Майн Рид
Headless Horseman
Chapter Sixty. A Fair Informer
If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacalé. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!
She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress — fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.
It is not this that has caused her to pull up. There is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. It is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.
All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken — all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!
She has paused at the prompting of a demon — with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind. Her muttered speeches proclaim it. “I should have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly strife?”
“If I killed her, what would it avail? It could not win me back his heart — lost, lost, without hope! Yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place! Oh! there is no hope for me!
“’Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. If I kill him? Ah, then; what would life be to me? Prom that hour an endless anguish!
“Oh! it is anguish now! I cannot endure it. I can think of no solace — if not in revenge. Not only she, he also — both must die!
“But not yet — not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. Mother of God, strengthen me to take vengeance!”
She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine.
On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop — even for the animal to breathe itself — but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined. Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed — only the spur to urge him on.
Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?
His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things — even of the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.
She sees a caballada out upon the open prairie!
Indians? No. White men — less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the “stoor” of the parched plain.
“Los Tejanos!” is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality.
“A troop of their rangers scouring the country for Comanches, I suppose? The Indians are not here? If I’ve heard aright at the Settlement, they should be far on the other side.”
Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no desire to encounter “Los Tejanos.” They are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.
It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.
She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider.
It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken — especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her.
At first she is so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.
Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.
“Rangers — no! Too well dressed for those ragged vagabundos? Must be the party of ‘searchers,’ of which I’ve heard — led by the father of — Yes — yes it is they. Ay Dios! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!”
Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near.
She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.
In another minute she is in their midst — the mounted circle close drawn around her.
There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired — uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.
Though it is an entourage to cause trembling — especially in a woman — Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her.
But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man — of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!
“Can you speak French, mademoiselle?” asks Woodley Poindexter, addressing her in this tongue — in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. “Speak better Inglees — very little, sir.”
“Oh! English. So much the better for us. Tell me, miss; have you seen anybody out here — that is — have you met any one, riding about, or camped, or halted anywhere?”
Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.
The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the circumstances admit.
“May I ask where you live?”
“On the Rio Grande, señor?”
“Have you come direct from there?”
“No; from the Leona.”
“From the Leona!”
“It’s the niece of old Martinez,” interposes one of the party. “His plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter.”
“Si — yes — true that. Sobrina — niece of Don Silvio Martinez. Yo soy.”
“Then you’ve come from his place, direct? Pardon me for appearing rude. I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle curiosity, or impertinence. We have serious reasons — more than serious: they are solemn.”
“From the Hacienda Martinez direct,” answers Isidora, without appearing to notice the last remark. “Two hours ago — un pocito mas — my uncle’s house I leave.”
“Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a — murder — committed?”
“Si, señor. Yesterday at uncle Silvio’s it was told.”
“But to-day — when you left — was there any fresh news in the Settlement? We’ve had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. Have you heard anything, miss?”
“That people were gone after the asesinado. Your party, señor?”
“Yes — yes — it meant us, no doubt. You heard nothing more?”
“Oh, yes; something very strange, señores; so strange, you may think I am jesting.”
“What is it?” inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.
“There is a story of one being seen without a head — on horseback — out here too. Valga me Dios! we must now be near the place? It was by the Nueces — not far from the ford — where the road crosses for the Rio Grande. So the vaqueros said.”
“Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?”
“Si, señores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the spectacle.”
Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a strange story causes among the “Tejanos.” There is an exhibition of interest, but no astonishment. A voice explains:
“We’ve seen it too — that headless horseman — at a distance. Did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?”
“Santissima! no.”
“Can you tell us, miss?”
“I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I’ve said. What it may be, quien sabe?”
There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard.
The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory.
“Have you met, or seen, any one, miss — out here, I mean?”
“Si — yes — I have.”
“You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe — ”
“A lady.”
“Lady!” echo several voices.
“Si, señores.”
“What sort of a lady?”
“Una Americana.”
“An American lady! — out here? Alone?”
“Si, señores.”
“Who?”
“Quien sabe?”
“You don’t know her? What was she like?”
“Like? — like?”
“Yes; how was she dressed?”
“Vestido de caballo.”
“On horseback, then?”
“On horseback.”
“Where did you meet the lady you speak of?”
“Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal.”
“Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?”
“A jacalé. I only know of that.”
Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: “A jacalé?”
“They give that name to their shanties.”
“To whom does it belong — this jacalé?”
“Don Mauricio, el musteñero.”
“Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter.
A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching — fruitless, as earnest — they have struck a trail, — the trail of the murderer!
Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.
“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez — if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”
“It takes me a little out of my way — though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”
Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal — followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.
She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.
“Yonder!” says she, pointing over the plain; “you see that black spot on the horizon? It is the top of an alhuehuete. Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo. Go there! There is a cañon leading down the cliff. Descend. You will find, a little beyond, the jacalé of which I’ve told you.”
The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.
One of the party alone lingers — not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora. He is one who knows Isidora’s language, as well as his own native tongue.
“Tell me, niña,” says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude — almost of entreaty — “Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?”
“Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero! Who could help noticing it?”
“The colour?” gasps the inquirer.
“Un musteño pintojo.”
“A spotted mustang! Holy Heaven!” exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers — leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!
Chapter Sixty One. Angels on Earth
The retreat of her rival — quick and unexpected — held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision — bewildered by what she saw.
But the moment before she had looked into the jacalé — had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.
What was she to think of that sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?
In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.
At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.
“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catré. “Maurice — wounded — dying! Who has done this?”
There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.
“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it — O say it again!”
“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so — to the eyes — to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are — there are. I know one — ah! more — but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! I mean in beauty — in goodness, that’s another thing. I’m not thinking of goodness — no; no.”
“Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus? You are not in heaven; you are here with me — with Louise.”
“I am in heaven; yes, in heaven! I don’t wish it, for all they say; that is, unless I can have her with me. It may be a pleasant place. Not without her. If she were here, I could be content. Hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me! Very beautiful, you are, I admit; but none of you like her — her — my angel. Oh! there’s a devil, too; a beautiful devil — I don’t mean that. I’m thinking only of the angel of the prairies.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer.
She bent over him with ears upon the strain — with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.
“Name? name? Did some one say, name? Have you any names here? Oh! I remember — Michael, Gabriel, Azrael — men, all men. Angels, not like my angel — who is a woman. Her name is — ”
“Is?”
“Louise — Louise — Louise. Why should I conceal it from you — you up here, who know everything that’s down there? Surely you know her — Louise? You should: you could not help loving her — ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine — all — all!”
Not when these last words were once before spoken — first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees — the speaker in full consciousness of intellect — in the full fervour of his soul — not then were they listened to with such delight. O, happy hour for her who heard them!
Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow — upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.
She only stood up erect — triumphant; — her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations. It was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever — in the fear of its being too soon interrupted.
The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared — a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway.
The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup.
There was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer. On the contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical, heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place. Still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species.
If anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as, stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken place in the occupancy of the hut.
“Mother av Moses!” he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; “Shure I must be dhramin? Trath must I! It cyant be yersilf, Miss Pointdixther? Shure now it cyant?”
“But it is, Mr O’Neal. How very ungallant in you to have forgotten me, and so soon!”
“Forgotten yez! Trath, miss, yez needn’t accuse me of doin’ chat which is intirely impossible. The Oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it. Sowl! thare’s wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!”
The speaker glanced significantly towards the couch. A delicious thrill passed through the bosom of the listener.
“But fwhat diz it all mane?” continued Phelim, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. “Fwhare’s the tother — the young chap, or lady, or wuman — whichsomiver she art? Didn’t yez see nothin’ av a wuman, Miss Pointdixther?”
“Yes — yes.”
“Oh! yez did. An fwhere is she now?”
“Gone away, I believe.”
“Gone away! Be japers, thin, she hasn’t remained long in the wan mind. I lift her heeur in the cyabin not tin minnits ago, takin’ aff her bonnit — that was only a man’s hat — an sittlin’ hersilf down for a stay. Gone, yez say? Sowl! I’m not sorry to hear it. That’s a young lady whose room’s betther than her company, any day in the twilmonth. She’s a dale too handy wid her shootin’-iron. Wud yez belave it, Miss Pointdixther; she prisinted a pistol widin six inches av me nose?”
“Pardieu! For what reason?”
“Fwhat rayzun? Only that I thried to hindher her from inthrudin’ into the cyabin. She got in for all that; for whin owld Zeb come back, he made no objecshun to it. She sayed she was a frind av the masther, an wanted to nurse him.”
“Indeed! Oh! it is strange — very strange!” muttered the Creole, reflectingly.
“Trath, is it. And so is iverything in these times, exciptin’ yez own swate silf; that I hope will niver be sthrange in a cyabin frequinted by Phaylim Onale. Shure, now, I’m glad to see yez, miss; an shure so wud the masther, if — ”
“Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened.”
“Trath! thin miss, if I’m to till all, ye’ll hiv to take off your bonnet, and make up your moind for a long stay — seein’ as it ’ut take the big ind av a whole day to relate all the quare things that’s happened since the day afore yesthirday.”
“Who has been here since then?”
“Who has been heeur?”
“Except the — the — ”
“Exceptin’ the man-wuman, ye mane?”
“Yes. Has any one else been to this place?”
“Trath has thare — plinty besoides. An av all sorts, an colours too. First an foremost there was wan comin’ this way, though he didn’t git all the way to the cyabin. But I daren’t tell you about him, for it moight frighten ye, miss.”
“Tell me. I have no fear.”
“Be dad! and I can’t make it out meself quite intirely. It was a man upon horseback widout a hid.”
“Without a head!”
“Divil a bit av that same on his body.”
The statement caused Phelim to be suspected of having lost his.
“An’ what’s more, miss, he was for all the world like Masther Maurice himself. Wid his horse undher him, an his Mexikin blanket about his showlders, an everything just as the young masther looks, when he’s mounted, Sowl! wasn’t I scared, whin I sit my eyes on him.”
“But where did you see this, Mr O’Neal?”
“Up thare on the top av the bluff. I was out lookin’ for the masther to come back from the Sittlement, as he’d promised he wud that mornin’, an who showld I see but hisself, as I supposed it to be. An’ thin he comes ridin’ up, widout his hid, an’ stops a bit, an thin goes off at a tarin’ gallop, wid Tara gowlin’ at his horse’s heels, away acrass the big plain, till I saw no more av him. Thin I made back for the cyabin heeur, an shut meself up, and wint to slape; and just in the middle av me dhrames, whin I was dhramin’ of — but trath, miss, yez’ll be toired standin’ on yer feet all this time. Won’t yez take aff yer purty little ridin’ hat, an sit down on the thrunk thare? — it’s asier than the stool. Do plaze take a sate; for if I’m to tell yez all — ”
“Never mind me — go on. Please tell me who else has been here besides this strange cavalier; who must have been some one playing a trick upon you, I suppose.”
“A thrick, miss! Trath that’s just what owld Zeb sayed.”
“He has been here, then?”
“Yis — yis — but not till long afther the others.”
“The others?”
“Yis, miss. Zeb only arroived yestherday marnin’. The others paid their visit the night afore, an at a very unsayzonable hour too, wakin’ me out av the middle av my slape.”
“But who? — what others?”
“Why the Indyens, to be shure.”
“There have been Indians, then?”
“Trath was there — a whole tribe av thim. Well, as I’ve been tillin’ yez, miss, jest as I wus in a soun’ slape, I heerd talkin’ in the cyabin heern, right over my hid, an the shufflin’ av paper, as if somebody was dalin’ a pack av cards, an — Mother av Moses! fwhat’s that?”
“What?”
“Didn’t yez heear somethin’? Wheesht! Thare it is agane! Trath, it’s the trampin’ av horses! They’re jist outside.”
Phelim rushed towards the door.
“Be Sant Pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback. Thare’s a thousand av them! an more comin’ behind! Be japers! them’s the chaps owld Zeb — Now for a frish spell av squeelin! O Lard! I’ll be too late!”
Seizing the cactus-branch — that for convenience he had brought inside the hut — he dashed out through the doorway.
“Mon Dieu!” cried the Creole, “’tis they! My father, and I here! How shall I explain it? Holy Virgin, save me from shame!”
Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act. They who were outside would make light of such obstruction. Already she recognised the voices of the Regulators!
The opening in the skin wall came under her eye. Should she make a retreat through that, undignified as it might be?
It was no longer possible. The sound of hoofs also in the rear! There were horsemen behind the hut!
Besides, her own steed was in front — that ocellated creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!
But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat — one more generous.
He was in danger — from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?
“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father — friends — all — all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”
As these noble thoughts passed through her mind, she took her stand by the bedside of the invalid, like a second Dido, resolved to risk all — even death itself — for the hero of her heart.
