Майн Рид
Headless Horseman
Chapter Sixty Two. Waiting for the Cue
Never, since its erection, was there such a trampling of hoofs around the hut of the horse-catcher — not even when its corral was filled with fresh-taken mustangs.
Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.
One is heard louder than the rest, and in tones of command that proclaim the speaker to be chief of the party.
“Pull up, damn you! It’s no use — your trying to escape. Another step, and ye’ll go tumbling in your tracks. Pull up, I say!”
The command takes effect upon the Connemara man, who has been making direct for Zeb Stump’s mare, tethered on the other side of the opening. He stops upon the instant.
“Shure, gintlemen, I don’t want to escyape,” asseverates he, shivering at the sight of a score of angry faces, and the same number of gun-barrels bearing upon his person; “I had no such intinshuns. I was only goin’ to — ”
“Run off, if ye’d got the chance. Ye’d made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton! Damned queer-looking curse he is! Surely, gentlemen, this can’t be the man we’re in search of?”
“No, no! it isn’t. Only his man John.”
“Ho! hilloa, you round there at the back! Keep your eyes skinned. We havn’t got him yet. Don’t let as much as a cat creep past you. Now, sirree! who’s inside?”
“Who’s insoide? The cyabin div yez mane?”
“Damn ye! answer the question that’s put to ye!” says Tracey, giving his prisoner a touch of the trail-rope. “Who’s inside the shanty?”
“O Lard! Needs must whin the divvel dhrives. Wil, then, thare’s the masther for wan — ”
“Ho! what’s this?” inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. “Why — it — it’s Looey’s mustang!”
“It is, uncle,” answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.
“I wonder who’s brought the beast here?”
“Loo herself, I reckon.”
“Nonsense! You’re jesting, Cash?”
“No, uncle; I’m in earnest.”
“You mean to say my daughter has been here?”
“Has been — still is, I take it.”
“Impossible?”
“Look yonder, then!”
The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.
“Good God, it is my daughter!”
Poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut — close followed by Calhoun. Both go inside.
“Louises what means this? A wounded man! Is it he — Henry?”
Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat — Henry’s!
“It is; he’s alive! Thank heaven!” He strides towards the couch.
The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.
Calhoun seems equally affected. But the cry from him is an exclamation of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin.
“Great God!” gasps the planter; “what is it? Can you explain, Louise?”
“I cannot, father. I’ve been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious.”
“And — and — Henry?”
“They have told me nothing. Mr Gerald was alone when I entered. The man outside was absent, and has just returned. I have not had time to question him.”
“But — but, how came you to be here?”
“I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible — alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother — Mon dieu! Mon dieu!”
Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.
“I thought I might find Henry here.”
“Here! But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”
“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt — when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”
Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.
“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent — indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come — come away! This is no place for a lady — for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Some one will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.
The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.
They are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.
They stand in groups — some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.
On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is passing. Their looks proclaim it.
Most of them know the young lady by sight — all by fame, or name. They feel surprise — almost wonder — at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!
More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case. Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them — facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak — of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!
But why is Louise Poindexter there — alone — unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it — perhaps he cannot. Her father — can he? Judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful.
Whispers pass from lip to ear — from group to group. There are surmises — many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings — filial as parental — and patiently await the éclaircissement.
“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.” The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Cassius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.
“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?” Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. “It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”
Yancey’s confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience — even to the parental command.
It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.
The two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly following — the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter her chagrin.
Yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his companion. How could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart? Of course he ascribes it to that.
He but half interprets the cause. Were he to look steadfastly into the eye of Louise Poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future.
They ride on through the trees — but not beyond ear-shot of the people they have left behind them.
Suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the Creole — her features lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered her soul.
She stops reflectingly — her escort constrained to do the same.
“Mr Yancey,” says she, after a short pause, “my saddle has got loose. I cannot sit comfortably in it. Have the goodness to look to the girths!”
Yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon him.
He examines the girths. In his opinion they do not want tightening. He does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all his strength.
“Stay!” says the fair equestrian, “let me alight. You will get better at it then.”
Without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and stands by the side of the mustang.
The young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power of his arms.
After a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds in shortening them by a single hole.
“Now, Miss Poindexter; I think it will do.”
“Perhaps it will,” rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of her saddle, and giving it a slight shake. “No doubt it will do now. After all ’tis a pity to start back so soon. I’ve just arrived here after a fast gallop; and my poor Luna has scarce had time to breathe herself. What if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest? ’Tis cruel to take her back without it.”
“But your father? He seemed desirous you should — ”
“That I should go home at once. That’s nothing. ’Twas only to get me out of the way of these rough men — that was all. He won’t care; so long as I’m out of sight. ’Tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade of these fine trees — just now that the sun is blazing down upon the prairie. Let us stay a while, and give Luna a rest! We can amuse ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the stream. Look there, Mr Yancey! What pretty creatures they are!”
The young planter begins to feel flattered. Why should his fair companion wish to linger there with him? Why wish to watch the iodons, engaged in their aquatic cotillon — amorous at that time of the year?
He conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations.
His compliance is easily obtained.
“Miss Poindexter,” says he, “it is for you to command me. I am but too happy to stay here, as long as you wish it.”
“Only till Luna be rested. To say the truth, sir, I had scarce got out of the saddle, as the people came up. See! the poor thing is still panting after our long gallop.”
Yancey does not take notice whether the spotted mustang is panting or no. He is but too pleased to comply with the wishes of its rider.
They stay by the side of the stream.
He is a little surprised to perceive that his companion gives but slight heed, either to the silver fish, or the spotted mustang. He would have liked this all the better, had her attentions been transferred to himself.
But they are not. He can arrest neither her eye nor her ear. The former seems straying upon vacancy; the latter eagerly bent to catch every sound that comes from the clearing.
Despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself. He suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted — a trial before Judge Lynch, with a jury of “Regulators.”
Excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks. There is an earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination.
Both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a theatre, waiting for her cue.
There are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men; then one longer than the rest — a harangue.
Louise recognises the voice. It is that of her cousin Cassius. It is urgent — at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his audience to something they are not willing to do.
His speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick sharp exclamations — cries of assent — one louder than the rest, of fearful import.
While listening, Yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side.
He is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot, and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the jacalé!
Chapter Sixty Three. A Jury of Regulators
The cry, that had called the young Creole so suddenly from the side of her companion, was the verdict of a jury — in whose rude phrase was also included the pronouncing of the sentence.
The word “hang” was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the spot.
While pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in front of the jacalé.
Though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the play was progressing.
About the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits a minute description.
The men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the circumference of a circle.
Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous — among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief, with three or four of his “marshals.” Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun. These no longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted.
Such in reality was the nature of the scene. It was a trial for Murder — a trial before Justice Lynch — this grim dignitary being typified in the person of the Regulator Chief — with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground — all except the prisoners.
Of these there are two — Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.
They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.
Even their tongues are not free. Phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth. It has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips.
Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place. Two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground. His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter.
Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.
The servant alone has been examined — asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. It is no use putting questions to his master.
Phelim has told his tale — too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it — that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead — is looked upon as the least improbable!
He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused — that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder!
“All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!” say those to whom he has been imparting them. “A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us — nothing else.”
The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.
In the minds of most — already predisposed to it — there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.
Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacalé — the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.
The explanations given by the Galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.
There are some who will scarce stay to hear them — some who impatiently cry out, “Let the murderer be hanged!”
As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.
A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb — good enough for a gallows.
The vote is taken viva voce.
Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die. His hour appears to have come.
And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. The rope is suffered to lie guileless on the grass. No one seems willing to lay hold of it!
Why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous snake, that none dares to touch?
The majority — the plurality, to use a true Western word — has pronounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even blasphemous, speech. Why is it not carried out?
Why? For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action — for want of the proofs to produce it.
There is a minority not satisfied — that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered “No.”
It is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings.
Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself — Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the acclamatory verdict.
“Fellow citizens!” cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, “I’m of the opinion, that there’s a doubt in this case; and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it — that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. It’s no use questioning him now, as ye all see. We have him tight and fast; and there’s not much chance of his getting clear — if guilty. Therefore, I move we postpone the trial, till — ”
“What’s the use of postponing it?” interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “What’s the use, Sam Manly? It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered — I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother — you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”
“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”
“Cyan you give them, Misther Cashius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.
“Perhaps I can.”
“Let’s have them, then!”
“God knows you’ve had evidence enough. A jury of his own stupid countrymen — ”
“Bar that appellashun!” shouts the man, who has demanded the additional evidence. “Just remember, Misther Calhoun, ye’re in Texas, and not Mississippi. Bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble, sharp as it is.”
“I don’t mean to offend any one,” says Calhoun, backing out of the dilemma into which his Irish antipathies had led him; “even an Englishman, if there’s one here.”
“Thare ye’re welcome — go on!” cries the mollified Milesian.
“Well, then, as I was saying, there’s been evidence enough — and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it.”
“Give it — give it!” cry a score of responding voices; that keep up the demand, while Calhoun seems to hesitate.
“Gentlemen!” says he, squaring himself to the crowd, as if for a speech, “what I’ve got to say now I could have told you long ago. But I didn’t think it was needed. You all know what’s happened between this man and myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful. I’m not; and if it wasn’t that I’m sure he has done the deed — sure as the head’s on my body — ”
Calhoun speaks stammeringly, seeing that the phrase, involuntarily escaping from his lips, has produced a strange effect upon his auditory — as it has upon himself.
“If not sure — I — I should still say nothing of what I’ve seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing.”
“What did you hear, Mr Calhoun?” demands the Regulator Chief, resuming his judicial demeanour, for a time forgotten in the confusion of voting the verdict. “Your quarrel with the prisoner, of which I believe everybody has heard, can have nothing to do with your testimony here. Nobody’s going to accuse you of false swearing on that account. Please proceed, sir. What did you hear? And where, and when, did you hear it?”
“To begin, then, with the time. It was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn’t miss him till the morning. Last Tuesday night.”
“Tuesday night. Well?”
“I’d turned in myself; and thought Henry had done the same. But what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn’t get any sleep.
“I started up again; lit a cigar; and, after smoking it awhile in the room, I thought of taking a turn upon the top of the house.
“You know the old hacienda has a flat roof, I suppose? Well, I went up there to get cool; and continued to pull away at the weed.
“It must have been then about midnight, or maybe a little earlier. I can’t tell: for I’d been tossing about on my bed, and took no note of the time.
“Just as I had smoked to the end of my cigar, and was about to take a second out of my case, I heard voices. There were two of them.
“They were up the river, as I thought on the other side. They were a good way off, in the direction of the town.
“I mightn’t have been able to distinguish them, or tell one from ’tother, if they’d been talking in the ordinary way. But they weren’t. There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were quarrelling.
“I supposed it was some drunken rowdies, going home from Oberdoffer’s tavern, and I should have thought no more about it. But as I listened, I recognised one of the voices; and then the other. The first was my cousin Henry’s — the second that of the man who is there — the man who has murdered him.”
“Please proceed, Mr Calhoun! Let us hear the whole of the evidence you have promised to produce. It will be time enough then to state your opinions.”
“Well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, I was no little surprised at hearing my cousin’s voice — supposing him asleep in his bed. So sure was I of its being him, that I didn’t think of going to his room, to see if he was there. I knew it was his voice; and I was quite as sure that the other was that of the horse-catcher.
“I thought it uncommonly queer, in Henry being out at such a late hour: as he was never much given to that sort of thing. But out he was. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.
“I listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but though I could distinguish the voices, I couldn’t make out anything that was said on either side. What I did hear was Henry calling him by some strong names, as if my cousin had been first insulted; and then I heard the Irishman threatening to make him rue it. Each loudly pronounced the other’s name; and that convinced me about its being them.
“I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but I was in my slippers; and before I could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be all over.
“I waited for half an hour, for Henry to come home. He didn’t come; but, as I supposed he had gone back to Oberdoffer’s and fallen in with some of the fellows from the Fort, I concluded he might stay there a spell, and I went back to my bed.
“Now, gentlemen, I’ve told you all I know. My poor cousin never came back to Casa del Corvo — never more laid his side on a bed, — for that we found by going to his room next morning. His bed that night must have been somewhere upon the prairie, or in the chapparal; and there’s the only man who knows where.”
With a wave of his hand the speaker triumphantly indicated the accused — whose wild straining eyes told how unconscious he was of the terrible accusation, or of the vengeful looks with which, from all sides, he was now regarded.
Calhoun’s story was told with a circumstantiality, that went far to produce conviction of the prisoner’s guilt. The concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamourous demand for the execution to proceed.
“Hang! hang!” is the cry from fourscore voices.
The judge himself seems to waver. The minority has been diminished — no longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry. The more moderate are overborne by the inundation of vengeful voices.
The crowd sways to and fro — resembling a storm fast increasing to a tempest.
It soon comes to its height. A ruffian rushes towards the rope. Though none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of Calhoun — with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation. One of those “border ruffians” of Southern descent, ever ready by the stake of the philanthropist, or the martyr — such as have been late typified in the military murderers of Jamaica, who have disgraced the English name to the limits of all time.
He lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck of the condemned man — alike unconscious of trial and condemnation.
No one steps forward to oppose the act. The ruffian, bristling with bowie-knife and pistols, has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney — one of the ci-devant guards of the prisoner.
The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. Most express a mute approval — some encouraging the executioners with earnest vociferations of “Up with him! Hang him!”
A few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner.
The rope is around his neck — the end with the noose upon it. The other is being swung over the sycamore.
“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”
