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Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. There is a spectacle – at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.
It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.
All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem.
Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest – friends and relatives of the man supposed to have been murdered.
Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.
There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided to sit under a tree – a gigantic oak, extending its shadow afar over the green prairie.
A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it. The judge, instead of a wig, wears his Panama hat. The remaining chairs are occupied by lawyers; the sheriff; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.
A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together. It is the jury.
Around the Texan judge and jury there is a crowd that may well be called nondescript.
The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner Maurice Gerald; the latter the sheriff’s officers in charge of him.
There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.
Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.
There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest – a gaze soft, but steadfast – in which fear and fondness seem strangely mixed.
The trial begins.
“Gentlemen of the jury!” says the judge. “We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered – the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime.”
The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality, – ”Guilty, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.
The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.
First called is Franz Oberdoffer.
He is requested to state what he knows of the affair.
Oberdoffer’s evidence coincides with the tale already told by him and on the whole is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting.
But why should Henry Poindexter have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour?
Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?
Captain Cassius Calhoun is called up.
After declaring his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.
The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise – alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators.
A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from Woodley Poindexter.
But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained carriage, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.
The crier’s voice pronounces the name—
“Louise Poindexter!”
Calhoun has kept his word.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, Louise takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.
Without fear she faces towards the Court.
Miss Poindexter tells the Court about the meeting in the garden that she had on the night when her brother was last seen.
“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it – in the execution of my duty – What was the nature – the object I should rather term it – of this appointment?”
The question is put by the State counsel.
Casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, the witness replies—
“I have no intention to conceal the motive. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved – whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”
“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel, “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”
“Quite true.”
The answer sends a thrill through the crowd – a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun.
“My brother did not follow him in anger,” pursues the witness, without being further questioned. “He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise.”
After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.
She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt! She remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!
Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.
His story, confusedly told, full of incongruities – and in many parts altogether improbable – rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.
The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short – having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.
That other is next announced.
“Zebulon Stump!”
Taking three or four strides forward, the most noted hunter of the Settlement comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.
After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unusual agitation.
The spectators stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.
“Well, Mister Judge!” says he; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know about the business; but if it’s all the same to yourself, and the Jury, I’d prefer that Maurice Gerald should give his version first. I could then follow with mine, which might certify and confirm his.”
The judge and the “twelve” have no objection to Zeb’s request.
1) Where did the Court establish itself? Who was present at the trial?
2) Who was called up a witness? What effect did their testimony produce?
3) Why did Louise “go back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart”?
4) What was Zeb Stump’s suggestion?
Directed by the judge, the accused stands forward.
“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he; “First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial – which to you appear inexplicable – my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.
“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”
The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail.
“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. It is also true that our interview was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.
“But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”
“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship – I might say affection – on mine.”
“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge. “Where did it take place?”
“About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed.”
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
“You mean the place where some blood was found?” interrogates the judge.
“I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated.”
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court – expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son!
“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.
“Quite sure,” responds the accused.
“Go on!” says the judge. “Let us hear all you have to say.”
“It has been made known to you how we parted – Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.
“On leaving them I went to the hotel. The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar. I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.
“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible.”
“I travelled slowly. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it – on the prairie, or under the roof of my jacale. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak.
“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal.
“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.
“It was more from habit – by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians – that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.
“He did so shortly after.
“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself – only him.
“Was he still in the same temper? Had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed his sister to have sustained?
“I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.
“I was determined there should be no concealment – no cowardly shrinking on my part. I loved his sister with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”
Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy appears on Louise Poindexter’s face, as she listens to the daring declaration. It is but the echo of her own; and she makes no attempt to conceal it.
The prisoner continues his recital —
“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.
“Instead of the angry scene I expected, I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me – at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.
“Need I tell you that I took that hand? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.
“We rode together for a short distance; and then stopped under the shadow of a tree.
“Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange – the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.
“It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself – from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket – taking his cloak and Panama hat.
“We then parted – he riding away, myself remaining.
“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; I dismounted; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.
“In three seconds I was asleep.
“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.
“I sprang to my feet, and stood listening. But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that I had been mistaken.
“I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.
“This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.
“I was about to continue my journey.
“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears. It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.
“Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.
“I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight! I saw—”
“The Headless Horseman!” exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.
It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!
“He’s making straight for the Fort!”
As if to contradict that assertion, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands observing the crowd gathered around the tree.
Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.
Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses.
The chase leads straight across the prairie – towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant. But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman.
The two men are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
In a short time both are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
On through the thicket rush the three horsemen.
“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hound’s coming on through the thicket.”
Calhoun rides forward – fast as the track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt – surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is standing among some low trees. The horse has become engaged in a sort of struggle – with his head half buried among the bushes. Calhoun sees that it is held there, and it has become entangled around the stem of a tree!
“Caught at last! Thank God – thank God!”
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman!
Calhoun clutches at the bridle. The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. The rider pays no attention, nor makes any attempt to avoid the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle.
Suddenly the captor draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serape; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!
But the blow is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal – by the edge of which Zeb Stump has just made his appearance.
“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it!”
Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators – abandoned, by one-half of the jury – the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.
Everyone hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.
There is one among them who could explain the first – though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.
After a while the pursuers return. It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.
An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them – either with or without the captive.
It is decided to go on with the trial – as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him.
1) Who overtook Maurice? What did he want?
2) What did Maurice and Henry do after their reconciliation?
3) Who interrupted Maurice’s account?
4) Who managed to overtake the headless horseman? What was Calhoun about to do when Zeb appeared?
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