Майн Рид
Headless Horseman
Chapter Sixty Eight. The Disappointed Campaigners
The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest — lasting only three or four days. It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of the West did not mean war — at least, on a grand scale. Their descent upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to take out their degree as braves, desirous of signalising the event by “raising” a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.
Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians. They are made on private account — often without the knowledge of the chief, or elders of the tribe — just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out an enemy’s craft, or capture his picket guard. These marauds are usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the event. Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a general thing, are averse to such filibustering expeditions — deeming them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the community. Only when successful are they applauded.
On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white women and boys. The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks, had been recaptured.
The red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of Mounted Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat into the fastnesses of the “Llano Estacado.”
To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have required a commissariat less hastily established than that with which the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised them after due time and preparation.
On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their ordinary duties — each detachment to its own fort — to await further commands from the head-quarters of the “department.”
The troops belonging to Port Inge — entrusted with the guardianship of the country as far as the Rio Nueces — were surprised on getting back to their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong direction for an encounter with the Indians! Some of them were half mad with disappointment: for there were several — young Hancock among the number — who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though keenly desirous of doing so!
No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. But it must be remembered, that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes — rape, rapine, and murder.
To talk of their being the aborigines of the country — the real, but dispossessed, owners of the soil — is simple nonsense. This sophism, of the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of men. The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument — even with the narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.
Admit it — give the hunter his half-dozen square miles — for he will require that much to maintain him — leave him in undisputed possession to all eternity — and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to accommodate this whimsical theory of national right. Nay, I will go further, and risk reproach, by asserting: — that not only the savage, so called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed — whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the resources which Nature has placed within their limits.
The exploitation of Earth’s treasures is a question not confined to nations. It concerns the whole family of mankind.
In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine — not a thought of it. He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to communism.
It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on his preserves. No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.
But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. Our own story of Jamaica — by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages of history — has whitewashed these border filibusteros to the seeming purity of snow!
If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of red-skins. On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. They might yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without stain — without sharpening, too — from the military school of West Point.
It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same day — civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo — and reported: that no Indians had been there!
They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would have been received with incredulity — considering what had occurred.
The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles — an odd lot, as an auctioneer would describe it — wigs of horse-hair, cocks’ feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!
There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such incidents as the situation afforded.
Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. There were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the trite story of a party of white men “playing Indian”; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse — mad as a maniac!
There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners — of sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they had returned to dull quarters. The name of Isidora Covarubio do los Llanos — with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty — had become a theme of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.
The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo — the discovery of the mustanger upon his couch — the determination to hang him — the act delayed by the intervention of Louise Poindexter — the respite due to the courage of Zeb Stump — were all points of the most piquant interest — suggestive of the wildest conjectures.
Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.
“Murder,” said the philosophic Captain Sloman, “is a crime which, in my opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. I think, I know the fellow well enough to be sure about that.”
“You’ll admit,” rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, “that the circumstances are strong against him? Almost conclusive, I should say.”
Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman. He had an idea, that on one occasion the commissary’s niece — the belle of the Fort — had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.
“I consider it anything but conclusive,” replied Sloman.
“There’s no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been murdered. Every one believes that. Well; who else was likely to have done it? The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him and Gerald.”
“That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose,” interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons. “Besides, his own shindy with the same man is suggestive of suspicion — is it not?”
“And if there was a quarrel,” argued the officer of infantry, “what then? It don’t follow there was a murder.”
“Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?”
“Something of the sort is possible, and even probable. I will admit that much.”
“But what did they have a difficulty about?” asked Hancock. “I heard that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter — notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun. What could they have quarrelled about?”
“A singular interrogation on your part, Lieutenant Hancock!” answered the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. “As if men ever quarrelled about anything except — ”
“Except women,” interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.
“But which woman, I wonder? It could not be anything relating to young Poindexter’s sister?”
“Quien sabe?” answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Crossman. “A horse-catcher daring to set his thoughts on Miss Poindexter! Preposterous!”
“What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman! Don’t you know that love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of distinction. I don’t say that in this case there’s been anything of the kind. Miss Poindexter’s not the only woman that might have caused a quarrel between the two individuals in question. There are other damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about — to say nothing of our own fair following in the Fort; and why not — ”
“Captain Sloman,” petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles. “I must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately. The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the insinuation.”
“What insinuation, sir?”
“Do you suppose it likely that there’s one of them would condescend to speak to the person you’ve named?”
“Which? I’ve named two.”
“You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you. Our ladies will, no doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!”
“Maurice the mustanger may be the last — suspected, and that is all. He is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr Crossman. I’ve seen more of this young Irishman than you — enough to satisfy me that, so far as breeding goes, he may compare notes with the best of us. Our grand dames needn’t be scared at the thought of his acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don’t think they would shy from it — some of them at least — if it were offered them. It never has. So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. I have seen him in their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them as if fully sensible of his position. For that matter, I don’t think he cares a straw about one or other of them.”
“Indeed! How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his rivals!”
“Perhaps it is,” quietly remarked the captain of infantry.
“Who knows?” asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish conversation. “Who knows but the cause of quarrel — if there’s been one — might not be this splendid señorita so much talked about? I haven’t seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she’s just the sort to make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats.”
“It might be — who knows?” drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts turned in any other direction than towards the commissary’s quarters.
“They’ve got him in the guard-house,” remarked Hancock, stating a fact that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign. “His droll devil of a serving man is along with him. What’s more; the major has just issued an order to double the guard! What does it mean, Captain Sloman — you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs? Surely there’s no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his prison?”
“Not likely,” replied the infantry officer, “seeing that he hasn’t the slightest idea that he’s inside of one. I’ve just been to the guard-house to have a look at him. He’s mad as a March hare; and wouldn’t know his own face in a looking-glass.”
“Mad! In what way?” asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger’s capture.
“A brain fever upon him — delirious?”
“Is that why the guards have been doubled? Devilish queer if it is. The major himself must have gone mad!”
“Maybe it’s the suggestion — command I should rather say — of the majoress. Ha! ha! ha!”
“But what does it mean? Is the old maje really afraid of his getting out of the guard-house?”
“No — not that, I fancy. More likely an apprehension of somebody else getting into it.”
“Ah! you mean, that — ”
“I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there’s more safety inside than out. Some queer characters are about; and there’s been talk of another Lynch trial. The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a respite; or there’s somebody hard at work in bringing about this state of public opinion. It’s lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his friend; and it’s but a continuation of his good luck that we’ve returned so opportunely. Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse empty — so far as its present occupants are concerned. Now, thank God! the poor fellow shall have a fair trial.”
“When is it to take place?”
“Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he’s being tried!”
“It may be weeks before that.”
“And it may be only days — hours. He don’t appear to be very bad — that is, bodily. It’s his mind that’s out of order — more, perhaps, from some strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has received. A day may make all the difference; and, from what I’ve just heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows a return to consciousness. They say, they won’t wait for him to recover from his wounds!”
“Maybe he’ll be able to tell a story that’ll clear him. I hope so.”
This was said by Hancock.
“I doubt it,” rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head. “Nous verrons!”
“I’m sure of it,” said Sloman. “Nos veremos!” he added, speaking in a tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was father to the thought.
Chapter Sixty Nine. Mystery and Mourning
There is mourning in the mansion of Casa del Corvo, and mystery among the members of Woodley Poindexter’s family.
Though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some deep-seated cause.
They meet only at the hour of meals — then conversing only on such topics as cannot well be shunned.
There is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity.
The death — no longer doubted — of an only son — an only brother — unexpected and still unexplained — should account for the melancholy mien both of father and daughter.
It might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the cousin.
But there is something beyond this. Each appears to act with an irksome restraint in the presence of the others — even during the rare occasions, on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune!
Beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle.
The once proud planter stays within doors — pacing from room to room, or around, the enclosed corridor — bending beneath a weight of woe, that has broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart. Even strong paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans, oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his lips!
Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.
For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.
Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. There are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea — alone and in silent meditation.
There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon Earth — the loss of a beloved brother — the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense — perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.
Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. The last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer.
But the second — the supreme pain of all — is but strengthened and intensified by time!
She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison — the strong walls of a military guard-house.
It is not their strength that dismays her. On the contrary, she has fears for their weakness!
She has reasons for her apprehension. She has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. She has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude coadjutors — not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement — especially when proximate to a military post.
The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way.
The facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case — at least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him.
If the four horsemen seen were not Indians — and this has been clearly shown by the discovery of the disguises — it is not the less likely that they have had to do with the death of young Poindexter. Besides, there is nothing to connect them with the mustanger, any more than if they had been real Comanches.
Why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second time surging up?
There is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many people.
There are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause. A very few: perhaps only three individuals.
Two of them are Zeb Stump and Louise Poindexter; the third Captain Cassius Calhoun.
The old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some underhanded action — the actors being Miguel Diaz and his men, associated with a half-score of like characters of a different race — the “rowdies” of the settlement. Zeb has traced the action to its instigator — the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
He has communicated his discovery to the young Creole, who is equal to the understanding of it. It is the too clear comprehension of its truth that now inspires her with a keen solicitude.
Anxiously she awaits every word of news — watches the road leading from the Fort to Casa del Corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that way!
She dares not show herself at the prison. There are soldiers on guard, and spectators around it — a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity of those who have committed great crimes.
There is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one. The criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses.
The guard-house doors are at all hours besieged — to the great discomfort of the sentries — by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the delirious man. A lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes turned inquiringly upon her. Louise Poindexter cannot run the gauntlet of those looks without risk to her reputation.
Left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it. Watched by a father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation, equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the world — she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence.
She can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the Alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet time spent among the mezquite trees, the spot itself almost discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is now humiliated — disgraced — shut up within the walls of a gaol — perchance to be delivered from it only unto death!
To her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day, Zeb Stump made his appearance at Casa del Corro, bringing the intelligence; that the “hoss-sogers hed kum back to the Fort.”
There was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted. There was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin!
“Ee needn’t be uneezy ’beout thet ere ewent,” said Zeb, speaking with a confidence he had not shown for some time. “Thur’s no longer a danger o’ it comin’ to pass, Miss Lewaze. I’ve tuk preecaushins agin it.”
“Precautions! How, Zeb?”
“Wal; fust place, I’ve seed the major clost arter his comin’ back, an gied him a bit o’ my mind. I tolt him the hul story, as fur’s I know it myself. By good luck he ain’t agin the young fellur, but the tother way I reck’n. Wal, I tolt him o’ the goin’s on o’ the hul crew — Amerikins, Mexikins, an all o’ them — not forgettin’ thet ugly Spanyard o’ the name o’ Dee-ez, thet’s been one o’ the sarciest o’ the lot. The ree-sult’s been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun’ the prison, an’s goin’ to keep ’em doubled.”
“I am so glad! You think there is no longer any fear from that quarter?”
“If you mean the quarter o’ Mister Migooel Dee-ez, I kin swar to it. Afore he thinks o’ gittin’ any b’dy else out o’ a prison, he’s got to git hisself out.”
“What; Diaz in prison! How? When? Where?”
“You’ve asked three seprit questyuns, Miss Lewaze, all o’ a heep. Wal; I reck’n the conveenientest way to answer ’em ’ll be to take ’em backurds. An’ fust as to the whar. As to thet, thur’s but one prison in these parts, as ’ud be likely to hold him. Thet is the guard-house at the Fort. He’s thur.”
“Along with — ”
“I know who ye’re goin’ to name — the young fellur. Jest so. They’re in the same buildin’, tho’ not ’zackly in the same room. Thur’s a purtition atween ’em; tho’ for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they’re so inclined. Thur’s three others shet up along wi’ the Mexikin — his own cussed cummarades. The three ’ll have somethin’ to talk ’beout ’mong themselves, I reck’n.”
“This is good news, Zeb. You told me yesterday that Diaz was active in — ”
“Gittin’ hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in effectuatin’. He’s got hisself into the jug, or someb’y else hev did thet bizness for him.”
“But how — when — you’ve not told me?”
“Geehosophat! Miss Lewaze. Gi’ me a leetle time. I hain’t drew breath yit, since I kim in. Yur second questyun war when. It air eezy answered. ’Beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked up. I war at the shettin’ o’ the door ahint him, an kum straight custrut hyur arter it war done.”
“But you have not yet said why he is arrested.”
“I hain’t hed a chance. It air a longish story, an ’ll take a leetle time in the tellin’. Will ye listen to it now, or arter — ?”
“After what, Mr Stump?”
“Wal, Miss Lewaze, I only meened arter — arter — I git the ole mare put up. She air stannin’ thur, as if she’d like to chaw a yeer o’ corn, an somethin’ to wet it down. Both she ’nd me’s been on a longish tramp afore we got back to the Fort; which we did scace a hour ago.”
“Pardon me, dear Mr Stump, for not thinking of it. Pluto; take Mr Stump’s horse to the stable, and see that it is fed. Florinde! Florinde! What will you eat, Mr Stump?”
“Wal, as for thet, Miss Lewaze, thank ye all the same, but I ain’t so partikler sharp set. I war only thinkin’ o’ the maar. For myself, I ked go a kupple o’ hours longer ’ithout eetin’, but ef thur’s sech a thing as a smell o’ Monongaheely ’beout the place, it ’ud do this ole karkidge o’ mine a power o’ good.”
“Monongahela? plenty of it. Surely you will allow me to give you something better?”
“Better ’n Monongaheely!”
“Yes. Some sherry — champagne — brandy if you prefer it.”
“Let them drink brandy as like it, and kin’ git it drinkable. Thur may be some o’ it good enuf; an ef thur air, I’m shor it’ll be foun’ in the house o’ a Peintdexter. I only knows o’ the sort the sutler keeps up at the Fort. Ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet’s one. It ’ud rot the guts out o’ a alleygatur. No; darn thur French lickers; an specially thur brandy. Gi’ me the pure corn juice; an the best o’ all, thet as comes from Pittsburgh on the Monongaheely.”
“Florinde! Florinde!”
It was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted. The presence of Zeb Stump indicated the service for which she had been summoned. Without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what Zeb called the “pure corn juice,” but which was in reality the essence of rye — for from this grain is distilled the celebrated “Monongahela.”
Zeb was not slow to refresh himself. A full third of the contents of the decanter were soon put out of sight — the other two-thirds remaining for future potations that might be required in the course of the narration upon which he was about to enter.
