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As the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, Louise Poindexter was seen upon her spotted mustang, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel – on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!
As the men of the place were all absent – some on the track of the assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. But he thought it was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news.
On hearing she was not the first woman who had that day made inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.
A night was spent in the agony of unrest. The morning brought with it a daring determination to ride to the Alamo alone.
There was no one to stay her – none to say no. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions.
She set foot upon the threshold of the jacale; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain.
There was a woman within the hut!
Like an echo, was the cry from Isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been pronounced – the “Louise” so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain. Isidora had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her that she was supplanted, to have any doubt as to their sincerity.
Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse the two stood eyeing each other.
Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort – those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!
It was an attitude of silent hostility. Not a word was exchanged between them.
It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other’s dress. The same thought was in her heart – perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
The grey horse stood nearest – the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount – the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.
The retreat of her rival – quick and unexpected – held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, but remained in a state of indecision – bewildered by what she saw.
What was she to think of her rival’s sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?
In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.
At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.
“Maurice – wounded – dying! Who has done this?”
There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.
“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it again!”
“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so – to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are – there are. I know one – that excels you all, you angels in heaven! Heaven would be a pleasant place, if she were here.”
“Maurice, dear Maurice! Do you remember her name?”
She bent over him with ears upon the strain – with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.
“Her name is—”
“Is?”
“Louise – Louise – Louise. Why should I conceal it from you – you up here, who know everything that’s down there? Surely you know her – Louise? You should: you could not help loving her – ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine – all – all!”
Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow – upon those pale lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.
When after a while Phelim entered the hut, he was very surprised at seeing Louise there.
“But what does it all mean?” said he, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. “Where’s the young lady? Didn’t you see nothing of a woman, Miss Poindexter?”
“Yes – yes.”
“Oh! you did. And where is she now?”
“Gone away, I believe.”
“Gone away! She hasn’t remained long. I left her here in the cabin not ten minutes ago. She said she was a friend of the master, and wanted to nurse him. Gone, you say? Well, I’m not sorry to hear it. I’m glad to see you, miss; and sure so would the master, if—”
“Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened. Has any one else been to this place?”
Phelim said that there had been plenty of people of all sorts. He told her about the rider without a head who looked liked Master Maurice—”with his horse under him, and his Mexican blanket about his shoulders, and everything just as the young master looks, when he’s mounted”.
Louise assumed that the strange horseman was “someone playing a trick” upon Phelim.
“A trick, miss! Truth that’s just what old Zeb said.”
“He has been here, then?”
“Yes – but not till long after the others.”
“What others?”
“Why the Indians, to be sure – a whole tribe of them. But what’s that?”
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear something? Hush! There it is again! It’s the tramping of horses! They’re just outside.”
Phelim rushed towards the door.
“The place is surrounded with men on horseback. There’s a thousand of them!”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the Creole, “It is they! My father, and I here! How shall I explain it? Holy Virgin, save me from shame!”
Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act.
Besides, her own steed was in front – that spotted creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!
But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat.
He was in danger – from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?
“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father – friends – all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”
Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.
“Pull up, damn you! It’s no use trying to escape. Pull up, I say!”
“Sure, gentlemen, I had no such intentions. I was only going to—”
“Run off, if you’d got the chance. You’d made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton!”
“Ho! what’s this?” inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. “Why – it – it’s Looey’s mustang!”
“It is, uncle,” answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.
“I wonder who’s brought the beast here?”
“Loo herself, I reckon.”
“Nonsense! You’re jesting, Cash?”
“No, uncle; I’m in earnest.”
“You mean to say my daughter has been here?”
“Has been – still is, I take it. Look yonder!”
The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.
“Good God, Louise what means this? A wounded man! Is it he – Henry?”
Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat – Henry’s!
“It is; he’s alive! Thank heaven!” He runs towards the couch.
The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.
“Great God!” gasps the planter; “what is it? Can you explain, Louise?”
“I cannot, father. I’ve been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious.”
Louise tells her father that Mr Gerald was alone when she entered. She couldn’t stay at home alone and endure the uncertainty any longer. She came to the hut because she thought she might find Henry there.
“But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”
“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt – when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”
Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it.
“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent – indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come away! This is no place for a lady. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Someone will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.
The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front. They stand in groups – some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around Phelim who lies upon the grass, tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.
On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them.
Most of them know the young lady by sight – all by fame, or name. They feel surprise – almost wonder – at seeing her there – alone. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!
“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.”
“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?”
“It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”
The searchers were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling a circle.
Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous – among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief. Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun.
It was a trial for Murder – a trial before Justice Lynch—with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground – all except the prisoners.
Of these there are two – Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.
They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.
Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.
The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.
In the minds of most – already predisposed to it – there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.
Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale – the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.
The explanations given by Phelim, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.
There are some who will scarce stay to hear them – some who impatiently cry out, “Let the murderer be hanged!”
As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose it’s a perfect piece of cord.
The vote is taken viva voce.
Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die.
And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. No one seems willing to lay hold of the rope!
Why is the sentence of death not carried out?
For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action – for want of the proofs to produce it.
There is a minority not satisfied – that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered “No.”
Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself – Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the verdict. He was of the opinion that there was a doubt in the case, and they had to give the accused the benefit of it – till he was able to answer the questions. So he suggested postponing the trial.
“What’s the use of postponing it?” cries a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered – I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother – you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”
“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”
“Can you give them, Mister Cassius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.
“Perhaps I can.”
“Let’s have them, then!”
“God knows you’ve had evidence enough – and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it.
“Gentlemen!” says he, “what I’ve got to say now I could have told you long ago. But I didn’t think it was needed. You all know what’s happened between this man and myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful. I’m not; and if it wasn’t that I’m sure he has done the deed – I should still say nothing of what I’ve seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing.”
“What did you hear, Mr Calhoun?” demands the Regulator Chief. “And where, and when, did you hear it?”
“It was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn’t miss him till the morning. Last Tuesday night. I’d gone to bed; and thought Henry had done the same. But what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn’t get any sleep.”
It must have been about midnight when he went up the roof of the hacienda to get cool. While he was smoking, he heard voices. There were two of them. They were up the river, a good way off, in the direction of the town.
“There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were quarrelling. As I listened, I recognised one of the voices; and then the other. The first was my cousin Henry’s – the second that of the man who has murdered him.”
“Please proceed, Mr Calhoun! Let us hear the whole of the evidence you have promised to produce. It will be time enough then to state your opinions.”
“Well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, I was no little surprised at hearing my cousin’s voice – supposing him asleep in his bed. But I knew it was his voice; and I was quite as sure that the other was that of the horse-catcher.
“I thought it uncommonly queer, in Henry being out at such a late hour: as he was never much given to that sort of thing. But out he was. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.”
He listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but he couldn’t make out anything that was said on either side. He just heard Henry calling the mustanger by some strong names, as if his cousin had been first insulted. And then he heard the Irishman threatening to make him regret it.
“I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but before I could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be all over.
“I waited for half an hour, for Henry to come home. He didn’t come; but, as I supposed he had gone back to Oberdoffer’s and fallen in with some of the fellows from the Fort, I concluded he might stay there for a while, and I went back to my bed.
“Now, gentlemen, I’ve told you all I know. My poor cousin never came back to Casa del Corvo – never more laid his side on a bed, – for that we found by going to his room next morning.”
Calhoun’s story went far to produce conviction of the prisoner’s guilt. The concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamorous demand for the execution to proceed.
“Hang! hang!” is the cry from fourscore voices.
The judge himself seems to waver. The minority has been diminished – no longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry.
A ruffian rushes towards the rope. Though none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of Calhoun – with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation.
He lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck of the condemned man – alike unconscious of trial and condemnation.
No one steps forward to oppose the act. The ruffian has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney.
The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. Most express a mute approval. A few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner.
The rope is around his neck – the end with the noose upon it. The other is being swung over the tree.
1) What did Louise learn at the hotel? Where did she ride the next day?
2) Who did Louise see in the jacale? What did the two women feel?
3) What did Louise do after Isidora rode away?
4) Who was Maurice talking about in his delirium?
5) Who were the people that came to the hut? What did they want?
6) Was Calhoun’s story true?
7) What sentence was passed upon Maurice? Who was about to carry it out?
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