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Headless Horseman
Chapter Eighty Two. A Queer Parcel
The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste.
And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him.
He scarce deigned to look upon the “sign” left by Calhoun. It he could read out of the corner of his eye. As to following it, the old mare could have done that without him!
It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight. But by doing this, the latter might see him; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.
This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.
Advancing slowly and with caution — but with that constancy that ensures good speed — he arrived at length on the spot where the mirage had made itself manifest to Calhoun.
Zeb saw nothing of this. It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie — the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.
He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together — those that went after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun’s new horse — of which Zeb had already taken the measure.
About the tracks underneath he had no conjecture — at least as regarded their identification. These he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them.
“The skunk’s hed a find!” were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. “It don’t foller from thet,” he continued, in the same careless drawl, “thet he hez made a catch. An’ yit, who knows? Durn me, ef he moutn’t! Thur’s lots o’ chances for his doin’ it. The mowstang may a let him come clost up — seein’ as he’s ridin’ one o’ its own sort; an ef it dud — ay, ef it dud —
“What the durnation am I stannin’ hyur for? Thur ain’t no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin’. Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, ’ithout the ghost o’ a chance for gettin’ it.
“I must make a better rate o’ speed. Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can’t overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone. Now for a spell o’ yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi’ any o’ them, I reckon — thet air when ye’re pressed. Gee-up!”
Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot. He had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him.
“From the way his track runs,” was his reflection, “I kin tell pretty nigh whar it’s goin’ to fetch out. Everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur — never more to come back. Ah, wal! ef t’aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi’ the skunk as destroyed him. The Scripter sez, ‘a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,’ an I reckin I’ll shet up somebody’s daylights, an spoil the use o’ thur ivories afore I hev done wi’ him. Somebody as don’t suspeeshun it neyther, an that same — . Heigh! Yonner he goes! An’ yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat! Full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin’ him!
“They aint comin’ this way, so ’tain’t no use in our squattin’, ole gurl. Stan’ steady for all that. He mout see us movin’.
“No fear. He’s too full o’ his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him. Ha! jest as I expected — into the openin’! Right down it, fast as heels kin carry ’em!
“Now, my maar, on we go agin!”
Another stage of trotting — with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap — brought Zeb to the timber.
Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it.
He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction.
He did not anticipate meeting any one — much less the man who soon after came in sight.
He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yäger rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.
He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane — in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired — returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!
“Comin’ back agin — an so soon!” he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. “Dog-goned queery thet air! Thur’s somethin’ amiss, more’n a miss, I reck’n. Ho, ho, ho! Goin’, too, as if hell war arter him! Maybe it’s the Headless hisself, and thur’s been a changin’ about in the chase — tit for tat! Darn me, ef it don’t look like it! I’d gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o’ a thing. He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!”
Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider — who promise soon to pass the spot.
And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!
“Geehosophat!” mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. “If hell ain’t arter, it’s inside o’ him! Durn me, ef thet face ain’t the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. I shed pity the wife as gets him. Poor Miss Peintdexter! I hope she’ll be able to steer clur o’ havin’ sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.
“What’s up anyhow? Thar don’t ’pear to be anythin’ arter him? An’ he still keeps on! Whar’s he boun’ for now? I must foller an see.
“To hum agin!” exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. “Hum agin, for sartin!
“Now, ole gurl!” he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, “You an me goes t’other way. We must find out what thet shot wur fired for.”
In ten minutes after, Zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of — disgust, even, in touching!
Not so the old hunter. In that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him — despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression — still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation.
He had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody!
Clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples — Zeb endeavoured to take it off. He did not succeed. The head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it!
Holding it in its natural position, Zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face.
“Lord, O Lordy!” he drawlingly exclaimed, “what a present to take back to his father, to say nothin’ o’ the sister! I don’t think I’ll take it. It air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it.
“No; durn me ef I do! What am I thinkin’ o’? Tho’ I don’t exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o’ evvydince, it may do somethin’ torst it. Durned queery witness it ’ll be to purduce in a coort o’ justis!”
Saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all.
Then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away.
Chapter Eighty Three. Limbs of the Law
On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!
This haste — that elsewhere would have been considered indecent — was thought nothing of in Texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours!
His enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it.
Among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: “that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance.”
The advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. The judge of the Supreme Court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at Fort Inge, had been appointed for that very week.
There was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of Maurice Gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time.
As no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question — the fifteenth of the month.
The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and the Court had not yet arrived. For all that, a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!
It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.
When it rains, it rains. The adage is true in Texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers.
The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.
This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of the Emerald Isle. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!
It is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of Mr Oberdoffer’s hostelry, and making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.
Still greater the attorney’s astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration.
“Fwhat! the son of a Munsther Gerald accused of murdher! The heir of Castle Ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. Fwy, I’ve got the papers in my portmantyee here. Faugh-a-ballagh! Show me the way to him!”
Though the “Texan” Boniface was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy, he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house.
If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison — as often as it seemed good to him.
Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege; at the same time placing him en rapport, in a friendly way, with the Texan “counsellor.”
The advent of the Irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the Port, the village, and throughout the settlement. The bar-room of the “Rough and Ready” was rife with conjecturers — quidnuncs they could scarcely be called: since in Texas the genus does not exist.
A certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing — which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by “Old Duffer.”
For all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. With the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed — drawn from him in the first moments of surprise — he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide.
There was not much time for him to use his tongue. On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.
The rumour became rife that Maurice Gerald had told them a tale — a strange weird story — but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance.
There was one who knew it — one able to confirm it — Zeb Stump the hunter.
There may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel.
Zeb himself did not appear in their company. Only once had he been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone — both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business — in search of deer, “baar,” or “gobbler.”
Everybody was in error. Zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill.
It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air — a horseman without a head!
Chapter Eighty Four. An Affectionate Nephew
“Tried to-morrow — to-morrow, thank God! Not likely that anybody ’ll catch that cursed thing before then — to be hoped, never.
“It is all I’ve got to fear. I defy them to tell what’s happened without that. Hang me if I know myself! Enough only to — .
“Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger!
“Queer, too, the fellow from San Antonio! Wonder who and what’s brought him? Somebody’s promised him his costs?
“Damn ’em! I don’t care, not the value of a red cent. They can make nothing out of it, but that Gerald did the deed. Everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. They’re bound to convict him.
“Zeb Stump don’t think it, the suspicious old snake! He’s nowhere to be found. Wonder where he has gone? On a hunt, they say. ’Tain’t likely, such time as this. What if he be hunting it? What if he should catch it?
“I’d try again myself, if there was time. There ain’t. Before to-morrow night it’ll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up — . Damn afterwards! The thing is to make sure now. Let the future look to itself. With one man hung for the murder, ’tain’t likely they’d care to accuse another. Even if something suspicious did turn up! they’d be shy to take hold of it. It would be like condemning themselves!
“I reckon, I’ve got all right with the Regulators. Sam Manley himself appears pretty well convinced. I knocked his doubts upon the head, when I told him what I’d heard that night. A little more than I did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. Damn!
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it — except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself.
“I don’t think anything has happened between them. She’s not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me — only gratitude. No, no, no! It can’t be. Gratitude don’t get out of its bed in the middle of the night — to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? She loves him — she loves him! Let her love and be damned! She shall never have him. She shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.
“She shall speak it, if she don’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything — . Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”
The soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by Cassius Calhoun.
It was Woodley Poindexter who interrupted it. Sad, silent, straying through the corridors of Casa del Corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew — more by chance than from any premeditated purpose.
“Want me! For what, nephew?”
There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter — before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!
True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him — his sister’s son.
But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.
“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.
It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.
Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation — as also the nature of the subject.
The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.
“About Loo? What of her?” he inquired, with assumed calmness.
“Well,” said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, “I — I — wanted — ”
“I’d rather,” put in the planter, taking advantage of the other’s hesitancy, “I’d rather not speak of her now.”
This was said almost supplicatingly.
“And why not now, uncle?” asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.
“You know my reasons, nephew?”
“Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing — supposed to be — After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again.”
“Never! we shall never see him again — living or dead. I have no longer a son?”
“You have a daughter; and she — ”
“Has disgraced me!”
“I don’t believe it, uncle — no.”
“What means those things I’ve heard — myself seen? What could have taken her there — twenty miles across the country — alone — in the hut of a common horse-trader — standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him — him, the murderer of my son — her own brother? O God!”
“Her own story explains the first — satisfactorily, as I think.”
Calhoun did not think so.
“The second is simple enough. Any woman would have done the same — a woman like Loo.”
“There is none like her. I, her father, say so. Oh! that I could think it is, as you say! My poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever — now that I have no son!”
“It is for her to find you a son — one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part — with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. I won’t talk to you in riddles, Uncle Woodley. You know what I mean; and how my mind’s made up about this matter. I want Loo!”
The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. He expected it. For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. It was evident he did not relish the proposed alliance.
This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate — in his own mind — and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.
Previous to the migration into Texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew.
Since coming to manhood, Calhoun had been a citizen of the state of Mississippi — more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of New Orleans. An occasional visit to the Louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin Louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals — each time protracting them to a longer stay.
There was then twelve months of campaigning in Mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love — the heart of his Creole cousin.
From that time his residence under his uncle’s roof had been more permanent. If not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail.
The planter, once rich, was now poor. Extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. With his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. Chance had made him so. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them.
In his native place, and among his old neighbours, Woodley Poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of being under his nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor.
It was only after the move into Texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee.
It grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of Calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of Louise.
The planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.
Calhoun’s quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle’s respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him.
There had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings — to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages, dislike the connection.
Alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside.
Indecision — perhaps more than the sorrow for his son’s loss dictated the character of his reply.
“If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean marriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now — while death is in our house! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement.”
“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage — that is, not now. Only something that will secure it — when the proper time arrives.”
“I do not understand you, Cash.”
“You’ll do that, if you only listen to me a minute.”
“Go on.”
“Well; what I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty — as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I’m damnably tired of it; and don’t intend to keep single any longer. I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no fluke, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When these bothers blow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing.”
The word “bothers,” with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!
The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused — almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.
It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.
He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.
“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”
“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”
“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced — against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”
“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement — in all Texas, for that matter.”
Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.
Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status — alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.
The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him — his own nephew — soliciting to become his son!
For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.
“Loo!”
“Father!”
“I come to ask a favour from you.”
“What is it, father?”
“You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for — more and better still, to marry you.”
“But I am not ready to marry him. No, father; I shall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sent you to make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies — and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!”
“Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that — ”
“That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”
Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was: —
“Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!”
