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Headless Horseman
And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?
Chapter Ninety Seven. The Chase of the Assassin
Will God permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?
These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.
They are answered by an instinct of justice — the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.
The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen — soldiers and civilians — spring forward in the pursuit.
The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.
The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.
The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider — as all know — his own.
At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad “whigher!”
Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. A single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.
He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders.
After a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off.
The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where he so late stood a too willing witness!
And the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is the instrument chosen to carry out the Divine decree!
Even the rude Regulators — with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of Divine interference — cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice.
One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.
After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view.
There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a calèche — her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.
It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer — tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: “God have mercy on the guilty man!”
Delayed a little at mounting — and more in procuring the lazo — Maurice Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. On clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead — a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.
He thinks nothing of this. Confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear.
And the blood-bay answers his expectations. As if joyed at being relieved from his inert load — to him an incubus inexplicable — and inspired by the pressure of his master’s knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf — in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.
He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the “field.”
Still on, over the rolling ridges — across the stream-beds between — on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him — as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider.
There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view — a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds — an old mustang mare.
Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs — the keen blade of a bowie-knife.
It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion.
Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. Nor does Zeb expect it. He but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful.
There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. He beholds him with “beard upon the shoulder.” It is he who is pursued.
Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger — the man he would have devoted — was so near devoting — to the most disgraceful of deaths!
He sees this man coming after — his own conscience tells him — as an avenger!
Is it the hand of God that directs this enemy on his track? He trembles as he asks himself the question. From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!
A cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive. He feels as if he were fighting against Fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest!
He sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no longer believing that speed can avail him!
His flight is now merely mechanical — his mind taking no part in the performance.
His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death — not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.
The sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he struggles on towards it.
An opening presents itself. He enters it; and continues his gallop for a half mile further.
He arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy timber. Beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight of his pursuer.
He knows the place, but too well. It has been fatal to him before. Is it to prove so again?
It is. He feels that it is, and rides irresolutely. He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!
He is too late for turning the corner, — too late to seek concealment in the thicket, — and with a cry he reins up.
It is a cry partly of despair, partly of fierce defiance — like the scream of a chased jaguar under bay of the bloodhounds.
It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver.
But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a hishing sound — as from the winding of a sling — and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!
Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke. It is darting straight towards him!
He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot — no time even to avoid the lazo’s loop. Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, “Surrender, you assassin!” he sees the red stallion turn tail towards him; and, in the next instant, experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!
Beyond this he feels, hears, and sees nothing more.
He has been jerked out of his saddle; and the shock received in his collision with the hard turf has knocked the breath out of his body, as well as the sense out of his soul!
Chapter Ninety Eight. Not Dead yet
The assassin lies stretched along the earth — his arms embraced by the raw-hide rope — to all appearance dead.
But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint — it may be a feint — and to make sure it is not the latter, he remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain.
The blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a tree — ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest sign.
It is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of Tamaulipas and Texas.
Oft — too oft — has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene — with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak!
Even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report of the pistol, are hovering in the air — their naked necks elongated in eager anticipation of a feast!
One touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would give them what they want.
“It would serve the scoundrel right,” mutters the mustanger to himself. “Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head! There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell, — or himself, if he be still alive.
“I have my own thoughts about it. I know that he loves her; and it may be that the brother stood in his way.
“But how, and why? That is the question that requires an answer. Perhaps it can only be answered by God and himself?”
“Yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur,” interposes a voice breaking in on the soliloquy. “Thur’s one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as well as eyther o’ them ye’ve made mention o’; and thet individooal air ole Zeb Stump, at your sarvice. But ’taint the time to talk o’ sech things now; not hyur ain’t the place neythur. We must take him back unner the live oak, whar he’ll git treated accordin’ to his desarvins. Durn his ugly picter! It would sarve him right to make it uglier by draggin’ him a spell at the eend o’ yur trail-rope.
“Never mind beout that. We needn’t volunteer to be Henry Peintdexter’s ’vengers. From what they know now, I reck’n that kin be trusted to the Regulators.”
“How are we to get him back? His horse has galloped away!”
“No difeequilty beout that, Mister Gerald. He’s only fainted a bit; or maybe, playin’ possum. In eyther case, I’ll soon roust him. If he ain’t able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur’s the critter as ’ll carry him. I’m sick o’ the seddle myself, an I reck’n the ole gal’s a leetle bit sick o’ me — leestwise o’ the spur I’ve been a prickin’ into her. I’ve made up my mind to go back on Shanks’s maar, an as for Mister Cash Calhoun, he’s welkim to hev my seat for the reeturn jerney. Ef he don’t stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack him acrost the crupper, like a side o’ dead buck-meat. Yo-ho! he begins to show sign! He’ll soon rekiver his senses — all seven o’ ’em, I reck’n — an then he kin mount the maar o’ hisself.
“Yee-up, ole hoss!” continues Zeb, grasping Calhoun by the collar of his coat, and giving him a vigorous shake. “Yee-up, I say; an kum along wi’ us! Ye’re wanted. Thar’s somebody desirin’ to have a talk wi’ you!”
“Who? where?” inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and staring unsteadily around him. “Who wants me?”
“Wal; I do for one; an — ”
“Ah! you it is, Zeb Stump! and — and — ?”
“An’ that air’s Mister Maurice Gerald the mowstanger. You’ve seed him afore, I reck’n? He wants ye for two. Beside, thar’s a good grist o’ others as ud like to see ye agin — back thar by the Port. So ye’d best get upon yur legs, an’ go along wi’ us.”
The wretched man rises to his feet. In so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo.
“My horse?” he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. “Where is my horse?”
“Ole Nick only knows whar he air by this time. Like enuf gone back to the Grand, whar he kim from. Arter the gallupin ye’ve gi’n him, I reck’n he air sick o’ the swop; an’s goed off to take a spell o’ rest on his native pasters.”
Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment. The swop! Even this, too, is known to him!
“Now, then,” pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience. “’Twon’t do to keep the Court a-waitin’. Are ye riddy?”
“Ready for what?”
“Fust an foremost, to go back along wi’ me an Mister Gerald. Second an second-most, to stan’ yur trial.”
“Trial! I stand trial!”
“You, Mister Cash Calhoun.”
“On what charge?”
“The churge o’ killin’ Henry Peintdexter — yur own cousin.”
“It’s a lie! A damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it — !”
“Shet up yur head!” cries Zeb, with an authoritative gesture. “Ye’re only wastin’ breath. Ef this chile ain’t mistook about it, ye’ll need all ye’ve got afore long. Kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi’ us! The judge air awaitin’; the jury air awaitin’; an justice air waitin’, too — in the shape o’ three score Reg’lators.”
“I’m not going back,” doggedly responds Calhoun. “By what authority do you command me? You have no warrant?”
“Hain’t I, though?” interrupts Zeb. “What d’ye call this?” he adds, pointing to his rifle. “Thur’s my warrant, by the grace o’ God; an by thet same, this chile air a goin’ to execute it. So no more o’ yur durned palaver: for I ain’t the sort to stan’ it. Take yur choice, Mister Cash Calhoun. Mount thet old maar o’ mine, an kum along quickly; or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o’ merchandice: for back yur boun’ to go — I swar it by the Eturnal!”
Calhoun makes no reply. He glances at Stump — at Gerald — despairingly around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the breast-pocket of his coat — the counterpart of that shaken out of his hand, as the rope settled around him.
He makes an effort to reach the pistol — feeble, because only half resolved.
He is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of Zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level.
“Quick!” exclaims the hunter. “Mount, Mister Calhoun! Thur’s the maar awaitin’ for ye. Inter the seddle, I say!”
Like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman. He does so, from a consciousness that there is death — certain death — in disobeying them.
Mechanically he mounts the mare; and, without resistance, suffers her to be led away from the spot.
Zeb, afoot, strides on in advance.
The mare, at bridle-length, follows upon his tracks.
The mustanger rides reflectingly behind; thinking less of him held at the end of his lazo, than of her, who by a generous self-sacrifice, has that day riveted around his heart a golden chain — only by death to be undone!
Chapter Ninety Nine. Attempted Murder and Suicide
After its second involuntary recess — less prolonged than the first — the Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.
It is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the space canopied by the tree.
From the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed to a lurid red — as if there was anger in the sky!
It is but an accident of the atmosphere — the portent of an approaching storm.
For all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances.
It would seem as if Heaven’s wrath was acting in concert with the passions of Earth!
Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. He has been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses.
In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar!
This is the only change observable.
The judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before; though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the accused.
His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered.
It has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt. The evidence is already before them; and though entirely circumstantial — as in most cases of murder — the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive and complete.
There is but one missing link — if link it may be called — the motive.
The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body. The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that Henry Poindexter’s death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after his receiving the shot.
Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?
No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. No one expects him to do so — save to his Maker.
Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.
The trial has come to a close; the verdict Guilty has been given; and the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black cap — that dread emblem of death — preparatory to pronouncing the sentence.
In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for sentence.
He starts at the invitation — falling, as it does, like a death-knell upon his ear.
He looks wildly around. Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.
There is not even pity. All appear to frown upon him.
His confederates — those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him — are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. They have shrunk out of sight — before the majesty of the law, and the damning evidence of his guilt.
Despite his social standing — and the wealth to sustain it — he sees himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin in Texas!
His demeanour is completely changed. In place of that high haughty air — oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism — he looks cowed and craven.
And not strange that he should.
He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin — on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to contemplate.
To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.
All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes — sunken as they are in the midst of two livid circles. He has the air of one on the eve of making confession.
Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? Is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it?
The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him.
There is silence even among the cicadas.
It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?
“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”
“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”
Not during all the day — despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises — have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter — shot him dead in the chapparal.”
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it — proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man — once more in their midst.
Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.
“I know that I’ve got to die,” proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. “You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.
“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.”
A new “sensation” makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.
No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.
“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”
The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.
“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”
The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him — still solemnly austere.
“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t — that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I see standing before me.”
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.
“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.
“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.
“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot — meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serapé still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”
The “sensation” again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts — the latter prolonged into cries of retribution — mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
“Now!” cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”
There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech — the last of Calhoun’s life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.
The spectators have just time to see the pistol — as it glints under the slanting sunbeams — when two shots are heard in quick succession.
With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!
One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger, — the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!
