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The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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!

Chapter Ninety Two.
A Reluctant Return

Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.

The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.

The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his “cavortings.”

After a brief struggle the animal is secured.

The captor utters an exclamation of joy.

It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.

What is this purpose?

It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.

After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.

A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serapé; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!

The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.

For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal – by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.

“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it, durn ye!”

“What game?” rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. “What the devil are you talking about? This brute’s got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat – so as to make sure of him.”

“Ah, thet’s what ye’re arter. Wal, I reck’n thur’s no need to cut the critter’s throat. We kin skewer it ’ithout thet sort o’ bloody bizness. It air the hoss’s throat ye mean, I s’pose?”

“Of course I mean the horse.”

“In coorse. As for the man, someb’y’s dud thet for him arready —if it be a man. What do you make o’ it, Mister Cash Calhoun?”

“Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven’t had time to get a good look at it. I’ve just this minute come up. By heaven!” he continues, feigning a grand surprise, “I believe it’s the body of a man; and dead!”

“Thet last air probibble enuf. ’Tain’t likely he’d be alive wi’ no head on his shoulders. Thar’s none under the blanket, is thar?”

“No; I think not. There cannot be?”

“Lift it a leetle, an see.”

“I don’t like touching it. It’s such a cursed queer-looking thing.”

“Durn it, ye wan’t so partickler a minnit ago. What’s kim over ye now?”

“Ah!” stammers Calhoun, “I was excited with chasing it. I’d got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers.”

“Never mind then,” interposes Zeb, – “I’ll make a inspecshun o’ it. Ye-es,” he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. “Ye-es, it’s the body o’ a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o’ ven’son in a hard frost!”

“Hullo!” he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serapé, “it’s the body o’ the man whose murder’s bein’ tried – yur own cousin – young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!”

“I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!”

“Geehosophat!” proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, “this air the mysteeriousest thing o’ all. Wal; I reck’n thur’s no use in our stayin’ hyur to spek’late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do ’s to take the body back, jest as it’s sot in the seddle – which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck’n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he’ll kum along ’ithout much coaxin’. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know’d to him. Thur now! Don’t ye see it’s a preevious acquaintance o’ yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o’ late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin’ him. ’Tair some time since he’s hed a curry to his skin.”

While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact – then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.

“I thort so,” exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; “the stellyun’s boun to lead quietly enuf – so long as he’s in kumpny with the maar. ’T all events, ’twon’t be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin’ away. Now, Mister Calhoun,” he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; “don’t ye think we’d better start right away? The trial may still be goin’ on; an’, ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck’n thet we’ve got a witness hyur, as ’ll do somethin’ torst illoocidatin’ the case – either to the hangin’ the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin’ him althogither o’ the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?”

“Oh, certainly. As you say, there’s no reason for our remaining here.”

Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.

Calhoun rides slowly – a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.

At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.

His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.

He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.

He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.

Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant’s notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb’s gesture is sufficient. It plainly says: – “Go back if ye dare!”

The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.

But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind – with which his compagnon du voyage is compelled to put up.

The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.

It approaches the open prairie.

At length the sky line comes in sight.

Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.

Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?

He would give all he owns in the world – all that he ever hopes to own – even Louise Poindexter herself – to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump – to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!

It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards him as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!

After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?

And after all, there may be nothing to be known?

It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?

Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie – close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter – the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!