Chapter Eighty Five
A KIND COUSIN.
Louise Poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father. In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.
It was his third time of asking. Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.
It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple "No," emphatically followed by the equally simple "Never!"
There was no prevarication about the speech--no apology for having made it.
Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly--in all probability--he expected it.
But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.
As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.
There was that in his eye which seemed to say:--
"In less than sixty seconds, you'll change your tune."
What he did say was:--
"You're not in earnest, Loo?"
"I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?"
"You've spoken like one, who hasn't taken pains to reflect."
"Upon what?"
"Many things."
"Name them!"
"Well, for one--the way I love you."
She made no rejoinder.
"A love," he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; "a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end only with my life. It could not end with yours."
There was a pause, but still no reply.
"'Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day--ay, the same hour--I first saw you.
"I won't say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my first visit to your father's house--now six years ago--you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden--while dinner was being got ready.
"You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in beauty--as beautiful as you are at this moment.
"No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yet dissipation, has been able to efface."
The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!
Still did she keep silence.
Calhoun continued:--
"Yes, Loo; it's true as I tell you. I've tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.
"I won't say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I've already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin--ah! you called me handsome cousin, Loo--from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate--ay, so much, that I could have killed you!"
"Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!"
"'Tis serious, nevertheless. I've been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not--as you have reason to know."
"Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think--"
"I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I'll say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.' Those were the words upon your lips.
"I don't say you did," he continued, with deepening despair: "I don't accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it."
"What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius, 'tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. Why not address yourself to them?"
"Why not?" he echoed, with bitter emphasis. "What an idle question!"
"I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid with you, Cassius. I do not--I cannot, love you."
"You will not marry me then?"
"That, at least, is an idle question. I've said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient."
"And I've said I love you. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there are others. Are you desirous of hearing them?"
As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.
"You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward. I'm not afraid to listen."
"Indeed!" he rejoined, sneeringly. "You're not afraid, ain't you?"
"Not that I know of. What have I to fear?"
"I won't say what you have; but what your father has."
"Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his daughter; and now, alas, his only--. Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is this shadow hanging over him?"
"No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he's no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you shouldn't know anything about."
"Oh! don't I? You're mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I'm aware that my father's in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the house--your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics--has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master of me!"
Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.
He held a still stronger in his hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.
"Indeed!" he retorted, sneeringly. "Well; if I'm not master of your heart, I am of your happiness--or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that's driven you to this denial--"
"Who?"
"How innocent you are!"
"Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken."
"Be it so!" he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. "Well; since you think me so worthless, it won't, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I'm going to do with you?"
"Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were your protegee, or slave! I'm neither one, nor the other!"
Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.
"Pardieu!" she continued, "what is this threat? Tell me what you are going to do with me! I should like to know that."
"You shall."
"Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?"
"You would like the last, no doubt--provided your incarceration was to be in the company of--"
"Go on, sir! What is to be my destiny? I'm impatient to have it declared."
"Don't be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow."
"So soon? And where, may I ask?"
"In a court of justice."
"How, sir?"
"By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury."
"You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that I don't like such pleasantries--"
"Pleasantries indeed! I'm stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O'Hogerty, or whatever's his name, will stand before the bar--accused of murdering your brother."
"'Tis false! Maurice Gerald never--"
"Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. It will be; and from your own lips will come the words that'll prove it--to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury."
The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself--a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.
It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.
"I know not what you mean," she at length rejoined. "You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who--I know nothing--can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody."
"Yes can you; a great deal more. It's not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace--not only to his sister, but his family--he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded!
"All the world don't know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting."
"Two--who were they?"
The question was asked mechanically--almost with a tranquil coolness.
It was answered with equal sang froid.
"One was Cassius Calhoun--the other Louise Poindexter." She did not start. She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. "Well!"
"Well!" echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; "I suppose you understand me?"
"Not any more than ever."
"You wish me to speak further?"
"As you please, sir."
"I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there's but one way to save your father from ruin--yourself from shame. You know what I mean?"
"Yes; I know that much."
"You will not refuse me now?"
"Now more than ever!"
"Be it so! Before this time to-morrow--and, by Heaven! I mean it-- before this time to-morrow, you shall stand in the witness-box?"
"Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!"
"You needn't put yourself to the trouble. I'm not going to embarrass you any longer with my company--so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you'll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you'll give notice of it--in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I'll sleep thinking of you."
With these words of mockery upon his lips--almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them--Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.
Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.
Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.
Chapter Eighty Six
A TEXAN COURT.
It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.
Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf, does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.
The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning.
Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.
Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.
This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.
The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the "Bloody Ground;" built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.
Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds--not a few of them traffickers in human flesh!
There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling--adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up--whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.
Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo--the same with an augmentation of numbers.
The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women--the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle--their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle--seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of "carrioles" and "Jerseys."
There is a spectacle--at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.
Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald--known as Maurice the mustanger.
Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.
It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim-- neither much known in the neighbourhood.
The same Court--it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde--has been in session there before--has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men--thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers--with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!
It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.
It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.
All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.
Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest--friends and relatives of the man supposed to have been murdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.
But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances-- independent of each other--have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done--as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.
They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.
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Ten o'clock, and the Court is in session.
There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side--soldiers and citizens--dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the "Oyez!" of the Court crier--grotesquely pronounced "O yes!"--determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: "May God have mercy on your soul!"
There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.
There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!
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The Court is in session.
You have before your mind's eye a large hall, with a raised dais at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.
You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.
You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators--not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.
You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas--as unlike its homonym in England as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of Guardsmen.
There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided to sit under a tree!
And under a tree has it established itself--a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss--standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.
A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches.
Behind these paraphernalia sits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated--the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in his shirt-sleeves!
Instead of a wig, he wears his Panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed Havannah projecting from the other.
The remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling.
There are lawyers among them--attorneys, and counsellors, there called--with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his "deputy"; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.
A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half "squatted" or reclining along the grass.
It is the jury--an "institution" as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge--in England but too freely admitted.
Around the Texan judge and jury--close pressing upon the precincts of the Court--is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats--even under the oppressive heat; frocks of "copperas stripe" and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-blue cottonade; shirts of red flannel or unbleached "domestic"; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.
Here and there is seen a more regular costume--one more native to the country--the jaqueta and calzoneros of the Mexican, with the broad sombrero shading his swarthy face of picaresque expression.
Time was--and that not very long ago--when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.
But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge--Juez de Letras-- was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could put onzas in his pocket.
With all its rude irregularity--despite the absence of effete forms--of white ermine, and black silk--of uniformed alguazils, or bright-buttoned policemen--despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth--even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe--ay far safer--to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.
Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree--however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye--do not mistake them for a mob of your own "masses," brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves--filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism--would that it choked you!--scorning all that is grand and progressive--revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.
I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself a citizen of this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship--that of choosing your parliamentary representative.
You fancy you have this right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.
Ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of Texas.
Nothing of the kind. They are "sovereign citizens"--the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle--almost without protest!
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In most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. The gem is to be found in the centre at Port Inge.
In that now mustered the order is reversed. Outside is the elegance. The fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators.
It is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff's officers in charge of him.
It was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; Miguel Diaz and his associates, as also Phelim O'Neal.
But in the course of a preliminary investigation the Mexican mustanger succeeded in proving an alibi, as did also his trio of companions. All four have been consequently discharged.
They acknowledged having disguised themselves as Indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less.
But they pretended it to have been a joke--a travestie; and as there was proof of the others being at home--and Diaz dead drunk--on the night of Henry Poindexter's disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry.
As to the Connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. If an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock.
Before the bar, then--if we may be permitted the figure of speech--there stands but one prisoner, Maurice Gerald--known to those gazing upon him as Maurice the mustanger.
Chapter Eighty Seven
A FALSE WITNESS.
There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.
It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher.
All admitted him to be a fine young fellow--handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman-- free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed.
But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into "small talk."
In his actions there was observable a certain juste milieu. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.
No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer "trade," as that of catching wild horses--a calling not deemed the most reputable.
It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a "born gentleman"--a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.
There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where "born noblemen," both of France and the "Faderland," may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.
A fig for all patents of nobility--save those stamped by the true die of Nature!
Such is the sentiment of this far free land.
And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him--blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.
And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin--one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!
Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!
Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.
Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.
There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest--a gaze soft, but steadfast--in which fear and fondness seem strangely commingled.
There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of a caleche, is too fair to escape observation.
There are few who can interpret it.
But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed.
For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth.
That woman's face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of the caleche; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end--even though it be death!
The trial begins.
There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.
After half a dozen draws, he takes the "weed" from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says--
"Gentlemen of the jury! We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered,--the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. It is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is yours to decide--after hearing the evidence to be laid before you-- whether or not the accusation be sustained."
The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,--"Guilty, or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.
Cassius Calhoun, and some "rowdies" around him, affect an incredulous sneer.
The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.
The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.
First called is Franz Oberdoffer.
After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the common routine of a Texan trial.
Oberdoffer's evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left his house at a late hour--after midnight. He had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule--everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.
What had he carried off?
Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one--strapped, Mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle.
He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger's belt. Gerald was dressed as he always went--in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.
He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse-- which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his flask with Kirschenwasser; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse--which he did for himself--he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn't think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter's plantation. He had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel--both by day and night--on foot as well as horseback--several times both ways.
Such are the main points of Oberdoffer's evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner.
He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.
Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there--partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.
Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.
He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace--thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.
A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer's evidence is exhausted.
On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald's having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry,--perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naively confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.
But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour--unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?
Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?
Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.
One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.
His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.
After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.
The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise--alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner--here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.
These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son--the defilement of a daughter!
A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age--of sad subdued aspect--whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.
But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained caleche, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.
Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.
Is she there of her own accord--by her own free will?
So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.
There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier's voice, heard pronouncing the name--
"Louise Poindexter!"
Calhoun has kept his word.
Chapter Eighty Eight
AN UNWILLING WITNESS.
Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.
Without flinching--apparently without fear--she faces towards the Court.
All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration--that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!
One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.
It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.
Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention--he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin--as though with her eyes she would kill him.
Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.
"Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?"
The question is put by the State counsellor.
"At home,--in my father's house."
"May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?"
"I did."
"Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?"
"At the hour of midnight--if I rightly remember."
"Were you alone?"
"Not all the time."
"Part of it there was some one with you?"
"There was."
"Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?"
"Certainly not."
"May I ask the name of the individual?"
"There was more than one. My brother was there."
"But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?"
"There was."
"It is his name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it."
"Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald."
The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.
There is one on whom it produces a very different effect--the prisoner at the bar--who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!
"May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?"
"By appointment."
"It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it--in the execution of my duty:--What was the nature--the object I should rather term it--of this appointment?"
The witness hesitates to make answer.
Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies--
"Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved--whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?"
"Not quite," continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; "I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?"
"Quite true."
The answer sends a thrill through the crowd--a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes the motive of the murder!
The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. There is a cry of "Hang--hang him!" and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, "Order in the Court!" cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.
"My brother did not follow him in anger," pursues the witness, without being further questioned. "He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise."
"I have something to say about that," interposes Calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; "they quarrelled afterwards. I heard them, from where I was standing on the top of the house."
"Mr Calhoun!" cries the judge rebukingly; "if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings."
After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.
She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt!
The "chivalry" is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for the bonne fortune of him who has been so daringly endorsed.
Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications.
Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry, "Hang!"--this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.
This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons--and even those of gentle strain in the carriages--seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner--all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain.
She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!
The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said aloud--insinuations against the accused--designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent.
Judge Roberts--the name of him who presides--is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!
And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!
This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word--some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative.
Thanks be to God, the spectators are not all of this mind. A few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.
There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.
Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.
Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.
Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak.
Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment--forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the Court!
The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for a coup de theatre.
It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.
Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.
Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.
"Fellow citizens!" he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, "the law is bound to take its course-- just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn't hang a man without first hearing what he's got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!"
"And hasn't he done murder?" asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. "It's only sarvin' him, as he sarved young Poindexter."
"There is no certainty about that. You've not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we've examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!" continues he, turning to the official; "call the witnesses for the defence."
The crier obeys; and Phelim O'Neal is conducted to the stand.
The story of the ci-devant stable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities--and in many parts altogether improbable--rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.
The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short--having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.
That other is next announced.
"Zebulon Stump!"
Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng--whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.
Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.
The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the "affidavit," Zeb is directed to kiss.
He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.
Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.
The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.
After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unwonted agitation.
The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.
"Wal, Mister Judge!" says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; "I've no objection to tell what I know 'beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I'd preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi' mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him."
"Of what young fellow do you speak?" inquires the judge.
"The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan's 'cused o' killin' young Peintdexter."
"It would be somewhat irregular," rejoins the judge--"After all, our object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven't much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don't object, let it be as you say."
The "twelve," speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and Zeb's request is conceded nemine dissentiente.
Chapter Eighty Nine
THE CONFESSION OF THE ACCUSED.
Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.
Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff's officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.
It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto "chirping" among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation--as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his confession.
"Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!" says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; "you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.
"First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial--which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable--my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.
"Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen."
The speaker's glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.
"It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself--which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.
"It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
"It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.
"But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves."
Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.
"On the contrary," continues he, "the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship--I might say affection--on mine.
"Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation."
"There was a reconciliation, then?" asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. "Where did it take place?"
"About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed."
The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
"You mean the place where some blood was found?" doubtingly interrogates the judge.
"I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated."
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court--expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing--kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death--only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.
This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.
"You are sure he is dead, then?" is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.
"Quite sure," responds the accused. "Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one."
"You saw the body?"
"I must take exception to this course of examination," interposes the counsel for the accused. "It is quite irregular."
"Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn't be allowed," adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney. "The counsel for the prosecution wouldn't be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination."
"That's the law here, too," says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. "Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say."
"I have spoken of a reconciliation," resumes the accused, "and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.
"It has been made known to you how we parted--Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.
"On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wish him to know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night--as may be remembered by many of you--and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.
"The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.
"I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer."
"And the money with which you paid him?" asks the State prosecutor, "where did you get--?"
"I protest against this!" interrupts the counsel for the accused.
"Bedarrah!" exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or rather duelling pistols, at the State counsellor; "if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye'd stand a nate chance of gettin' conthradicted in a different style altogether!"
"Silence, gentlemen!" commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. "Let the accused continue his statement."
"I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it--on the prairie, or under the roof of my jacale. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as I desired.
"I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal-- where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.
"Then I heard the stroke of a horse's hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.
"I had got round the corner--where the trace makes a sharp turn--and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.
"It might be somebody I wouldn't care to encounter?
"That was the reflection I made; though I wasn't much caring who. It was more from habit--by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians--that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.
"He did so shortly after.
"You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don't speak of myself--only him.
"Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?
"Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.
"I was determined there should be no concealment--no cowardly shrinking on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others--not mine--not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!"
Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.
Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.
It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.
She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with the abandon that love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!
If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason--by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!
Chapter Ninety
A COURT QUICKLY CLEARED.
If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.
It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share--more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.
The thing is not so difficult of explanation. We know that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.
It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.
Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart's core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!
If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.
Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.
Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!
The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands "Silence in the Court!" the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.
He continues his recital:--
"On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.
"There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.
"Instead of the angry scene I expected--perhaps had reason to expect--I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me--at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.
"Need I tell you that I took that hand? Or how heartily I pressed it? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.
"It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after--when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.
"Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.
"We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree.
"Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange--the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.
"It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself--from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket--taking his cloth cloak and Panama hat.
"We then parted--he riding away, myself remaining.
"I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation--by me so little looked for and so much desired.
"I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.
"In three seconds I was asleep.
"It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me--after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.
"My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.
"I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.
"I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.
"My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!
"I sprang to my feet, and stood listening.
"But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds-- mysterious, because unexplained--often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.
"Dismissing the thing from my mind, I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.
"This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.
"It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.
"But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears--even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!
"It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.
"Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.
"I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!
"I saw--"
"The Headless Horseman!" exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.
"The Headless Horseman!" respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.
Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?
There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!
"Yonder he goes--yonder! yonder!"
"No, he's coming this way! See! He's making straight for the Fort!"
The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.
Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.
The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.
There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.
Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general debandade, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.
The latter has paused only for an instant--just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild "whigher," he wheels round, and goes off at full speed--followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!
Chapter Ninety One
A CHASE THROUGH A THICKET.
The chase leads straight across the prairie--towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.
Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line--one after another falling off,--as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after--but with a long interval between--is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider's hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal's spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death--as if some desperate necessity required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight--as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
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On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks--now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake--fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.
"Curse the damned thing!" cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. "It's going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hell-hound's coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it-- not three hundred yards behind me.
"Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He's too good a tracker for that.
"By God! but there is a chance!"
At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.
He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the terrain, to see if it will suit.
At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.
Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.
On reflection the scheme is abandoned.
"It won't do!" he mutters. "There's too many of them fellows coming after--some that can track, too? They'd find his carcase, sure,--maybe hear the shot?
"No--no. It won't do!"
He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind--only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above him!
"Yes--he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!"
Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above--were they gifted with the power of speech--could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
"I'll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!" reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. "In any case, I must keep on till it's lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
"What a fool I've been in wasting so much time. If I don't look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!"
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward--fast as the circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt--surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces' distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse's head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.
His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle--with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it is held there, and by the bridle-rein,--that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!
"Caught at last! Thank God--thank God!"
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman--that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!
Chapter Ninety Two
A RELUCTANT RETURN.
Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.
The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.
The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his "cavortings."
After a brief struggle the animal is secured.
The captor utters an exclamation of joy.
It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.
What is this purpose?
It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.
After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.
A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serape; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!
The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.
For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal--by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.
"Stop that game!" cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; "stop it, durn ye!"
"What game?" rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. "What the devil are you talking about? This brute's got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat--so as to make sure of him."
"Ah, thet's what ye're arter. Wal, I reck'n thur's no need to cut the critter's throat. We kin skewer it 'ithout thet sort o' bloody bizness. It air the hoss's throat ye mean, I s'pose?"
"Of course I mean the horse."
"In coorse. As for the man, someb'y's dud thet for him arready--if it be a man. What do you make o' it, Mister Cash Calhoun?"
"Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven't had time to get a good look at it. I've just this minute come up. By heaven!" he continues, feigning a grand surprise, "I believe it's the body of a man; and dead!"
"Thet last air probibble enuf. 'Tain't likely he'd be alive wi' no head on his shoulders. Thar's none under the blanket, is thar?"
"No; I think not. There cannot be?"
"Lift it a leetle, an see."
"I don't like touching it. It's such a cursed queer-looking thing."
"Durn it, ye wan't so partickler a minnit ago. What's kim over ye now?"
"Ah!" stammers Calhoun, "I was excited with chasing it. I'd got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers."
"Never mind then," interposes Zeb,--"I'll make a inspecshun o' it. Ye-es," he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. "Ye-es, it's the body o' a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o' ven'son in a hard frost!"
"Hullo!" he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serape, "it's the body o' the man whose murder's bein' tried--yur own cousin--young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!"
"I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!"
"Geehosophat!" proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, "this air the mysteeriousest thing o' all. Wal; I reck'n thur's no use in our stayin' hyur to spek'late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do 's to take the body back, jest as it's sot in the seddle-- which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck'n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he'll kum along 'ithout much coaxin'. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know'd to him. Thur now! Don't ye see it's a preevious acquaintance o' yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o' late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin' him. 'Tair some time since he's hed a curry to his skin."
While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact--then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.
"I thort so," exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; "the stellyun's boun to lead quietly enuf--so long as he's in kumpny with the maar. 'T all events, 'twon't be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin' away. Now, Mister Calhoun," he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; "don't ye think we'd better start right away? The trial may still be goin' on; an', ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck'n thet we've got a witness hyur, as 'll do somethin' torst illoocidatin' the case--either to the hangin' the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin' him althogither o' the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?"
"Oh, certainly. As you say, there's no reason for our remaining here."
Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.
Calhoun rides slowly--a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.
At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.
His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.
He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.
He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.
Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant's notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb's gesture is sufficient. It plainly says:--"Go back if ye dare!"
The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.
But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind--with which his compagnon du voyage is compelled to put up.
The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.
It approaches the open prairie.
At length the sky line comes in sight.
Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.
Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?
He would give all he owns in the world--all that he ever hopes to own-- even Louise Poindexter herself--to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump--to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!
It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards him as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!
After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?
And after all, there may be nothing to be known?
It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?
Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie--close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter--the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!
Chapter Ninety Three
A BODY BEHEADED.
Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators--abandoned, by one-half of the jury--the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.
There is no adjournment of the Court--only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.
The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.
There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired--strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.
The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.
They are in hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.
There is one among them who could explain the first--though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.
Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.
After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads--as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.
All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!
It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.
No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?
All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back--with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.
An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them--either with or without the wished-for captive.
Is the trial to be further postponed?
The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.
There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.
There are paid claquers in the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!
The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial--as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.
So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.
The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"You were about to tell us what you saw," proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. "Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?"
"A man lying at full length upon the grass."
"Asleep?"
"Yes; in the sleep of death."
"Dead?"
"More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!"
"What! His head cut off?"
"Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face--with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!
"I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.
"As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour--the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.
"I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.
"I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!"
A sensation of horror runs through the auditory--accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.
"Did you know the man?"
"Alas! yes."
"Without seeing his face?"
"It did not need that. The dress told who it was--too truly."
"What dress?"
"The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter."
A groan is again heard--rising above the hum of the excited hearers.
"Proceed, sir!" directs the examining counsel. "State what other circumstances came under your observation."
"On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.
"I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the beheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere--in addition to that made by the knife.
"It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood.
"On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body."
"In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?"
"Most certainly it was. If not instantaneous, in a few minutes--perhaps seconds."
"The head was cut off, you say. Was it quite severed from the body?"
"Quite; though it was lying close up--as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment."
"Was it a clean out--as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?"
"It was."
"What sort of weapon would you say?"
"It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade."
"Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?"
"There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered."
"Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?"
"Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect. I could scarce think it real.
"When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.
"But then there was his scalp untouched--even the hat still upon his head!"
"You changed your mind about its being Indians?"
"I did."
"Who did you then think it might be?"
"At the time I did not think of any one. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy--either here or elsewhere. I have since had my suspicions. I have them now."
"State them."
"I object to the line of examination," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "We don't want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner's suspicions. Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with his very plausible tale?"
"Let him proceed, then," directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.
"State how you yourself acted," pursues the examiner. "What did you do, after making the observations you have described?"
"For some time I scarce knew what to do--I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot--the same I had heard.
"But who could have fired it? Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.
"I thought of some prairie-pirate, who might have intended plunder. But this was equally improbable. My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. That would have been taken. It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!
"I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.
"I never had.
"Besides, why had the head been cut off?
"It was this that filled me with astonishment--with horror.
"Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.
"To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.
"Then I thought of galloping back to the Fort, and getting assistance to carry it to Casa del Corvo.
"But if I left it in the chapparal, the coyotes might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. Already the vultures were above--taking their early flight. They appeared to have espied it.
"Mutilated as was the young man's form, I could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. I thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it--in tears."
Chapter Ninety Four
THE MYSTERY MADE CLEAR.
The accused pauses in his recital. No one offers any observation-- either to interrupt, or hurry him on.
There is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention.
Judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes--many with mouths agape--are attentively turned upon the prisoner.
Amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed.
"My next idea was to cover the body with the cloak--as well as the serape still around the shoulders. By so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards--at least till we could get back to fetch it away.
"I had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself--one that appeared in every way better.
"Instead of returning to the Port alone, I should take the body along with me. I fancied I could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo.
"I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.
"The animal was near by, browsing upon the grass--as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it.
"As the bridle trailed upon the ground, I had no difficulty in catching hold of it. There was more in getting the horse to stand still-- especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground.
"Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle.
"I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.
"Besides, the horse became greatly excited, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.
"After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.
"I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me--one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home--strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.
"Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?
"I made the attempt--first trying to set him on his own horse.
"But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.
"There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.
"I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.
"In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect,--in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.
"To make it thoroughly secure, I cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind.
"A separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about.
"The head still remained to be dealt with. It too must be taken along.
"On lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, I found that this could not be done. It was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it--close as the skin itself.
"Having no fear that they would fall apart, I tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.
"This completed my preparations for the journey.
"I mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me--he was accustomed to do so without leading--I started to ride back to the settlement.
"In less than five minutes after, I was knocked out of my saddle--and my senses at the same time.
"But for that circumstance I should not be standing here,--at all events, not in the unpleasant position I now hold."
"Knocked out of your saddle!" exclaims the judge. "How was that?"
"A simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. On mounting the strange horse I neglected to take hold of the bridle. Accustomed to guide my own--often with only my voice and knees--I had grown regardless of the reins. I did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed.
"The horse I was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where I had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.
"I need not say something; for I knew what it was. He had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man.
"I clutched at the bridle; but, before I could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed.
"At first I was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. I supposed I should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand.
"But I soon found this could not be so easily done. They had strayed forward, almost to the animal's ears; and I could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck.
"While endeavouring to secure the bridle, I took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. It was only when I felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that I discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal.
"After that I had no time to make observations--no chance even to look after the lost reins. I was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle.
"I managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches.
"But there was one I could not avoid--the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. It was low down--on a level with my breast-- and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it.
"Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that--I believe, better than I. I can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which I knew anything about till two hours afterwards.
"When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.
"The sight of them, as well as my thirst--that was beginning to grow painful--prompted me to move away from the place.
"On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.
"To stay on that spot was to perish--at least I so thought at the time.
"Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.
"I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling,--partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket--I succeeded in reaching it.
"Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.
"I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotes.
"There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear--knowing their cowardly nature--I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.
"They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.
"After a time they did so--clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.
"I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.
"With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.
"For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.
"I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God."
On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.
Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.
"It showed itself," he continues, "in the shape of an old comrade--one ofttimes more faithful than man himself--my staghound, Tara.
"The dog had been straying--perhaps in search of me--though I've since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.
"The coyotes scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate--I may say, out of the jaws of death.
"I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness--whichever it may have been.
"On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacale; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.
"The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message--the staghound to be its bearer.
"I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.
"I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.
"There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.
"Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara's neck.
"With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.
"It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.
"Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep-- again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy--one more terrible than I had yet encountered.
"It was a jaguar.
"A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it--with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.
"All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams-- painful phantasmagoria--mingled with pleasant visions--ah! some that were celestial--until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison--with a charge of murder hanging over my head!
"Gentlemen of the jury! I have done."
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"Si non vero e ben trovato," is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.
They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it-- one and all of them.
And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple--too circumstantial--to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.
It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.
His confession--irregular as it may have been--has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.
Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.
Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?
Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter--with or without Cassius Calhoun--with or without the Headless Horse, man--now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.
It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability--much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west--denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the "Staked Plain," from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.
They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks--or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance--unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyote; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!
But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate--that section of it close to the Sierra Madro--and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.
Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.
Their impatience may be traced to a different cause--a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.
It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground--every woman as well--chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.
Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line--where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.
Chapter Ninety Five
THE LAST WITNESS.
The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.
The latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation--when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. Then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view.
Thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. Its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone.
This time the tale is true. There are shadows upon the skyline--shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion.
A wild shout--the old Saxon "huzza," swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree!
Two of them are easily recognised, as Zeb Stump and Cassius Calhoun. The third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken.
The first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant--when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings.
Though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe.
The shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence--unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud.
Many go forward to meet the approaching cortege; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground.
The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.
Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.
Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. In the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.
Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree--into the presence of the Court.
"Now, judge!" says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, "an' you twelve o' the jury! hyur's a witness as air likely to let a glimp o' daylight into yur dulliberashuns. What say ye to examinin' him?"
An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, "O God, it is he!" A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. It is his father!
A cry proceeds from a more distant point--a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. It is his sister!
After a time, Woodley Poindexter is led away--unresisting,--apparently unconscious of what is going on around him.
He is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant--his daughter.
But the carriage keeps its place. She who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the Court has declared its sentence--ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end!
Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the "witness-box."
By order of the judge, the examination proceeds--under direction of the counsel for the accused.
Many formalities are dispensed with. The old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases--as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law!
After the following fashion does Zeb proceed:--
"Fust heerd o' this ugly bizness on the second day arter young Peint war missin'. Heerd on it as I war reeturnin' from a huntin' spell down the river. Heerd thar wur a suspeeshun 'beout the mowstanger hevin' kermitted the murder. Knowd he wan't the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. He wan't at home, though his man Pheelum war; so skeeart 'beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o' anythin'.
"Wal, whiles we war palaverin', in kim the dog, wi' somethin' tied roun' his neck--the which, on bein' 'zamined, proved to be the mowstanger's curd. Thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which I seed to be blood.
"Them words tolt to whosomedever shed read 'em, whar the young fellur war to be foun'.
"I went thar, takin' the other two--thet air Pheelum an the houn'--along wi' me.
"We got to the groun' jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin' his guts clawed out by one o' them ere spotted painters--the Mexikins call tigers--tho' I've heern the young fellur hisself gie 'em the name o' Jug-wars.
"I put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o' it.
"Wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. We hed to toat him thar on a sort o' streetcher; seein' as he wan't able to make trades o' hisself. Beside, he wur as much out o' his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin' time.
"We got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun' him."
The witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacale. Would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? He resolves to be reticent.
This does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him.
It results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred--up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house.
"Now," says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, "since ye've made me tell all I know 'beout thet part o' the bizness, thur's somethin' ye haint thought o' askin', an the which this child's boun' to make a clean breast o'."
"Proceed, Mr Stump!" says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.
"Wal, what I'm goin' to say now haint so much to do wi' the prisoner at the bar, as wi' a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin' in his place. I won't say who thet man air. I'll tell ye what I know, an hev foun' out, an then you o' the jury may reckon it up for yurselves."
The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath--as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.
No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.
"Wal, fellur citizens!" continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, "arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under--struck down in his tracks--wiped out o' the world.
"I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan't, an kedn't be, the mowstanger--Maurice Gerald.
"Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it's done the rest o' ye--them as haint made up thur minds 'ithout reflekshun.
"Wal; thinkin' as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain't goin' to say thet appearances wan't agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.
"For all thet, I wan't goin' to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.
"I knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin' to the place, an hoss tracks goin' from it; an damn 'em! thur wur too many o' 'em, goin' everywhur-- else the thing mout a been eezy enough.
"But thar wur one partickler set I'd got a down upon; an them I detarmined to foller up to the eend o' creashun.
"They war the footmarks o' an Amerikin hoss, hevin' three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi' a bit broken off the eend o' it. This hyur's the eyedentikul piece o' iron!"
The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.
He holds it on high--enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is.
"Now, Mr Judge," he continues, "an' you o' the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. He went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o' it. He went right upon the track o' both, an stopped short o' the place whur the crime wur committed.
"But the man that rud him didn't stop short. He kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. It war the third hoss--him wi' the broken shoe--thet carried the murderer!"
"Go on, Mr Stump!" directs the judge. "Explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement."
"What I mean, judge, air jest this. The man I'm speakin' o' tuk stan' in the thicket, from which stan' he fired the shet thet killed poor young Peintdexter."
"What man? Who was it? His name! Give his name!" simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.
"I reckon yu'll find it thar."
"Where?"
"Whar! In thet thur body as sits 'ithout a head, lookin' dumbly down on ye!
"Ye kin all see," continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, "ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o' the striped blanket. Thur's a hole in the centre o' it. Ahint that hole I reck'n thur'll be another, in the young fellur's karkidge. Thar don't appear any to match it at the back. Thurfor I konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o' him. S'posin' we strip off his duds, an see!"
There is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. Two or three of the spectators--Sam Manly one of them--step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serape.
As at the inauguration of a statue--whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration--the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the Texan tree, while the serape is being raised from the shoulders of the Headless Horseman.
It is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. These are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage.
It is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue cottonade--box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat.
The limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. But only the thighs can be seen--the lower extremities being concealed by the "water-guards" of spotted skin tightly stretched over them.
Around the waist--twice twined around it--is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse's hair. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. It is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing--surcingle fashion--under the belly of the horse.
Everything as the accused has stated--all except the head.
Where is this?
The spectators do not stay to inquire. Guided by the speech of Zeb Stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it.
Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.
It is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. These have saturated the soft cottonade--now seemingly desiccated.
The other shot-hole shows no similar signs. It is a clear round cut in the cloth--about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. There is no blood stain around it.
"It," says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, "it signifies nothin'. It's the bullet I fired myself out o' the gully; the same I've ben tellin' ye o'. Ye obsarve thar's no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. The other air different. It wur the shot as settled him; an ef I ain't dog-gonedly mistaken, ye'll find the bit o' lead still inside o' the corp. Suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!"
The proposal meets with no opposition. On the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as Zeb has suggested.
The stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle.
It feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking,--the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. The lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy!
With respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it--Sam Manly acting as the chief.
Directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound--that with the circle of extravasated blood.
The dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath.
In the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. Something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe--the point of a bowie-knife. It has the feel of a leaden bullet. It is one!
It is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury.
Despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel-- despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib-- there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.
Oh! those tell-tale initials! There are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. Some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet--when the killing of the jaguar was contested!
He who made that boast has now reason to regret it!
"But where is he?"
The question is beginning to be asked.
"What's your explanation, Mr Stump?" is another question put by the counsel for the accused.
"Don't need much, I reck'n," is the reply. "He'd be a durnationed greenhorn as can't see, clur as the light o' day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet."
"By whom fired, do you think?"
"Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar's no chance o' mistakin' who it kums from. Thar's only the ineeshuls thur; but they're plain enuf, I reck'n, an speak for theirselves."
"I see nothing in all this," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "There's a marked bullet, it is true--with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his--as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn't be the first time that a murder has been committed--by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning--a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?"
"Besides," continues the specious pleader, "where is the motive for a murder such as this would be--supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don't suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime."
"Ain't thar though?" asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer's speech. "What do ye call this?"
Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper--crumpled--scorched along the edges--and blackened as with gunpowder.
"This I foun'," says he, surrendering it to the jury, "stuck fast on the thorn o' a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o' the barrel o' a gun. It kim out o' the same gun as discharged thet bullet--to which it hed served for waddin'. As this chile takes it, it's bin the backin' o' a letter. Thur's a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi' the ineeshuls on the bit o' lead. The jury kin read the name for tharselves."
The foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud:--
Captain Cassius Calhoun!
Chapter Ninety Six
STOLE AWAY!
The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.
It is accompanied by a cry--sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.
It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.
Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.
Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.
After a short time spent in examining the envelope--passed from hand to hand among the jurymen--the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.
He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions--those that originally prompted him to seek for "sign" upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught--giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.
This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.
But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.
They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped--themselves along with it; and--swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit--revenge, proceeding from self-reproach--they call loudly for a change in the programme.
The Court is assailed with the cries:--
"Let the Irishman go--he is innocent! We don't want any farther evidence. We're convinced of it. Let him go free!"
Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.
It is followed by other speeches equally earnest:--
"Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It's he that's done the deed! That's why he's shown so bitter against the other! If he's innocent, he'll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we're waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man's been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!"
The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.
The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.
The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.
There is only one pair that looks in the right direction--those of Zeb Stump.
The ci-devant witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare--still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.
With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare's back, and spurs her from under the tree.
At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.
Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate--making for a particular quarter of the cavallada.
"'Tis he! 'Tis Calhoun!" cries the voice of one who has recognised him.
"Trying to steal off!" proclaims another.
"Follow him!" shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. "Follow, and bring him back!"
There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed--by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.
Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his--a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.
It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.
From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal--the "hue and cry."
Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal's back.
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie--going off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track--their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.
"Bring him back--dead or alive!" was the solemn phrase,--supposed to have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this--coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.
Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative--a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer's bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger's pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace--at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following--within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries--one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket--with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit--Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.
What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?
Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?
Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.
There is a still farther beyond--a border. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.
There are, indeed, two borders. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice--often does--by an adroit migration from one to the other--a mere change of residence and nationality.
But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.
Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the other border--that beyond which roams the savage Comanche--the Ishmaelite of the prairies--whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man's blood!
In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality--perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!
It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the Llano Estacado.
He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.
He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him--the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation--more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved--perhaps never to be seen again!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But he has no time to think even of her. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind--fast travelling upon his tracks!
The murderer makes haste--all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang--swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.
Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles--most of them going at a gallop.
But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race--tough as terriers--it will go fifty--if need be a hundred--without staggering in its tracks.
What a stroke of good fortune--that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.
He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.
He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.
Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.
Who, then, can come up with him?
He congratulates himself on the chance that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!
And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?
Chapter Ninety Seven
THE CHASE OF THE ASSASSIN.
Will God permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?
These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.
They are answered by an instinct of justice--the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.
The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen--soldiers and civilians--spring forward in the pursuit.
The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.
The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.
The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider--as all know--his own.
At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad "whigher!"
Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. A single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.
He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders.
After a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off.
The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where he so late stood a too willing witness!
And the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is the instrument chosen to carry out the Divine decree!
Even the rude Regulators--with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of Divine interference--cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice.
One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.
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After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view.
There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a caleche--her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.
It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer--tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: "God have mercy on the guilty man!"
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Delayed a little at mounting--and more in procuring the lazo--Maurice Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. On clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead-- a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.
He thinks nothing of this. Confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear.
And the blood-bay answers his expectations. As if joyed at being relieved from his inert load--to him an incubus inexplicable--and inspired by the pressure of his master's knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf--in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.
He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the "field."
Still on, over the rolling ridges--across the stream-beds between--on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him--as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider.
There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view--a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds--an old mustang mare.
Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs--the keen blade of a bowie-knife.
It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion.
Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. Nor does Zeb expect it. He but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful.
There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. He beholds him with "beard upon the shoulder." It is he who is pursued.
Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger--the man he would have devoted--was so near devoting--to the most disgraceful of deaths!
He sees this man coming after--his own conscience tells him--as an avenger!
Is it the hand of God that directs this enemy on his track? He trembles as he asks himself the question. From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!
A cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive. He feels as if he were fighting against Fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest!
He sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no longer believing that speed can avail him!
His flight is now merely mechanical--his mind taking no part in the performance.
His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death--not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.
The sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he struggles on towards it.
An opening presents itself. He enters it; and continues his gallop for a half mile further.
He arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy timber. Beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight of his pursuer.
He knows the place, but too well. It has been fatal to him before. Is it to prove so again?
It is. He feels that it is, and rides irresolutely. He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!
He is too late for turning the corner,--too late to seek concealment in the thicket,--and with a cry he reins up.
It is a cry partly of despair, partly of fierce defiance--like the scream of a chased jaguar under bay of the bloodhounds.
It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver.
But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a hishing sound--as from the winding of a sling--and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!
Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke. It is darting straight towards him!
He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot--no time even to avoid the lazo's loop. Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, "Surrender, you assassin!" he sees the red stallion turn tail towards him; and, in the next instant, experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!
Beyond this he feels, hears, and sees nothing more.
He has been jerked out of his saddle; and the shock received in his collision with the hard turf has knocked the breath out of his body, as well as the sense out of his soul!
Chapter Ninety Eight
NOT DEAD YET.
The assassin lies stretched along the earth--his arms embraced by the raw-hide rope--to all appearance dead.
But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint--it may be a feint--and to make sure it is not the latter, he remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain.
The blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a tree--ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest sign.
It is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of Tamaulipas and Texas.
Oft--too oft--has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene-- with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak!
Even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report of the pistol, are hovering in the air--their naked necks elongated in eager anticipation of a feast!
One touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would give them what they want.
"It would serve the scoundrel right," mutters the mustanger to himself. "Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head! There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell,--or himself, if he be still alive.
"I have my own thoughts about it. I know that he loves her; and it may be that the brother stood in his way.
"But how, and why? That is the question that requires an answer. Perhaps it can only be answered by God and himself?"
"Yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur," interposes a voice breaking in on the soliloquy. "Thur's one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as well as eyther o' them ye've made mention o'; and thet individooal air ole Zeb Stump, at your sarvice. But 'taint the time to talk o' sech things now; not hyur ain't the place neythur. We must take him back unner the live oak, whar he'll git treated accordin' to his desarvins. Durn his ugly picter! It would sarve him right to make it uglier by draggin' him a spell at the eend o' yur trail-rope.
"Never mind beout that. We needn't volunteer to be Henry Peintdexter's 'vengers. From what they know now, I reck'n that kin be trusted to the Regulators."
"How are we to get him back? His horse has galloped away!"
"No difeequilty beout that, Mister Gerald. He's only fainted a bit; or maybe, playin' possum. In eyther case, I'll soon roust him. If he ain't able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur's the critter as 'll carry him. I'm sick o' the seddle myself, an I reck'n the ole gal's a leetle bit sick o' me--leestwise o' the spur I've been a prickin' into her. I've made up my mind to go back on Shanks's maar, an as for Mister Cash Calhoun, he's welkim to hev my seat for the reeturn jerney. Ef he don't stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack him acrost the crupper, like a side o' dead buck-meat. Yo-ho! he begins to show sign! He'll soon rekiver his senses--all seven o' 'em, I reck'n--an then he kin mount the maar o' hisself.
"Yee-up, ole hoss!" continues Zeb, grasping Calhoun by the collar of his coat, and giving him a vigorous shake. "Yee-up, I say; an kum along wi' us! Ye're wanted. Thar's somebody desirin' to have a talk wi' you!"
"Who? where?" inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and staring unsteadily around him. "Who wants me?"
"Wal; I do for one; an--"
"Ah! you it is, Zeb Stump! and--and--?"
"An' that air's Mister Maurice Gerald the mowstanger. You've seed him afore, I reck'n? He wants ye for two. Beside, thar's a good grist o' others as ud like to see ye agin--back thar by the Port. So ye'd best get upon yur legs, an' go along wi' us."
The wretched man rises to his feet. In so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo.
"My horse?" he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. "Where is my horse?"
"Ole Nick only knows whar he air by this time. Like enuf gone back to the Grand, whar he kim from. Arter the gallupin ye've gi'n him, I reck'n he air sick o' the swop; an's goed off to take a spell o' rest on his native pasters."
Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment. The swop! Even this, too, is known to him!
"Now, then," pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience. "'Twon't do to keep the Court a-waitin'. Are ye riddy?"
"Ready for what?"
"Fust an foremost, to go back along wi' me an Mister Gerald. Second an second-most, to stan' yur trial."
"Trial! I stand trial!"
"You, Mister Cash Calhoun."
"On what charge?"
"The churge o' killin' Henry Peintdexter--yur own cousin."
"It's a lie! A damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it--!"
"Shet up yur head!" cries Zeb, with an authoritative gesture. "Ye're only wastin' breath. Ef this chile ain't mistook about it, ye'll need all ye've got afore long. Kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi' us! The judge air awaitin'; the jury air awaitin'; an justice air waitin', too--in the shape o' three score Reg'lators."
"I'm not going back," doggedly responds Calhoun. "By what authority do you command me? You have no warrant?"
"Hain't I, though?" interrupts Zeb. "What d'ye call this?" he adds, pointing to his rifle. "Thur's my warrant, by the grace o' God; an by thet same, this chile air a goin' to execute it. So no more o' yur durned palaver: for I ain't the sort to stan' it. Take yur choice, Mister Cash Calhoun. Mount thet old maar o' mine, an kum along quickly; or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o' merchandice: for back yur boun' to go--I swar it by the Eturnal!"
Calhoun makes no reply. He glances at Stump--at Gerald--despairingly around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the breast-pocket of his coat--the counterpart of that shaken out of his hand, as the rope settled around him.
He makes an effort to reach the pistol--feeble, because only half resolved.
He is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of Zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level.
"Quick!" exclaims the hunter. "Mount, Mister Calhoun! Thur's the maar awaitin' for ye. Inter the seddle, I say!"
Like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman. He does so, from a consciousness that there is death--certain death--in disobeying them.
Mechanically he mounts the mare; and, without resistance, suffers her to be led away from the spot.
Zeb, afoot, strides on in advance.
The mare, at bridle-length, follows upon his tracks.
The mustanger rides reflectingly behind; thinking less of him held at the end of his lazo, than of her, who by a generous self-sacrifice, has that day riveted around his heart a golden chain--only by death to be undone!
Chapter Ninety Nine
ATTEMPTED MURDER AND SUICIDE.
After its second involuntary recess--less prolonged than the first--the Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.
It is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the space canopied by the tree.
From the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed to a lurid red--as if there was anger in the sky!
It is but an accident of the atmosphere--the portent of an approaching storm.
For all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances.
It would seem as if Heaven's wrath was acting in concert with the passions of Earth!
Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. He has been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses.
In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar!
This is the only change observable.
The judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before; though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the accused.
His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered.
It has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt. The evidence is already before them; and though entirely circumstantial--as in most cases of murder--the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive and complete.
There is but one missing link--if link it may be called--the motive.
The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body. The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that Henry Poindexter's death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after his receiving the shot.
Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?
No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. No one expects him to do so--save to his Maker.
Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.
The trial has come to a close; the verdict Guilty has been given; and the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black cap--that dread emblem of death--preparatory to pronouncing the sentence.
In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for sentence.
He starts at the invitation--falling, as it does, like a death-knell upon his ear.
He looks wildly around. Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.
There is not even pity. All appear to frown upon him.
His confederates--those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him-- are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. They have shrunk out of sight--before the majesty of the law, and the damning evidence of his guilt.
Despite his social standing--and the wealth to sustain it--he sees himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin in Texas!
His demeanour is completely changed. In place of that high haughty air--oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism--he looks cowed and craven.
And not strange that he should.
He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin--on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to contemplate.
To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.
All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes--sunken as they are in the midst of two livid circles. He has the air of one on the eve of making confession.
Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? Is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it?
The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him.
There is silence even among the cicadas.
It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?
"Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?"
"No!" he replies, "I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it."
Not during all the day--despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises--have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
"It is quite true," continues he, "that I killed Henry Poindexter--shot him dead in the chapparal."
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it--proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man-- once more in their midst.
Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.
"I know that I've got to die," proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. "You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.
"After what I've confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don't. I've been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I'm not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I've told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none."
A new "sensation" makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.
No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.
"You wonder at that. It's easily explained. I killed him by mistake!"
The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.
"Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn't know myself till long after."
The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him--still solemnly austere.
"I don't deny," continues he; "I needn't--that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I see standing before me."
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.
"Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I'm not going to say what they were. It's no use now.
"I thought I had killed him; but, as hell's luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.
"You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot--meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head."
The "sensation" again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts--the latter prolonged into cries of retribution--mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
"Now!" cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, "you know all that's passed; but not what's to come. There's another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don't go into it, till I've sent him to his. I don't, by God!"
There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech--the last of Calhoun's life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.
The spectators have just time to see the pistol--as it glints under the slanting sunbeams--when two shots are heard in quick succession.
With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!
One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger,--the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.
JOY.
Joy!
There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.
Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the subdued happiness that succeeded? Not I. Not you, if you speak truly.
The passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly Puritan standard. Still is it according to the dictates of Nature-- universal and irresistible--telling us that father, mother, sister, and brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only exceeded--sometimes scarce equalled--by the love of self.
Do not reproach the young Creole, because this passion was paramount in her soul. Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. Nor, that her happiness was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her lover's life had been preserved--as it might seem miraculously.
The aim of the assassin had been true enough. He must have felt sure of it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the bullet that had lodged in his brain. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a gage d'amour--the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place--turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet!
Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing too close to the spot.
Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.
The stunning shock--with the mental and corporeal excitement--long sustained--did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.
But no longer lay his body in danger--in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures,--in a hut, where he was but ill attended--in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.
When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman--the loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like--by name Louise Poindexter.
There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own father. The spirit of the aristocratic planter--steeped in sorrow, and humiliated by misfortune--had become purged of its false pride; though it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance, which, instead of a "nobody," gave him a nobleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald--erst known as Maurice the mustanger!
In Texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care to carry it. But, by a bit of good fortune--not always attendant on an Irish baronetcy--it carried along with it an endowment--ample enough to clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Cassius Calhoun, and claimed by his nearest of kin.
This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun's death, it was discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict; and there was a young scion of his stock--living in New Orleans--who had the legal right to say he was his son!
It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement, became the husband of the fair Creole.
After a visit to his native land--including the European tour--which was also that of his honeymoon--Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations, once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.
The "blue-eyed colleen" of Castle Ballagh must have been a myth--having existence only in the erratic fancy of Phelim. Or it may have been the bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming--by absence, oft fatal to such tender plants of passion?
Whether or no, Louise Poindexter--Lady Gerald she must now be called-- during her sojourn in the Emerald Isle saw nothing to excite her to jealousy.
Only once again did this fell passion take possession of her spirit; and then only in the shape of a shadow soon to pass away.
It was one day when her husband came home to the hacienda--bearing in his arms the body of a beautiful woman!
Not yet dead; though the blood streaming from a wound in her bared bosom showed she had not long to live.
To the question, "Who has done this?" she was only able to answer, "Diaz--Diaz!"
It was the last utterance of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos!
As the spirit of the unhappy senorita passed into eternity, along with it went all rancour from that of her more fortunate rival. There can be no jealousy of the dead. That of Lady Gerald was at rest, and for ever.
It was succeeded by a strong sympathy for the ill-fated Isidora; whose story she now better comprehended. She even assisted her lord in the saddling of his red-bay steed, and encouraged him in the pursuit of the assassin.
She joyed to see the latter led back at the end of a lazo--held in the hand of her husband; and refused to interfere, when a band of Regulators, called hastily together, dealt out summary chastisement--by hanging him to a tree!
It was not cruelty--only a crude kind of justice:--"an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth."
And what a poor compensation it seemed, to those who had taken part in exacting it!
As they stood gazing upon the remains of the villain, and his victim-- the swarth ruffian dangling from the branch above, and the fair form lying underneath--the hearts of the Texans were touched--as perhaps they had never been before.
There was a strange thought passing through their minds; a sadness independent of that caused by the spectacle of a murder. It was regret at having so hastily despatched the assassin!
Beautiful, even in death, was Isidora. Such features as she possessed, owe not everything to the light of life. That voluptuous shape--the true form divine--may be admired in the cold statue.
Men stood gazing upon her dead body--long gazing--loth to go away--at length going with thoughts not altogether sacred!
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In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the moral, it is oft the restorer. Nowhere has it effected greater changes than in Texas--during the last decade--and especially in the settlements of the Nueces and Leona.
Plantations have sprung up, where late the chapparal thickly covered the earth; and cities stand, where the wild steed once roamed over a pathless prairie.
There are new names for men, places, and things.
For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient hacienda--still known as Casa del Corvo.
Once there, you would become the recipient of a hospitality, unequalled in European lands.
You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for your hostess one of its most beautiful women--both still this side of middle life.
Residing under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of aristocratic air and venerable aspect--withal chatty and cheerful--who would conduct you around the corrales, show you the stock, and never tire of talking about the hundreds--ay thousands--of horses and horned cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.
You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more especially of his beautiful daughter--the mistress of the mansion--and the half-dozen pretty prattlers who cling to his skirts, and call him their "dear grandpa."
Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other individuals attached to the establishment.
One is the groom of the "stole,"--by name Phelim O'Neal--who has full charge of the horses. The other a coachman of sable skin, yclept Pluto Poindexter; who would scorn to look at a horse except when perched upon the "box," and after having the "ribbons" deftly delivered into his hands.
Since we last saw him, the gay Pluto has become tamed down to a staid and sober Benedict--black though he be.
Florinda--now the better half of his life--has effected the transformation.
There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot fail to become acquainted. You will hear it mentioned, almost every time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of a rifle that rarely misses its aim.
During the course of the meal--but much more over the wine--you will hear talk of "Zeb Stump the hunter."
You may not often see him. He will be gone from the hacienda, before you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired. But the huge gobbler seen in the "smoke-house," and the haunch of venison hanging by its side, are evidence he has been there.
While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story connected with the place--now almost reduced to a legend.
The domestics will tell it you, but only in whispers: since they know that it is a theme tabooed by the master and mistress of the mansion, in whom it excites sad souvenirs.
It is the story of the Headless Horseman.