Chapter FIFTY NINE: Another Who Cannot Rest (6)

He did not anticipate meeting any one--much less the man who soon after came in sight.

He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yager rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.

He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane--in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired--returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!

"Comin' back agin--an so soon!" he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. "Dog-goned queery thet air! Thur's somethin' amiss, more'n a miss, I reck'n. Ho, ho, ho! Goin', too, as if hell war arter him! Maybe it's the Headless hisself, and thur's been a changin' about in the chase--tit for tat! Darn me, ef it don't look like it! I'd gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o' a thing. He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!"

Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider--who promise soon to pass the spot.

And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!

"Geehosophat!" mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. "If hell ain't _arter_, it's _inside_ o' him! Durn me, ef thet face ain't the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. I shed pity the wife as gets him. Poor Miss Peintdexter! I hope she'll be able to steer clur o' havin' sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.

"What's up anyhow? Thar don't 'pear to be anythin' arter him? An' he still keeps on! Whar's he boun' for now? I must foller an see.

"To hum agin!" exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. "Hum agin, for sartin!

"Now, ole gurl!" he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, "You an me goes t'other way. We must find out what thet shot wur fired for."

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In ten minutes after, Zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of--disgust, even, in touching!

Not so the old hunter. In that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him--despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression--still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation.

He had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody!

Clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples--Zeb endeavoured to take it off. He did not succeed. The head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it!

Holding it in its natural position, Zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face.

"Lord, O Lordy!" he drawlingly exclaimed, "what a present to take back to _his_ father, to say nothin' o' the sister! I don't think I'll take it. It air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it.

"No; durn me ef I do! What am I thinkin' o'? Tho' I don't exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o' evvydince, it may do somethin' torst it. Durned queery witness _it_ 'll be to purduce in a coort o' justis!"

Saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all.

Then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away.

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

LIMBS OF THE LAW.

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!

This haste--that elsewhere would have been considered indecent--was thought nothing of in Texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours!

His enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it.

Among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: "that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance."

The advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. The judge of the Supreme Court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at Fort Inge, had been appointed for that very week.

There was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of Maurice Gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time.

As no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question--the fifteenth of the month.

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and the Court had not yet arrived. For all that, 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, or an eye to Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.

When it rains, it rains. The adage is true in Texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers.

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 the Emerald Isle. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!

It is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of Mr Oberdoffer's hostelry, and making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.

Still greater the attorney's astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration.

"Fwhat! the son of a Munsther Gerald accused of murdher! The heir of Castle Ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. Fwy, I've got the papers in my portmantyee here. Faugh-a-ballagh! Show me the way to him!"

Though the "Texan" Boniface was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy, he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house.

If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he 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; at the same time placing him _en rapport_, in a friendly way, with the Texan "counsellor."

The advent of the Irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the Port, the village, and throughout the settlement. The bar-room of the "Rough and Ready" was rife with conjecturers--_quidnuncs_ they could scarcely be called: since in Texas the genus does not exist.

A certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing--which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by "Old Duffer."

For all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. With the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed--drawn from him in the first moments of surprise--he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide.

There was not much time for him to use his tongue. 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.

The rumour became rife that Maurice Gerald had told them a tale--a strange weird story--but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance.

There was one who knew it--one able to confirm it--Zeb Stump the hunter.

There may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel.

Zeb himself did not appear in their company. Only once had he 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, "baar," or "gobbler."

Everybody was in error. Zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill.

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!

CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.

AN AFFECTIONATE NEPHEW.

"Tried to-morrow--to-morrow, thank God! Not likely that anybody 'll catch that cursed thing before then--to be hoped, never.

"_It_ is all I've got to fear. I defy them to tell what's happened without that. Hang me if I know myself! Enough only to--.

"Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger!

"Queer, too, the fellow from San Antonio! Wonder who and what's brought him? Somebody's promised him his costs?

"Damn 'em! I don't care, not the value of a red cent. They can make nothing out of it, but that Gerald did the deed. Everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. They're bound to convict him.

"Zeb Stump don't think it, the suspicious old snake! He's nowhere to be found. Wonder where he has gone? On a hunt, they say. 'Tain't likely, such time as this. What if he be hunting it? What if he should catch it?

"I'd try again myself, if there was time. There ain't. Before to-morrow night it'll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up--. Damn afterwards! The thing is to make sure now. Let the future look to itself. With one man hung for the murder, 'tain't likely they'd care to accuse another. Even if something suspicious _did_ turn up! they'd be shy to take hold of it. It would be like condemning themselves!

"I reckon, I've got all right with the Regulators. Sam Manley himself appears pretty well convinced. I knocked his doubts upon the head, when I told him what I'd heard that night. A little more than I did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. Damn!

"It's no use crying over spilt milk. 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.

"I don't think _anything has happened between them_. She's not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me--only _gratitude_. No, no, no! It can't be. Gratitude don't get out of its bed in the middle of the night--to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? She loves him--she loves him! Let her love and be damned! She shall never have him. She shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. A word from her, and he's a hanged man.

"She shall speak it, if she don'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 above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by Cassius Calhoun.

It was Woodley Poindexter who interrupted it. Sad, silent, straying through the corridors of Casa del Corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew--more by chance than from any premeditated purpose.

"Want me! For what, nephew?"

There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter--before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!

True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him--his sister's son.

But there was not much in that, considering the character of the 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, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.

Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation--as also the nature of the subject.

The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.

"About Loo? What of her?" he inquired, with assumed calmness.

"Well," said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, "I--I--wanted--"

"I'd rather," put in the planter, taking advantage of the other's hesitancy, "I'd rather not speak of _her_ now."

This was said almost supplicatingly.

"And why not now, uncle?" asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.

"You know my reasons, nephew?"

"Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing--supposed to be--After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again."

"Never! we shall never see him again--living or dead. I have no longer a son?"

"You have a daughter; and she--"

"Has disgraced me!"

"I don't believe it, uncle--no."

"What means those things I've heard--myself seen? What could have taken her there--twenty miles across the country--alone--in the hut of a common horse-trader--standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him--him, the murderer of my son--her own brother? O God!"

"Her own story explains the first--satisfactorily, as I think."

Calhoun did _not_ think so.

"The second is simple enough. Any woman would have done the same--a woman like Loo."

"There is _none_ like her. I, her father, say so. Oh! that I could think it is, as you say! My poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever--now that I have no son!"

"It is for her to find you a son--one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part--with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. I won't talk to you in riddles, Uncle Woodley. You know what I mean; and how my mind's made up about this matter. _I want Loo_!"

The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. He expected it. For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. It was evident he 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.

Previous to the migration into Texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew.

Since coming to manhood, Calhoun had been a citizen of the state of Mississippi--more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of New Orleans. An occasional visit to the Louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin Louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals--each time protracting them to a longer stay.

There was then twelve months of campaigning in Mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love--the heart of his Creole cousin.

From that time his residence under his uncle's roof had been more permanent. If not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail.

The planter, once rich, was now poor. Extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. With his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. Chance had made him so. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them.

In his native place, and among his old neighbours, Woodley Poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of being _under_ his nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor.

It was only after the move into Texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee.

It grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of Calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of Louise.

The planter had now 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.

Calhoun's quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle's respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him.

There had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings--to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages, _dislike_ the connection.

Alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside.

Indecision--perhaps more than the sorrow for his son's loss dictated the character of his reply.

"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! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement."

"You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage--that is, not _now_. Only something that will secure it--when the proper time arrives."

"I do not understand you, Cash."

"You'll do that, if you only listen to me a minute."

"Go on."

"Well; 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 at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I'm damnably tired of it; and 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 _fluke_, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When these _bothers_ blow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing."

The word "bothers," with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!

The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused--almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.

It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.

He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.

"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 intend getting `spliced,' as the sailors say; and 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.

Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status--alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.

The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him--his own nephew--soliciting to become his son!

For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter's heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.

"Loo!"

"Father!"

"I come to ask a favour from you."

"What is it, father?"

"You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for--more and better still, to marry you."

"But I am not ready to marry _him_. No, father; _I_ shall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sent _you_ to make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I'd go upon the prairies--and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!"

"Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that--"

"That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter."

Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was:--

"Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!"

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

A KIND COUSIN.

Louise Poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father. In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.

It was his third time of asking. Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.

It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple "No," emphatically followed by the equally simple "Never!"

There was no prevarication about the speech--no apology for having made it.

Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly--in all probability--he expected it.

But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.

As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.

There was that in his eye which seemed to say:--

"In less than sixty seconds, you'll change your tune."

What he did say was:--

"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 can end only with my life. It could not end with _yours_."

There was a pause, but still no reply.

"'Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day--ay, the same hour--I first saw you.

"I won't say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my first visit to your father's house--now six years ago--you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden--while dinner was being got ready.

"You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, 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, under the shade of the China trees, 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, nor yet _dissipation_, has been able to efface."

The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!

Still did she keep silence.

Calhoun continued:--

"Yes, Loo; it's true as I tell you. I've tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.

"I won't say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I've already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin--ah! you called me _handsome_ cousin, Loo--from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate--ay, so much, that I could have _killed_ you!"

"Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!"

"'Tis serious, nevertheless. I've been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not--as you have reason to know."

"Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think--"

"I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. 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."

"What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius, 'tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. Why not address yourself to them?"

"Why not?" he echoed, with bitter emphasis. "What an idle question!"

"I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid 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?"

As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.

"You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward. I'm not afraid to listen."

"Indeed!" he rejoined, sneeringly. "You're not afraid, ain't you?"

"Not that I know of. What have I to fear?"

"I won't say what _you_ have; but what your father has."

"Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his daughter; and now, alas, his only--. Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is this shadow hanging over him?"

"No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he's no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you shouldn't know anything about."

"Oh! don't I? You're mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I'm aware that my father's in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the house--your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics--has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master of _me_!"

Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.

He held a still stronger _in_ his hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.

"Indeed!" he retorted, sneeringly. "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, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. "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 are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were your _protegee_, or slave! I'm neither one, nor the other!"

Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.

"_Pardieu_!" she continued, "what is this threat? Tell me what you are _going to do with me_! I should like to know that."

"You shall."

"Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?"

"You would like the last, no doubt--provided your incarceration was to be in the company of--"

"Go on, sir! 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."

"So soon? And where, may I ask?"

"In a court of justice."

"How, sir?"

"By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury."

"You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that I don't like such pleasantries--"

"Pleasantries indeed! I'm stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O'Hogerty, or whatever's his name, will stand before the bar--accused of murdering your brother."

"'Tis 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."

The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself--a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.

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 know nothing--can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody."

"Yes can you; a great deal more. It's not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace--not only to his sister, but his family--he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded!

"All the world don't know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting."

"Two--who were they?"

The question was asked mechanically--almost with a tranquil coolness.

It was answered with equal _sang froid_.

"One was Cassius Calhoun--the other Louise Poindexter." She did not start. 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; "I suppose you understand me?"

"Not any more than ever."

"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; I know that much."

"You will not refuse me now?"

"_Now_ more than _ever_!"

"Be it so! Before this time to-morrow--and, by Heaven! I mean it-- before this time _to-morrow_, you shall stand in the witness-box?"

"Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!"

"You needn't put yourself to the trouble. I'm not going to embarrass you any longer with my company--so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you'll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you'll give notice of it--in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I'll sleep thinking of you."

With these words of mockery upon his lips--almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them--Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.

Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.

Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.

CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

A TEXAN COURT.

It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.

Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf, does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.

The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning.

Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.

Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.

This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.

The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the "Bloody Ground;" built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.

Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds--not a few of them traffickers in human flesh!

There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling--adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up--whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.

Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo--the same with an augmentation of numbers.

The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women--the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle--their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle--seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of "carrioles" and "Jerseys."

There is a spectacle--at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.

Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald--known as _Maurice the mustanger_.

Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim-- neither much known in the neighbourhood.

The same Court--it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde--has been in session there before--has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men--thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers--with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!

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.

It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.

All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.

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: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.

But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances-- independent of each other--have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done--as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.

They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten o'clock, and the Court is in session.

There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side--soldiers and citizens--dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the "Oyez!" of the Court crier--grotesquely pronounced "O yes!"--determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: "May God have mercy on your soul!"

There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.

There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Court is in session.

You have before your mind's eye a large hall, with a raised dais at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.

You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.

You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators--not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.

You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas--as unlike its homonym in England as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of Guardsmen.

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_!

And under a tree has it established itself--a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss--standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.

A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches.

Behind these _paraphernalia_ sits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated--the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in his _shirt-sleeves_!

Instead of a wig, he wears his Panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed Havannah projecting from the other.

The remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling.

There are lawyers among them--attorneys, and _counsellors_, there called--with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his "deputy"; 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; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half "squatted" or reclining along the grass.

It is the _jury_--an "institution" as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge--in England but too freely admitted.

Around the Texan judge and jury--close pressing upon the precincts of the Court--is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats--even under the oppressive heat; frocks of "copperas stripe" and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-blue _cottonade_; shirts of red flannel or unbleached "domestic"; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.

Here and there is seen a more regular costume--one more native to the country--the _jaqueta_ and _calzoneros_ of the Mexican, with the broad _sombrero_ shading his swarthy face of _picaresque_ expression.

Time was--and that not very long ago--when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.

But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge--_Juez de Letras_-- was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could put _onzas_ in his pocket.

With all its rude irregularity--despite the absence of effete forms--of white ermine, and black silk--of uniformed _alguazils_, or bright-buttoned policemen--despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth--even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe--ay far safer--to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.

Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree--however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye--do not mistake them for a mob of your own "masses," brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves--filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism--would that it choked you!--scorning all that is grand and progressive--revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.

I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself a _citizen_ of this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship--that of choosing your parliamentary representative.

You fancy you _have_ this right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.

Ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of Texas.

Nothing of the kind. _They_ are "sovereign citizens"--the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle--almost without protest!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

In most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. The gem is to be found in the centre at Port Inge.

In that now mustered the order is reversed. Outside is the elegance. The fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators.

It is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff's officers in charge of him.

It was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; Miguel Diaz and his associates, as also Phelim O'Neal.

But in the course of a preliminary investigation the Mexican mustanger succeeded in proving an _alibi_, as did also his trio of companions. All four have been consequently discharged.

They acknowledged having disguised themselves as Indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less.

But they pretended it to have been a joke--a _travestie_; and as there was proof of the others being at home--and Diaz dead drunk--on the night of Henry Poindexter's disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry.

As to the Connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. If an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock.

Before the bar, then--if we may be permitted the figure of speech--there stands but one prisoner, Maurice Gerald--known to those gazing upon him as _Maurice the mustanger_.

CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN.

A FALSE WITNESS.

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.

It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher.

All admitted him to be a fine young fellow--handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman-- free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed.

But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into "small talk."

In his actions there was observable a certain _juste milieu_. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.

No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer "trade," as that of catching wild horses--a calling not deemed the most reputable.

It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a "born gentleman"--a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.

There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where "born noblemen," both of France and the "Faderland," may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.

A fig for all patents of nobility--save those stamped by the true die of Nature!

Such is the sentiment of this far free land.

And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him--blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.

And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin--one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!

Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!

Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.

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 commingled.

There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of a _caleche_, is too fair to escape observation.

There are few who can interpret it.

But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed.

For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth.

That woman's face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of the _caleche_; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end--even though it be death!

The trial begins.

There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.

After half a dozen draws, he takes the "weed" from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says--

"Gentlemen of the jury! 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. It is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is yours to decide--after hearing the evidence to be laid before you-- whether or not the accusation be sustained."

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.

Cassius Calhoun, and some "rowdies" around him, affect an incredulous sneer.

The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.

The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.

First called is Franz Oberdoffer.

After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the common routine of a Texan trial.