Chapter FIFTY NINE: Another Who Cannot Rest (7)

Oberdoffer's evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left his house at a late hour--after midnight. He had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule--everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.

What had he carried off?

Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one--strapped, Mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle.

He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger's belt. Gerald was dressed as he always went--in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.

He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse-- which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his flask with _Kirschenwasser_; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse--which he did for himself--he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn't think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter's plantation. He had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel--both by day and night--on foot as well as horseback--several times both ways.

Such are the main points of Oberdoffer's evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner.

He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.

Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there--partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.

Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.

He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace--thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.

A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer's evidence is exhausted.

On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald's having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry,--perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naively confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.

But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour--unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?

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?

Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.

One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.

His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.

After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares 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. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner--here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.

These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son--the defilement of a daughter!

A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age--of sad subdued aspect--whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.

But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained _caleche_, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.

Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.

Is she there of her own accord--by her own free will?

So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.

There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier's voice, heard pronouncing the name--

"Louise Poindexter!"

Calhoun has kept his word.

CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT.

AN UNWILLING WITNESS.

Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.

Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.

Without flinching--apparently without fear--she faces towards the Court.

All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration--that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!

One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.

It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.

Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention--he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin--as though with her eyes she would kill him.

Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.

"Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?"

The question is put by the State counsellor.

"At home,--in my father's house."

"May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?"

"I did."

"Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?"

"At the hour of midnight--if I rightly remember."

"Were you alone?"

"Not all the time."

"Part of it there was some one with you?"

"There was."

"Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?"

"Certainly not."

"May I ask the name of the individual?"

"There was more than one. My brother was there."

"But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?"

"There was."

"It is _his_ name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it."

"Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald."

The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.

There is one on whom it produces a very different effect--the prisoner at the bar--who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!

"May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?"

"By appointment."

"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 witness hesitates to make answer.

Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies--

"Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. 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, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; "I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. 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. It establishes the _motive_ of the murder!

The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. There is a cry of "Hang--hang him!" and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, "Order in the Court!" cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.

"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."

"_I_ have something to say about that," interposes Calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; "they quarrelled _afterwards_. I heard them, from where I was standing on the top of the house."

"Mr Calhoun!" cries the judge rebukingly; "if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings."

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!

The "chivalry" is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for the _bonne fortune_ of him who has been so daringly endorsed.

Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications.

Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry, "Hang!"--this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.

This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons--and even those of gentle strain in the carriages--seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner--all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain.

She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!

The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said aloud--insinuations against the accused--designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent.

Judge Roberts--the name of him who presides--is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!

And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!

This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word--some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative.

Thanks be to God, the spectators are not _all_ of this mind. A few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.

There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.

Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.

Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.

Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak.

Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment--forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the Court!

The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for a _coup de theatre_.

It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.

Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.

Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.

"Fellow citizens!" he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, "the law is bound to take its course-- just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn't hang a man without first hearing what he's got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!"

"And hasn't he done murder?" asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. "It's only sarvin' him, as he sarved young Poindexter."

"There is no certainty about that. You've not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we've examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!" continues he, turning to the official; "call the witnesses for the defence."

The crier obeys; and Phelim O'Neal is conducted to the stand.

The story of the _ci-devant_ stable-boy, 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!"

Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng--whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.

Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.

The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the "affidavit," Zeb is directed to kiss.

He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.

Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.

The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.

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 unwonted agitation.

The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.

"Wal, Mister Judge!" says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; "I've no objection to tell what I know 'beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I'd preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi' mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him."

"Of what young fellow do you speak?" inquires the judge.

"The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan's 'cused o' killin' young Peintdexter."

"It would be somewhat irregular," rejoins the judge--"After all, our object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven't much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don't object, let it be as you say."

The "twelve," speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and Zeb's request is conceded _nemine dissentiente_.

CHAPTER EIGHTY NINE.

THE CONFESSION OF THE ACCUSED.

Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.

Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff's officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.

It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto "chirping" among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation--as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his _confession_.

"Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!" says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; "you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.

"First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial--which to you appear not only odd, but 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, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.

"It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself--which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.

"It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it 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."

Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.

"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.

"Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation."

"There was a reconciliation, then?" asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. "Where did it take place?"

"About four hundred yards from the spot _where the murder was committed_."

The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.

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?" doubtingly 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! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing--kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death--only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.

This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.

"You are sure he is dead, then?" is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.

"Quite sure," responds the accused. "Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one."

"You saw the body?"

"I must take exception to this course of examination," interposes the counsel for the accused. "It is quite irregular."

"Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn't be allowed," adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney. "The counsel for the prosecution wouldn't be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination."

"That's the law here, too," says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. "Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say."

"I have spoken of a reconciliation," resumes the accused, "and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.

"It has been made known to you how we parted--Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.

"On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wish _him_ to know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night--as may be remembered by many of you--and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.

"The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, 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; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer."

"And the money with which you paid him?" asks the State prosecutor, "where did you get--?"

"I protest against this!" interrupts the counsel for the accused.

"Bedarrah!" exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or rather _duelling pistols_, at the State counsellor; "if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye'd stand a nate chance of gettin' conthradicted in a different style altogether!"

"Silence, gentlemen!" commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. "Let the accused continue his statement."

"I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. 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; and that would be as soon as I desired.

"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-- where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.

"Then I heard the stroke of a horse's hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.

"I had got round the corner--where the trace makes a sharp turn--and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.

"It might be somebody I wouldn't care to encounter?

"That was the reflection I made; though I wasn't much caring who. 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 been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?

"Gentlemen of the jury! 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 was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others--not mine--not hers. I loved her 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!"

Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.

Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.

It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.

She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with the _abandon_ that love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!

If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason--by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!

CHAPTER NINETY.

A COURT QUICKLY CLEARED.

If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.

It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share--more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.

The thing is not so difficult of explanation. _We_ know that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.

It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.

Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart's core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!

If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.

Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.

Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!

The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands "Silence in the Court!" the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.

He continues his recital:--

"On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.

"There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.

"Instead of the angry scene I expected--perhaps had reason to expect--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? Or how heartily I pressed it? 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.

"It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after--when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.

"Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.

"We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up 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 cloth cloak and Panama hat.

"We then parted--he riding away, myself remaining.

"I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation--by me so little looked for and so much desired.

"I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.

"In three seconds I was asleep.

"It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me--after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.

"My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.

"I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.

"I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.

"My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!

"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 we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds-- mysterious, because unexplained--often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.

"Dismissing the thing from my mind, 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.

"It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.

"But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears--even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!

"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.

"_The Headless Horseman_!" respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.

Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?

There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!

"Yonder he goes--yonder! yonder!"

"No, he's coming this way! See! He's making straight for the Fort!"

The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing 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.

The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.

There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.

Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general _debandade_, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.

The latter has paused only for an instant--just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild "whigher," he wheels round, and goes off at full speed--followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!

CHAPTER NINETY ONE.

A CHASE THROUGH A THICKET.

The chase leads straight across the prairie--towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.

Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line--one after another falling off,--as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.

But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.

The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.

The one coming after--but with a long interval between--is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.

It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider's hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal's spine, just behind the croup.

The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.

The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death--as if some desperate necessity required it.

The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight--as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.

In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.

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On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks--now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.

On go they, regardless of bush or brake--fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.

The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.

A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.

It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.

Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.

No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.

Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.

"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 hell-hound's coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it-- not three hundred yards behind me.

"Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He's too good a tracker for that.

"By God! _but there is a chance_!"

At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.

He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the _terrain_, to see if it will suit.

At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.

Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.

On reflection the scheme is abandoned.

"It won't do!" he mutters. "There's too many of them fellows coming after--some that can track, too? They'd find his carcase, sure,--maybe hear the shot?

"No--no. It won't do!"

He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind--only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above _him_!

"Yes--he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!"

Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above--were they gifted with the power of speech--could tell you so.

They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.

"I'll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!" reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. "In any case, I must keep on till it's lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.

"What a fool _I've_ been in wasting so much time. If I don't look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!"

Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward--fast as the circuitous 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 in sight, at less than twenty paces' distance!

He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.

His horse's head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.

At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.

His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle--with his head half buried among the bushes!

Calhoun sees that it is _held_ there, and by the bridle-rein,--that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!

"Caught at last! Thank God--thank God!"

He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.

In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman--that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!

CHAPTER NINETY TWO.

A RELUCTANT RETURN.

Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.

The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.

The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his "cavortings."

After a brief struggle the animal is secured.

The captor utters an exclamation of joy.

It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.

What is this purpose?

It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.

After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.

A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He 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!

The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.

For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal--by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.

"Stop that game!" cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; "stop it, durn ye!"

"What game?" rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. "What the devil are you talking about? This brute's got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat--so as to make sure of him."

"Ah, thet's what ye're arter. Wal, I reck'n thur's no need to cut the critter's throat. We kin skewer it 'ithout thet sort o' bloody bizness. It air the hoss's throat ye mean, I s'pose?"

"Of course I mean the horse."

"In coorse. As for the man, someb'y's dud thet for him arready--_if it be a man_. What do _you_ make o' it, Mister Cash Calhoun?"

"Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven't had time to get a good look at it. I've just this minute come up. By heaven!" he continues, feigning a grand surprise, "I believe it's the body of a man; and dead!"

"Thet last air probibble enuf. 'Tain't likely he'd be alive wi' no head on his shoulders. Thar's none under the blanket, is thar?"

"No; I think not. There cannot be?"

"Lift it a leetle, an see."

"I don't like touching it. It's such a cursed queer-looking thing."

"Durn it, ye wan't so partickler a minnit ago. What's kim over ye now?"

"Ah!" stammers Calhoun, "I was excited with chasing it. I'd got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers."

"Never mind then," interposes Zeb,--"I'll make a inspecshun o' it. Ye-es," he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. "Ye-es, it's the body o' a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o' ven'son in a hard frost!"

"Hullo!" he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serape, "it's the body o' the man whose murder's bein' tried--yur own cousin--young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!"

"I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!"

"Geehosophat!" proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, "this air the mysteeriousest thing o' all. Wal; I reck'n thur's no use in our stayin' hyur to spek'late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do 's to take the body back, jest as it's sot in the seddle-- which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck'n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he'll kum along 'ithout much coaxin'. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know'd to him. Thur now! Don't ye see it's a preevious acquaintance o' yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o' late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin' him. 'Tair some time since he's hed a curry to his skin."

While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact--then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.

"I thort so," exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; "the stellyun's boun to lead quietly enuf--so long as he's in kumpny with the maar. 'T all events, 'twon't be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin' away. Now, Mister Calhoun," he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; "don't ye think we'd better start right away? The trial may still be goin' on; an', ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck'n thet we've got a witness hyur, as 'll do somethin' torst illoocidatin' the case--either to the hangin' the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin' him althogither o' the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?"

"Oh, certainly. As you say, there's no reason for our remaining here."

Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.

Calhoun rides slowly--a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.

At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.

His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.

He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.

He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.

Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant's notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb's gesture is sufficient. It plainly says:--"Go back if ye dare!"

The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.

But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind--with which his _compagnon du voyage_ is compelled to put up.

The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.

It approaches the open prairie.

At length the sky line comes in sight.

Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.

Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?

He would give all he owns in the world--all that he ever hopes to own-- even Louise Poindexter herself--to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump--to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!

It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards _him_ as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!

After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?

And after all, there may be nothing to be known?

It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?

Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie--close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter--the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!

CHAPTER NINETY THREE.

A BODY BEHEADED.

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.

There is no adjournment of the Court--only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.

The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.

There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired--strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.

The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.

They are in 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.

Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.

After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads--as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.

All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!

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.

No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?