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The first use Maurice the mustanger makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider – as all know – his own.
The animal recognises its master; proclaims it by giving utterance to a glad neigh.
In the next instant Maurice is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.
The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decided that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before the tribunal by the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony.
A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a carriage – her glance telling of a thought different that felt by the common spectators.
In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer – tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued.
Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger – the man he was so near devoting – to the most disgraceful of deaths!
From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!
His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death – not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.
He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!
He is too late to seek concealment in the thicket, and with a cry he reins up.
It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver.
But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a whistling sound; and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!
Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke.
He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot – no time even to avoid the lazo’s loop. Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, “Surrender, you assassin!” In the next instant, he experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!
The assassin lies stretched along the earth – his arms embraced by the rope – to all appearance dead.
But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint.
“Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head!” mutters the mustanger to himself. “There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell, – or himself, if he is still alive.
The Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.
Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar!
His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered. There is but one missing link – the motive.
Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?
In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech.
He looks wildly around. On the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.
He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin.
“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”
“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”
The spectators are astonished beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter – shot him dead in the chapparal.”
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it – proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man.
“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.
“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”
“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”
“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t – that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the man I see standing before me.”
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.
“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.
“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.
“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot – meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that cruel deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
“Now!” cries he, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.
The spectators have just time to see the pistol when two shots are heard in quick succession.
With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!
One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger, – the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
Joy!
There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.
Her happiness was heightened, on learning how her lover’s life had been preserved – as it might seem miraculously.
The aim of the assassin had been true enough. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a token of love – the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place – turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet!
Not quite harmless, however, was it to him for whom it had been intended.
But no longer lay his body in danger – in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by vultures, – in a hut, where he was but ill attended – in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.
There was now no one to object to Louise Poindexter nursing him; not even her own father, who, instead of a “nobody,” got a nobleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald – before known as Maurice the mustanger!
1) What did Calhoun feel while trying to escape?
2) Who caught him? How?
3) Did Calhoun deny that he had killed his cousin? Who did he intend to kill?
4) What did he do after admitting his guilt?
5) What saved Maurice from death?
In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the moral, it is often the restorer. Nowhere has it effected greater changes than in Texas – during the last decade – and especially in the settlements of the Nueces and Leona.
There are new names for men, places, and things.
For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient hacienda – still known as Casa del Corvo.
You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for your hostess one of its most beautiful women – both still this side of middle life.
Living under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of aristocratic air and venerable aspect – chatty and cheerful – who would conduct you around the corrals, show you the stock, and never tire of talking about the hundreds – thousands – of horses and horned cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.
You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more especially of his beautiful daughter – the mistress of the mansion – and the half-dozen pretty children who call him their “dear grandpa.”
Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other individuals attached to the establishment. One is the groom – by name Phelim O’Neal – who has full charge of the horses. The other is a coachman of sable skin, called Pluto.
There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot fail to become acquainted. You will hear it mentioned, almost every time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of a rifle that rarely misses its aim.
During the course of the meal – but much more over the wine – you will hear talk of “Zeb Stump the hunter.” You may not often see him. He will be gone from the hacienda, before you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired.
While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story connected with the place – now almost reduced to a legend.
The domestics will tell it to you, but only in whispers: since they know that it is a theme tabooed by the master and mistress of the mansion, in whom it excites sad souvenirs.
It is the story of the Headless Horseman.
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