Chapter FIFTY NINE: Another Who Cannot Rest (8)

All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back--with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.

An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them--either with or without the wished-for captive.

Is the trial to be further postponed?

The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.

There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.

There are paid _claquers_ in the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!

The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial--as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.

So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.

The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.

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"You were about to tell us what you saw," proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. "Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?"

"A man lying at full length upon the grass."

"Asleep?"

"Yes; in the sleep of death."

"Dead?"

"More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!"

"What! His head cut off?"

"Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face--with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!

"I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.

"As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour--the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.

"I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.

"I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!"

A sensation of horror runs through the auditory--accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.

"Did you know the man?"

"Alas! yes."

"Without seeing his face?"

"It did not need that. The dress told who it was--too truly."

"What dress?"

"The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter."

A groan is again heard--rising above the hum of the excited hearers.

"Proceed, sir!" directs the examining counsel. "State what other circumstances came under your observation."

"On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.

"I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the _beheading_. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere--in addition to that made by the knife.

"It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood.

"On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body."

"In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?"

"Most certainly it was. If not instantaneous, in a few minutes--perhaps seconds."

"The head was cut off, you say. Was it quite severed from the body?"

"Quite; though it was lying close up--as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment."

"Was it a clean out--as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?"

"It was."

"What sort of weapon would you say?"

"It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade."

"Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?"

"There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered."

"Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?"

"Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect. I could scarce think it real.

"When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.

"But then there was his scalp untouched--even the hat still upon his head!"

"You changed your mind about its being Indians?"

"I did."

"Who did you then think it might be?"

"At the time I did not think of any one. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy--either here or elsewhere. I have since had my suspicions. I have them now."

"State them."

"I object to the line of examination," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "We don't want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner's suspicions. Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with his _very plausible tale_?"

"Let him proceed, then," directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.

"State how you yourself acted," pursues the examiner. "What did you do, after making the observations you have described?"

"For some time I scarce knew what to do--I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot--the same I had heard.

"But who could have fired it? Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.

"I thought of some _prairie-pirate_, who might have intended plunder. But this was equally improbable. My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. That would have been taken. It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!

"I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.

"I never had.

"Besides, why had the head been cut off?

"It was this that filled me with astonishment--with horror.

"Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.

"To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.

"Then I thought of galloping back to the Fort, and getting assistance to carry it to Casa del Corvo.

"But if I left it in the chapparal, the coyotes might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. Already the vultures were above--taking their early flight. They appeared to have espied it.

"Mutilated as was the young man's form, I could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. I thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it--in tears."

CHAPTER NINETY FOUR.

THE MYSTERY MADE CLEAR.

The accused pauses in his recital. No one offers any observation-- either to interrupt, or hurry him on.

There is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention.

Judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes--many with mouths agape--are attentively turned upon the prisoner.

Amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed.

"My next idea was to cover the body with the cloak--as well as the serape still around the shoulders. By so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards--at least till we could get back to fetch it away.

"I had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself--one that appeared in every way better.

"Instead of returning to the Port alone, I should take the body along with me. I fancied I could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo.

"I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.

"The animal was near by, browsing upon the grass--as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it.

"As the bridle trailed upon the ground, I had no difficulty in catching hold of it. There was more in getting the horse to stand still-- especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground.

"Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle.

"I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.

"Besides, the _horse_ became _greatly excited_, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.

"After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.

"I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me--one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home--strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.

"Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?

"I made the attempt--first trying to set him on his own horse.

"But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.

"There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.

"I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.

"In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect,--in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.

"To make it thoroughly secure, I cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind.

"A separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about.

"The head still remained to be dealt with. It too must be taken along.

"On lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, I found that this could not be done. It was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it--close as the skin itself.

"Having no fear that they would fall apart, I tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.

"This completed my preparations for the journey.

"I mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me--he was accustomed to do so without leading--I started to ride back to the settlement.

"In less than five minutes after, I was knocked out of my saddle--and my senses at the same time.

"But for that circumstance I should not be standing here,--at all events, not in the unpleasant position I now hold."

"Knocked out of your saddle!" exclaims the judge. "How was that?"

"A simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. On mounting the strange horse I neglected to take hold of the bridle. Accustomed to guide my own--often with only my voice and knees--I had grown regardless of the reins. I did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed.

"The horse I was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where I had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.

"I need not say _something_; for I knew what it was. He had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man.

"I clutched at the bridle; but, before I could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed.

"At first I was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. I supposed I should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand.

"But I soon found this could not be so easily done. They had strayed forward, almost to the animal's ears; and I could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck.

"While endeavouring to secure the bridle, I took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. It was only when I felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that I discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal.

"After that I had no time to make observations--no chance even to look after the lost reins. I was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle.

"I managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches.

"But there was one I could not avoid--the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. It was low down--on a level with my breast-- and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it.

"Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that--I believe, better than I. I can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which I knew anything about till two hours afterwards.

"When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.

"The sight of them, as well as my thirst--that was beginning to grow painful--prompted me to move away from the place.

"On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.

"To stay on that spot was to perish--at least I so thought at the time.

"Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.

"I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling,--partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket--I succeeded in reaching it.

"Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.

"I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotes.

"There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear--knowing their cowardly nature--I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.

"They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.

"After a time they did so--clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.

"I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.

"With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.

"For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.

"I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God."

On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.

Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.

"It showed itself," he continues, "in the shape of an old comrade--one ofttimes more faithful than man himself--my staghound, Tara.

"The dog had been straying--perhaps in search of me--though I've since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.

"The coyotes scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate--I may say, out of the jaws of death.

"I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness--whichever it may have been.

"On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacale; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.

"The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message--the staghound to be its bearer.

"I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.

"I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.

"There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.

"Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara's neck.

"With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.

"It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.

"Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep-- again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy--one more terrible than I had yet encountered.

"It was a jaguar.

"A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it--with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.

"All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams-- painful phantasmagoria--mingled with pleasant visions--ah! some that were celestial--until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison--with a charge of murder hanging over my head!

"Gentlemen of the jury! I have done."

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"_Si non vero e ben trovato_," is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.

They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it-- one and all of them.

And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple--too circumstantial--to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.

It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.

His confession--irregular as it may have been--has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.

Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.

Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?

Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter--with or without Cassius Calhoun--with or without the Headless Horse, man--now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.

It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability--much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west--denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the "Staked Plain," from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.

They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks--or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance--unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyote; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!

But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate--that section of it close to the Sierra Madro--and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.

Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.

Their impatience may be traced to a different cause--a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.

It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground--every woman as well--chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.

Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line--where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.

CHAPTER NINETY FIVE.

THE LAST WITNESS.

The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.

The latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation--when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. Then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view.

Thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. Its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone.

This time the tale is true. There are shadows upon the skyline--shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion.

A wild shout--the old Saxon "huzza," swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree!

Two of them are easily recognised, as Zeb Stump and Cassius Calhoun. The third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken.

The first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant--when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings.

Though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe.

The shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence--unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud.

Many go forward to meet the approaching cortege; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground.

The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.

Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.

Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. In the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.

Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree--into the presence of the Court.

"Now, judge!" says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, "an' you twelve o' the jury! hyur's a witness as air likely to let a glimp o' daylight into yur dulliberashuns. What say ye to examinin' _him_?"

An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, "O God, it is he!" A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. _It is his father_!

A cry proceeds from a more distant point--a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. _It is his sister_!

After a time, Woodley Poindexter is led away--unresisting,--apparently unconscious of what is going on around him.

He is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant--his daughter.

But the carriage keeps its place. She who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the Court has declared its sentence--ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end!

Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the "witness-box."

By order of the judge, the examination proceeds--under direction of the counsel for the accused.

Many formalities are dispensed with. The old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases--as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law!

After the following fashion does Zeb proceed:--

"Fust heerd o' this ugly bizness on the second day arter young Peint war missin'. Heerd on it as I war reeturnin' from a huntin' spell down the river. Heerd thar wur a suspeeshun 'beout the mowstanger hevin' kermitted the murder. Knowd he wan't the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. He wan't at home, though his man Pheelum war; so skeeart 'beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o' anythin'.

"Wal, whiles we war palaverin', in kim the dog, wi' somethin' tied roun' his neck--the which, on bein' 'zamined, proved to be the mowstanger's curd. Thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which I seed to be blood.

"Them words tolt to whosomedever shed read 'em, whar the young fellur war to be foun'.

"I went thar, takin' the other two--thet air Pheelum an the houn'--along wi' me.

"We got to the groun' jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin' his guts clawed out by one o' them ere spotted painters--the Mexikins call tigers--tho' I've heern the young fellur hisself gie 'em the name o' Jug-wars.

"I put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o' it.

"Wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. We hed to toat him thar on a sort o' streetcher; seein' as he wan't able to make trades o' hisself. Beside, he wur as much out o' his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin' time.

"We got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun' him."

The witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacale. Would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? He resolves to be reticent.

This does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him.

It results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred--up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house.

"Now," says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, "since ye've made me tell all I know 'beout thet part o' the bizness, thur's somethin' ye haint thought o' askin', an the which this child's boun' to make a clean breast o'."

"Proceed, Mr Stump!" says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.

"Wal, what I'm goin' to say now haint so much to do wi' the prisoner at the bar, as wi' a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin' in his place. I won't say who thet man air. I'll tell ye what I know, an hev foun' out, an then you o' the jury may reckon it up for yurselves."

The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath--as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.

No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.

"Wal, fellur citizens!" continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, "arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under--struck down in his tracks--wiped out o' the world.

"I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan't, an kedn't be, the mowstanger--Maurice Gerald.

"Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it's done the rest o' ye--them as haint made up thur minds 'ithout reflekshun.

"Wal; thinkin' as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain't goin' to say thet appearances wan't agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.

"For all thet, I wan't goin' to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.

"I knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin' to the place, an hoss tracks goin' from it; an damn 'em! thur wur too many o' 'em, goin' everywhur-- else the thing mout a been eezy enough.

"But thar wur one partickler set I'd got a _down_ upon; an them I detarmined to foller up to the eend o' creashun.

"They war the footmarks o' an Amerikin hoss, hevin' three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi' a bit broken off the eend o' it. This hyur's the eyedentikul piece o' iron!"

The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.

He holds it on high--enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is.

"Now, Mr Judge," he continues, "an' you o' the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. He went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o' it. He went right upon the track o' both, an stopped short o' the place whur the crime wur committed.

"But the man that rud him didn't stop short. He kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. It war the third hoss--him wi' the broken shoe--thet carried the murderer!"

"Go on, Mr Stump!" directs the judge. "Explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement."

"What I mean, judge, air jest this. The man I'm speakin' o' tuk stan' in the thicket, from which stan' he fired the shet thet killed poor young Peintdexter."

"What man? Who was it? His name! Give his name!" simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.

"I reckon yu'll find it thar."

"Where?"

"Whar! In thet thur body as sits 'ithout a head, lookin' dumbly down on ye!

"Ye kin all see," continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, "ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o' the striped blanket. Thur's a hole in the centre o' it. Ahint that hole I reck'n thur'll be another, in the young fellur's karkidge. Thar don't appear any to match it at the back. Thurfor I konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o' him. S'posin' we strip off his duds, an see!"

There is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. Two or three of the spectators--Sam Manly one of them--step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serape.

As at the inauguration of a statue--whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration--the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the Texan tree, while the serape is being raised from the shoulders of the Headless Horseman.

It is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. These are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage.

It is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue _cottonade_--box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat.

The limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. But only the thighs can be seen--the lower extremities being concealed by the "water-guards" of spotted skin tightly stretched over them.

Around the waist--twice twined around it--is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse's hair. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. It is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing--surcingle fashion--under the belly of the horse.

Everything as the accused has stated--all except the head.

Where is this?

The spectators do not stay to inquire. Guided by the speech of Zeb Stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it.

Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.

It is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. These have saturated the soft _cottonade_--now seemingly desiccated.

The other shot-hole shows no similar signs. It is a clear round cut in the cloth--about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. There is no blood stain around it.

"_It_," says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, "it signifies nothin'. It's the bullet I fired myself out o' the gully; the same I've ben tellin' ye o'. Ye obsarve thar's no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. The other air different. It wur the shot as settled him; an ef I ain't dog-gonedly mistaken, ye'll find the bit o' lead still inside o' the corp. Suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!"

The proposal meets with no opposition. On the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as Zeb has suggested.

The stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle.

It feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking,--the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. The lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy!

With respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it--Sam Manly acting as the chief.

Directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound--that with the circle of extravasated blood.

The dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath.

In the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. Something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe--the point of a bowie-knife. It has the feel of a leaden bullet. It is one!

It is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury.

Despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel-- despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib-- there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.

Oh! those tell-tale initials! There are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. Some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet--when the killing of the jaguar was contested!

He who made that boast has now reason to regret it!

"But where is he?"

The question is beginning to be asked.

"What's your explanation, Mr Stump?" is another question put by the counsel for the accused.

"Don't need much, I reck'n," is the reply. "He'd be a durnationed greenhorn as can't see, clur as the light o' day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet."

"By whom fired, do you think?"

"Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar's no chance o' mistakin' who it kums from. Thar's only the ineeshuls thur; but they're plain enuf, I reck'n, an speak for theirselves."

"I see nothing in all this," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "There's a marked bullet, it is true--with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his--as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn't be the first time that a murder has been committed--by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning--a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?"

"Besides," continues the specious pleader, "where is the motive for a murder such as this would be--supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don't suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime."

"Ain't thar though?" asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer's speech. "What do ye call this?"

Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper--crumpled--scorched along the edges--and blackened as with gunpowder.

"This I foun'," says he, surrendering it to the jury, "stuck fast on the thorn o' a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o' the barrel o' a gun. It kim out o' the same gun as discharged thet bullet--to which it hed served for waddin'. As this chile takes it, it's bin the backin' o' a letter. Thur's a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi' the ineeshuls on the bit o' lead. The jury kin read the name for tharselves."

The foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud:--

Captain Cassius Calhoun!

CHAPTER NINETY SIX.

STOLE AWAY!

The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.

It is accompanied by a cry--sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.

It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.

Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.

After a short time spent in examining the envelope--passed from hand to hand among the jurymen--the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.

He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions--those that originally prompted him to seek for "sign" upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught--giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.

This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.

But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.

They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped--themselves along with it; and--swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit--revenge, proceeding from self-reproach--they call loudly for a change in the programme.

The Court is assailed with the cries:--

"Let the Irishman go--he is innocent! We don't want any farther evidence. We're convinced of it. Let him go free!"

Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.

It is followed by other speeches equally earnest:--

"Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It's he that's done the deed! That's why he's shown so bitter against the other! If he's innocent, he'll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we're waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man's been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!"

The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.

The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.

The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.

There is only one pair that looks in the right direction--those of Zeb Stump.

The _ci-devant_ witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare--still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.

With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare's back, and spurs her from under the tree.

At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.

Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate--making for a particular quarter of the _cavallada_.

"'Tis he! 'Tis Calhoun!" cries the voice of one who has recognised him.

"Trying to steal off!" proclaims another.

"Follow him!" shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. "Follow, and bring him back!"

There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed--by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.

Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his--a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the _cavallada_.

It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.

From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal--the "hue and cry."

Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal's back.

Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie--going off at a gallop.

Fifty horses are soon laid along his track--their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.

"Bring him back--dead or alive!" was the solemn phrase,--supposed to have been spoken by the major.

No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this--coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.

Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative--a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!

Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer's bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger's pistol pointed at his head!

He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace--at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.

It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following--within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries--one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.

He has.

He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.

True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?

Is this the thought that sustains him?

It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket--with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit--Zeb Stump at their head!

No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.

What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?

Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?

Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.

There is a still farther beyond--a _border_. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.

There are, indeed, two _borders_. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice--often does--by an adroit migration from one to the other--a mere change of residence and nationality.

But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.

Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the _other border_--that beyond which roams the savage Comanche--the Ishmaelite of the prairies--whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man's blood!

In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality--perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!

It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the _Llano Estacado_.

He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.

He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him--the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation--more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved--perhaps never to be seen again!

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

But he has no time to think even of _her_. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind--fast travelling upon his tracks!

The murderer makes haste--all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang--swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.

Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles--most of them going at a gallop.

But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race--tough as terriers--it will go fifty--if need be a hundred--without staggering in its tracks.

What a stroke of good fortune--that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.

He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.

He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.

Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.

Who, then, can come up with him?

He congratulates himself on the _chance_ that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!

And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN.

THE CHASE OF THE ASSASSIN.

Will God permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.

They are answered by an instinct of justice--the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.

The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen--soldiers and civilians--spring forward in the pursuit.

The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.

The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.

The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider--as all know--his own.

At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad "whigher!"