Майн Рид
Headless Horseman
Chapter Eighty Nine. The Confession of the Accused
Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.
Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff’s officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.
It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto “chirping” among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation — as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his confession.
“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; “you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.
“First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial — which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable — my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.
“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”
The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.
“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself — which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.
“It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.
“But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”
Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.
“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship — I might say affection — on mine.
“Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation.”
“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. “Where did it take place?”
“About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed.”
The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
“You mean the place where some blood was found?” doubtingly interrogates the judge.
“I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated.”
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court — expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing — kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death — only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.
This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.
“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.
“Quite sure,” responds the accused. “Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one.”
“You saw the body?”
“I must take exception to this course of examination,” interposes the counsel for the accused. “It is quite irregular.”
“Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn’t be allowed,” adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney. “The counsel for the prosecution wouldn’t be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination.”
“That’s the law here, too,” says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. “Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say.”
“I have spoken of a reconciliation,” resumes the accused, “and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.
“It has been made known to you how we parted — Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.
“On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wish him to know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night — as may be remembered by many of you — and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.
“The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.
“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer.”
“And the money with which you paid him?” asks the State prosecutor, “where did you get — ?”
“I protest against this!” interrupts the counsel for the accused.
“Bedarrah!” exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or rather duelling pistols, at the State counsellor; “if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye’d stand a nate chance of gettin’ conthradicted in a different style altogether!”
“Silence, gentlemen!” commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. “Let the accused continue his statement.”
“I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it — on the prairie, or under the roof of my jacalé. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as I desired.
“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal — where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.
“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.
“I had got round the corner — where the trace makes a sharp turn — and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.
“It might be somebody I wouldn’t care to encounter?
“That was the reflection I made; though I wasn’t much caring who. It was more from habit — by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians — that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.
“He did so shortly after.
“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself — only him.
“Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?
“Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.
“I was determined there should be no concealment — no cowardly shrinking on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others — not mine — not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”
Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.
Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.
It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.
She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with the abandon that love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!
If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason — by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!
Chapter Ninety. A Court Quickly Cleared
If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.
It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share — more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.
The thing is not so difficult of explanation. We know that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.
It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.
Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart’s core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!
If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.
Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.
Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!
The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands “Silence in the Court!” the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.
He continues his recital: —
“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.
“There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.
“Instead of the angry scene I expected — perhaps had reason to expect — I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me — at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.
“Need I tell you that I took that hand? Or how heartily I pressed it? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.
“It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after — when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.
“Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.
“We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree.
“Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange — the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.
“It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself — from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket — taking his cloth cloak and Panama hat.
“We then parted — he riding away, myself remaining.
“I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation — by me so little looked for and so much desired.
“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.
“In three seconds I was asleep.
“It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me — after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.
“My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.
“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.
“I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.
“My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!
“I sprang to my feet, and stood listening.
“But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds — mysterious, because unexplained — often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.
“Dismissing the thing from my mind, I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.
“This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.
“It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.
“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears — even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!
“It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.
“Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.
“I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!
“I saw — ”
“The Headless Horseman!” exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.
“The Headless Horseman!” respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.
Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?
There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!
“Yonder he goes — yonder! yonder!”
“No, he’s coming this way! See! He’s making straight for the Fort!”
The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.
Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.
The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.
There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.
Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general débandade, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.
The latter has paused only for an instant — just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild “whigher,” he wheels round, and goes off at full speed — followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!
Chapter Ninety One. A Chase through a Thicket
The chase leads straight across the prairie — towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.
Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line — one after another falling off, — as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after — but with a long interval between — is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death — as if some desperate necessity required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight — as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks — now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake — fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.
“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it — not three hundred yards behind me.
“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.
“By God! but there is a chance!”
At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.
He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the terrain, to see if it will suit.
At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.
Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.
On reflection the scheme is abandoned.
“It won’t do!” he mutters. “There’s too many of them fellows coming after — some that can track, too? They’d find his carcase, sure, — maybe hear the shot?
“No — no. It won’t do!”
He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind — only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above him!
“Yes — he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!”
Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above — were they gifted with the power of speech — could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
“What a fool I’ve been in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward — fast as the circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt — surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.
His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle — with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it is held there, and by the bridle-rein, — that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!
“Caught at last! Thank God — thank God!”
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman — that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!
