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Civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo came back on the same day and reported: that no Indians had been there!
They came provided with proofs of their statement which consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles – wigs of horse-hair, cocks’ feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the hollow of a cottonwood tree!
There still were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the story of a party of white men “playing Indian”; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse—mad as a maniac!
Zeb Stump headed his horse in the direction of the Port.
The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of Fort Inge. Looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entree at all times, and could go in without countersign. The adjutant announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment.
From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.
“Ah! Mr Stump! Glad to see you so soon. Have you made any discovery in this queer affair? From your quick return, I can almost say you have. Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still adhere to my old opinion – that he’s innocent. What have you learnt?”
“Well, Major,” answered Zeb, removing his hat; “what I’ve learnt isn’t much, though enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn’t intend to come, till I’d gone a bit of a journey across the prairies. I came back here to have a word with you.”
Zeb told the major that he was going to make “a short excursion across to the Nueces” and asked him to keep back the trial. The old hunter had his own ideas concerning the case and needed time to verify them.
“Can you promise me three days? Before the trial comes on?” asked Zeb.
“I think there will be no difficulty about that. I shall undertake to do that.”
The hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.
On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare against the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.
“It’s no use beginning near the Fort or the town. The ground about both on them is paddled with horse tracks. I’d better strike out into the prairie at once, and take a track crossways of the Rio Grande route. By doing that I may fluke on the footmark I’m in search of. Yes! that’s the most sensible idea.”
In the midst of the open prairie there is a coppice, or clump of trees – of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. About two hundred yards from its edge a horse is quietly pasturing. He is the same that carries the headless rider.
The weird equestrian seems indifferent to a score of large dark birds that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. Three times one of the birds has alighted upon him – first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between – upon the spot where the head should be!
This scene was seen by human eyes; and they belong to the only man in all Texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.
He gazed upon it from the “shore” of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.
His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter.
“If he’d only come twenty yards nearer, I could fetch him. My gun won’t carry that distance. I’d miss him for sure, and then it’ll be all up. I may never get the chance again.”
Leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, the speaker continued to scan the strange shape.
“It’s his horse – sure as shooting! His saddle, serape, and all. How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”
Another pause of reflection.
“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing got stuck there, I’ve got to get it back.”
Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.
“Proh-proh-proshow! Come kindly! come, old horse!”
The Texan steed did not seem to understand the invitation; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him. And the horse carried his rider straight off over the prairie.
A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.
Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman passing rapidly beyond reach – unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him.
Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history, Zeb Stump strode on, translating the “sign” of the prairie. Alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention directed.
A sound startled him from his all-engrossing occupation. It was the report of a rifle.
Instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes.
A horseman, just clearing himself from the cloud of smoke – now falling, dispersed over the prairie – came galloping on towards the spot where Zeb stood. It was the horseman without a head.
Going at full speed, he went past the trembling hunter, and the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump’s optics a form well known to him. The horse, the saddle, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers – even the hat upon the head – were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same – notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.
The episode – strange as unexpected – seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by?
While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie.
Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them.
Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw a man on horseback – a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders. He was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse.
There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider. He was soon within identifying distance. It was Captain Cassius Calhoun.
“I might have known it would be him”, muttered the backwoodsman; “and if I’m not mistaken about it, here’s going to be another chapter out of the same book – another link that’ll help me to complete the chain of evidence I’m in search for.”
Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun trotted past.
If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless Horseman, it was redoubled now. With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.
1) What was found in the hollow of a tree? What did it prove?
2) What did Zeb ask the major for? What did he need three days for?
3) Who was stalking the headless horseman? Why?
4) Who did Zeb see in the prairie? What did he decide to do?
On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!
The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place. But a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!
It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.
The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.
This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of Ireland. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!
The Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.
The Irish lawyer was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison – as often as it seemed good to him. Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege.
On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.
Only once had Zeb Stump been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone – both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business – in search of deer, or gobbler.
It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air – a horseman without a head!
Cassius Calhoun was alone in his chamber.
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She loves him – she loves him! She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it – except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself. She shall never have him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.
“She shall speak it, if she doesn’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything – Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”
The soliloquy was interrupted by Woodley Poindexter. Sad and silent, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew – more by chance than from any purpose.
“Want me! For what, nephew?”
There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man.
“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.
It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about.
“If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean marriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now – while death is in our house!”
It was evident the planter did not relish the proposed alliance.
This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate – in his own mind – and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.
It was only after the move into Texas, that the planter had a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.
“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage – that is, not now. Only something that will secure it – when the proper time arrives. What I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty – as you know; and I don’t intend to keep single any longer. I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no uncertainty.”
“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”
“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”
“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced – against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”
“Well, I only know that I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement – in all Texas, for that matter.”
Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.
It was the third time Calhoun had been flatly refused; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple “No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple “Never!”
Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly – in all probability – he expected it.
But his features remained firm.
“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”
“I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?”
“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”
“Upon what?”
“Many things.”
“Name them!”
“Well, for one – the way I love you.”
She made no rejoinder.
“A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; “a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It is no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day – the same hour – I first saw you.
“On my first visit to your father’s house – now six years ago – you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden – while dinner was being got ready.
“You were a woman in beauty – as beautiful as you are at this moment.
“No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, has been able to efface.”
Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. Still did the Creole keep silence.
Calhoun continued —
“From the hour you first caught hold of my hand I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate– I’ve been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself.”
“Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think-”
“I know what you are going to say. I’ll say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.’ Those were the words upon your lips.
“I don’t say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: “I don’t accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”
“I must be frank with you, Cassius. I do not – I cannot, love you.”
“You will not marry me then?”
“That, at least, is an idle question. I’ve said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient.”
“And I’ve said I love you. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there are others. Are you desirous of hearing them?”
“State them! What have I to fear?”
“I won’t say what you have; but what your father has.”
“I’m aware that my father’s in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master of me!”
“Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness – or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial—”
“Who?”
“How innocent you are!”
“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”
“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”
“Do with me! You talk as if I were your slave! I’m not!”
Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.
“What is this threat? she continued, “what is to be my destiny? I’m impatient to have it declared.”
“Don’t be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald will stand before the bar – accused of murdering your brother.”
“It is false! Maurice Gerald never—”
“Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. It will be; and from your own lips will come the words that’ll prove it – to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury.”
It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.
“I know not what you mean,” she at length rejoined. “You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who – I can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody.”
“Yes can you; a great deal more.”
Calhoun told her everything he knew about her meeting with Maurice Gerald, his quarrel with Henry and their parting on the night of the murder.
She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. “Well!”
“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced. “You wish me to speak further?”
“As you please, sir.”
“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin – yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“You will not refuse me now?”
“Now more than ever!”
1) How many counselors did Maurice have? Who were they?
2) What subject did Calhoun want to discuss with the planter? Why did Woodley Poindexter avoid that subject?
3) Did Louise accept Calhoun’s proposal?
4) What was Calhoun going to do with Louise in case of her refusal?
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