Chapter Thirteen

There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger. Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Passing through the alternations of light and shadow – apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible – goes a group of mounted men.

Though few in number – as there are only four of them – they are formidable to look upon.

They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts.

They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacale of Maurice Gerald is evidently their destination.

They dismount at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continue their advance on foot.

Their stealthy tread and the precaution to keep inside the shadow proclaim design, to reach the jacale unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.

The four Comanches steal up to the door. It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears and stand silently listening.

No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!

“It is possible,” says their chief – speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Spanish, “just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this.”

The chief goes to the shed to find out if the horse is there. Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. No horse in it.

“He’s not here, nor has he been this day!” he exclaims.

The savages decide to go inside and make sure. They enter the hut and see a man lying in the middle of the floor!

“Is he asleep?”

“He must be dead not to have heard us?”

“Neither,” says the chief, after examining him, “only dead drunk! He’s the servitor of the Irishman. I’ve seen this fellow before.”

The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him. The chief is especially anxious to see him.

What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?

Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there. They have come to murder him!

Their chief will gain a thousand dollars by the deed – besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. The others are only his instruments and assistants.

The travesty need not be carried any further. Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.

“He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. The rest remain here with me. He must come that way from the Leona. We can meet him under the big cypress tree. Take your stand at the top of the gorge. From that point you have a view of the whole plain. He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. As soon as you’ve set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know.”

Barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacale, proceeds to his post upon the top of the cliff.

The others seat themselves inside the hut. A pack of Spanish cards is soon displayed upon the table. Absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without note being taken of the time.

All at once a stertorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game.

It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacale.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their ma-chetes.

Phelim is only saved by a contingency – another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent.

Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath.

“He is coming – on the bluff already – quick, comrades, quick!”

In a score of seconds they are under the cliff. They take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the approach of their victim.

“Don’t kill him!” mutters Miguel Diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest tone. “I want to have him alive – for the matter of an hour or so. I have my reasons. Lay hold of him and his horse. If there is resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first.”

Soon he for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the slope, and is passing under the shadow of the cypress.

“Down with your weapons. To the ground!” cries El Coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the saddle.

There is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest!

The horse alone shows resistance. He rears upon his hind legs, makes ground backward, and draws his captors after him.

He carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the shadow.

Merciful heaven! what does it mean?

His captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout. It is a scream of wild terror!

Not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have been left tied.

Mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away.

They have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more courageous than theirs – a horseman without a head!

***

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

So questioned El Coyote and his terrified companions. So, too, had Phelim interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the terror.

In a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others, to whom the headless horseman had shown himself – the party of searchers who accompanied the major.

Though frightened by the strange phenomenon, they were none the less puzzled to explain it.

“What do you make of it, gentlemen?” said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: “I confess it mystifies me.”

“An Indian trick?” suggested one. “Some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?”

“I don’t think it’s Indian,” said the major; “I don’t know what to think. What’s your opinion of it, Spangler?”

“I know no more than yourself, major,” replied he. “It must either be a man, or a dummy! By all means. We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. Forward!”

They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider. But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail.

They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal. The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward. It was no longer a mere rumour.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations.

The civilians might have stayed. There was no intention to abandon the search. That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them – what he had hitherto kept back – the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker’s interpretation of it. As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, but duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger’s guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found – one or both, living or dead.

***

Zeb Stump has just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder.” The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house.

When he asked for Mr Poindexter, Pluto told him that master had been there a quarter of an hour ago. He’d gone to “the horse prairies with Master Calhoun, and lots of other white gentlemen”.

“And your young Master Henry – is he gone too?” asked Zeb.

“Oh Master Stump! That’s the trouble. That’s the whole of it. Master Henry has gone too. He’s never come back. The horse has been brought home all covered over with blood. Ho! ho! The folks say Master Henry is dead.”

“Dead! Are you in earnest?”

“Oh! I am, Master Stump. They all have gone to search after the body.”

“Here! Take these things to the kitchen. There’s a gobbler, and some chickens. Where can I find Miss Louise?”

“Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!” replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it. “Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you. My brother is missing. He has not been seen since the night before last. His horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. Oh Zeb! it’s fearful to think of it!”

“Sure enough that is ugly news. As they’re still searching I might be some help at that business; and maybe you won’t mind telling me the particulars?”

She told him everything she knew. The garden scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people – that Maurice was the murderer.

“It’s a lie!” cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: “the thing’s impossible. The mustanger isn’t the man to do such a deed as that. If there had been a quarrel and hot blood between them—”

“No – no!” cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. “It was all over. Henry was reconciled. He said so; and Maurice—”

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears.

“Hoh – oh!” muttered Zeb; “there has been something? Do you say, Miss Louise, there was a quarrel between your brother—”

“Dear, dear Zeb!” cried she, removing her hands, “promise me, you will keep my secret? Promise it, as a friend – as a brave true-hearted man! You will – you will?”

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man – except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence.

“It is for that I’ve been so anxious to see you. There are many rough men along with papa. As they went away I heard them use wild words. They talked of lynching and the like. Dear Zeb, for my sake – for his, whom you call friend-reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger!”

“There’s some truth in what you say,” interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. “There might be a smell of danger for the young fellow; and I’ll do what I can to avert it.”

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance and striding out of the verandah.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who were the four Comanches? Why did they come to the mustanger’s hut?

2) Who was there in the jacale? What was he doing?

3) Who did the Mexicans take the headless horseman for?

4) Who became the party of searchers’ new suspect? Why? Who didn’t believe in his guilt?

5) What secret did Louise confide to Zeb? What did she ask him for?