Chapter Seventeen

Thank heaven, there is an interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.

“A woman! a beautiful woman!”

It is only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. Like a meteor she glides on without giving a glance on either side – without speech, without halt – till she stoops over the condemned man.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”

They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues —

“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel – condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? My scorn upon you – not men, but murderers!”

“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad – Loo! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away – this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”

“Father, it does concern me!”

“How? – oh true – as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother.”

“I will not – cannot believe it. There was no motive. O men! if you are men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then – then—”

“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Never a doubt about his being guilty. It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else.”

“Justice must take its course!” shouts one. “We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”

“Come, Loo! You must come away. You refuse! Good God! Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!”

“No, father, I will not – till you have promised – till these men promise—”

“We can’t promise you anything, miss – however much we might like it. It’s not a question for women. There’s been a crime committed – a murder, as you yourself know. There’s no mercy for a murderer!”

“No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices. “Let him be hanged – hanged– hanged!”

The lady is led aside – dragged rather than led – by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her – wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd – beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

The lazo is once more passed over the branch; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end.

Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end. Even love has proved powerless to save him! What power on earth can be appealed to after this?

The hangmen, too, appear in a hurry – as if they were in dread of another interruption. They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners.

“Now then, Bill! Are you ready?” shouts one to the other. “Let’s go at it again – both together.”

“No you don’t!” calls out a loud voice; while a man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into the thick of the crowd.

“No you don’t!” he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope. “You, Bill Griffin; pull that piece of horse-hair but the eighth of an inch tighter, and you’ll get a blue pill in your stomach as won’t agree with you. Drop the rope! Drop it!”

Zeb Stump was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by many. Among the last were Bill Griffin, and his fellow rope-holder.

“What damned foolery’s this, boys?” continues the colossus, addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise. “You don’t mean hanging, do you?”

“We do,” answers a stern voice. “And why not?”

“Why not! You’d hang a fellow-citizen without trial?”

“Not much of a fellow-citizen – so far as that goes. Besides, he’s had a trial – a fair trial.”

“Indeed. A human creature to be condemned with his brain in a state of delirium! Sent out of the world without knowing that he’s in it! You call that a fair trial, do you?”

“What matters it, if we know he’s guilty? We’re all satisfied about that.”

“The hell you are! I’m not going to waste words with such as you, Jim Stoddars. But for you, Sam Manly, and yourself, Mister Poindexter – surely you aren’t agreed to this which, in my opinion, would be neither more nor less than murder?”

“You haven’t heard all, Zeb Stump,” interposes the Regulator Chief, with the design to justify his acquiescence in the act. “There are facts—”

“I don’t want to hear them. It’ll be time enough for that, when the thing comes to a regular trial; the which surely nobody here’ll object to.”

“You take too much upon you, Zeb Stump. What is it your business, we’d like to know? The man that’s been murdered wasn’t your son; nor your brother, nor your cousin neither! If he had been, you’d be of a different way of thinking, I take it.”

It is Calhoun who has made this interpolation – spoken before with so much success to his scheme.

“It concerns me – first, because this young fellow’s a friend of mine, though he is Irish, and a stranger; and secondly, because Zeb Stump isn’t going to stand by, and see foul play.”

“Foul play! There’s nothing of the sort. Boys! you’re not going to be scared from your duty by such swagger as this? Let’s make a finish of what we’ve begun. The blood of a murdered man cries out to us. Lay hold of the rope!”

“Do it – one of you – if you dare. You may hang this poor creature as high as you like; but not till you’ve laid Zebulon Stump stretched dead upon the grass, with some of you alongside of him.”

Zeb’s speech is followed by a profound silence. The people keep their places – partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly from the respect due to his courage and generosity. Also, because there is still some doubt in the minds of the Regulators, both as to the expediency, and fairness, of the course which Calhoun is inciting them to take.

With a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has gained, and presses it.

“Give the young fellow a fair trial,” urges he. “Let’s take him to the settlement, and have him tried there. You’ve got no clue proof, that he’s had any hand in the black business. I know how he felt towards young Poindexter. Instead of being his enemy, there isn’t a man on this ground that had more of a liking for him.”

The Regulator Chief says they have proof that there was “bad blood between Gerald and young Poindexter”. But on hearing that the story about their quarrel was told by Calhoun, Zeb says he didn’t believe a word of it. He also has facts that’ll “go a good way towards explication of this mysterious business.”

“What facts?” demands the Regulator Chief. “Let’s hear them, Stump.”

“There’s more than one. First place what do you make of the young fellow being wounded himself? I don’t talk of the scratches you see; I believe they’re done by coyotes that attacked him, after they saw he was wounded. But look at his knee. Something else than coyotes did that. What do you make of it, Sam Manly?”

“Well – some of the boys here think there’s been a struggle between him and the man that’s missing.”

“Yes, that’s he who we mean,” speaks one of the “boys” referred to. “They’ve had a fight, and the mustanger fell among the rocks. That’s what’s given him the swelling in the knee. Besides, there’s the mark of a blow upon his head – looks like it had been the butt of a pistol. As for the scratches, we can’t tell what’s made them. Thorns may be; or wolves if you like. That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won’t do for us.”

Zeb confirmed Phelim’s story about the jaguar and said he’d seen the animal himself and saved the mustanger from its claws. When he was about to tell what he though about the Indians that had been in the hut, according to Phelim, the clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, saluted the ear of everybody at the same instant of time.

Along the top of the cliff, and close to its edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop. There is a woman – a lady – upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her – the string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away!

That woman equestrian – man-seated in the saddle – once seen was never more to be forgotten. It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. Why was she riding at such a dangerous pace?

“Los Indios! Los Indios!” comes the cry of the strange equestrian.

To those who hear it at the jacale it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians.

There are four of them going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

The leading savage has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head! At this moment the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen, – or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. He beholds a hundred men, with a hundred gun barrels!

His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff.

The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger’s hut. The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected.

Answer the following questions:

1) Who interrupted “the stern ceremonial of death”? Did she succeed in saving Maurice?

2) Who interrupted the trial for the second time?

3) How did the assembled party react to the old hunter’s words? What did he suggest?

4) Who was seen by the party? How did it change the state of affairs?