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Headless Horseman
It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.
His confession — irregular as it may have been — has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.
Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.
Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?
Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter — with or without Cassius Calhoun — with or without the Headless Horse, man — now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.
It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability — much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west — denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.
They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks — or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance — unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!
But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate — that section of it close to the Sierra Madro — and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.
Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.
Their impatience may be traced to a different cause — a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.
It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground — every woman as well — chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.
Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line — where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.
Chapter Ninety Five. The Last Witness
The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.
The latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation — when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. Then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view.
Thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. Its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone.
This time the tale is true. There are shadows upon the skyline — shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion.
A wild shout — the old Saxon “huzza,” swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree!
Two of them are easily recognised, as Zeb Stump and Cassius Calhoun. The third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken.
The first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant — when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings.
Though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe.
The shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence — unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud.
Many go forward to meet the approaching cortège; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground.
The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.
Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.
Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. In the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.
Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree — into the presence of the Court.
“Now, judge!” says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, “an’ you twelve o’ the jury! hyur’s a witness as air likely to let a glimp o’ daylight into yur dulliberashuns. What say ye to examinin’ him?”
An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, “O God, it is he!” A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. It is his father!
A cry proceeds from a more distant point — a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. It is his sister!
After a time, Woodley Poindexter is led away — unresisting, — apparently unconscious of what is going on around him.
He is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant — his daughter.
But the carriage keeps its place. She who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the Court has declared its sentence — ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end!
Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the “witness-box.”
By order of the judge, the examination proceeds — under direction of the counsel for the accused.
Many formalities are dispensed with. The old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases — as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law!
After the following fashion does Zeb proceed: —
“Fust heerd o’ this ugly bizness on the second day arter young Peint war missin’. Heerd on it as I war reeturnin’ from a huntin’ spell down the river. Heerd thar wur a suspeeshun ’beout the mowstanger hevin’ kermitted the murder. Knowd he wan’t the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. He wan’t at home, though his man Pheelum war; so skeeart ’beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o’ anythin’.
“Wal, whiles we war palaverin’, in kim the dog, wi’ somethin’ tied roun’ his neck — the which, on bein’ ’zamined, proved to be the mowstanger’s curd. Thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which I seed to be blood.
“Them words tolt to whosomedever shed read ’em, whar the young fellur war to be foun’.
“I went thar, takin’ the other two — thet air Pheelum an the houn’ — along wi’ me.
“We got to the groun’ jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin’ his guts clawed out by one o’ them ere spotted painters — the Mexikins call tigers — tho’ I’ve heern the young fellur hisself gie ’em the name o’ Jug-wars.
“I put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o’ it.
“Wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. We hed to toat him thar on a sort o’ streetcher; seein’ as he wan’t able to make trades o’ hisself. Beside, he wur as much out o’ his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin’ time.
“We got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun’ him.”
The witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacalé. Would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? He resolves to be reticent.
This does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him.
It results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred — up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house.
“Now,” says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, “since ye’ve made me tell all I know ’beout thet part o’ the bizness, thur’s somethin’ ye haint thought o’ askin’, an the which this child’s boun’ to make a clean breast o’.”
“Proceed, Mr Stump!” says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.
“Wal, what I’m goin’ to say now haint so much to do wi’ the prisoner at the bar, as wi’ a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin’ in his place. I won’t say who thet man air. I’ll tell ye what I know, an hev foun’ out, an then you o’ the jury may reckon it up for yurselves.”
The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath — as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.
No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.
“Wal, fellur citizens!” continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, “arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under — struck down in his tracks — wiped out o’ the world.
“I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan’t, an kedn’t be, the mowstanger — Maurice Gerald.
“Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it’s done the rest o’ ye — them as haint made up thur minds ’ithout reflekshun.
“Wal; thinkin’ as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain’t goin’ to say thet appearances wan’t agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.
“For all thet, I wan’t goin’ to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.
“I knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin’ to the place, an hoss tracks goin’ from it; an damn ’em! thur wur too many o’ ’em, goin’ everywhur — else the thing mout a been eezy enough.
“But thar wur one partickler set I’d got a down upon; an them I detarmined to foller up to the eend o’ creashun.
“They war the footmarks o’ an Amerikin hoss, hevin’ three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi’ a bit broken off the eend o’ it. This hyur’s the eyedentikul piece o’ iron!”
The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.
He holds it on high — enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is.
“Now, Mr Judge,” he continues, “an’ you o’ the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. He went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o’ it. He went right upon the track o’ both, an stopped short o’ the place whur the crime wur committed.
“But the man that rud him didn’t stop short. He kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. It war the third hoss — him wi’ the broken shoe — thet carried the murderer!”
“Go on, Mr Stump!” directs the judge. “Explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement.”
“What I mean, judge, air jest this. The man I’m speakin’ o’ tuk stan’ in the thicket, from which stan’ he fired the shet thet killed poor young Peintdexter.”
“What man? Who was it? His name! Give his name!” simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.
“I reckon yu’ll find it thar.”
“Where?”
“Whar! In thet thur body as sits ’ithout a head, lookin’ dumbly down on ye!
“Ye kin all see,” continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, “ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o’ the striped blanket. Thur’s a hole in the centre o’ it. Ahint that hole I reck’n thur’ll be another, in the young fellur’s karkidge. Thar don’t appear any to match it at the back. Thurfor I konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o’ him. S’posin’ we strip off his duds, an see!”
There is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. Two or three of the spectators — Sam Manly one of them — step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serapé.
As at the inauguration of a statue — whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration — the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the Texan tree, while the serapé is being raised from the shoulders of the Headless Horseman.
It is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. These are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage.
It is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue cottonade — box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat.
The limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. But only the thighs can be seen — the lower extremities being concealed by the “water-guards” of spotted skin tightly stretched over them.
Around the waist — twice twined around it — is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse’s hair. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. It is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing — surcingle fashion — under the belly of the horse.
Everything as the accused has stated — all except the head.
Where is this?
The spectators do not stay to inquire. Guided by the speech of Zeb Stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it.
Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.
It is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. These have saturated the soft cottonade — now seemingly desiccated.
The other shot-hole shows no similar signs. It is a clear round cut in the cloth — about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. There is no blood stain around it.
“It,” says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, “it signifies nothin’. It’s the bullet I fired myself out o’ the gully; the same I’ve ben tellin’ ye o’. Ye obsarve thar’s no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. The other air different. It wur the shot as settled him; an ef I ain’t dog-gonedly mistaken, ye’ll find the bit o’ lead still inside o’ the corp. Suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!”
The proposal meets with no opposition. On the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as Zeb has suggested.
The stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle.
It feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking, — the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. The lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy!
With respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it — Sam Manly acting as the chief.
Directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound — that with the circle of extravasated blood.
The dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath.
In the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. Something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe — the point of a bowie-knife. It has the feel of a leaden bullet. It is one!
It is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury.
Despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel — despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib — there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.
Oh! those tell-tale initials! There are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. Some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet — when the killing of the jaguar was contested!
He who made that boast has now reason to regret it!
“But where is he?”
The question is beginning to be asked.
“What’s your explanation, Mr Stump?” is another question put by the counsel for the accused.
“Don’t need much, I reck’n,” is the reply. “He’d be a durnationed greenhorn as can’t see, clur as the light o’ day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet.”
“By whom fired, do you think?”
“Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar’s no chance o’ mistakin’ who it kums from. Thar’s only the ineeshuls thur; but they’re plain enuf, I reck’n, an speak for theirselves.”
“I see nothing in all this,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “There’s a marked bullet, it is true — with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his — as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn’t be the first time that a murder has been committed — by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning — a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?”
“Besides,” continues the specious pleader, “where is the motive for a murder such as this would be — supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don’t suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime.”
“Ain’t thar though?” asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer’s speech. “What do ye call this?”
Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper — crumpled — scorched along the edges — and blackened as with gunpowder.
“This I foun’,” says he, surrendering it to the jury, “stuck fast on the thorn o’ a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o’ the barrel o’ a gun. It kim out o’ the same gun as discharged thet bullet — to which it hed served for waddin’. As this chile takes it, it’s bin the backin’ o’ a letter. Thur’s a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi’ the ineeshuls on the bit o’ lead. The jury kin read the name for tharselves.”
The foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud: —
Captain Cassius Calhoun!
Chapter Ninety Six. Stole Away!
The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.
It is accompanied by a cry — sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.
It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.
Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.
Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.
After a short time spent in examining the envelope — passed from hand to hand among the jurymen — the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.
He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions — those that originally prompted him to seek for “sign” upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught — giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.
This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.
But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.
They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped — themselves along with it; and — swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit — revenge, proceeding from self-reproach — they call loudly for a change in the programme.
The Court is assailed with the cries: —
“Let the Irishman go — he is innocent! We don’t want any farther evidence. We’re convinced of it. Let him go free!”
Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.
It is followed by other speeches equally earnest: —
“Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It’s he that’s done the deed! That’s why he’s shown so bitter against the other! If he’s innocent, he’ll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we’re waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man’s been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!”
The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.
The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.
The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.
There is only one pair that looks in the right direction — those of Zeb Stump.
The ci-devant witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare — still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.
With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare’s back, and spurs her from under the tree.
At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.
Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate — making for a particular quarter of the cavallada.
“’Tis he! ’Tis Calhoun!” cries the voice of one who has recognised him.
“Trying to steal off!” proclaims another.
“Follow him!” shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. “Follow, and bring him back!”
There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed — by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.
Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his — a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.
It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.
From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal — the “hue and cry.”
Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal’s back.
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie — going off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track — their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.
“Bring him back — dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase, — supposed to have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this — coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.
Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative — a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer’s bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger’s pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace — at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following — within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries — one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket — with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit — Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.
What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?
Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?
Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.
There is a still farther beyond — a border. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.
There are, indeed, two borders. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice — often does — by an adroit migration from one to the other — a mere change of residence and nationality.
But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.
Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the other border — that beyond which roams the savage Comanche — the Ishmaelite of the prairies — whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man’s blood!
In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality — perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!
It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the Llano Estacado.
He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.
He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him — the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation — more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved — perhaps never to be seen again!
But he has no time to think even of her. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind — fast travelling upon his tracks!
The murderer makes haste — all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang — swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.
Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles — most of them going at a gallop.
But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race — tough as terriers — it will go fifty — if need be a hundred — without staggering in its tracks.
What a stroke of good fortune — that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.
He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.
He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.
Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.
Who, then, can come up with him?
He congratulates himself on the chance that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!
