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It was nearly noon when Phelim awoke from his sleep; and only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.
It was Zeb Stump who administered the douche.
After parting from Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had taken the road, or rather trail, which he knew to be the most direct one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.
From what Louise Poindexter had told him – from a knowledge of the people who composed the party of searchers – he knew that Maurice Gerald was in danger.
Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them – coupled with caution to keep out of their way.
Phelim, however, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself.
As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.
It was the first time that Zeb Stump had heard of the Headless Horseman.
At first Zeb wasn’t disposed to believe Phelim. He was puzzled, however, by Phelim’s persistence in declaring it to be a fact.
“How could I be mistaken?” argued the Irishman. “Didn’t I see Master Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minute? All except the head. And haven’t I told you that Tara went away after him, and then I heard the dog growling, just before the Indians—”
“Indians!” exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. “Indians playing with Spanish cards! White Indians, I reckon.”
“Do you think they weren’t Indians, after all?”
“Never a matter what I think. There’s no time to talk of that now. Go on, and tell me of all you’ve seen and heard.”
Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult conglomeration of circumstances – events without causes – causes without sequence – crimes committed without any probable motive – mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.
A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter – a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery – Maurice having departed for the prairies – Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness – in all this the sequence was natural and complete.
Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.
Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief.
The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men – he did not believe them to be Indians – had been making free with the mustanger’s hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed.
So absorbed was he with these thoughts, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.
It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature’s presence. A shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.
“Oh, Mister Stump, look at Tara! See! there’s something tied about his neck. It wasn’t there when he left. What do you think it is?”
The hunter’s eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal’s neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides – a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!
The packet was laid open; it contained a card!
There was a name upon the card, and writing – writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was blood!
Zeb Stump soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.
“Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; “and thank my old schoolmaster. He lives, Phelim! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can’t read. No matter. He lives!”
“Who? Master Maurice? Then the Lord be thanked—”
“Wagh! there’s no time to thank him now. Get a blanket and some pieces of horse-hide thong. You can do it while I catch up the old mare. Quick! Half an hour lost, and we may be too late!”
Guided by the instructions written upon the card, Zeb Stump had made all haste towards the rendezvous there given.
He had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the spot, at that critical moment when a jaguar was preparing to spring upon the mustanger who in despair steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal. But instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!
A man of colossal size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph.
“I can see no wound worth making a mess about,” said Zeb after stooping down and giving a short examination. “There’s a considerable swelling of the knee; but the leg isn’t fractured, else he couldn’t stand up on it.”
Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around the mustanger. He had already noticed the Panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through his mind.
He knew that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican sombrero – a very different kind of head-gear.
Zeb fancied he had seen that hat before, and on some other head.
On looking inside the hat he read the name well known to him —
“HENRY POINDEXTER.”
The cloak now came under his notice. It, too, carried marks, by which he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner.
“Hats, heads, and everything. Hats on the wrong head; heads in the wrong place! There’s something gone astray! It is no use looking to him,” he added, glancing towards Maurice, “for an explanation; at least till he’s slept off this delirium that’s on him.”
It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the jacale.
In strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose.
He was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces bending over him. He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with inconsequence.
Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sat up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer. Zeb had requested Phelim to lie down – telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake.
And alone he sat throughout the live-long night.
Maurice’s speeches were disjointed – incongruous, and almost unintelligible. Comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances already known to him, before the morning light had entered the jacale, Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no longer a living man!
1) Who woke Phelim up?
2) What did Phelim relate to Zeb?
3) Who brought the news about Maurice? How?
4) What was about to happen when Zeb and Phelim arrived?
5) Whose hat and cloak did Zeb find?
6) Why was there no use talking to Maurice?
As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of the Rio Grande – separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda Martinez. But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to her uncle and aunt upon the Leona.
Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.
Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives – fonder as they grew older? If not, what was her motive?
She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice Gerald.
With like frankness may it be told, that she loved him.
Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart. As already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.
Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified exclamations.
“What is causing the commotion?”
This is the question asked by Isidora.
The son of the American landowner, who have lately taken possession of Casa del Corvo, has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.
Indians are reported to have done the deed.
Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio’s servitors.
The name of the victim recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that his sister is said to be wonderfully beautiful, and that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother’s death – only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.
Some hours later, and this feeling becomes changed to an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man – by Maurice the mustanger!
This later edition of the news while tranquilising Don Silvio’s servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.
The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.
She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with “full particulars of the murder,” so far as known.
With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez; and by day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding along the banks of the Alamo!
All night long the invalid lay awake. All night long the hunter sat by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.
Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.
He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal howl, and come running scared-like into the hut.
Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.
The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.
There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be. But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that resembled the clinking of a horse’s shoe struck against a loose stone.
He soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct – a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back – both horse and man distinctly seen in dark silhouette against the clear sky.
The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.
That of the man could be traced – only from the saddle to the shoulders. Above, there was nothing – not even the semblance of a head!
Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. Even if he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same – a horseman without a head.
Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame.
“The Irish has been right after all. I thought he had dreamt of it in his drink. But no. He has seen something; and so have I myself. “
“Why can’t I get closer to it?” he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. “I must have a try! I reckon it won’t eat me – not if it is old Nick; and if it’s him, I’ll just satisfy myself whether a bullet can go through his infernal carcass without throwing him out of the saddle.”
The hunter stalked off through the trees – upon the path that led up to the bluff.
The horse stood at a halt. He was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into the gorge. His rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine; or, what was more likely, scented him.
Zeb Stump was firm enough to carry out the purpose that had prompted him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he had to deal with a human being, or the devil!
In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon the heart of the Headless Horseman.
In another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that just then flashed across the brain of the hunter.
Maybe he was about to commit murder? What if it was a human creature?
“Hello stranger! You’re out for a pretty late ride, aren’t you? Haven’t you forgotten to fetch your head with you?” said the hunter.
There was no reply. Only the horse snorted, on hearing the voice.
“Look here, stranger! Old Zeb Stump from the State of Kentucky, is the individual who’s now speaking to you. He isn’t one of that sort to be trifled with. I warn you to declare your game. If you’re playing possum, you’d better throw up your hand; or you may lose both your stake and your cards! Speak out now, before you are shot!”
Less response than before.
“Six seconds more – I’ll give you six more; and if you don’t show speech by that time, I’ll let drive at your guts. If you’re but a dummy it won’t do you any harm. But if you’re a man playing possum, you deserve to be shot for being such a damned fool! One-two-three-four-five-six!”
Where “seven” should have come in, had the count been continued, was heard the sharp crack of a rifle; then the dull “thud” as the deadly missile buried itself in some solid body.
The only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of the horse. The rider still kept his seat in the saddle!
The animal went off at a furious gallop; leaving Zeb Stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.
He was not only surprised at the result, but terrified. He was certain that his bullet had passed through the man’s heart – or where it should be – as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs.
As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him.
It was time to awaken Phelim, so that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid.
Phelim, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, was ready to undertake the task.
However, his vigil was of short duration. Scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse’s hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.
He could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the jacale. But the hoofstroke told him there was only one; and this it was that excited his apprehension.
His fears were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.
It was a woman. It was Isidora.
It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden – the first that hers had ever rested upon him. They were equally unknown to one another.
Isidora, speaking in the best american she could command, asked Phelim if Maurice Gerald lived in that place. On hearing a positive answer, she asked if he was at home and said that she wished to see him. Phelim told her that she couldn’t see his master because he wasn’t in a condition to see anyone—”unless it was the priest or a doctor.”
“Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?”
“Don’t I tell you! What would be the use of concealing it? It would do no good; neither can it do him any harm to speak about it? You might say it before his face, and he won’t contradict you. He wouldn’t know you from his great grandmother.”
“All the more reason why I should see him. I may be of service. I am his friend – the friend of Don Mauricio.”
“How am I to know that? For all your pretty face, you might be his deadliest enemy.”
“I must see him – I must – I will – I shall!”
As Isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle, and advanced in the direction of the door.
At that moment Zeb Stump appeared at the door of the hut, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance.
“I beg your pardon, senorita. You can speak a bit of American, can you? So much the better. You’ll be able to tell me what you want out here. You haven’t lost your way, have you?”
“No, senor,” was the reply, after a pause.
Isidora told Zeb that she was a friend of Maurice and wanted to see him.
“Well; I reckon, there can be no objection to your seeing him,” answered Zeb. “He is wounded a bit; and just now a little delirious. But I don’t see any harm in it. Women make the best of nurses. If you want to take a spell by the side of the young fellow, you’re welcome – seeing you’re his friend. You can look after him, till we get back.”
“Oh! I shall nurse him tenderly!”
“If you’re bound to stay then,” rejoined Zeb after a pause, “don’t you mind what he’ll be palavering about. You may hear some queer talk out of him, about a man being murdered, and the like. That’s natural for any one who is delirious. Don’t be scared at it. Beside, you may hear him talking a deal about a woman, as he’s got upon his mind.”
“A woman! What is her name?”
“Well, it is the name of his sister, I reckon. Fact, I’m sure of it being his sister.”
“Oh! Mister Stump. If you are speaking of Master Maurice—”
“Shut up, you damned fool! What is it to you what I’m speaking about? You can’t understand such things. Come along!” he continued, moving off, and motioning Phelim to follow him.
Isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion!
And yet it was but a word – a little word – of only two syllables!
1) Why did Isidora’s visits to her relations upon the Leona become more frequent?
2) What news made Isidora go to the village hotel? Where did she go after that?
3) What did Zeb Stump decide to do when he saw the headless horseman?
4) What did Zeb tell Isidora before leaving her with Maurice?
5) What word made Isidora recoil from Maurice?
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