jegwur that gin them. They air more like the claws o' a tom cat. Ho, ho! I sees now. Thur's been a bit o' a skrimmage afore the spotted beest kim up. The young fellur's been attakted by coyoats! Who'd a surposed that the cowardly varmints would a had the owdacity to attakt a human critter? But they will, when they gits the chance o' one krippled as he air--durn 'em!"
The hunter had all the talking to himself. Phelim, now overjoyed to know that his master still lived--and furthermore was in no danger of dying--suddenly changed his melancholy whine to a jubilant hullaballoo, and commenced dancing over the ground, all the while snapping his fingers in the most approved Connemara fashion.
His frenzied action provoked the hound to a like pitch of excitement; and the two became engaged in a sort of wild Irish jig.
Zeb took no notice of these grotesque demonstrations; but, once more bending over the prostrate form, proceeded to complete the examination already begun.
Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around him. 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.
Hats of Guayaquil grass--erroneously called Panama--were not uncommon. Scores of Southerners wore them, in Texas as elsewhere. But he knew that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican sombrero--a very different kind of head-gear. It was possible he might have seen fit to change the fashion.
Still, as Zeb continued to gaze upon it, he fancied he had seen that hat before, and on some other head.
It was not from any suspicion of its being honestly in possession of him now wearing it that the hunter stooped down, and took it off with the design to examine it. His object was simply to obtain some explanation of the mystery, or series of mysteries, hitherto baffling his brain.
On looking inside the hat he read two names; first, that of a New Orleans hatter, whose card was pasted in the crown; and then, in writing, another 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.
"Dog-goned kewrious, all this!" muttered the backwoodsman, as he stood with his eyes turned upon the ground, and apparently buried in a profound reflection.
"Hats, heads, an everythin'. Hats on the wrong head; heads i' the wrong place! By the 'tarnal thur's somethin' goed astray! Ef 'twa'nt that I feel a putty consid'able smartin' whar the young fellur gin me a lick over the left eye, I mout be arter believin' my own skull-case wa'nt any longer atween my shoulders!"
"It air no use lookin' to him," he added, glancing towards Maurice, "for an explanation; leastwise till he's slep' off this dullerium thet's on him. When that'll be, ole Nick only knows.
"Wal," he continued after another interval spent in silent reflection, "It won't do no good our stayin' hyur. We must git him to the shanty, an that kin only be did by toatin' him. He sayed on the curd, he cudn't make neer a track. It war only the anger kep' him up a bit. That leg looks wusser and wusser. He's boun to be toated."
The hunter seemed to cogitate on how he was to effect this purpose.
"'Taint no good expektin' him to help think it out," he continued looking at the Galwegian, who was busy talking to Tara. "The dumb brute hev more sense than he. Neer a mind. I'd make him take his full share o' the carryin' when it kum to thet. How air it to be done? We must git him on a streetcher. That I reck'n we kin make out o' a kupple o' poles an the cloak; or wi' the blanket Pheelum fetch'd from the shanty. Ye-es! a streetcher. That's the eydentikul eyedee."
The Connemara man was now summoned to lend assistance. Two saplings of at least ten feet in length were cut from the chapparal, and trimmed clear of twigs. Two shorter ones were also selected, and lashed crosswise over the first; and upon these there spread, first the serape, and afterwards the cloak, to give greater strength.
In this way a rude stretcher was constructed, capable of carrying either an invalid or an inebriate.
In the mode of using it, it more resembled the latter than the former: since he who was to be borne upon it, again deliriously raging, had to be strapped to the trestles!
Unlike the ordinary stretcher, it was not carried between two men; but a man and a mare--the mare at the head, the man bearing behind.
It was he of Connemara who completed the ill-matched team. The old hunter had kept his promise, that Phelim should "take his full share o' the carryin', when it kum to thet."
He was taking it, or rather getting it--Zeb having appointed himself to the easier post of conductor.
The idea was not altogether original. It was a rude copy from the Mexican litera, which in Southern Texas Zeb may have seen--differing from the latter only in being without screen, and instead of two mules, having for its atelage a mare and a man!
In this improvised palanquin was Maurice Gerald transported to his dwelling.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the locale.
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. His thoughts were still astray, though no longer exciting him to violent action. He was experiencing an interval of calm.
He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with an inconsequence that might have provoked mirth. But there were wild words upon his lips that forbade it--suggesting only serious thoughts.
His wounds received such rude dressing as his companions were capable of administering to them; and nothing more could be done but await the return of day.
Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sate up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer.
It was not from any unfaithfulness on the part of the foster-brother, that he seemed thus to disregard his duty; but simply because Zeb had requested him to lie down--telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake.
The old hunter had his reasons. He did not desire that those wild words should be heard even by Phelim. Better he should listen to them alone.
And alone he sate listening to them--throughout the live-long night.
He heard speeches that surprised him, and names that did not. He was not surprised to hear the name "Louise" often repeated, and coupled with fervent protestations of love.
But there was another name also often pronounced--with speeches less pleasant to his ear.
It was the name of Louise's brother.
The 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!
Chapter Fifty Five
UN DIA DE NOVEDADES.
Don Silvio Martinez was one of the few Mexican ricos, who had chosen to remain in Texas, after the conquest of that country by the stalwart colonisers from the North.
A man of more than mature age, of peaceful habits, and taking no part in politics, he accepted the new situation without any great regret. He was the more easily reconciled to it, from a knowledge, that his loss of nationality was better than counterbalanced by his gain of security against Comanche incursions; which, previous to the coming of the new colonists, had threatened the complete depopulation of the country.
The savage was not yet entirely subdued; but his maraud was now intermittent, and occurred only at long intervals. Even this was an improvement on the old regime.
Don Silvio was a ganadero,--a grazier, on a grand scale. So grand that his ganaderia was leagues in length and breadth, and contained within its limits many thousands of horses and horned cattle.
He lived in a large rectangular one-storied house--more resembling a jail than a dwelling--surrounded by extensive enclosures--corrales.
It was usually a quiet place; except during the time of the herradero, or cattle-branding; when for days it became the scene of a festivity almost Homeric.
These occasions were only of annual occurrence.
At all other times the old haciendado--who was a bachelor to boot--led a tranquil and somewhat solitary life; a sister older than himself being his only companion. There were occasional exceptions to this rule: when his charming sobrina rode across from the Rio Grande to pay him and his sister a visit. Then the domicile of Don Silvio became a little more lively.
Isidora was welcome whenever she came; welcome to come and go when she pleased; and do as she pleased, while under her uncle's roof. The sprightliness of her character was anything but displeasing to the old haciendado; who was himself far from being of a sombre disposition. Those traits, that might have appeared masculine in many other lands, were not so remarkable in one, where life is held by such precarious tenure; where the country house is oft transformed into a fortress, and the domestic hearth occasionally bedewed with the blood of its inmates!
Is it surprising that in such a land women should be found, endowed with those qualities that have been ascribed to Isidora? If so, it is not the less true that they exist.
As a general thing the Mexican woman is a creature of the most amiable disposition; douce--if we may be allowed to borrow from a language that deals more frequently with feminine traits--to such an extent, as to have become a national characteristic. It is to the denizens of the great cities, secure from Indian incursion, that this character more especially applies. On the frontiers, harried for the last half century by the aboriginal freebooter, the case is somewhat different. The amiability still exists; but often combined with a bravourie and hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic.
Since Malinche, more than one fair heroine has figured in the history of Anahuac.
Don Silvio Martinez had himself assisted at many a wild scene and ceremony. His youth had been passed amid perils; and the courage of Isidora--at times degenerating into absolute recklessness--so far from offending, rather gave him gratification.
The old gentleman loved his darling sobrina, as if she had been his own child; and had she been so, she would not have been more certain of succeeding to his possessions.
Every one knew, that, when Don Silvio Martinez should take leave of life, Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos would be the owner of--not his broad acres, but--his leagues of land, as also his thousands of horses and horned cattle.
With this understanding, it is needless to say, that the senorita carried respect with her wherever she went, or that the vassals of the Hacienda Martinez honoured her as their future mistress.
Independently of this was she regarded. Hers were just the qualities to win the esteem of the dashing rancheros; and there was not one upon the estate, but would have drawn his machete at her nod, and used it to the shedding of blood.
Miguel Diaz spoke the truth, when he said he was in danger. Well might he believe it. Had it pleased Isidora to call together her uncle's vaqueros, and send them to chastise him, it would have been speedily done--even to hanging him upon the nearest tree!
No wonder he had made such haste to get away from the glade.
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 relations upon the Leona.
There was no selfishness in the motive. The prospect of the rich inheritance had nothing to do with it. She was an expectant heiress without that: for her own father was a rico. But she liked the company of her uncle and aunt. She also enjoyed the ride from river to river--oft made by her between morning and night, and not unfrequently alone!
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?
Imitating her own frankness of character, it may at once be declared.
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.
Perhaps, too, she saw in him other captivating qualities, less easily defined. Whether these had been undesignedly exhibited, or with the intention to effect a conquest, he alone can tell. He has himself said, No; and respect is due to his declaration. But it is difficult to believe, that mortal man could have gazed into the eyes of Isidora de los Llanos without wishing them to look longingly upon him.
Maurice may have spoken the truth; but we could better believe him, had he seen Louise Poindexter before becoming acquainted with Isidora.
The episode of the burnt prairie was several weeks subsequent to the adventure with the intoxicated Indians.
Certainly something appears to have occurred between him and the Mexican maiden, that leads her to believe she has a hope--if not a claim--upon his affections.
It has come to that crisis, that she can no longer rest satisfied. Her impulsive spirit cannot brook ambiguity. She knows that she loves him. She has determined to make frank confession of it; and to ask with like frankness whether her passion be reciprocated. Hence her having made an appointment that could not be kept.
For that day Don Miguel Diaz had interfered between her and her purpose.
So thought she, as she galloped out of the glade, and hastened back to the hacienda of her uncle.
Astride her grey steed she goes at a gallop.
Her head is bare; her coiffure disarranged; her rich black tresses streaming back beyond her shoulders, no longer covered by scarf or serape. The last she has left behind her, and along with it her vicuna hat.
Her eyes are flashing with excitement; her cheeks flushed to the colour of carmine.
The cause is known.
And also why she is riding in such hot haste. She has herself declared it.
On nearing the house, she is seen to tighten her rein. The horse is pulled in to a slower pace--a trot; slower still--a walk; and, soon after, he is halted in the middle of the road.
His rider has changed her intention; or stops to reflect whether she should.
She sits reflecting.
"On second thoughts--perhaps--better not have him taken? It would create a terrible scandal, everywhere. So far, no one knows of --. Besides, what can I say myself--the only witness? Ah! were I to tell these gallant Texans the story, my own testimony would be enough to have him punished with a harsh hand. No! let him live. Ladron as he is, I do not fear him. After what's happened he will not care to come near me. Santa Virgen! to think that I could have felt a fancy for this man--short-lived as it was!
"I must send some one back to release him. One who can keep my secret-- who? Benito, the mayor-domo--faithful and brave. Gracias a Dios! Yonder's my man--as usual busied in counting his cattle. Benito! Benito!"
"At your orders, s'norita?"
"Good Benito, I want you to do me a kindness. You consent?"
"At your orders, s'norita?" repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low.
"Not orders, good Benito. I wish you to do me a favour."
"Command me, s'norita!"
"You know the spot of open ground at the top of the hill--where the three roads meet?"
"As well as the corral of your uncle's hacienda."
"Good! Go there. You will find a man lying upon the ground, his arms entangled in a lazo. Release, and let him go free. If he be hurt--by a harsh fall he has had--do what you can to restore him; but don't tell him who sent you. You may know the man--I think you do. No matter for that. Ask him no questions, nor answer his, if he should put any. Once you have seen him on his legs, let him make use of them after his own fashion. You understand?"
"Perfectamente, s'norita. Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter."
"Thanks, good Benito. Uncle Silvio will like you all the better for it; though you mustn't tell him of it. Leave that to me. If he shouldn't--if he shouldn't--well! one of these days there may be an estate on the Rio Grande that will stand in need of a brave, faithful steward--such an one as I know you to be."
"Every one knows that the Dona Isidora is gracious as she is fair."
"Thanks--thanks! One more request. The service I ask you to do for me must be known to only three individuals. The third is he whom you are sent to succour. You know the other two?"
"S'norita, I comprehend. It shall be as you wish it."
The mayor-domo is moving off on horseback, it need scarce be said. Men of his calling rarely set foot to the earth--never upon a journey of half a league in length.
"Stay! I had forgotten!" calls out the lady, arresting him. "You will find a hat and serape. They are mine. Bring them, and I shall wait for you here, or meet you somewhere along the way."
Bowing, he again rides away. Again is he summoned to stop.
"On second thoughts, Senor Benito, I've made up my mind to go along with you. Vamos!"
The steward of Don Silvio is not surprised at caprice, when exhibited by the niece of his employer. Without questioning, he obeys her command, and once more heads his horse for the hill.
The lady follows. She has told him to ride in the advance. She has her reason for departing from the aristocratic custom.
Benito is astray in his conjecture. It is not to caprice that he is indebted for the companionship of the senorita. A serious motive takes her back along the road.
She has forgotten something more than her wrapper and hat--that little letter that has caused her so much annoyance.
The "good Benito" has not had all her confidence; nor can he be entrusted with this. It might prove a scandal, graver than the quarrel with Don Miguel Diaz.
She rides back in hopes of repossessing herself of the epistle. How stupid not to have thought of it before!
How had El Coyote got hold of it? He must have had it from Jose!
Was her servant a traitor? Or had Diaz met him on the way, and forced the letter from him?
To either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised.
On the part of Diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as for Jose, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his fidelity.
So run her thoughts as she re-ascends the slope, leading up from the river bottom.
The summit is gained, and the opening entered; Isidora now riding side by side with the mayor-domo.
No Miguel Diaz there--no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater chagrin, not a scrap of paper!
There is her hat of vicuna wool--her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop end of her lazo--nothing more.
"You may go home again, Senor Benito! The man thrown from his horse must have recovered his senses--and, I suppose, his saddle too. Blessed be the virgin! But remember, good Benito Secrecy all the same. Entiende, V?"
"Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora."
The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill.
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The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the beau-ideal of a youthful hidalgo.
She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot is for a second or two poised in the air.
Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her enagua, displays a tournure to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.
But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.
He is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter.
"What have you done with it, sirrah?"
"Delivered it, my lady."
"To whom?"
"I left it at--at--the posada," he replies, stammering and turning pale. "Don Mauricio had gone out."
"A lie, lepero! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir! I've seen it since."
"O Senora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty--indeed I am not."
"Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?"
"As I live, lady, it was not treason. He--he--forced it from me--by threats--blows. I--I--was not paid."
"You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that--"
For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.
He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse.
Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastisement cease.
"Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. Al monte! al monte!"
With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket.
But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of traitors!
Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people--peons, vaqueros, and employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified ejaculations. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.
"What is causing the commotion?"
This is the question asked by Isidora.
The mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the individual thus interrogated.
A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.
The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of Caso del Corvo--the son of the American haciendado himself.
Indians are reported to have done the deed.
Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio's servitors.
It explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms.
The fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circumstance in that land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more especially when the man was a stranger, an "Americano."
But the report that Indians are abroad, is altogether a different affair. In it there is an idea of danger.
The effect produced on Isidora is different. It is not fear of the savages. The name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being wonderfully beautiful. She has herself looked upon this beauty, and cannot help believing in it.
A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: 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.
The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.
Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful interest; in short, 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!
There are no Indians near.
This later edition of "novedades," 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.
For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to the study of La lengua Americana. Her vocabulary of English words, still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.
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. On reaching the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. The new cause of excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so regarded by the superstitious peons. A rare rumour has reached the place. A man without a head--un hombre descabezado--has been seen riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!
Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness of the report. It is rife throughout the settlement. But there is still surer confirmation of it. A party of Don Silvio's own people-- herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the cavallero descabezado; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from him, as they would have done from the devil!
The vaqueros--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the account given. But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy evidence of its truthfulness.
The sun goes down upon a congeries of frightful rumours. Neither these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly to have formed--which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande. It makes no difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly apparition of a headless horseman! What to any other traveller should cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.
She even proposes making the journey alone! Don Silvio offers an escort--half a score of his vaqueros, armed to the teeth. The offer is rejected. Will she take Benito? No. She prefers journeying alone. In short, she is determined upon it.
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Next morning she carries out this determination. By day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!
Why has she thus deviated from her route? Is she straying?
She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by the rein.
Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.
Happier for her, if she had.
Chapter Fifty Six
A SHOT AT THE DEVIL.
All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion.
All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.
They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb's mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered!
The last was a belief that, under any circumstances, would have been painful to the backwoodsman. Coupled with the facts already known, it was agonising.
He thought of the quarrel--the hat--the cloak. He writhed as he contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to his mind. Never in his life had his analytical powers been so completely baffled. He groaned as he felt their impotence.
He kept no watch upon the door. He knew that if they came, it would not be in the night.
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 "gowl," and come running scared-like into the hut.
Extinguishing the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.
There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound? What had caused it?
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.
He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky--broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest. There were about fifty paces of clear space, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice.
The line separating the chiaro from the oscuro could be traced distinctly as in the day. A brilliant moon was beyond it. A snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.
There was nothing to be seen there.
But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. It resembled the clinking of a horse's shoe struck against a loose stone.
So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repetition.
It was not repeated; but 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 sapphire 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. Below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there. Above, there was nothing--not even the semblance of a head!
Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. It did not change the character of the apparition. If he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same--a horseman without a head.
This very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving--saw the horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace--without footfall--without sound of any kind--as if gliding rather than walking-- like the shifting scene of a cosmorama!
Not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every detail--long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the eye, or in any way a deception of his senses.
Nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually: first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering tail!
"Geehosophat!"
It was not surprise at the disappearance of the headless horseman that extorted this exclamation from the lips of Zeb Stump. There was nothing strange about this. The spectacle had simply passed behind the proscenium--represented by the tope of tree tops rising above the bluff.
"Geehosophat!"
Twice did the backwoodsman give utterance to this, his favourite expression of surprise; both times with an emphasis that told of an unlimited astonishment.
His looks betrayed it. Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame; while the pallor upon his lips was perceptible through their brown priming of tobacco juice.
For some time he stood speechless, as if unable to follow up his double ejaculation.
His tongue at length returned to him.
"Dog-gone my cats!" he muttered, but in a very low tone, and with eyes still fixed upon the point where the horse's tail had been last seen. "If that ere don't whip the hul united creashun, my name ain't Zeb'lon Stump! The Irish hev been right arter all. I tho't he hed dreemt o' it in his drink. But no. He hev seed somethin'; and so hev I meself. No wonner the cuss war skeeart. I feel jest a spell shaky in my own narves beout this time. Geehosophat! what kin the durned thing be?"
"What kin it be?" he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. "Dog-goned, ef I kin detarmine one way or the tother. Ef 't hed been only i' the daylight, an I ked a got a good sight on't; or eft hed been a leetle bit cloaster! Ha! Why moutn't I git cloaster to it? Dog-goned, ef I don't hev a try! I reck'n it won't eet me--not ef it air ole Nick; an ef it air him, I'll jest satersfy meself whether a bullet kin go custrut thro' his infernal karkidge 'ithout throwin' him out o' the seddle. Hyur go for a cloaster akwaintance wi' the varmint, whatsomiver it be."
So saying, the hunter stalked off through the trees--upon the path that led up to the bluff.
He had not needed to go inside for his rifle--having brought that weapon out with him, on hearing the howl of the hound.
If the headless rider was real flesh and blood--earthly and not of the other world--Zeb Stump might confidently count upon seeing him again.
When viewed from the door of the jacale, he was going direct towards the ravine, that permitted passage from the higher level to the bottom lands of the Alamo. As Zeb had started to avail himself of the same path, unless the other should meantime change direction, or his tranquil pace to a trot or gallop, the backwoodsman would be at the head of the pass as soon as he.
Before starting, Zeb had made a calculation of the distance to be done, and the time to do it in.
His estimate proved correct--to a second, and an inch. As his head was brought nearly on a level with the upland plain, he saw the shoulders of the horseman rising above it.
Another step upward, and the body was in view. Another, and the horse was outlined against the sky, from hoof to forelock.
He stood at a halt. He was standing, as Zeb first came in sight of him. 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.
For whatever reason, he was standing, front face to the spectator.
On seeing him thus, Zeb Stump also came to a stand. Had it been many another man, the same might have been said of his hair; and it is not to be denied, that the old hunter was at that moment, as he acknowledged himself, "a spell shaky 'beout the narves."
He was firm enough, however, 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 backwoodsman.
Maybe he was about to commit murder?
At the thought he lowered the muzzle of his piece, and remained for a time undecided.
"It mout be a man?" muttered he, "though it don't look like it air. Thur ain't room enuf for a head under that ere Mexikin blanket, no how. Ef it be a human critter he hev got a tongue I reck'n, though he ain't much o' a head to hold it in. Hilloo stronger! Ye're out for a putty lateish ride, ain't ye? Hain't yo forgot to fetch yur head wi ye?"
There was no reply. The horse snorted, on hearing the voice. That was all.
"Lookee hyur, strenger! Ole Zeb Stump from the State o' Kintucky, air the individooal who's now speakin' to ye. He ain't one o' thet sort ter be trifled wi'. Don't try to kum none o' yer damfoolery over this hyur coon. I warn ye to declur yur game. If ye're playin possum, ye'd better throw up yur hand; or by the jumpin' Geehosophat, ye may lose both yur stake an yur curds! Speak out now, afore ye gits plugged wi' a piece o' lead!"
Less response than before. This time the horse, becoming accustomed to the voice, only tossed up his head.
"Then dog-gone ye!" shouted the hunter, exasperated by what he deemed an insulting silence. "Six seconds more--I'll gie ye six more; an ef ye don't show speech by that time, I'll let drive at yur guts. Ef ye're but a dummy it won't do ye any harm. No more will it, I reckun, ef ye air the devil. But ef ye're a man playin' possum, durn me ef ye don't desarve to be shot for bein' sech a damned fool. Sing out!" he continued with increasing anger, "sing out, I tell ye! Ye won't? Then hyur goes! 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, followed by the sibillation of a spinning bullet; 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!
It was not even certain the horse was scared. The clear neigh that responded to the detonation of the rifle, had something in it that sounded derisive!
For all that, the animal went off at a tearing gallop; leaving Zeb Stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.
After discharging his rifle, he remained upon his knees, for a period of several seconds.
If his nerves were unsteady before the shot, they had become doubly so now. 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.
It could not be a man? He did not believe it to be one; and this thought might have reassured him, but for the behaviour of the horse. It was that wild unearthly neigh, that was now chilling his blood, and causing his limbs to shake, as if under an ague.
He would have retreated; but, for a time, he felt absolutely unable to rise to his feet; and he remained kneeling, in a sort of stupefied terror--watching the weird form till it receded out of sight far off over the moonlit plain. Not till then did he recover sufficient courage, to enable him to glide back down the gorge, and on towards the jacale.
And not till he was under its roof, did he feel sufficiently himself, to reflect with any calmness on the odd encounter that had occurred to him.
It was some time before his mind became disabused of the idea that he had been dealing with the devil. Reflection, however, convinced him of the improbability of this; though it gave him no clue as to what the thing really was.
"Shurly," muttered he, his conjectural form of speech showing that he was still undecided, "Shurly arter all it can't be a thing o' the tother world--else I kedn't a heern the cothug o' my bullet? Sartin the lead struck agin somethin' solid; an I reck'n thur's nothin' solid in the karkidge o' a ghost?"
"Wagh!" he concluded, apparently resigning the attempt to obtain a solution of the strange physical phenomenon. "Let the durned thing slide! One o' two things it air boun' to be: eyther a bunnel o' rags, or ole Harry from hell?"
As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him.
It was time to awaken Phelim, that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid.
The Connemara man, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, and under the impression of having been a little derelict in his duty, was ready to undertake the task.
The old hunter, before consigning his charge to the care of his unskilled successor, made a fresh dressing of the scratches--availing himself of the knowledge that a long experience had given him in the pharmacopoeia of the forest.
The nopal was near; and its juice inspissated into the fresh wounds would not fail to effect their speedy cure.
Zeb knew that in twenty-four hours after its application, they would be in process of healing; and in three days, entirely cicatrised.
With this confidence--common to every denizen of the cactus-covered land of Mexico--he felt defiant as to doctors; and if a score of them could have been procured upon the instant, he would not have summoned one. He was convinced that Maurice Gerald was in no danger--at least not from his wounds.
There was a danger; but that was of a different kind.
"An' now, Mister Pheelum," said he, on making a finish of his surgical operations; "we hev dud all thet kin be dud for the outard man, an it air full time to look arter the innard. Ye say thur ain't nuthin to eet?"
"Not so much as a purtaty, Misther Stump. An' what's worse thare's nothin' to dhrink--not a dhrap lift in the whole cyabin."
"Durn ye, that's yur fault," cried Stump, turning upon the Irishman with a savage scowl that showed equal regret at the announcement. "Eft hadn't a been for you, thur war licker enough to a lasted till the young fellur got roun' agin. What's to be dud now?"
"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be wrongin' me althegither intirely. That same yez are. I hadn't a taste exciptin what came out av the little flask. It wus thim Indyins that imptied the dimmyjan. Trath was it."
"Wagh! ye cudn't a got drunk on what wur contained i' the flask. I know yur durned guts too well for thet. Ye must a had a good pull at the tother, too."
"Be all the saints--"
"Durn yur stinkin' saints! D'you s'pose any man o' sense believes in sech varmint as them?
"Wal; 'tain't no use talkin' any more beout it. Ye've sucked up the corn juice, an thur's an end o't. Thur ain't no more to be hed 'ithin twenty mile, an we must go 'ithout."
"Be Jaysus, but it's bad!"
"Shet up yur head, durn ye, an hear what I've got to say. We'll hev to go 'ithout drinkin'; but thet air no reezun for sturvin' ourselves for want o' somethin' to eet. The young fellur, I don't misdoubt, air by this time half starved hisself. Thur's not much on his stummuk, I reck'n, though thur may be on his mind. As for meself, I'm jest hungry enough to eat coyoat; an I ain't very sure I'd turn away from turkey buzzart; which, as I reck'n, wud be a wusser victual than coyoat. But we ain't obleeged to eet turkey buzzart, whar thur's a chance o' gettin' turkey; an thet ain't so dewbious along the Alamo. You stay hyur, an take care o' the young fellur, whiles I try up the crik, an see if I kin kum acrosst a gobbler."
"I'll do that, Misther Stump, an no mistake. Be me trath--"
"Keep yur palaver to yurself, till I've finished talkin' to ye."
"Sowl! I won't say a word."
"Then don't, but lissen! Thur's somethin 'bout which I don't wait ye to make any mistake. It air this. Ef there shed anybody stray this way dyurin my absince, ye'll let me know. You musn't lose a minnit o' time, but let me know."
"Shure I will--sowl, yis."
"Wal, I'll depend on ye."
"Trath, yez may;--but how Misther Stump? How am I to lit yez know, if you're beyant hearin' av me voice? How thin?"
"Wal, I reck'n, I shan't need to go so fur as thet. Thur ought to be gobblers cloast by--at this time o' the mornin'.
"An yit there moutent," continued Zeb, after reflecting a while. "Ye ain't got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty? A pistol 'ud do."
"Nayther wan nor the tother. The masther tuk both away wid him, when he went last time to the sittlements. He must have lift them thare."
"It air awk'ard. I mout not heer yur shout."
Zeb, who had by this time passed through the doorway, again stopped to reflect.
"Heigh!" he exclaimed, after a pause of six seconds. "I've got it. I've treed the eydee. Ye see my ole maar, tethered out thur on the grass?"
"Shure I do, Misther Stump. Av coorse I do."
"Wal, ye see thet ere prickly cacktis plant growin' cloast to the edge o' the openin'?"
"Faith, yis."
"Wal, that's sensible o' ye. Now lissen to what I say. Ye must keep a look out at the door; an ef anybody kums up whiles I'm gone, run straight custrut for the cacktis, cut off one o' its branches--the thorniest ye kin see--an stick it unner the maar's tail."
"Mother av Moses! For what div yez want me to do that?"
"Wal, I reck'n I'd better explain," said Zeb, reflectingly; "otherwise ye'll be makin' a mess o' it."
"Ye see, Pheelum, ef anybody interlopes durin' my absince I hed better be hyur. I ain't a goin' fur off. But howsomediver near, I moutn't hear yur screech; thurfore the maar's 'll do better. You clap the cacktis under her tail, cloast up to the fundament; and ef she don't squeal loud enuf to be heern by me, then ye may konklude that this coon air eyther rubbed out, or hev both his lugs plugged wi picket pins. So, Pheelum; do you adzactly as I've tolt ye."
"I'll do it, be Japers!"
"Be sure now. Yur master's life may depend upon it."
After delivering this last caution, the hunter shouldered his long rifle, and walked away from the hut.
"He's a cute owld chap that same," said Phelim as soon as Zeb was out of hearing. "I wonder what he manes by the master bein' in danger from any wan comin' to the cyabin. He sed, that his life moight depend upon it? Yis--he sed that."
"He towlt me to kape a luk out. I suppose he maned me to begin at wance. I must go to the inthrance thin."
So saying, he stepped outside the door; and proceeded to make an ocular inspection of the paths by which the jacale might be approached.
After completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took stand, in the attitude of one upon the watch.
Chapter Fifty Seven
SOUNDING THE SIGNAL.
Phelim's 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.
His heart commenced hammering against his ribs.
The trees, standing thickly, hindered him from having a view of the approaching horseman; and 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. He would have been less alarmed to hear the trampling of a troop. Though well assured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him--in everything except the head.
His first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme entrusted to him by Zeb. But the indecision springing from his fears kept him to his place--long enough to show him that they were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.
"Shure an that same he hez," said Phelim, as the latter rode out from among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; "a raal hid, an a purty face in front av it. An' yit it don't show so plazed nayther. He luks as if he'd jist buried his grandmother. Sowl! what a quare young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two days' goslin'! O Lard! Luk at his little fut! Be Jaysus, he's a woman!"
While the Irishman was making these observations--partly in thought, partly in muttered speech--the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and again paused.
On a nearer view of his visitor, Phelim saw that he had correctly guessed the sex; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat, and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his of Connemara.
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.
He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure. On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad-- almost disconsolate.
It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees. Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.
Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the jacale. She knew of its existence. It was the goal of her journey. It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway. He was not the man she expected to see there.
In doubt she advanced to address him:
"I may have made a mistake?" said she, speaking in the best "Americana" she could command. "Pardon me, but--I--I thought--that Don Mauricio lived here."
"Dan Marryshow, yez say? Trath, no. Thare's nobody av that name lives heeur. Dan Marryshow? Thare was a man they called Marrish had a dwillin' not far out av Ballyballagh. I remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade. But his name wasn't Dan. No; it was Pat. Pat Marrish was the name--divil burn him for a desaver!"
"Don Mauricio--Mor-rees--Mor-ees."
"Oh! Maurice! Maybe ye'd be after spakin' av the masther--Misther Gerrald!"
"Si--Si! Senor Zyerral."
"Shure, thin, an if that's fwhat ye're afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin--that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin' the wild horses. He only kapes it for a huntin' box, ye know. Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he's at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that's now cryin' her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won't go back thare. Sowl, if yez saw her!"
Despite its patois, Phelim's talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed. Jealousy is an apt translator. Something like a sigh escaped from Isidora, as he pronounced that little word "her."
"I don't wish to see her," was the quick rejoinder; "but him you mention. Is he at home? Is he inside?"
"Is he at home? Thare now, that's comin' to the point--straight as a poike staff. An' supposin' I wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther wantin' wid him?"
"I wish to see him."
"Div yez? Maybe now ye'll wait till yez be asked. Ye're a purty crayther, notwithstandin' that black strake upon yer lip. But the masther isn't in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan--unless it was the praste or a docthur. Yez cyant see him."
"But I wish very much to see him, senor."
"Trath div yez. Ye've sayed that alriddy. But yez cyant, I till ye. It isn't Phaylim Onale ud deny wan av the fair six--espacially a purty black-eyed colleen loike yerself. But for all that yez cyant see the masther now."
"Why can I not?"
"Why cyant yez not? Will--thare's more than wan rayzon why yez cyant. In the first place, as I've towlt you, he's not in a condishun to resave company--the liss so av its bein' a lady."
"But why, senor? Why?"
"Bekase he's not dacently drissed. He's got nothin' on him but his shirt--exceptin' the rags that Misther Stump's jist tied all roun' him. Be japers! thare's enough av them to make him a whole shoot--coat, waiscoat, and throwsers--trath is thare."
"Senor, I don't understand you."
"Yez don't? Shure an I've spoke plain enough! Don't I till ye that the masther's in bid?"
"In bed! At this hour? I hope there's nothing--"
"The matther wid him, yez wur goin' to say? Alannah, that same is there--a powerful dale the matther wid him--enough to kape him betwane the blankets for weeks to come."
"Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?"
"Don't I till ye! Arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin' it? It ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about it? Yez moight say it afore his face, an he won't conthradict ye."
"He is ill, then. O, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his illness--what has caused it?"
"Shure an I cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries--the first yez hiv phut. His disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he's been resavin--the Lord only knows what, or who administhered it. He's got a bad lig; an his skin luks as if he'd been tied up in a sack along wid a score av angry cats. Sowl! thare's not the brenth av yer purty little hand widout a scratch upon it. Worse than all, he's besoide hisself."
"Beside himself?"
"Yis, that same. He's ravin' loike wan that had a dhrap too much overnight, an thinks thare's the man wid the poker afther him. Be me trath, I belave the very bist thing for him now ud be a thrifle av potheen--if wan cud only lay hands upon that same. But thare's not the smell av it in the cyabin. Both the dimmy-jan an flask. Arrah, now; you wouldn't be afther havin' a little flask upon yer sweet silf? Some av that agwardinty, as yer people call it. Trath, I've tasted worse stuff than it. I'm shure a dhrink av it ud do the masther good. Spake the truth, misthress! Hiv yez any about ye?"
"No, senor. I have nothing of the kind. I am sorry I have not."
"Faugh! The more's the pity for poor Masther Maurice. It ud a done him a dale av good. Well; he must put up widout it."
"But, senor; surely I can see him?"
"Divil a bit. Besides fwhat ud be the use? He wudn't know ye from his great grandmother. I till yez agane, he's been badly thrated, an 's now besoide hisself!"
"All the more reason why I should see him. I may be of service. I owe him a debt--of--of--"
"Oh! yez be owin' him somethin? Yez want to pay it? Faith, that makes it intirely different. But yez needn't see him for that. I'm his head man, an thransact all that sort av bizness for him. I cyant write myself, but I'll give ye a resate on the crass wid me mark--which is jist as good, among the lawyers. Yis, misthress; yez may pay the money over to me, an I promise ye the masther 'll niver axe ye for it agane. Trath! it'll come handy jist now, as we're upon the ave av a flittin, an may want it. So if yez have the pewther along wid ye, thare's pins, ink, an paper insoide the cyabin. Say the word, an I'll giv ye the resate!"
"No--no--no! I did not mean money. A debt of--of--gratitude."
"Faugh! only that. Sowl, it's eezy paid, an don't want a resate. But yez needn't return that sort av money now: for the masther woudn't be sinsible av fwhat ye wur sayin. Whin he comes to his sinses, I'll till him yez hiv been heeur, and wiped out the score."
"Surely I can see him?"
"Shurely now yez cyant."
"But I must, senor!"
"Divil a must about it. I've been lift on guard, wid sthrict ordhers to lit no wan go inside."
"They couldn't have been meant for me. I am his friend--the friend of Don Mauricio."
"How is Phaylum Onale to know that? For all yer purty face, yez moight be his didliest innemy. Be Japers! its loike enough, now that I take a second luk at ye."
"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.
Her air of earnest determination combined with the fierce--scarce feminine--expression upon her countenance, convinced the Galwegian, that the contingency had arrived for carrying out the instructions left by Zeb Stump, and that he had been too long neglecting his cue.
Turning hurriedly into the hut, he came out again, armed with a tomahawk; and was about to rush past, when he was brought to a sudden stand, by seeing a pistol in the hands of his lady visitor, pointed straight at his head!
"Abajo la hacha!" (Down with the hatchet), cried she. "Lepero! lift your arm to strike me, and it will be for the last time!"
"Stroike ye, misthress! Stroike you!" blubbered the ci-devant stable-boy, as soon as his terror permitted him to speak. "Mother av the Lard! I didn't mane the waypon for you at all, at all! I'll sware it on the crass--or a whole stack av Bibles if yez say so. In trath misthress; I didn't mane the tammyhauk for you!"
"Why have you brought it forth?" inquired the lady, half suspecting that she had made a mistake, and lowering her pistol as she became convinced of it. "Why have you thus armed yourself?"
"As I live, only to ixecute the ordhers, I've resaved--only to cut a branch off av the cyacktus yez see over yander, an phut it undher the tail av the owld mare. Shure yez won't object to my doin' that?"
In her turn, the lady became silent--surprised at the singular proposition.
The odd individual she saw before her, could not mean mischief. His looks, attitude, and gestures were grotesque, rather than threatening; provocative of mirth--not fear, or indignation.
"Silince gives consint. Thank ye," said Phelim, as, no longer in fear of being shot down in his tracks, he ran straight across the lawn, and carried out to the letter, the parting injunctions of Zeb Stump.
The Mexican maiden hitherto held silent by surprise, remained so, on perceiving the absolute idleness of speech.
Further conversation was out of the question. What with the screaming of the mare--continuous from the moment the spinous crupper was inserted under her tail--the loud trampling of her hoofs as she "cavorted" over the turf--the dismal howling of the hound--and the responsive cries of the wild forest denizens--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--only the voice of a Stentor could have been heard!
What could be the purpose of the strange proceeding? How was it to terminate?
Isidora looked on in silent astonishment. She could do nothing else. So long as the infernal fracas continued, there was no chance to elicit an explanation from the queer creature who had caused it.
He had returned to the door of the jacale; and once more taken his stand upon the threshold; where he stood, with the tranquil satisfied air of an actor who has completed the performance of his part in the play, and feels free to range himself among the spectator.
Chapter Fifty Eight
RECOILING FROM A KISS.
For full ten minutes was the wild chorus kept up, the mare all the time squealing like a stuck pig; while the dog responded in a series of lugubrious howls, that reverberated along the cliffs on both sides of the creek.
To the distance of a mile might the sounds have been heard; and as Zeb Stump was not likely to be so far from the hut, he would be certain to hear them.
Convinced of this, and that the hunter would soon respond to the signal he had himself arranged, Phelim stood square upon the threshold, in hopes that the lady visitor would stay outside--at least, until he should be relieved of the responsibility of admitting her.
Notwithstanding her earnest protestations of amity, he was still suspicious of some treasonable intention towards his master; else why should Zeb have been so particular about being summoned back?
Of himself, he had abandoned the idea of offering resistance. That shining pistol, still before his eyes, had cured him of all inclination for a quarrel with the strange equestrian; and so far as the Connemara man was concerned, she might have gone unresisted inside.
But there was another from Connemara, who appeared more determined to dispute her passage to the hut--one whom a whole battery of great guns would not have deterred from protecting its owner. This was Tara.
The staghound was not acting as if under the excitement of a mere senseless alarm. Mingling with his prolonged sonorous "gowl" could be heard in repeated interruptions a quick sharp bark, that denoted anger. He had witnessed the attitude of the intruder--its apparent hostility-- and drawing his deductions, had taken stand directly in front of Phelim and the door, with the evident determination that neither should be reached except over his own body, and after running the gauntlet of his formidable incisors.
Isidora showed no intention of undertaking the risk. She had none. Astonishment was, for the time, the sole feeling that possessed her.
She remained transfixed to the spot, without attempting to say a word.
She stood expectingly. To such an eccentric prelude there should be a corresponding finale. Perplexed, but patiently, she awaited it.
Of her late alarm there was nothing left. What she saw was too ludicrous to allow of apprehension; though it was also too incomprehensible to elicit laughter.
In the mien of the man, who had so oddly comported himself, there was no sign of mirth. If anything, a show of seriousness, oddly contrasting with the comical act he had committed; and which plainly proclaimed that he had not been treating her to a joke.
The expression of helpless perplexity that had become fixed upon her features, continued there; until a tall man, wearing a faded blanket coat, and carrying a six-foot rifle, was seen striding among the tree-trunks, at the rate of ten miles to the hour. He was making direct for the jacale.
At sight of the new-comer her countenance underwent a change. There was now perceptible upon it a shade of apprehension; and the little pistol was clutched with renewed nerve by the delicate hand that still continued to hold it.
The act was partly precautionary, partly mechanical. Nor was it unnatural, in view of the formidable-looking personage who was approaching, and the earnest excited manner with which he was hurrying forward to the hut.
All this became altered, as he advanced into the open ground, and suddenly stopped on its edge; a look of surprise quite as great as that upon the countenance of the lady, supplanting his earnest glances.
Some exclamatory phrases were sent through his teeth, unintelligible in the tumult still continuing, though the gesture that accompanied them seemed to proclaim them of a character anything but gentle.
On giving utterance to them, he turned to one side; strode rapidly towards the screaming mare; and, laying hold of her tail--which no living man save himself would have dared to do--he released her from the torments she had been so long enduring.
Silence was instantly restored; since the mare, abandoned by her fellow choristers, as they became accustomed to her wild neighs, had been, for some time, keeping up the solo by herself.
The lady was not yet enlightened. Her astonishment continued; though a side glance given to the droll individual in the doorway told her, that he had successfully accomplished some scheme with which he had been entrusted.
Phelim's look of satisfaction was of short continuance. It vanished, as Zeb Stump, having effected the deliverance of the tortured quadruped, faced round to the hut--as he did so, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance, darkly ominous of an angry storm.
Even the presence of beauty did not hinder it from bursting. "Durn, an dog-gone ye, for a Irish eedyit! Air this what ye've brought me back for! An' jest as I wur takin' sight on a turkey, not less 'n thirty poun' weight, I reck'n; skeeart afore he ked touch trigger, wi' the skreek o' thet cussed critter o' a maar. Damned little chance for breakfust now."
"But, Misther Stump, didn't yez till me to do it? Ye sid if any wan showld come to the cyabin--"
"Bah! ye fool! Ye don't serpose I meened weemen, did ye?"
"Trath! I didn't think it wus wan, whin she furst presented hersilf. Yez showld a seen the way she rid up--sittin' astraddle on her horse."
"What matter it, how she wur sittin'! Hain't ye seed thet afore, ye greenhorn? It's thur usooal way 'mong these hyur Mexikin sheemales. Ye're more o' a woman than she air, I guess; an twenty times more o' a fool. Thet I'm sartint o'. I know her a leetle by sight, an somethin' more by reeport. What hev fetched the critter hyur ain't so difeequilt to comprehend; tho' it may be to git it out o' her, seein' as she kin only talk thet thur Mexikin lingo; the which this chile can't, nor wudn't ef he kud."
"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be mistaken. She spakes English too. Don't yez, misthress?"
"Little Inglees," returned the Mexican, who up to this time had remained listening. "Inglees poco pocito."
"O--ah!" exclaimed Zeb, slightly abashed at what he had been saying. "I beg your pardin, saynoritta. Ye kin habla a bit o' Amerikin, kin ye? Moocho bono--so much the betterer. Ye'll be able to tell me what ye mout be a wantin' out hyur. Ye hain't lost yur way, hev ye?"
"No, senor," was the reply, after a pause. "In that case, ye know whar ye air?"
"Si, senor--si--yes, of Don Mauricio Zyerral, this the--house?"
"Thet air the name, near as a Mexikin mouth kin make it, I reck'n. 'Tain't much o' a house; but it air his'n. Preehaps ye want to see the master o't?"
"O, senor--yees--that is for why I here am--por esta yo soy aqui."
"Wal; I reck'n, thur kin be no objecshun to yur seein' him. Yur intenshuns ain't noways hostile to the young fellur, I kalklate. But thur ain't much good in yur talkin' to him now. He won't know yo from a side o' sole-leather."
"He is ill? Has met with some misfortune? El guero has said so."
"Yis. I towlt her that," interposed Phelim, whose carroty hair had earned for him the appellation "El guero."
"Sartin," answered Zeb. "He air wounded a bit; an jest now a leetle dulleerious. I reck'n it ain't o' much consekwence. He'll be hisself agin soon's the ravin' fit's gone off o' him."
"O, sir! can I be his nurse till then? Por amor dios! Let me enter, and watch over him? I am his friend--un amigo muy afficionado."
"Wal; I don't see as thur's any harm in it. Weemen makes the best o' nusses I've heern say; tho', for meself, I hain't hed much chance o' tryin' 'em, sincst I kivered up my ole gurl unner the sods o' Massissipi. Ef ye want to take a spell by the side o' the young fellur, ye're wilkim--seein' ye're his friend. Ye kin look arter him, till we git back, an see thet he don't tummel out o' the bed, or claw off them thur bandidges, I've tied roun him."
"Trust me, good sir, I shall take every care of him. But tell me what has caused it? The Indians? No, they are not near? Has there been a quarrel with any one?"
"In thet, saynoritta; ye're beout as wise as I air meself. Thur's been a quarrel wi' coyeats; but that ain't what's gin him the ugly knee. I foun' him yesterday, clost upon sun-down, in the chapparal beyont. When we kim upon him, he war up to his waist in the water o' a crik as runs through thur, jest beout to be attakted by one o' them spotty critters yur people call tigers. Wal, I relieved him o' that bit o' danger; but what happened afore air a mystery to me. The young fellur had tuk leeve o' his senses, an ked gie no account o' hisself. He hain't rekivered them yet; an', thurfore, we must wait till he do."
"But you are sure, sir, he is not badly injured? His wounds--they are not dangerous?"
"No danger whatsomediver. Nuthin' beyont a bit o' a fever, or maybe a touch o' the agey, when that goes off o' him. As for the wounds, they're only a wheen o' scratches. When the wanderin' hev gone out o' his senses, he'll soon kum roun, I reck'n. In a week's time, ye'll see him as strong as a buck."
"Oh! I shall nurse him tenderly!"
"Wal, that's very kind o' you; but--but--"
Zeb hesitated, as a queer thought came before his mind. It led to a train of reflections kept to himself. They were these:
"This air the same she, as sent them kickshaws to the tavern o' Rough an Ready. Thet she air in love wi' the young fellur is clur as Massissipi mud--in love wi' him to the eends o' her toe nails. So's the tother. But it air equally clur that he's thinkin' o' the tother, an not o' her. Now ef she hears him talk about tother, as he hev been a doin' all o' the night, thur'll be a putty consid'able rumpus riz inside o' her busom. Poor thing! I pity her. She ain't a bad sort. But the Irish-- Irish tho' he be--can't belong to both; an I know he freezes to the critter from the States. It air durned awkurd--Better ef I ked pursuade her not to go near him--leastwise till he gets over ravin' about Lewaze.
"But, miss," he continued, addressing himself to the Mexican, who during his long string of reflections had stood impatiently silent, "don't ye think ye'd better ride home agin; an kum back to see him arter he gits well. He won't know ye, as I've sayed; an it would be no use yur stayin', since he ain't in any danger o' makin' a die of it."
"No matter, that he may not know me. I should tend him all the same. He may need some things--which I can send, and procure for him."
"Ef ye're boun' to stay then," rejoined Zeb, relentingly, as if some new thought was causing him to consent, "I won't interfere to say, no. But don't you mind what he'll be palaverin' about. Ye may hear some queer talk out o' him, beout a man bein' murdered, an the like. That's natral for any one as is dulleerious. Don't be skeeart at it. Beside, ye may hear him talkin' a deal about a woman, as he's got upon his mind."
"A woman!"
"Jest so. Ye'll hear him make mention o' her name."
"Her name! Senor, what name?"
"Wal, it air the name o' his sister, I reck'n. Fact, I'm sure o' it bein' his sister."
"Oh! Misther Stump. If yez be spakin' av Masther Maurice--"
"Shut up, ye durned fool! What is't to you what I'm speakin' beout? You can't unnerstan sech things. Kum along!" he continued, moving off, and motioning the Connemara man to follow him. "I want ye a leetle way wi' me. I killed a rattle as I wur goin' up the crik, an left it thur. Kum you, an toat it back to the shanty hyur, lest some varmint may make away wi' it; an lest, arter all, I moutn't strike turkey agin."
"A rattle. Div yez mane a rattle-snake?"
"An' what shed I mean?"
"Shure, Misther Stump, yez wudn't ate a snake. Lard! wudn't it poison yez?"
"Pisen be durned! Didn't I cut the pisen out, soon 's I killed the critter, by cuttin' off o' its head?"
"Trath! an for all that, I wudn't ate a morsel av it, if I was starvin'."
"Sturve, an be durned to ye! Who axes ye to eet it. I only want ye to toat it home. Kum then, an do as I tell ye; or dog-goned, ef I don't make ye eet the head o' the reptile,--pisen, fangs an all!"
"Be japers, Misther Stump, I didn't mane to disobey you at all--at all. Shure it's Phaylim O'Nale that's reddy to do your biddin' anyhow. I'm wid ye for fwhativer yez want; aven to swallowin the snake whole. Saint Pathrick forgive me!"
"Saint Patrick be durned! Kum along!"
Phelim made no farther remonstrance; but, striking into the tracks of the backwoodsman, followed him through the wood.
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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!
Worse than scorpion's sting was that which had caused her to spring back.
And yet 'twas but a word--a little word--of only two syllables!
There was nothing strange in this. Oft, on one word--that soft short syllabic "Yes"--rests the happiness of a life; while oft, too oft, the harsher negative is the prelude to a world of war!
Chapter Fifty Nine
ANOTHER WHO CANNOT REST.
A dark day for Louise Poindexter--perhaps the darkest in the calendar of her life--was that in which she released Don Miguel Diaz from the lazo.
Sorrow for a brother's loss, with fears for a lover's safety, were yesterday commingled in the cup. To-day it was further embittered by the blackest passion of all--jealousy. Grief--fear--jealousy--what must be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent? A tumult of terrible imaginings.
So was it in the bosom of Louise Poindexter after deciphering the epistle which contained written evidence of her lover's disloyalty.
True, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive.
But in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young Creole did not reason thus. In the wording of the letter there was strong presumption, that the relationship between Maurice Gerald and the Mexican was of a more affectionate character than he had represented it to be--that he had, in fact, been practising a deception.
Why should that woman write to him in such free strain--giving bold, almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: "Essos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos?"
These were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient passion. As such only could the Creole understand them: since they were but a paraphrase of her own feelings.
And then there was the appointment itself--solicited, it is true, in the shape of a request. But this was mere courtesy--the coquetry of an accomplished maitresse. Moreover, the tone of solicitation was abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a positive command: "Come, sir! come!"
Something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this. A spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,--and the stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it had fallen.
"Ah, me!" reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, "I see it all now. 'Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, `the hill above my uncle's house'--slightly described, but well understood--oft visited before."
Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair. Her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor--like it, crushed and ruined.
For a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation. Wild emotions passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves. Among others she thought of her beloved Louisiana--of going back there to bury her secret sorrow in the cloisters of the Sacre Coeur. Had the Creole convent been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum within its sacred walls. In very truth was it the darkest day of her existence. After long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer, while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone. The letter was re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration.
There was still a hope--the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might not be in the Settlement.
It was at best but a faint ray. Surely she should know--she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it? Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour.
It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the position of Louise Poindexter. But no other course appeared open to her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, 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 knew it not as such. It was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories addressed to him.
Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.
On hearing she was not the first of her sex 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--sleep only obtained in short snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.
Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.
It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo alone; and this was her determination.
There was no one to stay her--none to say nay. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. No report had come back to Casa del Corvo. She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.
But it may be easily guessed. Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere suspicion. Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it to that state of helpless submission. Unsatisfied it could no longer exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.
She might find peace--she might chance upon ruin. Even the last appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.
How like to the reasoning of her rival!
It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do it. It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. Talk to the tigress when frenzied by a similar feeling. With a love unhallowed, the will of the Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American Creole, when stirred by its holiest passion. It acknowledges no right of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death.
It is a spirit rare upon earth. In its tranquil state, soft as the rays of the Aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and perilous as the light of Lucifer!
Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type. Where love was the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain. Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or compatible with her existence. She must find proofs to destroy, or confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.
Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be sought upon the Alamo.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie already known to her.
On passing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.
These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved, to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!
Ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful contemplation of his treachery.
From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty miles. It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling-- that is in the saddle. To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.
Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of her rider.
Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had scarce reached the point of despair. Through her sadness there still shone a scintillation of hope.
It was extinguished as 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.
There was a woman within the hut!
From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the other--so alike were they in anguish.
Like a second echo, still more intensified, 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.
To the young Creole the case was clear--painfully clear. She saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, had been kept. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party--Maurice Gerald? That would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.
Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice Gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech.
Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora--equally agonising. She already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her!
Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two stood eyeing each other.
Alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!
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--all the more terrible for its silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.
Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.
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!
Both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.
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.
Glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful "carajo!"--a fearful phrase from female lips-- was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.
Chapter Sixty
A FAIR INFORMER.
If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacale. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!
She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress--fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.
It is not this that has caused her to pull up. There is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. It is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.
All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken--all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!
She has paused at the prompting of a demon--with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind. Her muttered speeches proclaim it. "I should have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly strife?"
"If I killed her, what would it avail? It could not win me back his heart--lost, lost, without hope! Yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place! Oh! there is no hope for me!
"'Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. If I kill him? Ah, then; what would life be to me? Prom that hour an endless anguish!
"Oh! it is anguish now! I cannot endure it. I can think of no solace-- if not in revenge. Not only she, he also--both must die!
"But not yet--not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. Mother of God, strengthen me to take vengeance!"
She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine.
On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop--even for the animal to breathe itself--but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined. Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed--only the spur to urge him on.
Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?
His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things--even of the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.
She sees a caballada out upon the open prairie!
Indians? No. White men--less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the "stoor" of the parched plain.
"Los Tejanos!" is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality.
"A troop of their rangers scouring the country for Comanches, I suppose? The Indians are not here? If I've heard aright at the Settlement, they should be far on the other side."
Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no desire to encounter "Los Tejanos." They are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.
It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.
She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider.
It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken--especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her.
At first she is so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.
Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.
"Rangers--no! Too well dressed for those ragged vagabundos? Must be the party of `searchers,' of which I've heard--led by the father of-- Yes--yes it is they. Ay Dios! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!"
Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near.
She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.
In another minute she is in their midst--the mounted circle close drawn around her.
There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired--uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.
Though it is an entourage to cause trembling--especially in a woman-- Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her.
But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man--of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!
"Can you speak French, mademoiselle?" asks Woodley Poindexter, addressing her in this tongue--in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. "Speak better Inglees--very little, sir."
"Oh! English. So much the better for us. Tell me, miss; have you seen anybody out here--that is--have you met any one, riding about, or camped, or halted anywhere?"
Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.
The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the circumstances admit.
"May I ask where you live?"
"On the Rio Grande, senor?"
"Have you come direct from there?"
"No; from the Leona."
"From the Leona!"
"It's the niece of old Martinez," interposes one of the party. "His plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter."
"Si--yes--true that. Sobrina--niece of Don Silvio Martinez. Yo soy."
"Then you've come from his place, direct? Pardon me for appearing rude. I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle curiosity, or impertinence. We have serious reasons--more than serious: they are solemn."
"From the Hacienda Martinez direct," answers Isidora, without appearing to notice the last remark. "Two hours ago--un pocito mas--my uncle's house I leave."
"Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a--murder-- committed?"
"Si, senor. Yesterday at uncle Silvio's it was told."
"But to-day--when you left--was there any fresh news in the Settlement? We've had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. Have you heard anything, miss?"
"That people were gone after the asesinado. Your party, senor?"
"Yes--yes--it meant us, no doubt. You heard nothing more?"
"Oh, yes; something very strange, senores; so strange, you may think I am jesting."
"What is it?" inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.
"There is a story of one being seen without a head--on horseback--out here too. Valga me Dios! we must now be near the place? It was by the Nueces--not far from the ford--where the road crosses for the Rio Grande. So the vaqueros said."
"Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?"
"Si, senores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the spectacle."
Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a strange story causes among the "Tejanos." There is an exhibition of interest, but no astonishment. A voice explains:
"We've seen it too--that headless horseman--at a distance. Did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?"
"Santissima! no."
"Can you tell us, miss?"
"I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I've said. What it may be, quien sabe?"
There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard.
The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory.
"Have you met, or seen, any one, miss--out here, I mean?"
"Si--yes--I have."
"You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe--"
"A lady."
"Lady!" echo several voices.
"Si, senores."
"What sort of a lady?"
"Una Americana."
"An American lady!--out here? Alone?"
"Si, senores."
"Who?"
"Quien sabe?"
"You don't know her? What was she like?"
"Like?--like?"
"Yes; how was she dressed?"
"Vestido de caballo."
"On horseback, then?"
"On horseback."
"Where did you meet the lady you speak of?"
"Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal."
"Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?"
"A jacale. I only know of that."
Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: "A jacale?"
"They give that name to their shanties."
"To whom does it belong--this jacale?"
"Don Mauricio, el mustenero."
"Maurice the mustanger!" translates the ready interpreter.
A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching--fruitless, as earnest--they have struck a trail,--the trail of the murderer!
Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.
"We don't wish to be rude, Miss Martinez--if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of."
"It takes me a little out of my way--though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there."
Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal--followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.
She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.
"Yonder!" says she, pointing over the plain; "you see that black spot on the horizon? It is the top of an alhuehuete. Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo. Go there! There is a canon leading down the cliff. Descend. You will find, a little beyond, the jacale of which I've told you."
The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.
One of the party alone lingers--not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora. He is one who knows Isidora's language, as well as his own native tongue.
"Tell me, nina," says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude--almost of entreaty--"Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?"
"Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero! Who could help noticing it?"
"The colour?" gasps the inquirer.
"Un musteno pintojo."
"A spotted mustang! Holy Heaven!" exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers--leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!
Chapter Sixty One
ANGELS ON EARTH.
The retreat of her rival--quick and unexpected--held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision--bewildered by what she saw.
But the moment before she had looked into the jacale--had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.
What was she to think of that 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.
"Mon dieu! Mon dieu!" she cried, gliding up to the catre. "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--O say it again!"
"Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so--to the eyes--to the eyes. But don't say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are--there are. I know one--ah! more--but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! I mean in beauty--in goodness, that's another thing. I'm not thinking of goodness--no; no."
"Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus? You are not in heaven; you are here with me--with Louise."
"I am in heaven; yes, in heaven! I don't wish it, for all they say; that is, unless I can have her with me. It may be a pleasant place. Not without her. If she were here, I could be content. Hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me! Very beautiful, you are, I admit; but none of you like her--her--my angel. Oh! there's a devil, too; a beautiful devil--I don't mean that. I'm thinking only of the angel of the prairies."
"Do you remember her name?"
Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer.
She bent over him with ears upon the strain--with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.
"Name? name? Did some one say, name? Have you any names here? Oh! I remember--Michael, Gabriel, Azrael--men, all men. Angels, not like my angel--who is a woman. 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!"
Not when these last words were once before spoken--first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees--the speaker in full consciousness of intellect--in the full fervour of his soul--not then were they listened to with such delight. O, happy hour for her who heard them!
Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow--upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.
She only stood up erect--triumphant;--her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations. It was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever--in the fear of its being too soon interrupted.
The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared--a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway.
The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup.
There was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer. On the contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical, heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place. Still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species.
If anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as, stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken place in the occupancy of the hut.
"Mother av Moses!" he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; "Shure I must be dhramin? Trath must I! It cyant be yersilf, Miss Pointdixther? Shure now it cyant?"
"But it is, Mr O'Neal. How very ungallant in you to have forgotten me, and so soon!"
"Forgotten yez! Trath, miss, yez needn't accuse me of doin' chat which is intirely impossible. The Oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it. Sowl! thare's wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!"
The speaker glanced significantly towards the couch. A delicious thrill passed through the bosom of the listener.
"But fwhat diz it all mane?" continued Phelim, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. "Fwhare's the tother--the young chap, or lady, or wuman--whichsomiver she art? Didn't yez see nothin' av a wuman, Miss Pointdixther?"
"Yes--yes."
"Oh! yez did. An fwhere is she now?"
"Gone away, I believe."
"Gone away! Be japers, thin, she hasn't remained long in the wan mind. I lift her heeur in the cyabin not tin minnits ago, takin' aff her bonnit--that was only a man's hat--an sittlin' hersilf down for a stay. Gone, yez say? Sowl! I'm not sorry to hear it. That's a young lady whose room's betther than her company, any day in the twilmonth. She's a dale too handy wid her shootin'-iron. Wud yez belave it, Miss Pointdixther; she prisinted a pistol widin six inches av me nose?"
"Pardieu! For what reason?"
"Fwhat rayzun? Only that I thried to hindher her from inthrudin' into the cyabin. She got in for all that; for whin owld Zeb come back, he made no objecshun to it. She sayed she was a frind av the masther, an wanted to nurse him."
"Indeed! Oh! it is strange--very strange!" muttered the Creole, reflectingly.
"Trath, is it. And so is iverything in these times, exciptin' yez own swate silf; that I hope will niver be sthrange in a cyabin frequinted by Phaylim Onale. Shure, now, I'm glad to see yez, miss; an shure so wud the masther, if--"
"Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened."
"Trath! thin miss, if I'm to till all, ye'll hiv to take off your bonnet, and make up your moind for a long stay--seein' as it 'ut take the big ind av a whole day to relate all the quare things that's happened since the day afore yesthirday."
"Who has been here since then?"
"Who has been heeur?"
"Except the--the--"
"Exceptin' the man-wuman, ye mane?"
"Yes. Has any one else been to this place?"
"Trath has thare--plinty besoides. An av all sorts, an colours too. First an foremost there was wan comin' this way, though he didn't git all the way to the cyabin. But I daren't tell you about him, for it moight frighten ye, miss."
"Tell me. I have no fear."
"Be dad! and I can't make it out meself quite intirely. It was a man upon horseback widout a hid."
"Without a head!"
"Divil a bit av that same on his body."
The statement caused Phelim to be suspected of having lost his.
"An' what's more, miss, he was for all the world like Masther Maurice himself. Wid his horse undher him, an his Mexikin blanket about his showlders, an everything just as the young masther looks, when he's mounted, Sowl! wasn't I scared, whin I sit my eyes on him."
"But where did you see this, Mr O'Neal?"
"Up thare on the top av the bluff. I was out lookin' for the masther to come back from the Sittlement, as he'd promised he wud that mornin', an who showld I see but hisself, as I supposed it to be. An' thin he comes ridin' up, widout his hid, an' stops a bit, an thin goes off at a tarin' gallop, wid Tara gowlin' at his horse's heels, away acrass the big plain, till I saw no more av him. Thin I made back for the cyabin heeur, an shut meself up, and wint to slape; and just in the middle av me dhrames, whin I was dhramin' of--but trath, miss, yez'll be toired standin' on yer feet all this time. Won't yez take aff yer purty little ridin' hat, an sit down on the thrunk thare?--it's asier than the stool. Do plaze take a sate; for if I'm to tell yez all--"
"Never mind me--go on. Please tell me who else has been here besides this strange cavalier; who must have been some one playing a trick upon you, I suppose."
"A thrick, miss! Trath that's just what owld Zeb sayed."
"He has been here, then?"
"Yis--yis--but not till long afther the others."
"The others?"
"Yis, miss. Zeb only arroived yestherday marnin'. The others paid their visit the night afore, an at a very unsayzonable hour too, wakin' me out av the middle av my slape."
"But who?--what others?"
"Why the Indyens, to be shure."
"There have been Indians, then?"
"Trath was there--a whole tribe av thim. Well, as I've been tillin' yez, miss, jest as I wus in a soun' slape, I heerd talkin' in the cyabin heern, right over my hid, an the shufflin' av paper, as if somebody was dalin' a pack av cards, an--Mother av Moses! fwhat's that?"
"What?"
"Didn't yez heear somethin'? Wheesht! Thare it is agane! Trath, it's the trampin' av horses! They're jist outside."
Phelim rushed towards the door.
"Be Sant Pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback. Thare's a thousand av them! an more comin' behind! Be japers! them's the chaps owld Zeb--Now for a frish spell av squeelin! O Lard! I'll be too late!"
Seizing the cactus-branch--that for convenience he had brought inside the hut--he dashed out through the doorway.
"Mon Dieu!" cried the Creole, "'tis 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. They who were outside would make light of such obstruction. Already she recognised the voices of the Regulators!
The opening in the skin wall came under her eye. Should she make a retreat through that, undignified as it might be?
It was no longer possible. The sound of hoofs also in the rear! There were horsemen behind the hut!
Besides, her own steed was in front--that ocellated 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--one more generous.
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--all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!"
As these noble thoughts passed through her mind, she took her stand by the bedside of the invalid, like a second Dido, resolved to risk all-- even death itself--for the hero of her heart.
Chapter Sixty Two
WAITING FOR THE CUE.
Never, since its erection, was there such a trampling of hoofs around the hut of the horse-catcher--not even when its corral was filled with fresh-taken mustangs.
Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.
One is heard louder than the rest, and in tones of command that proclaim the speaker to be chief of the party.
"Pull up, damn you! It's no use--your trying to escape. Another step, and ye'll go tumbling in your tracks. Pull up, I say!"
The command takes effect upon the Connemara man, who has been making direct for Zeb Stump's mare, tethered on the other side of the opening. He stops upon the instant.
"Shure, gintlemen, I don't want to escyape," asseverates he, shivering at the sight of a score of angry faces, and the same number of gun-barrels bearing upon his person; "I had no such intinshuns. I was only goin' to--"
"Run off, if ye'd got the chance. Ye'd made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton! Damned queer-looking curse he is! Surely, gentlemen, this can't be the man we're in search of?"
"No, no! it isn't. Only his man John."
"Ho! hilloa, you round there at the back! Keep your eyes skinned. We havn't got him yet. Don't let as much as a cat creep past you. Now, sirree! who's inside?"
"Who's insoide? The cyabin div yez mane?"
"Damn ye! answer the question that's put to ye!" says Tracey, giving his prisoner a touch of the trail-rope. "Who's inside the shanty?"
"O Lard! Needs must whin the divvel dhrives. Wil, then, thare's the masther for wan--"
"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."
"Impossible?"
"Look yonder, then!"
The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.
"Good God, it is my daughter!"
Poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut--close followed by Calhoun. Both go inside.
"Louises 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 strides 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.
Calhoun seems equally affected. But the cry from him is an exclamation of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin.
"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."
"And--and--Henry?"
"They have told me nothing. Mr Gerald was alone when I entered. The man outside was absent, and has just returned. I have not had time to question him."
"But--but, how came you to be here?"
"I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible--alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother--Mon dieu! Mon dieu!"
Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.
"I thought I might find Henry here."
"Here! 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; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.
"A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent--indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come--come away! This is no place for a lady--for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Some one 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 are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.
They stand in groups--some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last 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, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is passing. Their looks proclaim it.
Most of them know the young lady by sight--all by fame, or name. They feel surprise--almost wonder--at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!
More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case. Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them--facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak--of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!
But why is Louise Poindexter there--alone--unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it--perhaps he cannot. Her father--can he? Judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful.
Whispers pass from lip to ear--from group to group. There are surmises--many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings--filial as parental--and patiently await the eclaircissement.
"Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you." The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Cassius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.
"But, father!" protests the young lady, "why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?" Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. "It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient."
Yancey's confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience--even to the parental command.
It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.
The two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly following--the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter her chagrin.
Yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his companion. How could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart? Of course he ascribes it to that.
He but half interprets the cause. Were he to look steadfastly into the eye of Louise Poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future.
They ride on through the trees--but not beyond ear-shot of the people they have left behind them.
Suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the Creole--her features lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered her soul.
She stops reflectingly--her escort constrained to do the same.
"Mr Yancey," says she, after a short pause, "my saddle has got loose. I cannot sit comfortably in it. Have the goodness to look to the girths!"
Yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon him.
He examines the girths. In his opinion they do not want tightening. He does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all his strength.
"Stay!" says the fair equestrian, "let me alight. You will get better at it then."
Without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and stands by the side of the mustang.
The young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power of his arms.
After a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds in shortening them by a single hole.
"Now, Miss Poindexter; I think it will do."
"Perhaps it will," rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of her saddle, and giving it a slight shake. "No doubt it will do now. After all 'tis a pity to start back so soon. I've just arrived here after a fast gallop; and my poor Luna has scarce had time to breathe herself. What if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest? 'Tis cruel to take her back without it."
"But your father? He seemed desirous you should--"
"That I should go home at once. That's nothing. 'Twas only to get me out of the way of these rough men--that was all. He won't care; so long as I'm out of sight. 'Tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade of these fine trees--just now that the sun is blazing down upon the prairie. Let us stay a while, and give Luna a rest! We can amuse ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the stream. Look there, Mr Yancey! What pretty creatures they are!"
The young planter begins to feel flattered. Why should his fair companion wish to linger there with him? Why wish to watch the iodons, engaged in their aquatic cotillon--amorous at that time of the year?
He conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations.
His compliance is easily obtained.
"Miss Poindexter," says he, "it is for you to command me. I am but too happy to stay here, as long as you wish it."
"Only till Luna be rested. To say the truth, sir, I had scarce got out of the saddle, as the people came up. See! the poor thing is still panting after our long gallop."
Yancey does not take notice whether the spotted mustang is panting or no. He is but too pleased to comply with the wishes of its rider.
They stay by the side of the stream.
He is a little surprised to perceive that his companion gives but slight heed, either to the silver fish, or the spotted mustang. He would have liked this all the better, had her attentions been transferred to himself.
But they are not. He can arrest neither her eye nor her ear. The former seems straying upon vacancy; the latter eagerly bent to catch every sound that comes from the clearing.
Despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself. He suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted--a trial before Judge Lynch, with a jury of "Regulators."
Excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks. There is an earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination.
Both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a theatre, waiting for her cue.
There are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men; then one longer than the rest--a harangue.
Louise recognises the voice. It is that of her cousin Cassius. It is urgent--at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his audience to something they are not willing to do.
His speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick sharp exclamations--cries of assent--one louder than the rest, of fearful import.
While listening, Yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side.
He is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot, and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the jacale!
Chapter Sixty Three
A JURY OF REGULATORS.
The cry, that had called the young Creole so suddenly from the side of her companion, was the verdict of a jury--in whose rude phrase was also included the pronouncing of the sentence.
The word "hang" was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the spot.
While pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in front of the jacale.
Though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the play was progressing.
About the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits a minute description.
The men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the circumference of a circle.
Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous--among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief, with three or four of his "marshals." Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun. These no longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted.
Such in reality was the nature of the scene. It was a trial for Murder--a trial before Justice Lynch--this grim dignitary being typified in the person of the Regulator Chief--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 raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.
Even their tongues are not free. Phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth. It has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips.
Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place. Two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground. His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter.
Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.
The servant alone has been examined--asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. It is no use putting questions to his master.
Phelim has told his tale--too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it--that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead--is looked upon as the least improbable!
He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused--that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder!
"All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!" say those to whom he has been imparting them. "A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us-- nothing else."
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 the Galwegian, 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 Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.
A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb--good enough for a gallows.
The vote is taken viva voce.
Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die. His hour appears to have come.
And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. The rope is suffered to lie guileless on the grass. No one seems willing to lay hold of it!
Why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous snake, that none dares to touch?
The majority--the plurality, to use a true Western word--has pronounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even blasphemous, speech. Why is it not carried out?
Why? 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."
It is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings.
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 acclamatory verdict.
"Fellow citizens!" cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, "I'm of the opinion, that there's a doubt in this case; and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it--that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. It's no use questioning him now, as ye all see. We have him tight and fast; and there's not much chance of his getting clear--if guilty. Therefore, I move we postpone the trial, till--"
"What's the use of postponing it?" interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. "What's the use, Sam Manly? 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."
"Cyan you give them, Misther Cashius 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. A jury of his own stupid countrymen--"
"Bar that appellashun!" shouts the man, who has demanded the additional evidence. "Just remember, Misther Calhoun, ye're in Texas, and not Mississippi. Bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble, sharp as it is."
"I don't mean to offend any one," says Calhoun, backing out of the dilemma into which his Irish antipathies had led him; "even an Englishman, if there's one here."
"Thare ye're welcome--go on!" cries the mollified Milesian.
"Well, then, as I was saying, there's been evidence enough--and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it."
"Give it--give it!" cry a score of responding voices; that keep up the demand, while Calhoun seems to hesitate.
"Gentlemen!" says he, squaring himself to the crowd, as if for a speech, "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--sure as the head's on my body--"
Calhoun speaks stammeringly, seeing that the phrase, involuntarily escaping from his lips, has produced a strange effect upon his auditory--as it has upon himself.
"If not sure--I--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, resuming his judicial demeanour, for a time forgotten in the confusion of voting the verdict. "Your quarrel with the prisoner, of which I believe everybody has heard, can have nothing to do with your testimony here. Nobody's going to accuse you of false swearing on that account. Please proceed, sir. What did you hear? And where, and when, did you hear it?"
"To begin, then, with the time. It was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn't miss him till the morning. Last Tuesday night."
"Tuesday night. Well?"
"I'd turned in myself; and thought Henry had done the same. But what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn't get any sleep.
"I started up again; lit a cigar; and, after smoking it awhile in the room, I thought of taking a turn upon the top of the house.
"You know the old hacienda has a flat roof, I suppose? Well, I went up there to get cool; and continued to pull away at the weed.
"It must have been then about midnight, or maybe a little earlier. I can't tell: for I'd been tossing about on my bed, and took no note of the time.
"Just as I had smoked to the end of my cigar, and was about to take a second out of my case, I heard voices. There were two of them.
"They were up the river, as I thought on the other side. They were a good way off, in the direction of the town.
"I mightn't have been able to distinguish them, or tell one from 'tother, if they'd been talking in the ordinary way. But they weren't. There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were quarrelling.
"I supposed it was some drunken rowdies, going home from Oberdoffer's tavern, and I should have thought no more about it. But 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 is there--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. So sure was I of its being him, that I didn't think of going to his room, to see if he was there. 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.
"I listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but though I could distinguish the voices, I couldn't make out anything that was said on either side. What I did hear was Henry calling him by some strong names, as if my cousin had been first insulted; and then I heard the Irishman threatening to make him rue it. Each loudly pronounced the other's name; and that convinced me about its being them.
"I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but I was in my slippers; and 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 a spell, 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. His bed that night must have been somewhere upon the prairie, or in the chapparal; and there's the only man who knows where."
With a wave of his hand the speaker triumphantly indicated the accused-- whose wild straining eyes told how unconscious he was of the terrible accusation, or of the vengeful looks with which, from all sides, he was now regarded.
Calhoun's story was told with a circumstantiality, that went far to produce conviction of the prisoner's guilt. The concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamourous 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. The more moderate are overborne by the inundation of vengeful voices.
The crowd sways to and fro--resembling a storm fast increasing to a tempest.
It soon comes to its height. 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. One of those "border ruffians" of Southern descent, ever ready by the stake of the philanthropist, or the martyr--such as have been late typified in the military murderers of Jamaica, who have disgraced the English name to the limits of all time.
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, bristling with bowie-knife and pistols, has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney--one of the ci-devant guards of the prisoner.
The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. Most express a mute approval--some encouraging the executioners with earnest vociferations of "Up with him! Hang him!"
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 sycamore.
"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"
Chapter Sixty Four
A SERIES OF INTERLUDES.
"Soon the soul of Maurice Gerald must go back to its God!"
It was the thought of every actor in that tragedy among the trees. No one doubted that, in another moment, they would see his body hoisted into the air, and swinging from the branch of the sycamore.
There was an interlude, not provided for in the programme. A farce was being performed simultaneously; and, it might be said, on the same stage. For once the tragedy was more attractive, and the comedy was progressing without spectators.
Not the less earnest were the actors in it. There were only two--a man and a mare. Phelim was once more re-enacting the scenes that had caused surprise to Isidora.
Engrossed by the arguments of Calhoun--by the purposes of vengeance which his story was producing--the Regulators only turned their attention to the chief criminal. No one thought of his companion-- whether he was, or was not, an accomplice. His presence was scarce perceived--all eyes being directed with angry intent upon the other.
Still less was it noticed, when the ruffians sprang forward, and commenced adjusting the rope. The Galwegian was then altogether neglected.
There appeared an opportunity of escape, and Phelim was not slow to take advantage of it.
Wriggling himself clear of his fastenings, he crawled off among the legs of the surging crowd.
No one seemed to see, or care about, his movements. Mad with excitement, they were pressing upon each other--the eyes of all turned upward to the gallows tree.
To have seen Phelim skulking off, it might have been supposed, that he was profiting by the chance offered for escape--saving his own life, without thinking of his master.
It is true he could have done nothing, and he knew it. He had exhausted his advocacy; and any further interference on his part would have been an idle effort, or only to aggravate the accusers. It was but slight disloyalty that he should think of saving himself--a mere instinct of self-preservation--to which he seemed yielding, as he stole off among the trees. So one would have conjectured.
But the conjecture would not have done justice to him of Connemara. In his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master-- much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him. He knew he could do nothing of himself. His hope lay in summoning Zeb Stump, and it was to sound that signal--which had proved so effective before--that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and execution.
On getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether.
The other horses standing "hitched" to the twigs, formed a tolerably compact tier all round the edge of the timber. This aided in screening his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of the mare, without being seen by any one.
Just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary to carry out his design. The cactus branch had been dropped where he was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his captors. He could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end.
He had no knife--no weapon of any kind--wherewith he might procure another nopal.
He paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do. Only for an instant. There was no time to be lost. His master's life was in imminent peril, menaced at every moment. No sacrifice would be too great to save him; and with this thought the faithful Phelim rushed towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem.
His fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that, when weighed against the life of his beloved master? With equal recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument of torture!
By this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger's neck, carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure. The other end, leading over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded bullies--whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it. In their eyes and attitudes was an air of deadly determination. They only waited for the word.
Not that any one had the right to pronounce it. And just for this reason was it delayed. No one seemed willing to take the responsibility of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long account. Criminal as they might regard him--murderer as they believed him to be--all shied from doing the sheriff's duty. Even Calhoun instinctively held back.
It was not for the want of will. There was no lack of that on the part of the ex-officer, or among the Regulators. They showed no sign of retreating from the step they had taken. The pause was simply owing to the informality of the proceedings. It was but the lull in the storm that precedes the grand crash.
It was a moment of deep solemnity--every one silent as the tomb. They were in the presence of death, and knew it,--death in its most hideous shape, and darkest guise. Most of them felt that they were abetting it. All believed it to be nigh.
With hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the tree-trunks around them. Surely the crisis had come?
It had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves decreed. Instead of seeing Maurice Gerald jerked into the air, far different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness,--one so ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings.
The old mare--that they knew to be Zeb Stump's--appeared to have gone suddenly mad. She had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might. She had given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly responding to her screams!
Enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacale hut. Not only was the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the condemned captive.
Nor was the change of a comical character. On the contrary, it was accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!
The Regulators rushed to their arms--some towards their horses.
"Indians!" was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din. Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a commotion--threatening to result in a stampede of the troop!
For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances.
Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them--using them by way of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.
There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror.
It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard--the wretched creature that had given them the cue.
Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the Connemara man had stolen off.
Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes. Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master.
A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,--their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare.
But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.
Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design. The Regulators are still in the same temper.
The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary.
Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial.
They return to it with increased vindictiveness--as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations.
Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned--the terrible tableau is reconstructed.
Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:
"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"
Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.
How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,-- flashing out into the open sunlight.
"A woman! a beautiful woman!"
'Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.
Like a meteor she pauses through their midst--glides on without giving a glance on either side--without speech, without halt--till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.
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? Texan 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--mad! 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?--how?--oh true--as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother."
"I will not--cannot believe it. Never--never! There was no motive. O men! if you be 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; "Ne'er a doubt about his being guilty. It's him that's killed your brother, and nobody else. And it don't look well, Miss Poindexter--excuse me for saying it;--but it don't look just the thing, that you should be trying to screen him from his deserving."
"No, that it don't," chime in several voices. "Justice must take its course!" shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.
"It must!--it must!" echoes the chorus. "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! 'Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!"
"No, father, I will not--I shall not--till you have promised--till these men promise--"
"We can't promise you anything, miss--however much we might like it. It ain't a question for women, no how. There's been a crime committed--a murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice. There's no mercy for a murderer!"
"No mercy!" echo a score of angry voices. "Let him be hanged--hanged-- hanged!"
The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Cassius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.
In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,--that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.
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.
"Monsters! murderers!" are the phrases that fall from her lips.
Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. 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!
Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear--heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold of her.
It scarce consoles him--that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!