



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Headless Horseman
A Strange Tale of Texas
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by George Routledge and Sons, London, Glasgow and New York..
This edition dated 1888.

The Headless Horseman, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



PROLOGUE.

The stag of Texas, reclining in midnight lair, is startled from his
slumbers by the hoofstroke of a horse.

He does not forsake his covert, nor yet rise to his feet.  His domain is
shared by the wild steeds of the savannah, given to nocturnal straying.
He only uprears his head; and, with antlers o'ertopping the tall grass,
listens for a repetition of the sound.

Again is the hoofstroke heard, but with altered intonation.  There is a
ring of metal--the clinking of steel against stone.

The sound, significant to the ear of the stag, causes a quick change in
his air and attitude.  Springing clear of his couch, and bounding a
score of yards across the prairie, he pauses to look back upon the
disturber of his dreams.

In the clear moonlight of a southern sky, he recognises the most
ruthless of his enemies--man.  One is approaching upon horseback.

Yielding to instinctive dread, he is about to resume his flight: when
something in the appearance of the horseman--some unnatural seeming--
holds him transfixed to the spot.

With haunches in quivering contact with the sward, and frontlet faced to
the rear, he continues to gaze--his large brown eyes straining upon the
intruder in a mingled expression of fear and bewilderment.

What has challenged the stag to such protracted scrutiny?

The horse is perfect in all its parts--a splendid steed, saddled,
bridled, and otherwise completely caparisoned.  In it there appears
nothing amiss--nothing to produce either wonder or alarm.  But the man--
the rider?  Ah!  About him there _is_ something to cause both--something
weird--something _wanting_!

By heavens! it is the head!

Even the unreasoning animal can perceive this; and, after gazing a
moment with wildered eyes--wondering what abnormal monster thus mocks
its cervine intelligence--terror-stricken it continues its retreat; nor
again pauses, till it has plunged through the waters of the Leona, and
placed the current of the stream between itself and the ghastly
intruder.

Heedless of the affrighted deer--either of its presence, or precipitate
flight--the Headless Horseman rides on.

He, too, is going in the direction of the river.  Unlike the stag, he
does not seem pressed for time; but advances in a slow, tranquil pace:
so silent as to seem ceremonious.

Apparently absorbed in solemn thought, he gives free rein to his steed:
permitting the animal, at intervals, to snatch a mouthful of the herbage
growing by the way.  Nor does he, by voice or gesture, urge it
impatiently onward, when the howl-bark of the prairie-wolf causes it to
fling its head on high, and stand snorting in its tracks.

He appears to be under the influence of some all-absorbing emotion, from
which no common incident can awake him.  There is no speech--not a
whisper--to betray its nature.  The startled stag, his own horse, the
wolf, and the midnight moon, are the sole witnesses of his silent
abstraction.

His shoulders shrouded under a _serape_, one edge of which, flirted up
by the wind, displays a portion of his figure: his limbs encased in
"water-guards" of jaguar-skin: thus sufficiently sheltered against the
dews of the night, or the showers of a tropical sky, he rides on--silent
as the stars shining above, unconcerned as the cicada that chirrups in
the grass beneath, or the prairie breeze playing with the drapery of his
dress.

Something at length appears to rouse from his reverie, and stimulate him
to greater speed--his steed, at the same time.  The latter, tossing up
its head, gives utterance to a joyous neigh; and, with outstretched
neck, and spread nostrils, advances in a gait gradually increasing to a
canter.  The proximity of the river explains the altered pace.

The horse halts not again, till the crystal current is surging against
his flanks, and the legs of his rider are submerged knee-deep under the
surface.

The animal eagerly assuages its thirst; crosses to the opposite side;
and, with vigorous stride, ascends the sloping bank.

Upon the crest occurs a pause: as if the rider tarried till his steed
should shake the water from its flanks.  There is a rattling of
saddle-flaps, and stirrup-leathers, resembling thunder, amidst a cloud
of vapour, white as the spray of a cataract.

Out of this self-constituted _nimbus_, the Headless Horseman emerges;
and moves onward, as before.

Apparently pricked by the spur, and guided by the rein, of his rider,
the horse no longer strays from the track; but steps briskly forward, as
if upon a path already trodden.

A treeless savannah stretches before--selvedged by the sky.  Outlined
against the azure is seen the imperfect centaurean shape gradually
dissolving in the distance, till it becomes lost to view, under the
mystic gloaming of the moonlight!



CHAPTER ONE.

THE BURNT PRAIRIE.

On the great plain of Texas, about a hundred miles southward from the
old Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar, the noonday sun is shedding
his beams from a sky of cerulean brightness.  Under the golden light
appears a group of objects, but little in unison with the landscape
around them: since they betoken the presence of human beings, in a spot
where there is no sign of human habitation.

The objects in question are easily identified--even at a great distance.
They are waggons; each covered with its ribbed and rounded tilt of
snow-white "Osnaburgh."

There are ten of them--scarce enough to constitute a "caravan" of
traders, nor yet a "government train."  They are more likely the
individual property of an emigrant; who has landed upon the coast, and
is wending his way to one of the late-formed settlements on the Leona.

Slowly crawling across the savannah, it could scarce be told that they
are in motion; but for their relative-position, in long serried line,
indicating the order of march.

The dark bodies between each two declare that the teams are attached;
and that they are making progress is proved, by the retreating antelope,
scared from its noonday _siesta_, and the long-shanked curlew, rising
with a screech from the sward--both bird and beast wondering at the
string of strange _behemoths_, thus invading their wilderness domain.

Elsewhere upon the prairie, no movement may be detected--either of bird
or quadruped.  It is the time of day when all tropical life becomes
torpid, or seeks repose in the shade; man alone, stimulated by the love
of gain, or the promptings of ambition, disregarding the laws of nature,
and defying the fervour of the sun.

So seems it with the owner of the tilted train; who, despite the
relaxing influence of the fierce mid-day heat, keeps moving on.

That he is an emigrant--and not one of the ordinary class--is evidenced
in a variety of ways.  The ten large waggons of Pittsburgh build, each
hauled by eight able-bodied mules; their miscellaneous contents:
plenteous provisions, articles of costly furniture, even of _luxe_, live
stock in the shape of <DW52> women and children; the groups of black
and yellow bondsmen, walking alongside, or straggling foot-sore in the
rear; the light travelling carriage in the lead, drawn by a span of
sleek-coated Kentucky mules, and driven by a black Jehu, sweltering in a
suit of livery; all bespeak, not a poor Northern-States settler in
search of a new home, but a rich Southerner who has already purchased
one, and is on his way to take possession of it.

And this is the exact story of the train.  It is the property of a
planter who has landed at Indianola, on the Gulf of Matagorda; and is
now travelling overland--_en route_ for his destination.

In the _cortege_ that accompanies it, riding habitually at its head, is
the planter himself--Woodley Poindexter--a tall thin man of fifty, with
a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe.  He is
simply though not inexpensively clad: in a loosely fitting frock of
alpaca cloth, a waistcoat of black satin, and trousers of nankin.  A
shirt of finest linen shows its plaits through the opening of his vest--
its collar embraced by a piece of black ribbon; while the shoe, resting
in his stirrup, is of finest tanned leather.  His features are shaded by
a broad-brimmed Leghorn hat.

Two horsemen are riding alongside--one on his right, the other on the
left--a stripling scarce twenty, and a young man six or seven years
older.  The former is his son--a youth, whose open cheerful countenance
contrasts, not only with the severe aspect of his father, but with the
somewhat sinister features on the other side, and which belong to his
cousin.

The youth is dressed in a French blouse of sky- "cottonade,"
with trousers of the same material; a most appropriate costume for a
southern climate, and which, with the Panama hat upon his head, is
equally becoming.

The cousin, an ex-officer of volunteers, affects a military undress of
dark blue cloth, with a forage cap to correspond.

There is another horseman riding near, who, only on account of having a
white skin--not white for all that--is entitled to description.  His
coarser features, and cheaper habiliments; the keel- "cowhide"
clutched in his right hand, and flirted with such evident skill,
proclaim him the overseer--and whipper up--of the swarthy pedestrians
composing the _entourage_ of the train.

The travelling carriage, which is a "carriole"--a sort of cross between
a Jersey waggon and a barouche--has two occupants.  One is a young lady
of the whitest skin; the other a girl of the blackest.  The former is
the daughter of Woodley Poindexter--his only daughter.  She of the sable
complexion is the young lady's handmaid.

The emigrating party is from the "coast" of the Mississippi--from
Louisiana.  The planter is not himself a native of this State--in other
words a _Creole_; but the type is exhibited in the countenance of his
son--still more in that fair face, seen occasionally through the
curtains of the carriole, and whose delicate features declare descent
from one of those endorsed damsels--_filles a la casette_--who, more
than a hundred years ago, came across the Atlantic provided with proofs
of their virtue--in the _casket_!

A grand sugar planter of the South is Woodley Poindexter; one of the
highest and haughtiest of his class; one of the most profuse in
aristocratic hospitalities: hence the necessity of forsaking his
Mississippian home, and transferring himself and his "penates,"--with
only a remnant of his "<DW65>s,"--to the wilds of south-western Texas.

The sun is upon the meridian line, and almost in the zenith.  The
travellers tread upon their own shadows.  Enervated by the excessive
heat, the white horsemen sit silently in their saddles.  Even the dusky
pedestrians, less sensible to its influence, have ceased their garrulous
"gumbo;" and, in straggling groups, shamble listlessly along in the rear
of the waggons.

The silence--solemn as that of a funereal procession--is interrupted
only at intervals by the pistol-like crack of a whip, or the loud
"wo-ha," delivered in deep baritone from the thick lips of some sable
teamster.

Slowly the train moves on, as if groping its way.  There is no regular
road.  The route is indicated by the wheel-marks of some vehicles that
have passed before--barely conspicuous, by having crushed the culms of
the shot grass.

Notwithstanding the slow progress, the teams are doing their best.  The
planter believes himself within less than twenty miles of the end of his
journey.  He hopes to reach it before night: hence the march continued
through the mid-day heat.

Unexpectedly the drivers are directed to pull up, by a sign from the
overseer; who has been riding a hundred yards in the advance, and who is
seen to make a sudden stop--as if some obstruction had presented itself.

He comes trotting back towards the train.  His gestures tell of
something amiss.  What is it?

There has been much talk about Indians--of a probability of their being
encountered in this quarter.

Can it be the red-skinned marauders?  Scarcely: the gestures of the
overseer do not betray actual alarm.

"What is it, Mr Sansom?" asked the planter, as the man rode up.

"The grass air burnt.  The prairy's been afire."

"_Been_ on fire!  Is it on fire _now_?" hurriedly inquired the owner of
the waggons, with an apprehensive glance towards the travelling
carriage.  "Where?  I see no smoke!"

"No, sir--no," stammered the overseer, becoming conscious that he had
caused unnecessary alarm; "I didn't say it air afire now: only thet it
hez been, an the hul ground air as black as the ten o' spades."

"Ta--tat! what of that?  I suppose we can travel over a black prairie,
as safely as a green one?

"What nonsense of you, Josh Sansom, to raise such a row about nothing--
frightening people out of their senses!  Ho! there, you <DW65>s!  Lay
the leather to your teams, and let the train proceed.  Whip up!--whip
up!"

"But, Captain Calhoun," protested the overseer, in response to the
gentleman who had reproached him in such chaste terms; "how air we to
find the way?"

"Find the way!  What are you raving about?  We haven't lost it--have
we?"

"I'm afeerd we hev, though.  The wheel-tracks ain't no longer to be
seen.  They're burnt out, along wi' the grass."

"What matters that?  I reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie,
without wheel-marks to guide us?  We'll find them again on the other
side."

"Ye-es," naively responded the overseer, who, although a "down-easter,"
had been far enough west to have learnt something of frontier life; "if
theer air any other side.  I kedn't see it out o' the seddle--ne'er a
sign o' it."

"Whip up, <DW65>s! whip up!" shouted Calhoun, without heeding the
remark; and spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed.

The teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of
the burnt tract, without instructions from any one, are once more
brought to a stand.

The white men on horseback draw together for a consultation.  There is
need: as all are satisfied by a single glance directed to the ground
before them.

Far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour--black as
Erebus.  There is nothing green--not a blade of grass--not a reed nor
weed!

It is after the summer solstice.  The ripened culms of the _gramineae_,
and the stalks of the prairie flowers, have alike crumbled into dust
under the devastating breath of fire.

In front--on the right and left--to the utmost verge of vision extends
the scene of desolation.  Over it the cerulean sky is changed to a
darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than
shine--as if reciprocating the frown of the earth.

The overseer has made a correct report--there is no trail visible.  The
action of the fire, as it raged among the ripe grass, has eliminated the
impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route.  "What are we to
do?"

The planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a
vacillating spirit.

"Do, uncle Woodley!  What else but keep straight on?  The river must be
on the other side?  If we don't hit the crossing, to a half mile or so,
we can go up, or down the bank--as the case may require."

"But, Cassius: if we should lose our way?"

"We can't.  There's but a patch of this, I suppose?  If we do go a
little astray, we must come out somewhere--on one side, or the other."

"Well, nephew, you know best: I shall be guided by you."

"No fear, uncle.  I've made my way out of a worse fix than this.  Drive
on, <DW65>s!  Keep straight after _me_."

The ex-officer of volunteers, casting a conceited glance towards the
travelling carriage--through the curtains of which appears a fair face,
slightly shadowed with anxiety--gives the spur to his horse; and with
confident air trots onward.

A chorus of whipcracks is succeeded by the trampling of fourscore mules,
mingled with the clanking of wheels against their hubs.  The
waggon-train is once more in motion.

The mules step out with greater rapidity.  The sable surface, strange to
their eyes, excites them to brisker action--causing them to raise the
hoof, as soon as it touches the turf.  The younger animals show fear--
snorting, as they advance.

In time their apprehensions become allayed; and, taking the cue from
their older associates, they move on steadily as before.

A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of
starting.  Then there is a halt.  The self-appointed guide has ordered
it.  He has reined up his horse; and is sitting in the saddle with less
show of confidence.  He appears to be puzzled about the direction.

The landscape--if such it may be called--has assumed a change; though
not for the better.  It is still sable as ever, to the verge of the
horizon.  But the surface is no longer a plain: it _rolls_.  There are
ridges--gentle undulations--with valleys between.  They are not entirely
treeless--though nothing that may be termed a tree is in sight.  There
have been such, before the fire--_algarobias, mezquites_, and others of
the acacia family--standing solitary, or in copses.  Their light pinnate
foliage has disappeared like flax before the flame.  Their existence is
only evidenced by charred trunks, and blackened boughs.

"You've lost the way, nephew?" said the planter, riding rapidly up.

"No uncle--not yet.  I've only stopped to have a look.  It must lie in
this direction--down that valley.  Let them drive on.  We're going all
right--I'll answer for it."

Once more in motion--adown the <DW72>--then along the valley--then up the
acclivity of another ridge--and then there is a second stoppage upon its
crest.

"You've lost the way, Cash?" said the planter, coming up and repeating
his former observation.

"Damned if I don't believe I have, uncle!" responded the nephew, in a
tone of not very respectful mistrust.  "Anyhow; who the devil could find
his way out of an ashpit like this?  No, no!" he continued, reluctant to
betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up.  "I see now.  We're
all right yet.  The river must be in this direction.  Come on!"

On goes the guide, evidently irresolute.  On follow the sable teamsters,
who, despite their stolidity, do not fail to note some signs of
vacillation.  They can tell that they are no longer advancing in a
direct line; but circuitously among the copses, and across the glades
that stretch between.

All are gratified by a shout from the conductor, announcing recovered
confidence.  In response there is a universal explosion of whipcord,
with joyous exclamations.

Once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road--where
a half-score of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them.  And not
long before: the wheel-tracks are of recent impress--the hoof-prints of
the animals fresh as if made within the hour.  A train of waggons, not
unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie!

Like themselves, it could only be going towards the Leona: perhaps some
government convoy on its way to Fort Inge?  In that case they have only
to keep in the same track.  The Fort is on the line of their march--but
a short distance beyond the point where their journey is to terminate.

Nothing could be more opportune.  The guide, hitherto perplexed--though
without acknowledging it--is at once relieved of all anxiety; and with a
fresh exhibition of conceit, orders the route to be resumed.

For a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed--not in a direct line,
but bending about among the skeleton copses.  The countenance of Cassius
Calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes
clouded.  It assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on
discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have
been made by ten Pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole--the same that are
now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling _all the
way from the Gulf of Matagorda_!



CHAPTER TWO.

THE TRAIL OF THE LAZO.

Beyond doubt, the waggons of Woodley Poindexter were going over ground
already traced by the tiring of their wheels.

"Our own tracks!" muttered Calhoun on making the discovery, adding a
fierce oath as he reined up.

"Our own tracks!  What mean you, Cassius?  You don't say we've been
travelling--"

"On our own tracks.  I do, uncle; that very thing.  We must have made a
complete circumbendibus of it.  See! here's the hind hoof of my own
horse, with half a shoe off; and there's the foot of the <DW65>s.
Besides, I can tell the ground.  That's the very hill we went down as we
left our last stopping place.  Hang the crooked luck!  We've made a
couple of miles for nothing."

Embarrassment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the
speaker.  It has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame.  It is
through him that the train is without a regular guide.  One, engaged at
Indianola, had piloted them to their last camping place.  There, in
consequence of some dispute, due to the surly temper of the ex-captain
of volunteers, the man had demanded his dismissal, and gone back.

For this--as also for an ill-timed display of confidence in his power to
conduct the march--is the planter's nephew now suffering under a sense
of shame.  He feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes
become witnesses of his discomfiture.

Poindexter does not repeat his inquiry.  That the road is lost is a fact
evident to all.  Even the barefooted or "broganned" pedestrians have
recognised their long-heeled footprints, and become aware that they are
for the second time treading upon the same ground.

There is a general halt, succeeded by an animated conversation among the
white men.  The situation is serious: the planter himself believes it to
be so.  He cannot that day reach the end of his journey--a thing upon
which he had set his mind.

That is the very least misfortune that can befall them.  There are
others possible, and probable.  There are perils upon the burnt plain.
They may be compelled to spend the night upon it, with no water for
their animals.  Perhaps a second day and night--or longer--who can tell
how long?

How are they to find their way?  The sun is beginning to descend; though
still too high in heaven to indicate his line of declination.  By
waiting a while they may discover the quarters of the compass.

But to what purpose?  The knowledge of east, west, north, and south can
avail nothing now: they have lost their _line of march_.

Calhoun has become cautious.  He no longer volunteers to point out the
path.  He hesitates to repeat his pioneering experiments--after such
manifest and shameful failure.

A ten minutes' discussion terminates in nothing.  No one can suggest a
feasible plan of proceeding.  No one knows how to escape from the
embrace of that dark desert, which appears to cloud not only the sun and
sky, but the countenances of all who enter within its limits.

A flock of black vultures is seen flying afar off.  They come nearer,
and nearer.  Some alight upon the ground--others hover above the heads
of the strayed travellers.  Is there a boding in the behaviour of the
birds?

Another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom.
Then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness
re-assume its sway.  The cause?  A horseman riding in the direction of
the train!

An unexpected sight: who could have looked for human being in such a
place?  All eyes simultaneously sparkle with joy; as if, in the approach
of the horseman, they beheld the advent of a saviour!

"He's coming this way, is he not?" inquired the planter, scarce
confident in his failing sight.

"Yes, father; straight as he can ride," replied Henry, lifting the hat
from his head, and waving it on high: the action accompanied by a shout
intended to attract the horseman.

The signal was superfluous.  The stranger had already sighted the halted
waggons; and, riding towards them at a gallop, was soon within speaking
distance.

He did not draw bridle, until he had passed the train; and arrived upon
the spot occupied by the planter and his party.

"A Mexican!" whispered Henry, drawing his deduction from the habiliments
of the horseman.

"So much the better," replied Poindexter, in the same tone of voice;
"he'll be all the more likely to know the road."

"Not a bit of Mexican about him," muttered Calhoun, "excepting the rig.
I'll soon see.  _Buenos dias, cavallero!  Esta V. Mexicano_?"  (Good
day, sir! are you a Mexican?)

"No, indeed," replied the stranger, with a protesting smile.  "Anything
but that.  I can speak to you in Spanish, if you prefer it; but I dare
say you will understand me better in English: which, I presume, is your
native tongue?"

Calhoun, suspecting that he had spoken indifferent Spanish, or
indifferently pronounced it, refrains from making rejoinder.

"_American_, sir," replied Poindexter, his national pride feeling
slightly piqued.  Then, as if fearing to offend the man from whom he
intended asking a favour, he added: "Yes, sir; we are all Americans--
from the _Southern States_."

"That I can perceive by your following."  An expression of contempt--
scarce perceptible--showed itself upon the countenance of the speaker,
as his eye rested upon the groups of black bondsmen.  "I can perceive,
too," he added, "that you are strangers to prairie travelling.  You have
lost your way?"

"We have, sir; and have very little prospect of recovering it, unless we
may count upon your kindness to direct us."

"Not much kindness in that.  By the merest chance I came upon your
trail, as I was crossing the prairie.  I saw you were going astray; and
have ridden this way to set you right."

"It is very good of you.  We shall be most thankful, sir.  My name is
Poindexter--Woodley Poindexter, of Louisiana.  I have purchased a
property on the Leona river, near Fort Inge.  We were in hopes of
reaching it before nightfall.  Can we do so?"

"There is nothing to hinder you: if you follow the instructions I shall
give."

On saying this, the stranger rode a few paces apart; and appeared to
scrutinise the country--as if to determine the direction which the
travellers should take.

Poised conspicuously upon the crest of the ridge, horse and man
presented a picture worthy of skilful delineation.

A steed, such as might have been ridden by an Arab sheik--blood-bay in
colour--broad in counter--with limbs clean as culms of cane, and hips of
elliptical outline, continued into a magnificent tail sweeping rearward
like a rainbow: on his back a rider--a young man of not more than
five-and-twenty--of noble form and features; habited in the picturesque
costume of a Mexican _ranchero_--spencer jacket of
velveteen--_calzoneros_ laced along the seams--_calzoncillos_ of
snow-white lawn--_botas_ of buff leather, heavily spurred at the heels--
around the waist a scarf of scarlet crape; and on his head a hat of
black glaze, banded with gold bullion.  Picture to yourself a horseman
thus habited; seated in a deep tree-saddle, of Moorish shape and Mexican
manufacture, with housings of leather stamped in antique patterns, such
as were worn by the caparisoned steeds of the Conquistadores; picture to
yourself such a _cavallero_, and you will have before your mind's eye a
counterpart of him, upon whom the planter and his people were gazing.

Through the curtains of the travelling carriage he was regarded with
glances that spoke of a singular sentiment.  For the first time in her
life, Louise Poindexter looked upon that--hitherto known only to her
imagination--a man of heroic mould.  Proud might he have been, could he
have guessed the interest which his presence was exciting in the breast
of the young Creole.

He could not, and did not.  He was not even aware of her existence.  He
had only glanced at the dust-bedaubed vehicle in passing--as one might
look upon the rude incrustation of an oyster, without suspecting that a
precious pearl may lie gleaming inside.

"By my faith!" he declared, facing round to the owner of the waggons, "I
can discover no landmarks for you to steer by.  For all that, I can find
the way myself.  You will have to cross the Leona five miles below the
Fort; and, as I have to go by the crossing myself, _you_ can follow the
tracks of my horse.  Good day, gentlemen!"

Thus abruptly bidding adieu, he pressed the spur against the side of his
steed; and started off at a gallop.

An unexpected--almost uncourteous departure!  So thought the planter and
his people.

They had no time to make observations upon it, before the stranger was
seen returning towards them!

In ten seconds he was again in their presence--all listening to learn
what had brought him back.

"I fear the tracks of my horse may prove of little service to you.  The
_mustangs_ have been this way, since the fire.  They have made
hoof-marks by the thousand.  Mine are shod; but, as you are not
accustomed to trailing, you may not be able to distinguish them--the
more so, that in these dry ashes all horse-tracks are so nearly alike."

"What are we to do?" despairingly asked the planter.

"I am sorry, Mr Poindexter, I cannot stay to conduct you, I am riding
express, with a despatch for the Fort.  If you _should_ lose my trail,
keep the sun on your right shoulders: so that your shadows may fall to
the left, at an angle of about fifteen degrees to your line of march.
Go straight forward for about five miles.  You will then come in sight
of the top of a tall tree--a _cypress_.  You will know it by its leaves
being _in the red_.  Head direct for this tree.  It stands on the bank
of the river; and close by is the crossing."

The young horseman, once more drawing up his reins, was about to ride
off; when something caused him to linger.  It was a pair of dark
lustrous eyes--observed by him for the first time--glancing through the
curtains of the travelling carriage.

Their owner was in shadow; but there was light enough to show that they
were set in a countenance of surpassing loveliness.  He perceived,
moreover, that they were turned upon himself--fixed, as he fancied, in
an expression that betokened interest--almost tenderness!

He returned it with an involuntary glance of admiration, which he made
but an awkward attempt to conceal.  Lest it might be mistaken for
rudeness, he suddenly faced round; and once more addressed himself to
the planter--who had just finished thanking him for his civility.

"I am but ill deserving thanks," was his rejoinder, "thus to leave you
with a chance of losing your way.  But, as I've told you, my time is
measured."

The despatch-bearer consulted his watch--as though not a little
reluctant to travel alone.

"You are very kind, sir," said Poindexter; "but with the directions you
have given us, I think we shall be able to manage.  The sun will surely
show us--"

"No: now I look at the sky, it will not.  There are clouds looming up on
the north.  In an hour, the sun may be obscured--at all events, before
you can get within sight of the cypress.  It will not do.  Stay!" he
continued, after a reflective pause, "I have a better plan still:
_follow the trail of my lazo_!"

While speaking, he had lifted the coiled rope from his saddlebow, and
flung the loose end to the earth--the other being secured to a ring in
the pommel.  Then raising his hat in graceful salutation--more than half
directed towards the travelling carriage--he gave the spur to his steed;
and once more bounded off over the prairie.

The lazo, lengthening out, tightened over the hips of his horse; and,
dragging a dozen yards behind, left a line upon the cinereous surface--
as if some slender serpent had been making its passage across the plain.

"An exceedingly curious fellow!" remarked the planter, as they stood
gazing after the horseman, fast becoming hidden behind a cloud of sable
dust.  "I ought to have asked him his name?"

"An exceedingly conceited fellow, I should say," muttered Calhoun; who
had not failed to notice the glance sent by the stranger in the
direction of the carriole, nor that which had challenged it.  "As to his
name, I don't think it matters much.  It mightn't be his own he would
give you.  Texas is full of such swells, who take new names when they
get here--by way of improvement, if for no better reason."

"Come, cousin Cash," protested young Poindexter; "you are unjust to the
stranger.  He appears to be educated--in fact, a gentleman--worthy of
bearing the best of names, I should say."

"A gentleman!  Deuced unlikely: rigged out in that fanfaron fashion.  I
never saw a man yet, that took to a Mexican dress, who wasn't a _Jack_.
He's one, I'll be bound."

During this brief conversation, the fair occupant of the carriole was
seen to bend forward; and direct a look of evident interest, after the
form of the horseman fast receding from her view.

To this, perhaps, might have been traced the acrimony observable in the
speech of Calhoun.

"What is it, Loo?" he inquired, riding close up to the carriage, and
speaking in a voice not loud enough to be heard by the others.  "You
appear impatient to go forward?  Perhaps you'd like to ride off along
with that swaggering fellow?  It isn't too late: I'll lend you my
horse."

The young girl threw herself back upon the seat--evidently displeased,
both by the speech and the tone in which it was delivered.  But her
displeasure, instead of expressing itself in a frown, or in the shape of
an indignant rejoinder, was concealed under a guise far more galling to
him who had caused it.  A clear ringing laugh was the only reply
vouchsafed to him.

"So, so!  I thought there must be something--by the way you behaved
yourself in his presence.  You looked as if you would have relished a
_tete-a-tete_ with this showy despatch-bearer.  Taken with his stylish
dress, I suppose?  Fine feathers make fine birds.  His are borrowed.  I
may strip them off some day, along with a little of the skin that's
under them."

"For shame, Cassius! your words are a scandal!"

"'Tis you should think of scandal, Loo!  To let your thoughts turn on a
common scamp--a masquerading fellow like that!  No doubt the letter
carrier, employed by the officers at the Fort!"

"A letter carrier, you think?  Oh, how I should like to get love letters
by such a postman!"

"You had better hasten on, and tell him so.  My horse is at your
service."

"Ha! ha! ha!  What a simpleton you show yourself!  Suppose, for
jesting's sake, I _did_ have a fancy to overtake this prairie postman!
It couldn't be done upon that dull steed of yours: not a bit of it!  At
the rate he is going, he and his blood-bay will be out of sight before
you could change saddles for me.  Oh, no! he's not to be overtaken by
me, however much I might like it; and perhaps I _might like it_!"

"Don't let your father hear you talk in that way."

"Don't let him hear _you_ talk in that way," retorted the young lady,
for the first time speaking in a serious strain.  "Though you _are_ my
cousin, and papa may think you the pink of perfection, I don't--not I!
I never told you I did--did I?"  A frown, evidently called forth by some
unsatisfactory reflection, was the only reply to this tantalising
interrogative.

"You _are_ my cousin," she continued, in a tone that contrasted
strangely with the levity she had already exhibited, "but you are
nothing more--nothing more--Captain Cassius Calhoun!  You have no claim
to be my counsellor.  There is but one from whom I am in duty bound to
take advice, or bear reproach.  I therefore beg of you, Master Cash,
that you will not again presume to repeat such sentiments--as those you
have just favoured me with.  I shall remain mistress of my own
thoughts--and actions, too--till I have found a master who can control
them.  It is not you!"

Having delivered this speech, with eyes flashing--half angrily, half
contemptuously--upon her cousin, the young Creole once more threw
herself back upon the cushions of the carriole.

The closing curtains admonished the ex-officer, that further
conversation was not desired.

Quailing under the lash of indignant innocence, he was only too happy to
hear the loud "gee-on" of the teamsters, as the waggons commenced moving
over the sombre surface--not more sombre than his own thoughts.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE PRAIRIE FINGER-POST.

The travellers felt no further uneasiness about the route.  The
snake-like trail was continuous; and so plain that a child might have
followed it.

It did not run in a right line, but meandering among the thickets; at
times turning out of the way, in places where the ground was clear of
timber.  This had evidently been done with an intent to avoid
obstruction to the waggons: since at each of these windings the
travellers could perceive that there were breaks, or other inequalities,
in the surface.

"How very thoughtful of the young fellow!" remarked Poindexter.  "I
really feel regret at not having asked for his name.  If he belong to
the Fort, we shall see him again."

"No doubt of it," assented his son.  "I hope we shall."

His daughter, reclining in shadow, overheard the conjectural speech, as
well as the rejoinder.  She said nothing; but her glance towards Henry
seemed to declare that her heart fondly echoed the hope.

Cheered by the prospect of soon terminating a toilsome journey--as also
by the pleasant anticipation of beholding, before sunset, his new
purchase--the planter was in one of his happiest moods.  His
aristocratic bosom was moved by an unusual amount of condescension, to
all around him.  He chatted familiarly with his overseer; stopped to
crack a joke with "Uncle" Scipio, hobbling along on blistered heels; and
encouraged "Aunt" Chloe in the transport of her piccaninny.

"Marvellous!" might the observer exclaim--misled by such exceptional
interludes, so pathetically described by the scribblers in Lucifer's
pay--"what a fine patriarchal institution is slavery, after all!  After
all we have said and done to abolish it!  A waste of sympathy--sheer
philanthropic folly to attempt the destruction of this ancient edifice--
worthy corner-stone to a `chivalric' nation!  Oh, ye abolition fanatics!
why do ye clamour against it?  Know ye not that some must suffer--must
work and starve--that others may enjoy the luxury of idleness?  That
some must be slaves, that others may be free?"

Such arguments--at which a world might weep--have been of late but too
often urged.  Woe to the man who speaks, and the nation that gives ear
to them!

The planter's high spirits were shared by his party, Calhoun alone
excepted.  They were reflected in the faces of his black bondsmen, who
regarded him as the source, and dispenser, of their happiness, or
misery--omnipotent--next to God.  They loved him less than God, and
feared him more; though he was by no means a bad master--that is, _by
comparison_.  He did not absolutely take delight in torturing them.  He
liked to see them well fed and clad--their epidermis shining with the
exudation of its own oil.  These signs bespoke the importance of their
proprietor--himself.  He was satisfied to let them off with an
occasional "cow-hiding"--salutary, he would assure you; and in all his
"stock" there was not one black skin marked with the mutilations of
vengeance--a proud boast for a Mississippian slave-owner, and more than
most could truthfully lay claim to.

In the presence of such an exemplary owner, no wonder that the
cheerfulness was universal--or that the slaves should partake of their
master's joy, and give way to their garrulity.

It was not destined that this joyfulness should continue to the end of
their journey.  It was after a time interrupted--not suddenly, nor by
any fault on the part of those indulging in it, but by causes and
circumstances over which they had not the slightest control.

As the stranger had predicted: the sun ceased to be visible, before the
cypress came in sight.

There was nothing in this to cause apprehension.  The line of the lazo
was conspicuous as ever; and they needed no guidance from the sun: only
that his cloud-eclipse produced a corresponding effect upon their
spirits.

"One might suppose it close upon nightfall," observed the planter,
drawing out his gold repeater, and glancing at its dial; "and yet it's
only three o'clock!  Lucky the young fellow has left us such a sure
guide.  But for him, we might have floundered among these ashes till
sundown; perhaps have been compelled to sleep upon them."

"A black bed it would be," jokingly rejoined Henry, with the design of
rendering the conversation more cheerful.  "Ugh!  I should have such
ugly dreams, were I to sleep upon it."

"And I, too," added his sister, protruding her pretty face through the
curtains, and taking a survey of the surrounding scene: "I'm sure I
should dream of Tartarus, and Pluto, and Proserpine, and--"

"Hya! hya! hya!" grinned the black Jehu, on the box--enrolled in the
plantation books as _Pluto Poindexter_--"De young missa dream 'bout _me_
in de mids' ob dis brack praira!  Golly! dat am a good joke--berry!
Hya! hya! hya!"

"Don't be too sure, all of ye," said the surly nephew, at this moment
coming up, and taking part in the conversation--"don't be too sure that
you won't have to make your beds upon it yet.  I hope it may be no
worse."

"What mean you, Cash?" inquired the uncle.

"I mean, uncle, that that fellow's been misleading us.  I won't say it
for certain; but it looks ugly.  We've come more than five miles--six, I
should say--and where's the tree?  I've examined the horizon, with a
pair of as good eyes as most have got, I reckon; and there isn't such a
thing in sight."

"But why should the stranger have deceived us?"

"Ah--why?  That's just it.  There may be more reasons than one."

"Give us one, then!" challenged a silvery voice from the carriole.
"We're all ears to hear it!"

"You're all ears to take in everything that's told you by a stranger,"
sneeringly replied Calhoun.  "I suppose if I gave my reason, you'd be so
charitable as to call it a false alarm!"

"That depends on its character, Master Cassius.  I think you might
venture to try us.  We scarcely expect a false alarm from a soldier, as
well as traveller, of your experience."

Calhoun felt the taunt; and would probably have withheld the
communication he had intended to make, but for Poindexter himself.

"Come, Cassius, explain yourself!" demanded the planter, in a tone of
respectful authority.  "You have said enough to excite something more
than curiosity.  For what reason should the young fellow be leading us
astray?"

"Well, uncle," answered the ex-officer, retreating a little from his
original accusation, "I haven't said for certain that he _is_; only that
it looks like it."

"In what way?"

"Well, one don't know what may happen.  Travelling parties as strong,
and stronger than we, have been attacked on these plains, and plundered
of every thing--murdered."

"Mercy!" exclaimed Louise, in a tone of terror, more affected than real.

"By Indians," replied Poindexter.

"Ah--Indians, indeed!  Sometimes it may be; and sometimes, too, they may
be whites who play at that game--not all Mexican whites, neither.  It
only needs a bit of brown paint; a horsehair wig, with half a dozen
feathers stuck into it; that, and plenty of hullabalooing.  If we were
to be robbed by a party of _white_ Indians, it wouldn't be the first
time the thing's been done.  We as good as half deserve it--for our
greenness, in trusting too much to a stranger."

"Good heavens, nephew! this is a serious accusation.  Do you mean to say
that the despatch-rider--if he be one--is leading us into--into an
ambuscade?"

"No, uncle; I don't say that.  I only say that such things have been
done; and it's possible he _may_."

"But not _probable_," emphatically interposed the voice from the
carriole, in a tone tauntingly quizzical.

"No!" exclaimed the stripling Henry, who, although riding a few paces
ahead, had overheard the conversation.  "Your suspicions are unjust,
cousin Cassius.  I pronounce them a calumny.  What's more, I can prove
them so.  Look there!"

The youth had reined up his horse, and was pointing to an object placed
conspicuously by the side of the path; which, before speaking, he had
closely scrutinised.  It was a tall plant of the _columnar cactus_,
whose green succulent stem had escaped scathing by the fire.

It was not to the plant itself that Henry Poindexter directed the
attention of his companions; but to a small white disc, of the form of a
parallelogram, impaled upon one of its spines.  No one accustomed to the
usages of civilised life could mistake the "card."  It was one.

"Hear what's written upon it!" continued the young man, riding nearer,
and reading aloud the directions pencilled upon the bit of pasteboard.

"The cypress in sight!"

"Where?" inquired Poindexter.

"There's a hand," rejoined Henry, "with a finger pointing--no doubt in
the direction of the tree."

All eyes were instantly turned towards the quarter of the compass,
indicated by the cipher on the card.

Had the sun been shining, the cypress might have been seen at the first
glance.  As it was, the sky--late of cerulean hue--was now of a leaden
grey; and no straining of the eyes could detect anything along the
horizon resembling the top of a tree.

"There's nothing of the kind," asserted Calhoun, with restored
confidence, at the same time returning to his unworthy accusation.
"It's only a dodge--another link in the chain of tricks the scamp is
playing us."

"You mistake, cousin Cassius," replied that same voice that had so often
contradicted him.  "Look through this lorgnette!  If you haven't lost
the sight of those superior eyes of yours, you'll see something _very
like a tree_--a tall tree--and a cypress, too, if ever there was one in
the swamps of Louisiana."

Calhoun disdained to take the opera glass from the hands of his cousin.
He knew it would convict him: for he could not suppose she was telling
an untruth.

Poindexter availed himself of its aid; and, adjusting the focus to his
failing sight, was enabled to distinguish the red-leafed cypress,
topping up over the edge of the prairie.

"It's true," he said: "the tree is there.  The young fellow is honest:
you've been wronging him, Cash.  I didn't think it likely he should have
taken such a queer plan to make fools of us.  He there!  Mr Sansom!
Direct your teamsters to drive on!"

Calhoun, not caring to continue the conversation, nor yet remain longer
in company, spitefully spurred his horse, and trotted off over the
prairie.

"Let me look at that card, Henry?" said Louise, speaking to her brother
in a restrained voice.  "I'm curious to see the cipher that has been of
such service to us.  Bring it away, brother: it can be of no further use
where it is--now that we have sighted the tree."

Henry, without the slightest suspicion of his sister's motive for making
the request, yielded obedience to it.

Releasing the piece of pasteboard from its impalement, he "chucked" it
into her lap.

"_Maurice Gerald_!" muttered the young Creole, after deciphering the
name upon the card.  "Maurice Gerald!" she repeated, in apostrophic
thought, as she deposited the piece of pasteboard in her bosom.
"Whoever you are--whence you have come--whither you are going--what you
may be--_Henceforth there is a fate between us_!  I feel it--I know it--
sure as there's a sky above!  Oh! how that sky lowers!  Am I to take it
as a type of this still untraced destiny?"



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE BLACK NORTHER.

For some seconds, after surrendering herself to the Sybilline thoughts
thus expressed, the young lady sate in silence--her white hands clasped
across her temples, as if her whole soul was absorbed in an attempt,
either to explain the past, or penetrate the future.

Her reverie--whatever might be its cause--was not of long duration.  She
was awakened from it, on hearing exclamations without--mingled with
words that declared some object of apprehension.

She recognised her brother's voice, speaking in tones that betokened
alarm.

"Look, father! don't you see them?"

"Where, Henry--where?"

"Yonder--behind the waggons.  You see them now?"

"I do--though I can't say what they are.  They look like--like--"
Poindexter was puzzled for a simile--"I really don't know what."

"Waterspouts?" suggested the ex-captain, who, at sight of the strange
objects, had condescended to rejoin the party around the carriole.
"Surely it can't be that?  It's too far from the sea.  I never heard of
their occurring on the prairies."

"They are in motion, whatever they be," said Henry.  "See! they keep
closing, and then going apart.  But for that, one might mistake them for
huge obelisks of black marble!"

"Giants, or ghouls!" jokingly suggested Calhoun; "ogres from some other
world, who've taken a fancy to have a promenade on this abominable
prairie!"

The ex-officer was only humorous with an effort.  As well as the others,
he was under the influence of an uneasy feeling.

And no wonder.  Against the northern horizon had suddenly become
upreared a number of ink- columns--half a score of them--unlike
anything ever seen before.  They were not of regular columnar form, nor
fixed in any way; but constantly changing size, shape, and place--now
steadfast for a time--now gliding over the charred surface like giants
upon skates--anon, bending and balancing towards one another in the most
fantastic figurings!

It required no great effort of imagination, to fancy the Titans of old,
resuscitated on the prairies of Texas, leading a measure after some wild
carousal in the company of Bacchus!

In the proximity of phenomena never observed before--unearthly in their
aspect--unknown to every individual of the party--it was but natural
these should be inspired with alarm.

And such was the fact.  A sense of danger pervaded every bosom.  All
were impressed with a belief: that they were in the presence of some
_peril of the prairies_.

A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the
<DW64>s on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of
terror.  The animals--mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to
a stand--the latter neighing and trembling--the former filling the air
with their shrill screams.

These were not the only sounds.  From the sable towers could be heard a
hoarse swishing noise, that resembled the sough of a waterfall--at
intervals breaking into reverberations like the roll of musketry, or the
detonations of distant thunder!

These noises were gradually growing louder and more distinct.  The
danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!

Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers,
Calhoun's forming no exception.  The ex-officer no longer pretended
levity.  The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the
band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!

At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was
a source of relief--despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it
was uttered.

Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop--riding direct towards
them.

The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of
his face.  For all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the
trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.

The perceptions of woman are quicker than those of man: the young lady
within the carriole was the first to identify him.  "Onward!" he cried,
as soon as within speaking distance.  "On--on! as fast as you can
drive!"

"What is it?" demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm.  "Is there a
danger?"

"There is.  I did not anticipate it, as I passed you.  It was only after
reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it."

"Of what, sir?"

"The _norther_."

"You mean the storm of that name?"

"I do."

"I never heard of its being dangerous," interposed Calhoun, "except to
vessels at sea.  It's precious cold, I know; but--"

"You'll find it worse than cold, sir," interrupted the young horseman,
"if you're not quick in getting out of its way.  Mr Poindexter," he
continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis,
"I tell you, that you and your party are in peril.  A norther is not
always to be dreaded; but this one--look yonder!  You see those black
pillars?"

"We've been wondering--didn't know what to make of them."

"They're nothing--only the precursors of the storm.  Look beyond!  Don't
you see a coal-black cloud spreading over the sky?  That's what you have
to dread.  I don't wish to cause you unnecessary alarm: but I tell you,
there's death in yonder shadow!  It's in motion, and coming this way.
You have no chance to escape it, except by speed.  If you do not make
haste, it will be too late.  In ten minutes' time you may be enveloped,
and then--quick, sir, I entreat you!  Order your drivers to hurry
forward as fast as they can!  The sky--heaven itself--commands you!"

The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged
in such energetic terms.  The order was given for the teams to be set in
motion, and driven at top speed.

Terror, that inspired the animals equally with their drivers, rendered
superfluous the use of the whip.

The travelling carriage, with the mounted men, moved in front, as
before.  The stranger alone threw himself in the rear--as if to act as a
guard against the threatening danger.

At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each
time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.

Perceiving it, the planter approached, and accosted him with the
inquiry:

"Is there still a danger?"

"I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative," said he: "I had hopes
that the wind might be the other way."

"Wind, sir?  There is none--that I can perceive."

"Not here.  Yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too--direct.
By heavens! it is nearing us rapidly!  I doubt if we shall be able to
clear the burnt track."

"What is to be done?" exclaimed the planter, terrified by the
announcement.

"Are your mules doing their best?"

"They are: they could not be driven faster."

"I fear we shall _be too late, then_!"

As the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round
once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns--as if calculating the
rate at which they were advancing.

The lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than
dissatisfaction.

"Yes: too late!" he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny.  "They
are moving faster than we--far faster.  There is no hope of our escaping
them!"

"Good God, sir! is the danger so great?  Can we do nothing to avoid it?"

The stranger did not make immediate reply.  For some seconds he remained
silent, as if reflecting--his glance no longer turned towards the sky,
but wandering among the waggons.

"Is there no chance of escape?" urged the planter, with the impatience
of a man in presence of a great peril.

"There is!" joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought
had at length suggested itself.  "There _is a chance_.  I did not think
of it before.  We cannot shun the storm--the danger we may.  Quick, Mr
Poindexter!  Order your men to muffle the mules--the horses too--
otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad.  Blankets--cloaks--
anything will do.  When that's done, let all seek shelter within the
waggons.  Let the tilts be closed at the ends.  I shall myself look to
the travelling carriage."

Having delivered this chapter of instructions--which Poindexter,
assisted by the overseer, hastened to direct the execution of--the young
horseman galloped towards the front.

"Madame!" said he, reining up alongside the carriole, and speaking with
as much suavity as the circumstances would admit of, "you must close the
curtains all round.  Your coachman will have to get inside; and you,
gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to Henry and Calhoun--"and
you, sir;" to Poindexter, who had just come up.  "There will be room for
all.  Inside, I beseech you!  Lose no time.  In a few seconds the storm
will be upon us!"

"And you, sir?" inquired the planter, with a show of interest in the man
who was making such exertions to secure them against some yet
unascertained danger.  "What of yourself?"

"Don't waste a moment upon me.  I know what's coming.  It isn't the
first time I have encountered it.  In--in, I entreat you!  You haven't a
second to spare.  Listen to that shriek!  Quick, or the dust-cloud will
be around us!"

The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated
into the travelling carriage.

Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle.
Why should _he_ skulk from a visionary danger, that did not deter a man
in Mexican garb?

The latter turned away; as he did so, directing the overseer to get
inside the nearest waggon--a direction which was obeyed with alacrity--
and, for the first time, the stranger was left free to take care of
himself.

Quickly unfolding his _serape_--hitherto strapped across the cantle of
his saddle--he flung it over the head of his horse.  Then, drawing the
edges back, he fastened it, bag-fashion, around the animal's neck.  With
equal alertness he undid his scarf of China crape; and stretched it
around his sombrero--fixing it in such a way, that one edge was held
under the bullion band, while the other dropped down over the brim--thus
forming a silken visor for his face.

Before finally closing it, he turned once more towards the carriole;
and, to his surprise, saw Calhoun still in the saddle.  Humanity
triumphed over a feeling of incipient aversion.

"Once again, sir, I adjure you to get inside!  If you do not you'll have
cause to repent it.  Within ten minutes' time, you may be a dead man!"

The positive emphasis with which the caution was delivered produced its
effect.  In the presence of mortal foeman, Cassius Calhoun was no
coward.  But there was an enemy approaching that was not mortal--not in
any way understood.  It was already making itself manifest, in tones
that resembled thunder--in shadows that mocked the darkness of midnight.
Who would not have felt fear at the approach of a destroyer so
declaring itself?

The ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and
heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance--
intended to save appearances--he clambered into the carriage, and
ensconced himself behind the closely-drawn curtains.

To describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen.  No eye beheld
the spectacle: for none dared look upon it.  Even had this been
possible, nothing could have been seen.  In five minutes after the
muffling of the mules, the train was enveloped in worse than Cimmerian
darkness.

The opening scene can alone be depicted: for that only was observed by
the travellers.  One of the sable columns, moving in the advance, broke
as it came in collision with the waggon-tilts.  Down came a shower of
black dust, as if the sky had commenced raining gunpowder!  It was a
foretaste of what was to follow.

There was a short interval of open atmosphere--hot as the inside of an
oven.  Then succeeded puffs, and whirling gusts, of wind--cold as if
projected from caves of ice, and accompanied by a noise as though all
the trumpets of Aeolus were announcing the advent of the Storm-King!

In another instant the _norther_ was around them; and the waggon train,
halted on a subtropical plain, was enveloped in an atmosphere, akin to
that which congeals the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean!

Nothing more was seen--nothing heard, save the whistling of the wind, or
its hoarse roaring, as it thundered against the tilts of the waggons.
The mules having instinctively turned stern towards it, stood silent in
their traces; and the voices of the travellers, in solemn converse
inside, could not be distinguished amid the howling of the hurricane.

Every aperture had been closed: for it was soon discovered, that to show
a face from under the sheltering canvas was to court suffocation.  The
air was surcharged with ashes, lifted aloft from the burnt plain, and
reduced, by the whirling of the wind, to an impalpable but poisonous
powder.

For over an hour did the atmosphere carry this cinereous cloud; during
which period lasted the imprisonment of the travellers.

At length a voice, speaking close by the curtains of the carriole,
announced their release.

"You can come forth!" said the stranger, the crape scarf thrown back
above the brim of his hat.  "You will still have the storm to contend
against.  It will last to the end of your journey; and, perhaps, for
three days longer.  But you have nothing further to fear.  The ashes are
all swept off.  They've gone before you; and you're not likely to
overtake them this side the Rio Grande."

"Sir!" said the planter, hastily descending the steps of the carriage,
"we have to thank you for--for--"

"Our lives, father!" cried Henry, supplying the proper words.  "I hope,
sir, you will favour us with your name?"

"_Maurice Gerald_!" returned the stranger; "though, at the Fort, you
will find me better known as _Maurice the mustanger_."

"A mustanger!" scornfully muttered Calhoun, but only loud enough to be
heard by Louise.

"Only a mustanger!" reflected the aristocratic Poindexter, the fervour
of his gratitude becoming sensibly chilled.

"For guide, you will no longer need either myself, or my lazo," said the
hunter of wild horses.  "The cypress is in sight: keep straight towards
it.  After crossing, you will see the flag over the Fort.  You may yet
reach your journey's end before night.  I have no time to tarry; and
must say adieu."

Satan himself, astride a Tartarean steed, could not have looked more
like the devil than did Maurice the Mustanger, as he separated for the
second time from the planter and his party.  But neither his ashy
envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, did aught to
damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already
predisposed in his favour--Louise Poindexter.

On hearing him declare his name--by presumption already known to her--
she but more tenderly cherished the bit of cardboard, chafing against
her snow-white bosom; at the same time muttering in soft pensive
soliloquy, heard only by herself:--

"Maurice the mustanger! despite your sooty covering--despite your modest
pretence--you have touched the heart of a Creole maiden.  _Mon
Dieu_--_mon Dieu!  He is too like Lucifer for me to despise him_!"



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE HOME OF THE HORSE-HUNTER.

Where the _Rio de Nueces_ (River of Nuts) collects its waters from a
hundred tributary streams--lining the map like the limbs of a grand
genealogical tree--you may look upon a land of surpassing fairness.  Its
surface is "rolling prairie," interspersed with clumps of post-oak and
pecan, here and there along the banks of the watercourses uniting into
continuous groves.

In some places these timbered tracts assume the aspect of the true
_chapparal_--a thicket, rather than a forest--its principal growth being
various kinds of acacia, associated with copaiva and creosote trees,
with wild aloes, with eccentric shapes of cereus, cactus, and
arborescent yucca.

These spinous forms of vegetation, though repulsive to the eye of the
agriculturist--as proving the utter sterility of the soil--present an
attractive aspect to the botanist, or the lover of Nature; especially
when the cereus unfolds its huge wax-like blossoms, or the _Fouquiera
splendens_ overtops the surrounding shrubbery with its spike of
resplendent flowers, like a red flag hanging unfolded along its staff.

The whole region, however, is not of this character.  There are
stretches of greater fertility; where a black calcareous earth gives
nourishment to trees of taller growth, and more luxuriant foliage.  The
"wild China"--a true _sapindal_--the pecan, the elm, the hackberry, and
the oak of several species--with here and there a cypress or
Cottonwood--form the components of many a sylvan scene, which, from the
blending of their leaves of various shades of green, and the ever
changing contour of their clumps, deserves to be denominated fair.

The streams of this region are of crystal purity--their waters tinted
only by the reflection of sapphire skies.  Its sun, moon, and stars are
scarcely ever concealed behind a cloud.  The demon of disease has not
found his way into this salubrious spot: no epidemic can dwell within
its borders.

Despite these advantages, civilised man has not yet made it his home.
Its paths are trodden only by the red-skinned rovers of the prairie--
Lipano or Comanche--and these only when mounted, and upon the _maraud_
towards the settlements of the Lower Nueces, or Leona.

It may be on this account--though it would almost seem as if they were
actuated by a love of the beautiful and picturesque--that the true
children of Nature, the wild animals, have selected this spot as their
favourite habitat and home.  In no part of Texas does the stag bound up
so often before you; and nowhere is the timid antelope so frequently
seen.  The rabbit, and his gigantic cousin, the mule-rabbit, are
scarcely ever out of sight; while the polecat, the opossum, and the
curious peccary, are encountered at frequent intervals.

Birds, too, of beautiful forms and colours, enliven the landscape.  The
quail whirrs up from the path; the king vulture wheels in the ambient
air; the wild turkey, of gigantic stature, suns his resplendent gorget
by the side of the pecan copse, and the singular tailor-bird--known
among the rude Rangers as the "bird of paradise"--flouts his long
scissors-like tail among the feathery fronds of the acacia.

Beautiful butterflies spread their wide wings in flapping flight; or,
perched upon some gay corolla, look as if they formed part of the
flower.  Huge bees (_Meliponae_), clad in velvet liveries, buzz amid the
blossoming bushes, disputing possession with hawkmoths and humming-birds
not much larger than themselves.

They are not all innocent, the denizens of this lovely land.  Here the
rattlesnake attains to larger dimensions than in any other part of North
America, and shares the covert with the more dangerous _moccasin_.
Here, too, the tarantula inflicts its venomous sting; the scorpion
poisons with its bite; and the centipede, by simply crawling over the
skin, causes a fever that may prove fatal!

Along the wooded banks of the streams may be encountered the spotted
ocelot, the puma, and their more powerful congener, the jaguar; the last
of these _felidae_ being here upon the northern limit of its
geographical range.

Along the edges of the chapparal skulks the gaunt Texan wolf--solitarily
and in silence; while a kindred and more cowardly species, the _coyote_,
may be observed, far out upon the open plain, hunting in packs.

Sharing the same range with these, the most truculent of quadrupeds, may
be seen the noblest and most beautiful of animals--perhaps nobler and
more beautiful than man--certainly the most distinguished of man's
companions--the horse!

Here--independent of man's caprice, his jaw unchecked by bit or curb,
his back unscathed by pack or saddle--he roams unrestrained; giving way
to all the wildness of his nature.

But even in this, his favourite haunt, he is not always left alone.  Man
presumes to be his pursuer and tamer: for here was he sought, captured,
and conquered, by _Maurice the Mustanger_.

On the banks of the _Alamo_--one of the most sparkling streamlets that
pay tribute to the Nueces--stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be
found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.

Its walls were composed of split trunk of the arborescent yucca, set
stockade-fashion in the ground; while its roof was a thatch furnished by
the long bayonet-shaped loaves of the same gigantic lily.

The interstices between the uprights, instead of being "chinked" with
clay--as is common in the cabins of Western Texas--were covered by a
sheeting of horse-skins; attached, not by iron tacks, but with the sharp
spines that terminate the leaves of the _pita_ plant.

On the bluffs, that on both sides overlooked the rivulet--and which were
but the termination of the escarpment of the higher plain--grew in
abundance the material out of which the hut had been constructed: tree
yuccas and _magueys_, amidst other rugged types of sterile vegetation;
whereas the fertile valley below was covered with a growth of heavy
timber--consisting chiefly of red-mulberry, post-oak, and pecan, that
formed a forest of several leagues in length.  The timbered tract was,
in fact, conterminous with the bottom lands; the tops of the trees
scarce rising to a level with the escarpment of the cliff.

It was not continuous.  Along the edge of the streamlet were breaks--
forming little meads, or savannahs, covered with that most nutritious of
grasses, known among Mexicans as _grama_.

In the concavity of one of these, of semicircular shape--which served as
a natural lawn--stood the primitive dwelling above described; the
streamlet representing the chord; while the curve was traced by the
trunks of the trees, that resembled a series of columns supporting the
roof of some sylvan coliseum.

The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the
site had been chosen with a view to concealment.  It could have been
seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with
the observer directly in front of it.  Its rude style of architecture,
and russet hue, contributed still further to its _inconspicuousness_.

The house was a mere cabin--not larger than a marquee tent--with only a
single aperture, the door--if we except the flue of a slender clay
chimney, erected at one end against the upright posts.  The doorway had
a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it,
and hung upon hinges cut from the same hide.

In the rear was an open shed, thatched with yucca leaves, and supported
by half a dozen posts.  Around this was a small enclosure, obtained by
tying cross poles to the trunks of the adjacent trees.

A still more extensive enclosure, containing within its circumference
more than an acre of the timbered tract, and fenced in a similar manner,
extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff.  Its
turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints--in some places trampled
into a hard surface--told of its use: a "corral" for wild
horses--_mustangs_.

This was made still more manifest by the presence of a dozen or more of
these animals within the enclosure; whose glaring eyeballs, and excited
actions, gave evidence of their recent capture, and how ill they brooked
the imprisonment of that shadowy paddock.

The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and
comfort.  The sheeting of mustang-skins that covered the walls, with the
hairy side turned inward, presented no mean appearance.  The smooth
shining coats of all colours--black, bay, snow-white, sorrel, and
skewbald--offered to the eye a surface pleasantly variegated; and there
had evidently been some taste displayed in their arrangement.

The furniture was of the scantiest kind.  It consisted of a counterfeit
camp bedstead, formed by stretching a horse-hide over a framework of
trestles; a couple of stools--diminutive specimens on the same model;
and a rude table, shaped out of hewn slabs of the yucca-tree.  Something
like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner--a "shakedown,"
or "spread," of the universal mustang-skin.

What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing
about a score of books, with pens, ink, and _papeterie_; also a
newspaper lying upon the slab table.

Further proofs of civilisation, if not refinement, presented themselves
in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun,
with "Westley Richards" upon the breech; a drinking cup of chased
silver, a huntsman's horn, and a dog-call.

Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one
corner stood a demijohn, covered with wicker, and evidently containing
something stronger than the water of the Alamo.

Other "chattels" in the cabin were perhaps more in keeping with the
place.  There was a high-peaked Mexican saddle; a bridle, with headstall
of plaited horsehair, and reins to correspond; two or three spare
_serapes_, and some odds and ends of raw-hide rope.

Such was the structure of the mustanger's dwelling--such its
surroundings--such its interior and contents, with the exception of its
living occupants--two in number.

On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a
man, who could not be the mustanger himself.  In no way did he present
the semblance of a proprietor.  On the contrary, the air of the
servitor--the mien of habitual obedience--was impressed upon him beyond
the chance of misconstruction.

Rude as was the cabin that sheltered him, no one entering under its roof
would have mistaken him for its master.

Not that he appeared ill clad or fed, or in any way stinted in his
requirements.  He was a round plump specimen, with a shock of
carrot- hair and a bright ruddy skin, habited in a suit of stout
stuff--half corduroy, half cotton-velvet.  The corduroy was in the shape
of a pair of knee-breeches, with gaiters to correspond; the velveteen,
once bottle green, now faded to a brownish hue, exhibited itself in a
sort of shooting coat, with ample pockets in the breast and skirts.

A "wide-awake" hat, cocked over a pair of eyes equally deserving the
appellation, completed the costume of the individual in question--if we
except a shirt of coarse calico, a red cotton kerchief loosely knotted
around his neck, and a pair of Irish _brogues_ upon his feet.

It needed neither the brogues, nor the corduroy breeches, to proclaim
his nationality.  His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all
unmistakably Milesian.

Had there been any ambiguity about this, it would have been dispelled as
he opened his mouth for the emission of speech; and this he at intervals
did, in an accent that could only have been acquired in the shire of
Galway.  As he was the sole human occupant of the cabin, it might be
supposed that he spoke only in soliloquy.  Not so, however.  Couched
upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire, with snout half buried
among the ashes, was a canine companion, whose appearance bespoke a
countryman--a huge Irish staghound, that looked as if he too understood
the speech of Connemara.

Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected
to comprehend every word.

"Och, Tara, me jewel!" exclaimed he in the corduroys, fraternally
interrogating the hound; "hadn't yez weesh now to be back in
Ballyballagh?  Wadn't yez loike to be wance more in the coortyard av the
owld castle, friskin' over the clane stones, an bein' tripe-fed till
there wasn't a rib to be seen in your sides--so different from what they
are now--when I kyan count ivery wan av them?  Sowl! it's meself that ud
loike to be there, anyhow!  But there's no knowin' when the young
masther 'll go back, an take us along wid him.  Niver mind, Tara!  He's
goin' to the Sittlements soon, ye owld dog; an he's promised to take us
thare; that's some consolashun.  Be japers! it's over three months since
I've been to the Fort, meself.  Maybe I'll find some owld acquaintance
among them Irish sodgers that's come lately; an be me sowl, av I do,
won't there be a dhrap betwane us--won't there, Tara?"

The staghound, raising his head at hearing the mention of his name, gave
a slight sniff, as if saying "Yes" in answer to the droll interrogatory.

"I'd like a dhrap now," continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance
towards the wickered jar; "mightily I wud that same; but the dimmyjan is
too near bein' empty, an the young masther might miss it.  Besides, it
wudn't be raal honest av me to take it widout lave--wud it, Tara?"

The dog again raised his head above the ashes, and sneezed as before.

"Why, that was _yis_, the last time ye spoke!  <DW37> yez mane is for the
same now?  Till me, Tara!"

Once more the hound gave utterance to the sound--that appeared to be
caused either by a slight touch of influenza, or the ashes having
entered his nostrils.

"`Yis' again?  In trath that's just fwhat the dumb crayther manes!
Don't timpt me, ye owld thief!  No--no; I won't touch the whisky.  I'll
only draw the cork out av the dimmyjan, an take a smell at it.  Shure
the masther won't know anything about that; an if he did, he wudn't mind
it!  Smellin' kyant do the pothyeen any harm."

During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had
forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.

Notwithstanding the professed innocence of his intent, there was a
stealthiness about his movements, that seemed to argue either a want of
confidence in his own integrity, or in his power to resist temptation.

He stood for a short while listening--his eyes turned towards the open
doorway; and then, taking up the demijohn, he drew out the stopper, and
held the neck to his nose.

For some seconds he remained in this attitude: giving out no other sign
than an occasional "sniff," similar to that uttered by the hound, and
which he had been fain to interpret as an affirmative answer to his
interrogatory.  It expressed the enjoyment he was deriving from the
_bouquet_ of the potent spirit.

But this only satisfied him for a very short time; and gradually the
bottom of the jar was seen going upwards, while the reverse end
descended in like ratio in the direction of his protruding lips.

"Be japers!" he exclaimed, once more glancing stealthily towards the
door, "flesh and blood cudn't stand the smell av that bewtiful whisky,
widout tastin' it.  Trath!  I'll chance it--jist the smallest thrifle to
wet the tap av my tongue.  Maybe it'll burn the skin av it; but no
matther--here goes!"

Without further ado the neck of the demijohn was brought in contact with
his lips; but instead of the "smallest thrifle" to wet the top of his
tongue, the "gluck--gluck" of the escaping fluid told that he was
administering a copious saturation to the whole lining of his larynx,
and something more.

After half a dozen "smacks" of the mouth, with other exclamations
denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned
the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.

"Tara, ye owld thief!" said he, addressing himself once more to his
canine companion, "it was you that timpted me!  No matther, man: the
masther 'll niver miss it; besides, he's goin' soon to the Fort, an can
lay in a fresh supply."

For a time the pilferer remained silent; either reflecting on the act he
had committed, or enjoying the effects which the "potheen" had produced
upon his spirits.

His silence was of short duration; and was terminated by a soliloquy.

"I wondher," muttered he, "fwhat makes Masther Maurice so anxious to get
back to the Sittlements.  He says he'll go wheniver he catches that
spotty mustang he has seen lately.  Sowl! isn't he bad afther that
baste!  I suppose it must be somethin' beyant the common--the more be
token, as he has chased the crayther three times widout bein' able to
throw his rope over it--an mounted on the blood-bay, too.  He sez he
won't give it up, till he gets howlt of it.  Trath!  I hope it'll be
grupped soon, or wez may stay here till the marnin' av doomsday.  Hush!
fwhat's that?"

Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low
growl, had caused the exclamation.

"Phelim!" hailed a voice from the outside.  "Phelim!"

"It's the masther," muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and
followed the dog through the doorway.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE SPOTTED MUSTANG.

Phelim was not mistaken as to the voice that had hailed him.  It was
that of his master, Maurice Gerald.

On getting outside, he saw the mustanger at a short distance from the
door, and advancing towards it.

As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his
horse--no longer of a reddish colour, but appearing almost black.  The
animal's coat was darkened with sweat; its counter and flanks speckled
with foam.

The blood-bay was not alone.  At the end of the lazo--drawn taut from
the saddle tree--was a companion, or, to speak more accurately, a
captive.  With a leathern thong looped around its under jaw, and firmly
embracing the bars of its mouth, kept in place by another passing over
its neck immediately behind the ears, was the captive secured.

It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which
were of a kind rarely seen--even among the largest "gangs" that roam
over the prairie pastures, where colours of the most eccentric patterns
are not uncommon.

That of the animal in question was a ground of dark chocolate in places
approaching to black--with white spots distributed over it, as regularly
as the contrary colours upon the skin of the jaguar.

As if to give effect to this pleasing arrangement of hues, the creature
was of perfect shape--broad chested, full in the flank, and clean
limbed--with a hoof showing half a score of concentric rings, and a head
that might have been taken as a type of equine beauty.  It was of large
size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse;
even smaller than the blood-bay--himself a mustang--that had assisted in
its capture.

The beautiful captive was a mare--one of a _manada_ that frequented the
plains near the source of the Alamo; and where, for the third time, the
mustanger had unsuccessfully chased it.

In his case the proverb had proved untrue.  In the third time he had not
found the "charm"; though it favoured him in the fourth.  By the
fascination of a long rope, with a running noose at its end, he had
secured the creature that, for some reason known only to himself, he so
ardently wished to possess.

Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion
in such a state of excitement; even when coming back--as he often did--
with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.

But never before at the end of that implement had Phelim beheld such a
beauty as the spotted mare.  She was a thing to excite the admiration of
one less a connoisseur in horse-flesh than the _ci-devant_ stable-boy of
Castle Ballagh.

"Hooch--hoop--hoora!" cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive, at the
same time tossing his hat high into the air.  "Thanks to the Howly
Vargin, an Saint Pathrick to boot, Masther Maurice, yez have cotched the
spotty at last!  It's a mare, be japers!  Och! the purthy crayther!  I
don't wondher yez hiv been so bad about gettin' howlt av her.  Sowl! if
yez had her in Ballinasloe Fair, yez might ask your own price, and get
it too, widout givin' sixpence av luckpenny.  Oh! the purty crayther!
Where will yez hiv her phut, masther?  Into the corral, wid the others?"

"No, she might get kicked among them.  We shall tie her in the shed.
Castro must pass his night outside among the trees.  If he's got any
gallantry in him he won't mind that.  Did you ever see anything so
beautiful as she is, Phelim--I mean in the way of horseflesh?"

"Niver, Masther Maurice; niver, in all me life!  An' I've seen some nice
bits av blood about Ballyballagh.  Oh, the purty crayther! she looks as
if a body cud ate her; and yit, in trath, she looks like she wud ate
you.  Yez haven't given her the schoolin' lesson, have yez?"

"No, Phelim: I don't want to break her just yet--not till I have time,
and can do it properly.  It would never do to spoil such perfection as
that.  I shall tame her, after we've taken her to the Settlements."

"Yez be goin' there, masther Maurice?  When?"

"To-morrow.  We shall start by daybreak, so as to make only one day
between here and the Fort."

"Sowl!  I'm glad to hear it.  Not on me own account, but yours, Masther
Maurice.  Maybe yez don't know that the whisky's on the idge of bein'
out?  From the rattle av the jar, I don't think there's more than three
naggins left.  Them sutlers at the Fort aren't honest.  They chate ye in
the mizyure; besides watherin' the whisky, so that it won't bear a dhrap
more out av the strame hare.  Trath! a gallon av Innishowen wud last
ayqual to three av this Amerikin _rotgut_, as the Yankees themselves
christen it."

"Never mind about the whisky, Phelim--I suppose there's enough to last
us for this night, and fill our flasks for the journey of to-morrow.
Look alive, old Ballyballagh!  Let us stable the spotted mare; and then
I shall have time to talk about a fresh supply of `potheen,' which I
know you like better than anything else--except yourself!"

"And you, Masther Maurice!" retorted the Galwegian, with a comical
twinkle of the eye, that caused his master to leap laughingly out of the
saddle.

The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily
attached to a tree; where Phelim proceeded to groom him after the most
approved prairie fashion.

The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the
work of the day.  The capture of the "yegua pinta" had cost him a long
and arduous chase--such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a
mustang.

There was a motive that had urged him on, unknown to Phelim--unknown to
Castro who carried him--unknown to living creature, save himself.

Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle--the last
three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare--despite the weariness
thus occasioned, he was unable to obtain repose.  At intervals he rose
to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some
exciting emotion.

For several nights he had slept uneasily--at intervals tossing upon his
_catre_--till not only his henchman Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered
what could be the meaning of his _unrest_.

The former might have attributed it to his desire to possess the spotted
mare; had he not known that his master's feverish feeling antedated his
knowledge of the existence of this peculiar quadruped.

It was several days after his last return from the Fort that the "yegua
pinta" had first presented herself to the eye of the mustanger.  That
therefore could not be the cause of his altered demeanour.

His success in having secured the animal, instead of tranquillising his
spirit, seemed to have produced the contrary effect.  At least, so
thought Phelim: who--with the freedom of that relationship known as
"foster-brother"--had at length determined on questioning his master as
to the cause of his inquietude.  As the latter lay shifting from side to
side, he was saluted with the interrogatory--

"Masther Maurice, fwhat, in the name of the Howly Vargin, is the matther
wid ye?"

"Nothing, Phelim--nothing, _mabohil_!  What makes you think there is?"

"_Alannah_!  How kyan I help thinkin' it!  Yez kyant get a wink av
sleep; niver since ye returned the last time from the Sittlement.  Och!
yez hiv seen somethin' there that kapes ye awake?  Shure now, it isn't
wan av them Mixikin girls--_mowchachas_, as they call them?  No, I won't
believe it.  You wudn't be wan av the owld Geralds to care for such
trash as them."

"Nonsense, my good fellow!  There's nothing the matter with me.  It's
all your own imagination."

"Trath, masther, yez arr mistaken.  If there's anything asthray wid me
imaginashun, fhwat is it that's gone wrong wid your own?  That is, whin
yez arr aslape--which aren't often av late."

"When I'm asleep!  What do you mean, Phelim?"

"What <DW37> I mane?  Fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez
are sleepin', ye begin palaverin', as if a preast was confessin' ye!"

"Ah!  Is that so?  What have you heard me say?"

"Not much, masther, that I cud make sinse out av.  Yez be always tryin'
to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin', though it begins
wid a _point_!"

"A name!  What name?"

"Sowl!  I kyan't till ye exakly.  It's too long for me to remimber,
seein' that my edicashun was intirely neglicted.  But there's another
name that yez phut before it; an that I kyan tell ye.  It's a wuman's
name, though it's not common in the owld counthry.  It's Looaze that ye
say, Masther Maurice; an then comes _the point_."

"Ah!" interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse
longer on the subject.  "Some name I may have heard--somewhere,
accidentally.  One does have such strange ideas in dreams!"

"Trath! yez spake the truth there; for in your drames, masther, ye talk
about a purty girl lookin' out av a carriage wid curtains to it, an
tellin' her to close them agaynst some danger that yez are going to save
her from."

"I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head?"

"I wondher meself," rejoined Phelim, fixing his eyes upon his young
master with a stealthy but scrutinising look.  "Shure," he continued,
"if I may make bowld to axe the quistyun--shure, Masther Maurice, yez
haven't been makin' a Judy Fitzsummon's mother av yerself, an fallin' in
love wid wan of these Yankee weemen out hare?  Och an-an-ee! that wud be
a misforthune; an thwat wud she say--the purty colleen wid the goodlen
hair an blue eyes, that lives not twinty miles from Ballyballagh?"

"Poh, poh!  Phelim! you're taking leave of your senses, I fear."

"Trath, masther, I aren't; but I know somethin' I wud like to take lave
av."

"What is that?  Not me, I hope?"

"You, _alannah_?  Niver!  It's Tixas I mane.  I'd like to take lave of
that; an you goin' along wid me back to the owld sad.  Arrah, now,
fhwat's the use av yer stayin' here, wastin' the best part av yer days
in doin' nothin'?  Shure yez don't make more than a bare livin' by the
horse-catchin'; an if yez did, what mathers it?  Yer owld aunt at Castle
Ballagh can't howld out much longer; an when she's did, the bewtiful
demane 'll be yours, spite av the dhirty way she's thratin' ye.  Shure
the property's got a tail to it; an not a mother's son av them can kape
ye out av it!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the young Irishman: "you're quite a lawyer,
Phelim.  What a first-rate attorney you'd have made!  But come!  You
forget that I haven't tasted food since morning.  What have you got in
the larder?"

"Trath! there's no great stock, masther.  Yez haven't laid in anythin'
for the three days yez hiv been afther spotty.  There's only the cowld
venison an the corn-bread.  If yez like I'll phut the venison in the
pat, an make a hash av it."

"Yes, do so.  I can wait."

"Won't yez wait betther afther tastin' a dhrap av the crayther?"

"True--let me have it."

"Will yez take it nate, or with a little wather?  Trath! it won't carry
much av that same."

"A glass of grog--draw the water fresh from the stream."

Phelim took hold of the silver drinking-cup, and was about stepping
outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by
a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a
certain degree of caution.

The barking of the dog soon subsided into a series of joyful
whimperings, which told that he had been gratified by the sight of some
old acquaintance.

"It's owld Zeb Stump," said Phelim, first peeping out, and then stepping
boldly forth--with the double design of greeting the new-comer, and
executing the order he had received from his master.

The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the
mustanger's cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from
the other.

He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of
tanned alligator skin; into the ample tops of which were thrust the
bottoms of his pantaloons--the latter being of woollen homespun, that
had been dyed with "dog-wood ooze," but was now of a simple dirt colour.
A deerskin under shirt, without any other, covered his breast and
shoulders; over which was a "blanket coat," that had once been green,
long since gone to a greenish yellow, with most of the wool worn off.

There was no other garment to be seen: a slouch felt hat, of greyish
colour, badly battered, completing the simple, and somewhat scant,
collection of his wardrobe.

He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter, of the true Daniel
Boone breed: bullet-pouch, and large crescent-shaped powder-horn, both
suspended by shoulder-straps, hanging under the right arm; a waist-belt
of thick leather keeping his coat closed and sustaining a skin sheath,
from which protruded the rough stag-horn handle of a long-bladed knife.

He did not affect either mocassins, leggings, nor the caped and fringed
tunic shirt of dressed deerskin worn by most Texan hunters.  There was
no embroidery upon his coarse clothing, no carving upon his
accoutrements or weapons, nothing in his _tout ensemble_ intended as
ornamental.  Everything was plain almost to rudeness: as if dictated by
a spirit that despised "fanfaron."

Even the rifle, his reliable weapon--the chief tool of his trade--looked
like a rounded bar of iron, with a piece of brown unpolished wood at the
end, forming its stock; stock and barrel, when the butt rested on the
ground, reaching up to the level of his shoulder.

The individual thus clothed and equipped was apparently about fifty
years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at
first sight, exhibited a grave aspect.

On close scrutiny, however, could be detected an underlying stratum of
quiet humour; and in the twinkle of a small greyish eye there was
evidence that its owner could keenly relish a joke, or, at times,
perpetrate one.

The Irishman had pronounced his name: it was Zebulon Stump, or "Old Zeb
Stump," as he was better known to the very limited circle of his
acquaintances.

"Kaintuck, by birth an raisin',"--as he would have described himself, if
asked the country of his nativity--he had passed the early part of his
life among the primeval forests of the Lower Mississippi--his sole
calling that of a hunter; and now, at a later period, he was performing
the same _metier_ in the wilds of south-western Texas.

The behaviour of the staghound, as it bounded before him, exhibiting a
series of canine welcomes, told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb
Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

"Evenin'!" laconically saluted Zeb, as his tail figure shadowed the
cabin door.

"Good evening', Mr Stump!" rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to
receive him.  "Step inside, and take a seat!"

The hunter accepted the invitation; and, making a single stride across
the floor, after some awkward manoeuvring, succeeded in planting himself
on the stool lately occupied by Phelim.  The lowness of the seat brought
his knees upon a level with his chin, the tall rifle rising like a
pikestaff several feet above his head.

"Durn stools, anyhow!" muttered he, evidently dissatisfied with the
posture; "an' churs, too, for thet matter.  I likes to plant my starn
upon a log: thur ye've got somethin' under ye as ain't like to guv way."

"Try that," said his host, pointing to the leathern portmanteau in the
corner: "you'll find it a firmer seat."

Old Zeb, adopting the suggestion, unfolded the zigzag of his colossal
carcase, and transferred it to the trunk.

"On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?"

"No: I got my old critter out thur, tied to a saplin'.  I wa'n't a
huntin'."

"You never hunt on horseback, I believe?"

"I shed be a greenhorn if I dud.  Anybody as goes huntin' a hossback
must be a durnation fool!"

"But it's the universal fashion in Texas!"

"Univarsal or no, it air a fool's fashion--a durned lazy fool's fashion!
I kill more meat in one day afut, then I ked in a hul week wi' a hoss
atween my legs.  I don't misdoubt that a hoss air the best thing for
you--bein' as yur game's entire different.  But when ye go arter baar,
or deer, or turkey eyther, ye won't see much o' them, trampin' about
through the timmer a hossback, an scarrin' everythin' es hes got ears
'ithin the circuit o' a mile.  As for hosses, I shodn't be bothered wi'
ne'er a one no how, ef twa'n't for packin' the meat: thet's why I keep
my ole maar."

"She's outside, you say?  Let Phelim take her round to the shed.  You'll
stay all night?"

"I kim for that purpiss.  But ye needn't trouble about the maar: she air
hitched safe enuf.  I'll let her out on the laryitt, afore I take to
grass."

"You'll have something to eat?  Phelim was just getting supper ready.
I'm sorry I can't offer you anything very dainty--some hash of venison."

"Nothin' better 'n good deermeat, 'ceptin it be baar; but I like both
done over the coals.  Maybe I can help ye to some'at thet'll make a
roast.  Mister Pheelum, ef ye don't mind steppin' to whar my critter air
hitched, ye'll find a gobbler hangin' over the horn o' the seddle.  I
shot the bird as I war comin' up the crik."

"Oh, that is rare good fortune!  Our larder has got very low--quite out,
in truth.  I've been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a
very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me.
Phelim and I, and Tara, too, had got to the edge of starvation."

"Whet sort o' a mustang?" inquired the hunter, in a tone that betrayed
interest, and without appearing to notice the final remark.

"A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground--a splendid
creature!"

"Durn it, young fellur! thet air's the very bizness thet's brung me over
to ye."

"Indeed!"

"I've seed that mustang--maar, ye say it air, though I kedn't tell, as
she'd niver let me 'ithin hef a mile o' her.  I've seed her several
times out on the purayra, an I jest wanted ye to go arter her.  I'll
tell ye why.  I've been to the Leeona settlements since I seed you last,
and since I seed her too.  Wal, theer hev kum thur a man as I knowed on
the Mississippi.  He air a rich planter, as used to keep up the tallest
kind o' doin's, 'specially in the feestin' way.  Many's the jeint o'
deermeat, and many's the turkey-gobbler this hyur <DW53> hes surplied for
his table.  His name air Peintdexter."

"Poindexter?"

"Thet air the name--one o' the best known on the Mississippi from
Orleens to Saint Looey.  He war rich then; an, I reck'n, ain't poor
now--seein' as he's brought about a hunderd <DW65>s along wi' him.
Beside, thur's a nephew o' hisn, by name Calhoun.  He's got the dollars,
an nothin' to do wi' 'em but lend 'em to his uncle--the which, for a
sartin reezun, I think he _will_.  Now, young fellur, I'll tell ye why I
wanted to see _you_.  Thet 'ere planter hev got a darter, as air dead
bent upon hossflesh.  She used to ride the skittishest kind o' cattle in
Loozeyanner, whar they lived.  She heern me tellin' the old 'un 'bout
the spotted mustang; and nothin' would content her thur and then, till
he promised he'd offer a big price for catchin' the critter.  He sayed
he'd give a kupple o' hunderd dollars for the anymal, ef 'twur anythin
like what I sayed it wur.  In coorse, I knowed thet 'ud send all the
mustangers in the settlement straight custrut arter it; so, sayin'
nuthin' to nobody, I kim over hyur, fast as my ole maar 'ud fetch me.
You grup thet 'ere spotty, an Zeb Stump 'll go yur bail ye'll grab them
two hunderd dollars."

"Will you step this way, Mr Stump?" said the young Irishman, rising
from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt
invitation.

Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and,
pointing into the shed, inquired--

"Does that look anything like the mustang you've been speaking of?"

"Dog-gone my cats, ef 'taint the eyedenticul same!  Grupped already!
Two hunderd dollars, easy as slidin' down a barked saplin'!  Young
fellur, yur in luck: two hunderd, slick sure!--and durn me, ef the
anymal ain't worth every cent o' the money!  Geehosofat! what a putty
beest it air!  Won't Miss Peintdexter be pleezed!  It'll turn that young
critter 'most crazy!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

NOCTURNAL ANNOYANCES.

The unexpected discovery, that his purpose had been already anticipated
by the capture of the spotted mustang, raised the spirits of the old
hunter to a high pitch of excitement.

They were further elevated by a portion of the contents of the demijohn,
which held out beyond Phelim's expectations: giving all hands an
appetising "nip" before attacking the roast turkey, with another go each
to wash it down, and several more to accompany the post-cenal pipe.

While this was being indulged in, a conversation was carried on; the
themes being those that all prairie men delight to talk about: Indian
and hunter lore.

As Zeb Stump was a sort of living encyclopaedia of the latter, he was
allowed to do most of the talking; and he did it in such a fashion as to
draw many a wondering ejaculation, from the tongue of the astonished
Galwegian.

Long before midnight, however, the conversation was brought to a close.
Perhaps the empty demijohn was, as much as anything else, the monitor
that urged their retiring to rest; though there was another and more
creditable reason.  On the morrow, the mustanger intended to start for
the Settlements; and it was necessary that all should be astir at an
early hour, to make preparation for the journey.  The wild horses, as
yet but slightly tamed, had to be strung together, to secure against
their escaping by the way; and many other matters required attending to
previous to departure.

The hunter had already tethered out his "ole maar"--as he designated the
sorry specimen of horseflesh he was occasionally accustomed to
bestride--and had brought back with him an old yellowish blanket, which
was all he ever used for a bed.

"You may take my bedstead," said his courteous host; "I can lay myself
on a skin along the floor."

"No," responded the guest; "none o' yer shelves for Zeb Stump to sleep
on.  I prefer the solid groun'.  I kin sleep sounder on it; an
bus-sides, thur's no fear o' fallin' over."

"If you prefer it, then, take the floor.  Here's the best place.  I'll
spread a hide for you."

"Young fellur, don't you do anythin' o' the sort; ye'll only be wastin'
yur time.  This child don't sleep on no floors.  His bed air the green
grass o' the purayra."

"What! you're not going to sleep outside?" inquired the mustanger in
some surprise--seeing that his guest, with the old blanket over his arm,
was making for the door.

"I ain't agoin' to do anythin' else."

"Why, the night is freezing cold--almost as chilly as a norther!"

"Durn that!  It air better to stan' a leetle chillishness, than a
feelin' o' suffercation--which last I wud sartintly hev to go through ef
I slep inside o' a house."

"Surely you are jesting, Mr Stump?"

"Young fellur!" emphatically rejoined the hunter, without making direct
reply to the question.  "It air now nigh all o' six yeer since Zeb Stump
hev stretched his ole karkiss under a roof.  I oncest used to hev a sort
o' a house in the hollow o' a sycamore-tree.  That wur on the
Massissippi, when my ole ooman wur alive, an I kep up the 'stablishment
to 'commerdate her.  Arter she went under, I moved into Loozeyanny; an
then arterward kim out hyur.  Since then the blue sky o' Texas hev been
my only kiver, eyther wakin' or sleepin'."

"If you prefer to lie outside--"

"I prefar it," laconically rejoined the hunter, at the same time
stalking over the threshold, and gliding out upon the little lawn that
lay between the cabin and the creek.

His old blanket was not the only thing he carried along with him.
Beside it, hanging over his arm, could be seen some six or seven yards
of a horsehair rope.  It was a piece of a _cabriesto_--usually employed
for tethering horses--though it was not for this purpose it was now to
be used.

Having carefully scrutinised the grass within a circumference of several
feet in diameter--which a shining moon enabled him to do--he laid the
rope with like care around the spot examined, shaping it into a sort of
irregular ellipse.

Stepping inside this, and wrapping the old blanket around him, he
quietly let himself down into a recumbent position.  In an instant after
he appeared to be asleep.

And he was asleep, as his strong breathing testified: for Zeb Stump,
with a hale constitution and a quiet conscience, had only to summon
sleep, and it came.

He was not permitted long to indulge his repose without interruption.  A
pair of wondering eyes had watched his every movement--the eyes of
Phelim O'Neal.

"Mother av Mozis!" muttered the Galwegian; "fwhat can be the manin' av
the owld chap's surroundin' himself wid the rope?"

The Irishman's curiosity for a while struggled with his courtesy, but at
length overcame it; and just as the slumberer delivered his third snore,
he stole towards him, shook him out of his sleep, and propounded a
question based upon the one he had already put to himself.

"Durn ye for a Irish donkey!" exclaimed Stump, in evident displeasure at
being disturbed; "ye made me think it war mornin'!  What do I put the
rope roun' me for?  What else wud it be for, but to keep off the
varmints!"

"What varmints, Misther Stump?  Snakes, <DW37> yez mane?"

"Snakes in coorse.  Durn ye, go to your bed!"

Notwithstanding the sharp rebuke, Phelim returned to the cabin
apparently in high glee.  If there was anything in Texas, "barrin' an
above the Indyins themselves," as he used to say, "that kept him from
slapin', it was them vinamous sarpints.  He hadn't had a good night's
rest, iver since he'd been in the counthry for thinkin' av the ugly
vipers, or dhramin' about thim.  What a pity Saint Pathrick hadn't paid
Tixas a visit before goin' to grace!"

Phelim in his remote residence, isolated as he had been from all
intercourse, had never before witnessed the trick of the _cabriesto_.

He was not slow to avail himself of the knowledge thus acquired.
Returning to the cabin, and creeping stealthily inside--as if not
wishing to wake his master, already asleep--he was seen to take a
_cabriesto_ from its peg; and then going forth again, he carried the
long rope around the stockade walls--paying it out as he proceeded.

Having completed the circumvallation, he re-entered the hut; as he
stepped over the threshold, muttering to himself--

"Sowl!  Phalim O'Nale, you'll slape sound for this night, spite ov all
the snakes in Tixas!"

For some minutes after Phelim's soliloquy, a profound stillness reigned
around the hut of the mustanger.  There was like silence inside; for the
countryman of Saint Patrick, no longer apprehensive on the score of
reptile intruders, had fallen asleep, almost on the moment of his
sinking down upon his spread horse-skin.

For a while it seemed as if everybody was in the enjoyment of perfect
repose, Tara and the captive steeds included.  The only sound heard was
that made by Zeb Stump's "maar," close by cropping the sweet _grama_
grass.

Presently, however, it might have been perceived that the old hunter was
himself stirring.  Instead of lying still in the recumbent attitude to
which he had consigned himself, he could be seen shifting from side to
side, as if some feverish thought was keeping him awake.

After repeating this movement some half-score of times, he at length
raised himself into a sitting posture, and looked discontentedly around.

"Dod-rot his ignorance and imperence--the Irish cuss!" were the words
that came hissing through his teeth.  "He's spoilt my night's rest, durn
him!  'Twould sarve him 'bout right to drag him out, an giv him a
duckin' in the crik.  Dog-goned ef I don't feel 'clined torst doin' it;
only I don't like to displeeze the other Irish, who air a somebody.
Possible I don't git a wink o' sleep till mornin'."

Having delivered himself of this peevish soliloquy, the hunter once more
drew the blanket around his body, and returned to the horizontal
position.

Not to sleep, however; as was testified by the tossing and fidgeting
that followed--terminated by his again raising himself into a sitting
posture.

A soliloquy, very similar to his former one, once more proceeded from
his lips; this time the threat of ducking Phelim in the creek being
expressed with a more emphatic accent of determination.

He appeared to be wavering, as to whether he should carry the design
into execution, when an object coming under his eye gave a new turn to
his thoughts.

On the ground, not twenty feet from where he sate, a long thin body was
seen gliding over the grass.  Its serpent shape, and smooth lubricated
skin--reflecting the silvery light of the moon--rendered the reptile
easy of identification.

"Snake!" mutteringly exclaimed he, as his eye rested upon the reptilian
form.  "Wonder what sort it air, slickerin' aboout hyur at this time o'
the night?  It air too large for a _rattle_; though thur air some in
these parts most as big as it.  But it air too clur i' the colour, an
thin about the belly, for ole rattle-tail!  No; 'tain't one o' them.
Hah--now I ree-cog-nise the varmint!  It air a _chicken_, out on the
sarch arter eggs, I reck'n!  Durn the thing! it air comin' torst me,
straight as it kin crawl!"

The tone in which the speaker delivered himself told that he was in no
fear of the reptile--even after discovering that it was making approach.
He knew that the snake would not cross the _cabriesto_; but on touching
it would turn away: as if the horsehair rope was a line of living fire.
Secure within his magic circle, he could have looked tranquilly at the
intruder, though it had been the most poisonous of prairie serpents.

But it was not.  On the contrary, it was one of the most innocuous--
harmless as the "chicken," from which the species takes its trivial
title--at the same time that it is one of the largest in the list of
North-American _reptilia_.

The expression on Zeb's face, as he sat regarding it, was simply one of
curiosity, and not very keen.  To a hunter in the constant habit of
couching himself upon the grass, there was nothing in the sight either
strange or terrifying; not even when the creature came close up to the
_cabriesto_, and, with head slightly elevated, rubbed its snout against
the rope!

After that there was less reason to be afraid; for the snake, on doing
so, instantly turned round and commenced retreating over the sward.

For a second or two the hunter watched it moving away, without making
any movement himself.  He seemed undecided as to whether he should
follow and destroy it, or leave it to go as it had come--unscathed.  Had
it been a rattlesnake, "copperhead," or "mocassin," he would have acted
up to the curse delivered in the garden of Eden, and planted the heel of
his heavy alligator-skin boot upon its head.  But a harmless
chicken-snake did not come within the limits of Zeb Stump's antipathy:
as was evidenced by some words muttered by him as it slowly receded from
the spot.

"Poor crawlin' critter; let it go!  It ain't no enemy o' mine; though it
do suck a turkey's egg now an then, an in coorse scarcities the breed o'
the birds.  Thet air only its nater, an no reezun why I shed be angry
wi' it.  But thur's a durned good reezun why I shed be wi' thet Irish--
the dog-goned, stinkin' fool, to ha' woke me es he dud!  I feel
dod-rotted like sarvin' him out, ef I ked only think o' some way as
wudn't diskermode the young fellur.  Stay!  By Geehosofat, I've got the
idee--the very thing--sure es my name air Zeb Stump!"

On giving utterance to the last words, the hunter--whose countenance had
suddenly assumed an expression of quizzical cheerfulness--sprang to his
feet; and, with bent body, hastened in pursuit of the retreating
reptile.

A few strides brought him alongside of it; when he pounced upon it with
all his ten digits extended.

In another moment its long glittering body was uplifted from the ground,
and writhing in his grasp.

"Now, Mister Pheelum," exclaimed he, as if apostrophising the serpent,
"ef I don't gi'e yur Irish soul a scare thet 'll keep ye awake till
mornin', I don't know buzzart from turkey.  Hyur goes to purvide ye wi'
a bedfellur!"

On saying this, he advanced towards the hut; and, silently skulking
under its shadow, released the serpent from his gripe--letting it fall
within the circle of the _cabriesto_, with which Phelim had so craftily
surrounded his sleeping-place.

Then returning to his grassy couch, and once more pulling the old
blanket over his shoulders, he muttered--

"The varmint won't come out acrost the rope--thet air sartin; an it
ain't agoin' to leave a yurd o' the groun' 'ithout explorin' for a place
to git clur--thet's eequally sartin.  Ef it don't crawl over thet Irish
greenhorn 'ithin the hef o' an hour, then ole Zeb Stump air a greenhorn
hisself.  Hi! what's thet?  Dog-goned of 'taint on him arready!"

If the hunter had any further reflections to give tongue to, they could
not have been heard: for at that moment there arose a confusion of
noises that must have startled every living creature on the Alamo, and
for miles up and down the stream.

It was a human voice that had given the cue--or rather, a human howl,
such as could proceed only from the throat of a Galwegian.  Phelim
O'Neal was the originator of the infernal _fracas_.

His voice, however, was soon drowned by a chorus of barkings, snortings,
and neighings, that continued without interruption for a period of
several minutes.

"What is it?" demanded his master, as he leaped from the _catre_, and
groped his way towards his terrified servitor.  "What the devil has got
into you, Phelim?  Have you seen a ghost?"

"Oh, masther!--by Jaysus! worse than that: I've been murdhered by a
snake.  It's bit me all over the body.  Blessed Saint Pathrick!  I'm a
poor lost sinner!  I'll be shure to die!"

"Bitten you, you say--where?" asked Maurice, hastily striking a light,
and proceeding to examine the skin of his henchman, assisted by the old
hunter--who had by this time arrived within the cabin.

"I see no sign of bite," continued the mustanger, after having turned
Phelim round and round, and closely scrutinised his epidermis.

"Ne'er a scratch," laconically interpolated Stump.

"Sowl! then, if I'm not bit, so much the better; but it crawled all over
me.  I can feel it now, as cowld as charity, on me skin."

"Was there a snake at all?" demanded Maurice, inclined to doubt the
statement of his follower.  "You've been dreaming of one, Phelim--
nothing more."

"Not a bit of a dhrame, masther: it was a raal sarpint.  Be me sowl, I'm
shure of it!"

"I reck'n thur's been snake," drily remarked the hunter.  "Let's see if
we kin track it up.  Kewrious it air, too.  Thur's a hair rope all roun'
the house.  Wonder how the varmint could ha' crossed thet?  Thur--thur
it is!"

The hunter, as he spoke, pointed to a corner of the cabin, where the
serpent was seen spirally coiled.

"Only a chicken!" he continued: "no more harm in it than in a suckin'
dove.  It kedn't ha' bit ye, Mister Pheelum; but we'll put it past
bitin', anyhow."

Saying this, the hunter seized the snake in his hands; and, raising it
aloft, brought it down upon the floor of the cabin with a "thwank" that
almost deprived it of the power of motion.

"Thru now, Mister Pheelum!" he exclaimed, giving it the finishing touch
with the heel of his heavy boot, "ye may go back to yur bed agin, an
sleep 'ithout fear o' bein' disturbed till the mornin'--leastwise, by
snakes."

Kicking the defunct reptile before him, Zeb Stump strode out of the hut,
gleefully chuckling to himself, as, for the third time, he extended his
colossal carcase along the sward.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE CRAWL OF THE ALACRAN.

The killing of the snake appeared to be the cue for a general return to
quiescence.  The howlings of the hound ceased with those of the
henchman.  The mustangs once more stood silent under the shadowy trees.

Inside the cabin the only noise heard was an occasional shuffling, when
Phelim, no longer feeling confidence in the protection of his
_cabriesto_, turned restlessly on his horseskin.

Outside also there was but one sound, to disturb the stillness though
its intonation was in striking contrast with that heard within.  It
might have been likened to a cross between the grunt of an alligator and
the croaking of a bull-frog; but proceeding, as it did, from the
nostrils of Zeb Stump, it could only be the snore of the slumbering
hunter.  Its sonorous fulness proved him to be soundly asleep.

He was--had been, almost from the moment of re-establishing himself
within the circle of his _cabriesto_.  The _revanche_ obtained over his
late disturber had acted as a settler to his nerves; and once more was
he enjoying the relaxation of perfect repose.

For nearly an hour did this contrasting duet continue, varied only by an
occasional _recitative_ in the hoot of the great horned owl, or a
_cantata penserosa_ in the lugubrious wail of the prairie wolf.

At the end of this interval, however, the chorus recommenced, breaking
out abruptly as before, and as before led by the vociferous voice of the
Connemara man.

"Meliah murdher!" cried he, his first exclamation not only startling the
host of the hut, but the guest so soundly sleeping outside.  "Howly
Mother!  Vargin av unpurticted innocence!  Save me--save me!"

"Save you from what?" demanded his master, once more springing from his
couch and hastening to strike a light.  "What is it, you confounded
fellow?"

"Another snake, yer hanner!  Och! be me sowl! a far wickeder sarpent
than the wan Misther Stump killed.  It's bit me all over the breast.  I
feel the place burnin' where it crawled across me, just as if the
horse-shoer at Ballyballagh had scorched me wid a rid-hot iron!"

"Durn ye for a stinkin' skunk!" shouted Zeb Stump, with his blanket
about his shoulder, quite filling the doorway.  "Ye've twicest spiled my
night's sleep, ye Irish fool!  'Scuse me, Mister Gerald!  Thur air fools
in all countries, I reck'n, 'Merican as well as Irish--but this hyur
follerer o' yourn air the durndest o' the kind iver I kim acrost.
Dog-goned if I see how we air to get any sleep the night, 'less we
drownd _him_ in the crik fust!"

"Och!  Misther Stump dear, don't talk that way.  I sware to yez both
there's another snake.  I'm shure it's in the kyabin yit.  It's only a
minute since I feeled it creepin' over me."

"You must ha' been dreemin?" rejoined the hunter, in a more complacent
tone, and speaking half interrogatively.  "I tell ye no snake in Texas
will cross a hosshair rope.  The tother 'un must ha' been inside the
house afore ye laid the laryitt roun' it.  'Taint likely there keel ha'
been two on 'em.  We kin soon settle that by sarchin'."

"Oh, murdher!  Luk hare!" cried the Galwegian, pulling off his shirt and
laying bare his breast.  "Thare's the riptoile's track, right acrass
over me ribs!  Didn't I tell yez there was another snake?  O blissed
Mother, what will become av me?  It feels like a strake av fire!"

"Snake!" exclaimed Stump, stepping up to the affrighted Irishman, and
holding the candle close to his skin.  "Snake i'deed!  By the 'tarnal
airthquake, it air no snake!  It air wuss than that!"

"Worse than a snake?" shouted Phelim in dismay.  "Worse, yez say,
Misther Stump?  <DW37> yez mane that it's dangerous?"

"Wal, it mout be, an it moutn't.  Thet ere 'll depend on whether I kin
find somethin' 'bout hyur, an find it soon.  Ef I don't, then, Mister
Pheelum, I won't answer--"

"Oh, Misther Stump, don't say thare's danger!"

"What is it?" demanded Maurice, as his eyes rested upon a reddish line
running diagonally across the breast of his follower, and which looked
as if traced by the point of a hot spindle.  "What is it, anyhow?" he
repeated with increasing anxiety, as he observed the serious look with
which the hunter regarded the strange marking.  "I never saw the like
before.  Is it something to be alarmed about?"

"All o' thet, Mister Gerald," replied Stump, motioning Maurice outside
the hut, and speaking to him in a whisper, so as not to be overheard by
Phelim.

"But what is it?" eagerly asked the mustanger.  "_It air the crawl o'
the pisen centipede_."

"The poison centipede!  Has it bitten him?"

"No, I hardly think it hez.  But it don't need thet.  The _crawl_ o'
itself air enuf to kill him!"

"Merciful Heaven! you don't mean that?"

"I do, Mister Gerald.  I've seed more 'an one good fellur go under wi'
that same sort o' a stripe acrost his skin.  If thur ain't somethin'
done, an thet soon, he'll fust get into a ragin' fever, an then he'll go
out o' his senses, jest as if the bite o' a mad dog had gin him the
hydrophoby.  It air no use frightenin' him howsomdever, till I sees what
I kin do.  Thur's a yarb, or rayther it air a plant, as grows in these
parts.  Ef I kin find it handy, there'll be no defeequilty in curin' o'
him.  But as the cussed lack wud hev it, the moon hez sneaked out o'
sight; an I kin only get the yarb by gropin'.  I know there air plenty
o' it up on the bluff; an ef you'll go back inside, an keep the fellur
quiet, I'll see what kin be done.  I won't be gone but a minute."

The whispered colloquy, and the fact of the speakers having gone outside
to carry it on, instead of tranquillising the fears of Phelim, had by
this time augmented them to an extreme degree: and just as the old
hunter, bent upon his herborising errand, disappeared in the darkness,
he came rushing forth from the hut, howling more piteously than ever.

It was some time before his master could get him tranquillised, and then
only by assuring him--on a faith not very firm--that there was not the
slightest danger.

A few seconds after this had been accomplished, Zeb Stump reappeared in
the doorway, with a countenance that produced a pleasant change in the
feelings of those inside.  His confident air and attitude proclaimed, as
plainly as words could have done, that he had discovered that of which
he had gone in search--the "yarb."  In his right hand he held a number
of oval shaped objects of dark green colour--all of them bristling with
sharp spines, set over the surface in equidistant clusters.  Maurice
recognised the leaves of a plant well known to him--the _oregano_
cactus.

"Don't be skeeart, Mister Pheelum!" said the old hunter, in a
consolatory tone, as he stepped across the threshold.  "Thur's nothin'
to fear now.  I hev got the bolsum as 'll draw the burnin' out o' yur
blood, quicker 'an flame ud scorch a feather.  Stop yur yellin', man!
Ye've rousted every bird an beast, an creepin' thing too, I reckon, out
o' thar slumbers, for more an twenty mile up an down the crik.  Ef you
go on at that grist much longer, ye'll bring the Kumanchees out o' thur
mountains, an that 'ud be wuss mayhap than the crawl o' this
hunderd-legged critter.  Mister Gerald, you git riddy a bandige, whiles
I purpares the powltiss."

Drawing his knife from its sheath, the hunter first lopped off the
spines; and then, removing the outside skin, he split the thick
succulent leaves of the cactus into slices of about an eighth of an inch
in thickness.  These he spread contiguously upon a strip of clean cotton
stuff already prepared by the mustanger; and then, with the ability of a
hunter, laid the "powltiss," as he termed it, along the inflamed line,
which he declared to have been made by the claws of the centipede, but
which in reality was caused by the injection of venom from its
poison-charged mandibles, a thousand times inserted into the flesh of
the sleeper!

The application of the _oregano_ was almost instantaneous in its effect.
The acrid juice of the plant, producing a counter poison, killed that
which had been secreted by the animal; and the patient, relieved from
further apprehension, and soothed by the sweet confidence of security--
stronger from reaction--soon fell off into a profound and restorative
slumber.

After searching for the centipede and failing to find it--for this
hideous reptile, known in Mexico as the _alacran_, unlike the
rattlesnake, has no fear of crossing a _cabriesto_--the improvised
physician strode silently out of the cabin; and, once more committing
himself to his grassy couch, slept undisturbed till the morning.

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

At the earliest hour of daybreak all three were astir--Phelim having
recovered both from his fright and his fever.  Having made their
matutinal meal upon the _debris_ of the roast turkey, they hastened to
take their departure from the hut.  The quondam stable-boy of
Ballyballagh, assisted by the Texan hunter, prepared the wild steeds for
transport across the plains--by stringing them securely together--while
Maurice looked after his own horse and the spotted mare.  More
especially did he expend his time upon the beautiful captive--carefully
combing out her mane and tail, and removing from her glossy coat the
stains that told of the severe chase she had cost him before her proud
neck yielded to the constraint of his lazo.

"Durn it, man!" exclaimed Zeb, as, with some surprise, he stood watching
the movements of the mustanger, "ye needn't ha' been hef so purtickler!
Wudley Pointdexter ain't the man as 'll go back from a barg'in.  Ye'll
git the two hunderd dollars, sure as my name air Zeblun Stump; an
dog-gone my cats, ef the maar ain't worth every red cent o' the money!"

Maurice heard the remarks without making reply; but the half suppressed
smile playing around his lips told that the Kentuckian had altogether
misconstrued the motive for his assiduous grooming.

In less than an hour after, the mustanger was on the march, mounted on
his blood-bay, and leading the spotted mare at the end of his lazo;
while the captive _cavallada_, under the guidance of the Galwegian
groom, went trooping at a brisk pace over the plain.

Zeb Stump, astride his "ole maar," could only keep up by a constant
hammering with his heels; and Tara, picking his steps through the
spinous _mezquite_ grass, trotted listlessly in the rear.

The hut, with its skin-door closed against animal intruders, was left to
take care of itself; its silent solitude, for a time, to be disturbed
only by the hooting of the horned owl, the scream of the cougar, or the
howl-bark of the hungering coyote.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE FRONTIER FORT.

The "star-spangled banner" suspended above Fort Inge, as it flouts forth
from its tall staff, flings its fitful shadow over a scene of strange
and original interest.

It is a picture of pure frontier life--which perhaps only the pencil of
the younger Vernet could truthfully portray--half military, half
civilian--half savage, half civilised--mottled with figures of men whose
complexions, costumes, and callings, proclaim them appertaining to the
extremes of both, and every possible gradation between.

Even the _mise-en-scene_--the Fort itself--is of this _miscegenous_
character.  That star-spangled banner waves not over bastions and
battlements; it flings no shadow over casemate or covered way, fosse,
scarpment, or glacis--scarce anything that appertains to a fortress.  A
rude stockade, constructed out of trunks of _algarobia_, enclosing
shed-stabling for two hundred horses; outside this a half-score of
buildings of the plainest architectural style--some of them mere huts of
"wattle and daub"--_jacales_--the biggest a barrack; behind it the
hospital, the stores of the commissary, and quartermaster; on one side
the guardhouse; and on the other, more pretentiously placed, the
messroom and officers' quarters; all plain in their appearance--
plastered and whitewashed with the lime plentifully found on the Leona--
all neat and clean, as becomes a cantonment of troops wearing the
uniform of a great civilised nation.  Such is Fort Inge.

At a short distance off another group of houses meets the eye--nearly,
if not quite, as imposing as the cluster above described bearing the
name of "The Fort."  They are just outside the shadow of the flag,
though under its protection--for to it are they indebted for their
origin and existence.  They are the germ of the village that universally
springs up in the proximity of an American military post--in all
probability, and at no very remote period, to become a town--perhaps a
great city.

At present their occupants are a sutler, whose store contains
"knick-knacks" not classed among commissariat rations; an hotel-keeper
whose bar-room, with white sanded floor and shelves sparkling with
prismatic glass, tempts the idler to step in; a brace of gamblers whose
rival tables of _faro_ and _monte_ extract from the pockets of the
soldiers most part of their pay; a score of dark-eyed senoritas of
questionable reputation; a like number of hunters, teamsters,
_mustangers_, and nondescripts--such as constitute in all countries the
hangers-on of a military cantonment, or the followers of a camp.

The houses in the occupancy of this motley corporation have been "sited"
with some design.  Perhaps they are the property of a single speculator.
They stand around a "square," where, instead of lamp-posts or statues,
may be seen the decaying trunk of a cypress, or the bushy form of a
hackberry rising out of a _tapis_ of trodden grass.

The Leona--at this point a mere rivulet--glides past in the rear both of
fort and village.  To the front extends a level plain, green as verdure
can make it--in the distance darkened by a bordering of woods, in which
post-oaks and pecans, live oaks and elms, struggle for existence with
spinous plants of cactus and anona; with scores of creepers, climbers,
and parasites almost unknown to the botanist.  To the south and east
along the banks of the stream, you see scattered houses: the homesteads
of plantations; some of them rude and of recent construction, with a few
of more pretentious style, and evidently of older origin.  One of these
last particularly attracts the attention: a structure of superior size--
with flat roof, surmounted by a crenelled parapet--whose white walls
show conspicuously against the green background of forest with which it
is half encircled.  It is the hacienda of _Casa del Corvo_.

Turning your eye northward, you behold a curious isolated eminence--a
gigantic cone of rocks--rising several hundred feet above the level of
the plain; and beyond, in dim distance, a waving horizontal line
indicating the outlines of the Guadalupe mountains--the outstanding
spurs of that elevated and almost untrodden plateau, the _Llano
Estacado_.

Look aloft!  You behold a sky, half sapphire, half turquoise; by day,
showing no other spot than the orb of its golden god; by night, studded
with stars that appear clipped from clear steel, and a moon whose
well-defined disc outshines the effulgence of silver.

Look below--at that hour when moon and stars have disappeared, and the
land-wind arrives from Matagorda Bay, laden with the fragrance of
flowers; when it strikes the starry flag, unfolding it to the eye of the
morn--then look below, and behold the picture that should have been
painted by the pencil of Vernet--too varied and vivid, too plentiful in
shapes, costumes, and colouring, to be sketched by the pen.

In the tableau you distinguish soldiers in uniform--the light blue of
the United States infantry, the darker cloth of the dragoons, and the
almost invisible green of the mounted riflemen.

You will see but few in full uniform--only the officer of the day, the
captain of the guard, and the guard itself.

Their comrades off duty lounge about the barracks, or within the
stockade enclosure, in red flannel shirts, slouch hats, and boots
innocent of blacking.

They mingle with men whose costumes make no pretence to a military
character: tall hunters in tunics of dressed deerskin, with leggings to
correspond--herdsmen and mustangers, habited _a la Mexicaine_--Mexicans
themselves, in wide _calzoneros_, _serapes_ on their shoulders, _botas_
on their legs, huge spurs upon their heels, and glazed _sombreros_ set
jauntily on their crowns.  They palaver with Indians on a friendly visit
to the Fort, for trade or treaty; whose tents stand at some distance,
and from whose shoulders hang blankets of red, and green, and blue--
giving them a picturesque, even classical, appearance, in spite of the
hideous paint with which they have bedaubed their skins, and the dirt
that renders sticky their long black hair, lengthened by tresses taken
from the tails of their horses.

Picture to the eye of your imagination this jumble of mixed
nationalities--in their varied costumes of race, condition, and calling;
jot in here and there a black-skinned scion of Ethiopia, the body
servant of some officer, or the emissary of a planter from the adjacent
settlements; imagine them standing in gossiping groups, or stalking over
the level plain, amidst some half-dozen halted waggons; a couple of
six-pounders upon their carriages, with caissons close by; a square tent
or two, with its surmounting fly--occupied by some eccentric officer who
prefers sleeping under canvas; a stack of bayoneted rifles belonging to
the soldiers on guard,--imagine all these component parts, and you will
have before your mind's eye a truthful picture of a military fort upon
the frontier of Texas, and the extreme selvedge of civilisation.

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

About a week after the arrival of the Louisiana planter at his new home,
three officers were seen standing upon the parade ground in front of
Fort Inge, with their eyes turned towards the hacienda of Casa del
Corvo.

They were all young men: the oldest not over thirty years of age.  His
shoulder-straps with the double bar proclaimed him a captain; the
second, with a single cross bar, was a first lieutenant; while the
youngest of the two, with an empty chevron, was either a second
lieutenant or "brevet."

They were off duty; engaged in conversation--their theme, the "new
people" in Casa del Corvo--by which was meant the Louisiana planter and
his family.

"A sort of housewarming it's to be," said the infantry captain, alluding
to an invitation that had reached the Fort, extending to all the
commissioned officers of the garrison.  "Dinner first, and dancing
afterwards--a regular field day, where I suppose we shall see paraded
the aristocracy and beauty of the settlement."

"Aristocracy?" laughingly rejoined the lieutenant of dragoons.  "Not
much of that here, I fancy; and of beauty still less."

"You mistake, Hancock.  There are both upon the banks of the Leona.
Some good States families have strayed out this way.  We'll meet them at
Poindexter's party, no doubt.  On the question of aristocracy, the host
himself, if you'll pardon a poor joke, is himself a host.  He has enough
of it to inoculate all the company that may be present; and as for
beauty, I'll back his daughter against anything this side the Sabine.
The commissary's niece will be no longer belle about here."

"Oh, indeed!" drawled the lieutenant of rifles, in a tone that told of
his being chafed by this representation.  "Miss Poindexter must be
deuced good-looking, then."

"She's all that, I tell you, if she be anything like what she was when I
last saw her, which was at a Bayou Lafourche ball.  There were half a
dozen young Creoles there, who came nigh crossing swords about her."

"A coquette, I suppose?" insinuated the rifleman.

"Nothing of the kind, Crossman.  Quite the contrary, I assure you.
She's a girl of spirit, though--likely enough to snub any fellow who
might try to be too familiar.  She's not without some of the father's
pride.  It's a family trait of the Poindexters."

"Just the girl I should cotton to," jocosely remarked the young dragoon.
"And if she's as good-looking as you say, Captain Sloman, I shall
certainly go in for her.  Unlike Crossman here, I'm clear of all
entanglements of the heart.  Thank the Lord for it!"

"Well, Mr Hancock," rejoined the infantry officer, a gentleman of sober
inclinings, "I'm not given to betting; but I'd lay a big wager you won't
say that, after you have seen Louise Poindexter--that is, if you speak
your mind."

"Pshaw, Sloman! don't you be alarmed about me.  I've been too often
under the fire of bright eyes to have any fear of them."

"None so bright as hers."

"Deuce take it! you make a fellow fall in love with this lady without
having set eyes upon her.  She must be something extraordinary--
incomparable."

"She was both, when I last saw her."

"How long ago was that?"

"The Lafourche ball?  Let me see--about eighteen months.  Just after we
got back from Mexico.  She was then `coming out' as society styles it:--

"A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!"

"Eighteen months is a long time," sagely remarked Crossman--"a long time
for an unmarried maiden--especially among Creoles, where they often get
spliced at twelve, instead of `sweet sixteen.'  Her beauty may have lost
some of its bloom?"

"I believe not a bit.  I should have called to see; only I knew they
were in the middle of their `plenishing,' and mightn't desire to be
visited.  But the major has been to Casa del Corvo, and brought back
such a report about Miss Poindexter's beauty as almost got him into a
scrape with the lady commanding the post."

"Upon my soul, Captain Sloman!" asseverated the lieutenant of dragoons,
"you've excited my curiosity to such a degree, I feel already half in
love with Louise Poindexter!"

"Before you get altogether into it," rejoined the officer of infantry,
in a serious tone, "let me recommend a little caution.  There's a _bete
noir_ in the background."

"A brother, I suppose?  That is the individual usually so regarded."

"There is a brother, but it's not he.  A free noble young fellow he is--
the only Poindexter I ever knew not eaten up with pride, he's quite the
reverse."

"The aristocratic father, then?  Surely he wouldn't object to a
quartering with the Hancocks?"

"I'm not so sure of that; seeing that the Hancocks are Yankees, and he's
a _chivalric Southerner_!  But it's not old Poindexter I mean."

"Who, then, is the black beast, or what is it--if not a human?"

"It is human, after a fashion.  A male cousin--a queer card he is--by
name Cassius Calhoun."

"I think I've heard the name."

"So have I," said the lieutenant of rifles.

"So has almost everybody who had anything to do with the Mexican war--
that is, who took part in Scott's campaign.  He figured there
extensively, and not very creditably either.  He was captain in a
volunteer regiment of Mississippians--for he hails from that State; but
he was oftener met with at the _monte-table_ than in the quarters of his
regiment.  He had one or two affairs, that gave him the reputation of a
bully.  But that notoriety was not of Mexican-war origin.  He had earned
it before going there; and was well known among the desperadoes of New
Orleans as a _dangerous man_."

"What of all that?" asked the young dragoon, in a tone slightly
savouring of defiance.  "Who cares whether Mr Cassius Calhoun be a
dangerous man, or a harmless one?  Not I.  He's only the girl's cousin,
you say?"

"Something more, perhaps.  I have reason to think he's her lover."

"Accepted, do you suppose?"

"That I can't tell.  I only know, or suspect, that he's the favourite of
the father.  I have heard reasons why; given only in whispers, it is
true, but too probable to be scouted.  The old story--influence
springing from mortgage money.  Poindexter's not so rich as he has
been--else we'd never have seen him out here."

"If the lady be as attractive as you say, I suppose we'll have Captain
Cassius out here also, before long?"

"Before long!  Is that all you know about it?  He _is_ here; came along
with the family, and is now residing with them.  Some say he's a partner
in the planting speculation.  I saw him this very morning--down in the
hotel bar-room--`liquoring up,' and swaggering in his old way."

"A swarthy-complexioned man, of about thirty, with dark hair and
moustaches; wearing a blue cloth frock, half military cut, and a Colt's
revolver strapped over his thigh?"

"Ay, and a bowie knife, if you had looked for it, under the breast of
his coat.  That's the man."

"He's rather a formidable-looking fellow," remarked the young rifleman.
"If a bully, his looks don't belie him."

"Damn his looks!" half angrily exclaimed the dragoon.  "We don't hold
commissions in Uncle Sam's army to be scared by looks, nor bullies
either.  If he comes any of his bullying over me, he'll find I'm as
quick with a trigger as he."

At that moment the bugle brayed out the call for morning parade--a
ceremony observed at the little frontier fort as regularly as if a whole
_corps-d'armee_ had been present--and the three officers separating,
betook themselves to their quarters to prepare their several companies
for the inspection of the major in command of the cantonment.



CHAPTER TEN.

CASA DEL CORVO.

The estate, or "hacienda," known as Casa del Corvo, extended along the
wooded bottom of the Leona River for more than a league, and twice that
distance southwards across the contiguous prairie.

The house itself--usually, though not correctly, styled the _hacienda_--
stood within long cannon range of Fort Inge; from which its white walls
were partially visible; the remaining portion being shadowed by tall
forest trees that skirted the banks of the stream.

Its site was peculiar, and no doubt chosen with a view to defence: for
its foundations had been laid at a time when Indian assailants might be
expected; as indeed they might be, and often are, at the present hour.

There was a curve of the river closing upon itself, like the shoe of a
racehorse, or the arc of a circle, three parts complete; the chord of
which, or a parallelogram traced upon it, might be taken as the
ground-plan of the dwelling.  Hence the name--Casa del Corvo--"the House
of the Curve" (curved river).

The facade, or entrance side, fronted towards the prairie--the latter
forming a noble lawn that extended to the edge of the horizon--in
comparison with which an imperial park would have shrunk into the
dimensions of a paddock.

The architecture of Casa del Corvo, like that of other large country
mansions in Mexico, was of a style that might be termed Morisco-Mexican:
being a single story in height, with a flat roof--_azotea_--spouted and
parapeted all round; having a courtyard inside the walls, termed
_patio_, open to the sky, with a flagged floor, a fountain, and a stone
stairway leading up to the roof; a grand entrance gateway--the
_saguan_--with a massive wooden door, thickly studded with bolt-heads;
and two or three windows on each side, defended by a _grille_ of strong
iron bars, called _reja_.  These are the chief characteristics of a
Mexican hacienda; and Casa del Corvo differed but little from the type
almost universal throughout the vast territories of Spanish America.

Such was the homestead that adorned the newly acquired estate of the
Louisiana planter--that had become his property by purchase.

As yet no change had taken place in the exterior of the dwelling; nor
much in its interior, if we except the _personnel_ of its occupants.  A
physiognomy, half Anglo-Saxon, half Franco-American, presented itself in
courtyard and corridor, where formerly were seen only faces of pure
Spanish type; and instead of the rich sonorous language of Andalusia,
was now heard the harsher guttural of a semi-Teutonic tongue--
occasionally diversified by the sweeter accentuation of Creolian French.

Outside the walls of the mansion--in the village-like cluster of
yucca-thatched huts which formerly gave housing to the _peons_ and other
dependants of the hacienda--the transformation was more striking.  Where
the tall thin _vaquero_, in broad-brimmed hat of black glaze, and
chequered _serape_, strode proudly over the sward--his spurs tinkling at
every step--was now met the authoritative "overseer," in blue jersey, or
blanket coat--his whip cracking at every corner; where the red children
of Azteca and Anahuac, scantily clad in tanned sheepskin, could be seen,
with sad solemn aspect, lounging listlessly by their _jacales_, or
trotting silently along, were now heard the black sons and daughters of
Ethiopia, from morn till night chattering their gay "gumbo," or with
song and dance seemingly contradicting the idea: that slavery is a
heritage of unhappiness!

Was it a change for the better upon the estate of Casa del Corvo?

There was a time when the people of England would have answered--no;
with a unanimity and emphasis calculated to drown all disbelief in their
sincerity.

Alas, for human weakness and hypocrisy!  Our long cherished sympathy
with the slave proves to have been only a tissue of sheer dissembling.
Led by an oligarchy--not the true aristocracy of our country: for these
are too noble to have yielded to such, deep designings--but an oligarchy
composed of conspiring plebs, who have smuggled themselves into the
first places of power in all the four estates--guided by these prurient
conspirators against the people's rights--England has proved untrue to
her creed so loudly proclaimed--truculent to the trust reposed in her by
the universal acclaim, of the nations.

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

On a theme altogether different dwelt the thoughts of Louise Poindexter,
as she flung herself into a chair in front of her dressing-glass, and
directed her maid Florinda to prepare her for the reception of guests--
expected soon to arrive at the hacienda.

It was the day fixed for the "house-warming," and about an hour before
the time appointed for dinner to be on the table.  This might have
explained a certain restlessness observable in the air of the young
Creole--especially observed by Florinda; but it did not.  The maid had
her own thoughts about the cause of her mistress's disquietude--as was
proved by the conversation that ensued between them.

Scarce could it be called a conversation.  It was more as if the young
lady were thinking aloud, with her attendant acting as an echo.  During
all her life, the Creole had been accustomed to look upon her sable
handmaid as a thing from whom it was not worth while concealing her
thoughts, any more than she would from the chairs, the table, the sofa,
or any other article of furniture in the apartment.  There was but the
difference of Florinda being a little more animated and companionable,
and the advantage of her being able to give a vocal response to the
observations addressed to her.

For the first ten minutes after entering the chamber, Florinda had
sustained the brunt of the dialogue on indifferent topics--her mistress
only interfering with an occasional ejaculation.

"Oh, Miss Looey!" pursued the negress, as her fingers fondly played
among the lustrous tresses of her young mistress's hair, "how bewful you
hair am!  Like de long 'Panish moss dat hang from de cyprus-tree; only
dat it am ob a diff'rent colour, an shine like the sugar-house 'lasses."

As already stated, Louise Poindexter was a Creole.  After that, it is
scarce necessary to say that her hair was of a dark colour; and--as the
sable maid in rude speech had expressed it--luxuriant as Spanish moss.
It was not black; but of a rich glowing brown--such as may be observed
in the tinting of a tortoise-shell, or the coat of a winter-trapped
sable.

"Ah!" continued Florinda, spreading out an immense "hank" of the hair,
that glistened like a chestnut against her dark palm, "if I had dat
lubbly hair on ma head, in'tead ob dis cuss'd cully wool, I fotch em all
to ma feet--ebbry one oh dem."

"What do you mean, girl?" inquired the young lady, as if just aroused
from some dreamy reverie.  "What's that you've been saying?  Fetch them
to your feet?  Fetch whom?"

"Na, now; you know what dis chile mean?"

"'Pon honour, I do not."

"Make em lub me.  Dat's what I should hab say."

"But whom?"

"All de white gen'l'm.  De young planter, de officer ob de Fort--all ob
dem.  Wif you hair, Miss Looey, I could dem all make conquess."

"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the young lady, amused at the idea of Florinda
figuring under that magnificent chevelure.  "You think, with my hair
upon your head, you would be invincible among the men?"

"No, missa--not you hair alone--but wif you sweet face--you skin, white
as de alumbaster--you tall figga--you grand look.  Oh, Miss Looey, you
am so 'plendidly bewful!  I hear de white gen'l'm say so.  I no need
hear em say it.  I see dat for masef."

"You're learning to flatter, Florinda."

"No, 'deed, missa--ne'er a word ob flattery--ne'er a word, I swa it.  By
de 'postles, I swa it."

To one who looked upon her mistress, the earnest asseveration of the
maid was not necessary to prove the sincerity of her speech, however
hyperbolical it might appear.  To say that Louise Poindexter was
beautiful, would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society
that surrounded her.  A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one
upon this point--strangers as well as acquaintances.  It was a kind of
beauty that needed no _discovering_--and yet it is difficult to describe
it.  The pen cannot portray swell a face.  Even the pencil could convey
but a faint idea of it: for no painter, however skilled, could represent
upon cold canvas the glowing ethereal light that emanated from her eyes,
and appeared to radiate over her countenance.  Her features were purely
classic: resembling those types of female beauty chosen by Phidias or
Praxiteles.  And yet in all the Grecian Pantheon there is no face to
which it could have been likened: for it was not the countenance of a
goddess; but, something more attractive to the eye of man, the face of a
woman.

A suspicion of sensuality, apparent in the voluptuous curving of the
lower lip--still more pronounced in the prominent rounding beneath the
cheeks--while depriving the countenance of its pure spiritualism, did
not perhaps detract from its beauty.  There are men, who, in this
departure from the divine type, would have perceived a superior charm:
since in Louise Poindexter they would have seen not a divinity to be
worshipped, but a woman to be loved.

Her only reply vouchsafed to Florinda's earnest asseveration was a
laugh--careless, though not incredulous.  The young Creole did not need
to be reminded of her beauty.  She was not unconscious of it: as could
be told by her taking more than one long look into the mirror before
which her toilet was being made.  The flattery of the negress scarce
called up an emotion; certainly not more than she might have felt at the
fawning of a pet spaniel; and she soon after surrendered herself to the
reverie from which the speech had aroused her.

Florinda was not silenced by observing her mistress's air of
abstraction.  The girl had evidently something on her mind--some
mystery, of which she desired the _eclaircissement_--and was determined
to have it.

"Ah!" she continued, as if talking to herself; "if Florinda had half de
charm ob young missa, she for nobody care--she for nobody heave do deep
sigh!"

"Sigh!" repeated her mistress, suddenly startled by the speech.  "What
do you mean by that?"

"Pa' dieu, Miss Looey, Florinda no so blind you tink; nor so deaf
neider.  She you see long time sit in de same place; you nebber 'peak no
word--you only heave de sigh--de long deep sigh.  You nebba do dat in de
ole plantashun in Loozyanny."

"Florinda!  I fear you are taking leave of your senses, or have left
them behind you in Louisiana?  Perhaps there's something in the climate
here that affects you.  Is that so, girl?"

"Pa' dieu, Miss Looey, dat question ob youself ask.  You no be angry
case I 'peak so plain.  Florinda you slave--she you lub like brack
sisser.  She no happy hear you sigh.  Dat why she hab take de freedom.
You no be angry wif me?"

"Certainly not.  Why should I be angry with you, child?  I'm not.  I
didn't say I was; only you are quite mistaken in your ideas.  What
you've seen, or heard, could be only a fancy of your own.  As for
sighing, heigho!  I have something else to think of just now.  I have to
entertain about a hundred guests--nearly all strangers, too; among them
the young planters and officers whom you would entangle if you had my
hair.  Ha! ha! ha!  _I_ don't desire to enmesh them--not one of them!
So twist it up as you like--without the semblance of a snare in it."

"Oh!  Miss Looey, you so 'peak?" inquired the negress with an air of
evident interest.  "You say none ob dem gen'l'm you care for?  Dere am
two, tree, berry, berry, berry han'som'.  One planter dar be, and two ob
de officer--all young gen'l'm.  You know de tree I mean.  All ob dem hab
been 'tentive to you.  You sure, missa, tain't one ob dem dat you make
sigh?"

"Sigh again!  Ha! ha! ha!  But come, Florinda, we're losing time.
Recollect I've got to be in the drawing-room to receive a hundred
guests.  I must have at least half an hour to compose myself into an
attitude befitting such an extensive reception."

"No fear, Miss Looey--no fear.  I you toilette make in time--plenty ob
time.  No much trouble you dress.  Pa' dieu, in any dress you look
'plendid.  You be de belle if you dress like one ob de fiel' hand ob de
plantashun."

"What a flatterer you are grown, Florinda!  I shall begin to suspect
that you are after some favour.  Do you wish me to intercede, and make
up your quarrel with Pluto?"

"No, missa.  I be friend nebber more wid Pluto.  He show hisseff such
great coward when come dat storm on de brack prairee.  Ah, Miss Looey!
what we boaf do if dat young white gen'l'm on de red hoss no come ridin'
dat way?"

"If he had not, cher Florinde, it is highly probable neither of us
should now have been here."

"Oh, missa! wasn't he real fancy man, dat 'ere?  You see him bewful
face.  You see him thick hair, jess de colour ob you own--only curled
leetle bit like mine.  Talk ob de young planter, or dem officer at de
Fort!  De brack folk say he no good for nuffin, like dem--he only poor
white trash.  Who care fo' dat?  He am de sort ob man could dis chile
make sigh.  Ah! de berry, berry sort!"

Up to this point the young Creole had preserved a certain tranquillity
of countenance.  She tried to continue it; but the effort failed her.
Whether by accident or design, Florinda had touched the most sensitive
chord in the spirit of her mistress.

She would have been loth to confess it, even to her slave; and it was a
relief to her, when loud voices heard in the courtyard gave a colourable
excuse for terminating her toilette, along with the delicate dialogue
upon which she might have been constrained to enter.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.

"Say, ye durnationed <DW65>! whar's yur master?"

"Mass Poindex'er, sar?  De ole massr, or de young 'un?"

"Young 'un be durned!  I mean Mister Peintdexter.  Who else shed I?
Whar air he?"

"Ho--ho! sar! dey am boaf at home--dat is, dey am boaf away from de
house--de ole massr an de young Massr Henry.  Dey am down de ribber, wha
de folk am makin' de new fence.  Ho! ho! you find 'em dar."

"Down the river!  How fur d'ye reck'n?"

"Ho! ho! sar.  Dis nigga reck'n it be 'bout tree or four mile--dat at de
berry leas'."

"Three or four mile?  Ye must be a durnationed fool, <DW65>.  Mister
Peintdexter's plantation don't go thet fur; an I reck'n he ain't the man
to be makin' a fence on some'dy else's clarin'.  Lookee hyur!  What time
air he expected hum?  Ye've got a straighter idee o' thet, I hope?"

"Dey boaf 'pected home berry soon, de young massr and de ole massr, and
Mass Ca'houn too.  Ho! ho! dar's agwine to be big dooin's 'bout dis yar
shanty--yer see dat fo' yeseff by de smell ob de kitchen.  Ho! ho!  All
sorts o' gran' feassin'--do roas' an de bile, an de barbecue; de
pot-pies, an de chicken fixins.  Ho! ho! ain't thar agwine to go it hyar
jess like de ole times on de coass ob de Massippy!  Hoora fo' ole Mass
Poindex'er!  He de right sort.  Ho! ho! 'tranger! why you no holla too:
you no friend ob de massr?"

"Durn you, <DW65>, don't ye remember me?  Now I look into yur ugly mug,
I recollex you."

"Gorramighty! 'tain't Mass 'Tump--'t use to fotch de ven'son an de
turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun?  By de jumbo, it am, tho'.  Law,
Mass 'Tump, dis nigga 'members you like it wa de day afore yesserday.
Ise heern you called de odder day; but I war away from 'bout de place.
I'm de coachman now--dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de
'tablishment--de bewful Missy Loo.  Lor, massr, she berry fine gal.  Dey
do say she beat Florinday into fits.  Nebba mind, Mass 'Tump, you better
wait till ole massr come home.  He am _a bound to be hya_, in de
shortess poss'ble time."

"Wal, if thet's so, I'll wait upon him," rejoined the hunter, leisurely
lifting his leg over the saddle--in which up to this time he had
retained his seat.  "Now, ole fellur," he added, passing the bridle into
the hands of the <DW64>, "you gi'e the maar half a dozen yeers o' corn
out o' the crib.  I've rid the critter better 'n a score o' miles like a
streak o' lightnin'--all to do yur master a sarvice."

"Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?" exclaimed a silvery voice, followed
by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.

"I thought it was," continued the young lady, coming up to the railings,
"though I didn't expect to see you so soon.  You said you were going
upon a long journey.  Well--I am pleased that you are here; and so will
papa and Henry be.  Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what
she can give you for Mr Stump's dinner.  You have not dined, I know.
You are dusty--you've been travelling?  Here, Morinda!  Haste you to the
sideboard, and pour out some drink.  Mr Stump will be thirsty, I'm
sure, this hot day.  What would you prefer--port, sherry, claret?  Ah,
now, if I recollect, you used to be partial to Monongahela whisky.  I
think there is some.  Morinda, see if there be!  Step into the verandah,
dear Mr Stump, and take a seat.  You were inquiring for papa?  I expect
him home every minute.  I shall try to entertain you till he come."

Had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have
received an immediate reply.  Even as it was, some seconds elapsed
before Zeb made rejoinder.  He stood gazing upon her, as if struck
speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration.

"Lord o' marcy, Miss Lewaze!" he at length gasped forth, "I thort when I
used to see you on the Massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the
airth; but now, I think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in
hewing.  Geehosofat!"

The old hunter's praise was scarce exaggerated.  Fresh from the
toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of
the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the
application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe
of India muslin--white and semi-translucent--certainly did Louise
Poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth--if not in heaven.

"Geehosofat!" again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary
speech, "I hev in my time seed what I thort war some putty critters o'
the sheemale kind--my ole 'ooman herself warn't so bad-lookin' when I
fast kim acrost her in Kaintuck--thet she warn't.  But I will say this,
Miss Lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o' all o' them war clipped out an then
jeined thegither agin, they wudn't make up the thousanth part o' a angel
sech as you."

"Oh--oh--oh!  Mr Stump--Mr Stump!  I'm astonished to hear _you_ talk
in this manner.  Texas has quite turned you into a courtier.  If you go
on so, I fear you will lose your character for plain speaking!  After
that I am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink.  Haste,
Morinda!  I think you said you would prefer whisky?"

"Ef I didn't say it, I thunk it; an that air about the same.  Yur right,
miss, I prefar the corn afore any o' them thur furrin lickers; an I
sticks to it whuriver I kin git it.  Texas hain't made no alterashun in
me in the matter o' lickerin'."

"Mass 'Tump, you it hab mix wif water?" inquired Florinda, coming
forward with a tumbler about one-half full of "Monongahela."

"No, gurl.  Durn yur water!  I hev hed enuf o' thet since I started this
mornin'.  I hain't hed a taste o' licker the hul day--ne'er as much as
the smell o' it."

"Dear Mr Stump! surely you can't drink it that way?  Why, it will burn
your throat!  Have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?"

"Speil it, miss.  It air sweet enuf 'ithout that sort o' docterin';
'specially arter you hev looked inter the glass.  Yu'll see ef I can't
drink it.  Hyur goes to try!"

The old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three
gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of
Florinda.  A loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous
exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid.

"Burn my throat, ye say?  Ne'er a bit.  It hez jest eiled thet ere
jugewlar, an put it in order for a bit o' a palaver I wants to hev wi'
yur father--'bout thet ere spotty mow-stang."

"Oh, true!  I had forgotten.  No, I hadn't either; but I did not suppose
you had time to have news of it.  Have you heard anything of the pretty
creature?"

"Putty critter ye may well pernounce it.  It ur all o' thet.  Besides,
it ur a maar."

"A ma-a-r!  What is that, Mr Stump?  I don't understand."

"A maar I sayed.  Shurly ye know what a maar is?"

"Ma-a-r--ma-a-r!  Why, no, not exactly.  Is it a Mexican word?  _Mar_ in
Spanish signifies the sea."

"In coorse it air a Mexikin maar--all mowstangs air.  They air all on
'em o' a breed as wur oncest brought over from some European country by
the fust o' them as settled in these hyur parts--leesewise I hev heern
so."

"Still, Mr Stump, I do not comprehend you.  What makes this mustang a
ma-a-r?"

"What makes her a _maar_?  'Case she ain't a _hoss_; thet's what make
it, Miss Peintdexter."

"Oh--now--I--I think I comprehend.  But did you say you have heard of
the animal--I mean since you left us?"

"Heern o' her, seed her, an feeled her."

"Indeed!"

"She air grupped."

"Ah, caught! what capital news!  I shall be so delighted to see the
beautiful thing; and ride it too.  I haven't had a horse worth a piece
of orange-peel since I've been in Texas.  Papa has promised to purchase
this one for me at any price.  But who is the lucky individual who
accomplished the capture?"

"Ye mean who grupped the maar?"

"Yes--yes--who?"

"Why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger."

"A mustanger?"

"Ye-es--an such a one as thur ain't another on all these purayras--
eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one.  Yo may talk about
yur Mexikins!  I never seed neery Mexikin ked manage hoss-doin's like
that young fellur; an thur ain't a drop o' thur pisen blood in his
veins.  He ur es white es I am myself."

"His name?"

"Wal, es to the name o' his family, that I niver heern.  His Christyun
name air Maurice.  He's knowed up thur 'bout the Fort as Maurice the
mowstanger."

The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone
of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden
deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the
answer.

Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

"La, Miss Looey!" exclaimed the latter, "shoo dat de name ob de brave
young white gen'l'm--he dat us save from being smodered on de brack
prairee?"

"Geehosofat, yes!" resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the
necessity of making reply.  "Now I think o't, he told me o' thet
suckumstance this very mornin', afore we started.  He air the same.
Thet's the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin' the
critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump'ny wi' about a dozen
others o' the same cavyurd.  He oughter be hyur afore sundown.  I pushed
my ole maar ahead, so 's to tell yur father the spotty war comin', and
let him git the fust chance o' buyin'.  I know'd as how thet ere bit o'
hosdoin's don't get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb'dy snaps
her up.  I thort o' _you_, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt
ye 'bout the critter.  Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast
chance.  Ole Zeb Stump 'll be yur bail for thet."

"Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you!  I am very, very grateful.  You
will now excuse me for a moment.  Father will soon be back.  We have a
dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many
people.  Florinda, see that Mr Stump's luncheon is set out for him.
Go, girl--go at once about it!"

"And, Mr Stump," continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the
hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, "if the young--
young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here--perhaps
he don't know them--will you see that he is not neglected?  There is
wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things.  You know what I mean,
dear Mr Stump?"

"Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly.  I kin unnerstan'
all thet ere 'bout the licker' an other fixins.  But who air the young
gen'leman yur speakin' o'?  Thet's the thing as bamboozles me."

"Surely you know who I mean!  The young gentleman--the young man--who,
you say, is bringing in the horses."

"Oh! ah!  Maurice the mowstanger!  That's it, is it?  Wal, I reck'n yur
not a hundred mile astray in calling _him_ a gen'leman; tho' it ain't
offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther.  _He
air one_, every inch o' him--a gen'leman by barth, breed, an raisin'--
tho' he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet."

The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to
opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.

"I must tell ye, howsomdiver," continued the hunter, as some doubt had
come across his mind, "it won't do to show that 'ere young fellur any
sort o' second-hand hospertality.  As they used to say on the
Massissippi, he air `as proud as a Peintdexter.'  Excuse me, Miss
Lewaze, for lettin' the word slip.  I did think o't thet I war talkin'
to a Peintdexter--not the proudest, but the puttiest o' the name."

"Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me.  You know that I
could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!"

"He'd be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin' to offend
you, miss."

"Thanks! thanks!  I know your honest heart--I know your devotion.
Perhaps some time--some time, Mr Stump,"--she spoke hesitatingly, but
apparently without any definite meaning--"I might stand in need of your
friendship."

"Ye won't need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin
promise ye, Miss Peintdexter.  He'd be stinkiner than a skunk, an a
bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn't stan' by sech as you, while
there wur a bottle-full o' breath left in the inside o' his body."

"A thousand thanks--again and again!  But what were you going to say?
You spoke of second-hand hospitality?"

"I dud."

"You meant--?"

"I meaned thet it 'ud be no use o' my inviting Maurice the mowstanger
eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof.  Unless yur father do that,
the young fellur 'll go 'ithout tastin'.  You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he
ain't one o' thet sort o' poor whites as kin be sent roun' to the
kitchen."

The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder.
She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that
engrossed the whole of her thoughts.

"Never mind about it," she at length said, in a tone that told the
calculation completed.  "Never mind, Mr Stump.  You need not invite
him.  Only let _me_ know when he arrives--unless we be at dinner, and
then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear.  But if he
_should_ come at that time, _you_ detain him--won't you?"

"Boun' to do it, ef you bid me."

"You will, then; and let me know he is here.  _I_ shall ask him to eat."

"Ef ye do, miss, I reck'n ye'll speil his appetite.  The sight o' you,
to say nothin' o' listenin' to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin'
wolf o' bein' hungry.  When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller
a raw buzzart.  Neow I don't care a durn about eatin'.  I ked go 'ithout
chawin' meat for month."

As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of
clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the
patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the "cocina," carrying a
light tray--followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more
heavily weighted.

"You great giant!" was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; "I
won't believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack.
Yonder come Pluto and Morinda.  They bring something that will prove
more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it.  Good
bye, Zeb--good bye, or, as the natives say here, _hasta luego_!"

Gaily were these words spoken--lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back
across the covered corridor.  Only after entering her chamber, and
finding herself _chez soi-meme_, did she give way to a reflection of a
more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but
full of mystic meaning:--

"It is my destiny: I feel--I know that it is!  I dare not meet, and yet
I cannot shun it--I may not--I would not--I _will not_!"



CHAPTER TWELVE.

TAMING A WILD MARE.

The pleasantest _apartment_ in a Mexican house is that which has the
roof for its floor, and the sky for its ceiling--the _azotea_.  In fine
weather--ever fine in that sunny clime--it is preferred to the
drawing-room; especially after dinner, when the sun begins to cast
rose- rays upon the snow-clad summits of Orizava, Popocatepec,
Toluca, and the "Twin Sister;" when the rich wines of Xeres and Madeira
have warmed the imaginations of Andalusia's sons and daughters--
descendants of the Conquistadores--who mount up to their house-tops to
look upon a land of world-wide renown, rendered famous by the heroic
achievements of their ancestors.

Then does the Mexican "cavallero," clad in embroidered habiliments,
exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some senorita--at the same
time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks.  Then
does the dark-eyed doncella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or
perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye
wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some
distant hacienda--the home of him she truly loves.

So enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the
housetop, could not fail to be followed by any one who chanced to be the
occupant of a Mexican dwelling; and the family of the Louisiana planter
had adopted it, as a matter of course.

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof,
instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage;
and as the sun descended towards the horizon, his slanting rays fell
upon a throng as gay, as cheerful, and perhaps as resplendent, as ever
trod the azotea of Casa del Corvo.  Moving about over its tessellated
tiles, standing in scattered groups, or lined along the parapet with
faces turned towards the plain, were women as fair and men as brave as
had ever assembled on that same spot--even when its ancient owner used
to distribute hospitality to the _hidalgos_ of the land--the _bluest_
blood in Coahuila and Texas.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on
his Texan estate, could also boast of this last distinction.  They were
the _elite_ of the Settlements--not only of the Leona, but of others
more distant.  There were guests from Gonzales, from Castroville, and
even from San Antonio--old friends of the planter, who, like him, had
sought a home in South-Western Texas, and who had ridden--some of them
over a hundred miles--to be present at this, his first grand
"reception."

The planter had spared neither pains nor expense to give it _eclat_.
What with the sprinkling of uniforms and epaulettes, supplied by the
Fort--what with the brass band borrowed from the same convenient
repository--what with the choice wines found in the cellars of Casa del
Corvo, and which had formed part of the purchase--there could be little
lacking to make Poindexter's party the most brilliant ever given upon
the banks of the Leona.

And to insure this effect, his lovely daughter Louise, late belle of
Louisiana--the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas--
acted as mistress of the ceremonies--moving about among the admiring
guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

On that occasion was she the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the
happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more:
for not all were blessed who beheld her beauty.

Was she herself happy?

The interrogatory may appear singular--almost absurd.  Surrounded by
friends--admirers--one, at least, who adored her--a dozen whose
incipient love could but end in adoration--young planters, lawyers,
embryo statesmen, and some with reputation already achieved--sons of
Mars in armour, or with armour late laid aside--how could she be
otherwise than proudly, supremely happy?

A stranger might have asked the question; one superficially acquainted
with Creole character--more especially the character of the lady in
question.

But mingling in that splendid throng was a man who was no stranger to
either; and who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every
movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning.
Cassius Calhoun was the individual thus occupied.

She went not hither, nor thither, without his following her--not close,
like a shadow; but by stealth, flitting from place to place; upstairs,
and downstairs; standing in corners, with an air of apparent
abstraction; but all the while with eyes turned askant upon his cousin's
face, like a plain-clothes policeman employed on detective duty.

Strangely enough he did not seem to pay much regard to her speeches,
made in reply to the compliments showered upon her by several would-be
winners of a smile--not even when these were conspicuous and
respectable, as in the case of young Hancock of the dragoons.  To all
such he listened without visible emotion, as one listens to a
conversation in no way affecting the affairs either of self or friends.

It was only after ascending to the azotea, on observing his cousin near
the parapet, with her eye turned interrogatively towards the plain, that
his detective zeal became conspicuous--so much so as to attract the
notice of others.  More than once was it noticed by those standing near:
for more than once was repeated the act which gave cause to it.

At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress of Casa del Corvo
might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain,
with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.

Why she did so no one could tell.  No one presumed to conjecture, except
Cassius Calhoun.  He had thoughts upon the subject--thoughts that were
torturing him.

When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from
the garish light of the setting sun--when the spectators upon the azotea
pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men--the
ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that
_cavallada_.

Another appeared to feel an equal interest in its advent, though perhaps
from a different motive.  Long before the horse-drove had attracted the
observation of Poindexter's guests, his daughter had noted its
approach--from the time that a cloud of dust soared up against the
horizon, so slight and filmy as to have escaped detection by any eye not
bent expressly on discovering it.

From that moment the young Creole, under cover of a conversation carried
on amid a circle of fair companions, had been slyly scanning the
dust-cloud as it drew nearer; forming conjectures as to what was causing
it, upon knowledge already, and as she supposed, exclusively her own.

"Wild horses!" announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a
short inspection through his pocket telescope.  "Some one bringing them
in," he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye.  "Oh!  I see
now--it's Maurice the mustanger, who occasionally helps our men to a
remount.  He appears to be coming this way--direct to your place, Mr
Poindexter."

"If it be the young fellow you have named, that's not unlikely," replied
the owner of Casa del Corvo.  "I bargained with him to catch me a score
or two; and maybe this is the first instalment he's bringing me."

"Yes, I think it is," he added, after a look through the telescope.

"I am sure of it," said the planter's son.  "I can tell the horseman
yonder to be Maurice Gerald."

The planter's daughter could have done the same; though she made no
display of her knowledge.  She did not appear to be much interested in
the matter--indeed, rather indifferent.  She had become aware of being
watched by that evil eye, constantly burning upon her.

The _cavallada_ came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with
the spotted mare at the end of his lazo.

"What a beautiful creature!" exclaimed several voices, as the captured
mustang was led up in front of the house, quivering with excitement at a
scene so new to it.

"It's worth a journey to the ground to look at such an animal!"
suggested the major's wife, a lady of enthusiastic inclinings.  "I
propose we all go down!  What say you, Miss Poindexter?"

"Oh, certainly," answered the mistress of the mansion, amidst a chorus
of other voices crying out--

"Let us go down!  Let us go down!"

Led by the majoress, the ladies filed down the stone stairway--the
gentlemen after; and in a score of seconds the horse-hunter, still
seated in his saddle, became, with his captive, the centre of the
distinguished circle.

Henry Poindexter had hurried down before the rest, and already, in the
frankest manner, bidden the stranger welcome.

Between the latter and Louise only a slight salutation could be
exchanged.  Familiarity with a horse-dealer--even supposing him to have
had the honour of an introduction--would scarce have been tolerated by
the "society."

Of the ladies, the major's wife alone addressed him in a familiar way;
but that was in a tone that told of superior position, coupled with
condescension.  He was more gratified by a glance--quick and silent--
when his eye changed intelligence with that of the young Creole.

Hers was not the only one that rested approvingly upon him.  In truth,
the mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments.
His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him.  The
prairie breeze had freshened the colour upon his cheeks; and his full
round throat, naked to the breast-bone, and slightly bronzed with the
sun, contributed to the manliness of his mien.  Even the dust clinging
to his curled hair could not altogether conceal its natural gloss, nor
the luxuriance of its growth; while a figure tersely knit told of
strength and endurance beyond the ordinary endowment of man.  There were
stolen glances, endeavouring to catch his, sent by more than one of the
fair circle.  The pretty niece of the commissary smiled admiringly upon
him.  Some said the commissary's wife; but this could be only a slander,
to be traced, perhaps, to the doctor's better half--the Lady Teazle of
the cantonment.

"Surely," said Poindexter, after making an examination of the captured
mustang, "this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been
telling me?"

"It ur thet eyedenticul same," answered the individual so described,
making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him.
"Ye-es, Mister Peintdexter; the eyedenticul critter--a maar, es ye kin
all see for yurselves--"

"Yes, yes," hurriedly interposed the planter, not desiring any further
elucidation.

"The young fellur hed grupped her afore I got thur; so I wur jess in the
nick o' time 'bout it.  She mout a been tuck elswhar, an then Miss
Lewaze thur mout a missed hevin' her."

"It is true indeed, Mr Stump!  It was very thoughtful of you.  I know
not how I shall ever be able to reciprocate your kindness?"

"Reciperkate!  Wal, I spose thet air means to do suthin in return.  Ye
kin do thet, miss, 'ithout much difeequilty.  I han't dud nothin' for
you, ceptin' make a bit o' a journey acrost the purayra.  To see yur
bewtyful self mounted on thet maar, wi' yur ploomed het upon yur head,
an yur long-tailed pettykote streakin' it ahint you, 'ud pay old Zeb
Stump to go clur to the Rockies, and back agin."

"Oh, Mr Stump! you are an incorrigible flatterer!  Look around you! you
will see many here more deserving of your compliments than I."

"Wal, wal!" rejoined Zeb, casting a look of careless scrutiny towards
the ladies, "I ain't a goin' to deny thet thur air gobs o' putty
critters hyur--dog-goned putty critters; but es they used to say in ole
Loozyanney, thur air but one Lewaze Peintdexter."

A burst of laughter--in which only a few feminine voices bore part--was
the reply to Zeb's gallant speech.

"I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this," said the planter,
addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare.  "I
think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump."

"I was not a party to the stipulation," replied the mustanger, with a
significant but well-intentioned smile.  "I cannot take your money.
_She_ is not for sale."

"Oh, indeed!" said the planter, drawing back with an air of proud
disappointment; while his brother planters, as well as the officers of
the Fort, looked astonished at the refusal of such a munificent price.
Two hundred dollars for an untamed mustang, when the usual rate of price
was from ten to twenty!  The mustanger must be mad?

He gave them no time to descant upon his sanity.

"Mr Poindexter," he continued, speaking in the same good-humoured
strain, "you have given me such a generous price for my other captives--
and before they were taken too--that I can afford to make a present--
what we over in Ireland call a `luckpenny.'  It is our custom there
also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the
_douceur_, not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members
of his family.  May I have your permission to introduce this Hibernian
fashion into the settlements of Texas?"

"Certainly, by all means!" responded several voices, two or three of
them unmistakably with an Irish accentuation.

"Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!" replied the planter, his conservatism
giving way to the popular will--"as you please about that."

"Thanks, gentlemen--thanks!" said the mustanger, with a patronising look
towards men who believed themselves to be his masters.  "This mustang is
my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I
shall feel more than repaid for the three days' chase which the creature
has cost me.  Had she been the most cruel of coquettes, she could scarce
have been more difficult to subdue."

"I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude," responded the young
Creole--for the first time prominently proclaiming herself, and stepping
freely forth as she spoke.  "But I have a fancy," she continued,
pointing to the mustang--at the same time that her eye rested
inquiringly on the countenance of the mustanger--"a fancy that your
captive is not yet _tamed_?  She but trembles in fear of the unknown
future.  She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness
not to her liking; and then what am I to do--poor I?"

"True, Maurice!" said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of
the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who
could possibly have comprehended it; "Miss Poindexter speaks very
sensibly.  That mustang has not been tamed yet--any one may see it.
Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" continued the major, turning towards the
company, "this is something worth your seeing--those of you who have not
witnessed the spectacle before.  Come, Maurice; mount, and show us a
specimen of prairie horsemanship.  She looks as though she would put
your skill to the test."

"You are right, major: she does!" replied the mustanger, with a quick
glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young
Creole; who, with all her assumed courage, retired tremblingly behind
the circle of spectators.

"No matter, my man," pursued the major, in a tone intended for
encouragement.  "In spite of that devil sparkling in her eye, I'll lay
ten to one you'll take the conceit out of her.  Try!"

Without losing credit, the mustanger could not have declined acceding to
the major's request.  It was a challenge to skill--to equestrian
prowess--a thing not lightly esteemed upon the prairies of Texas.

He proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle,
resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his
attention to the captive.

The only preliminary called for was the clearing of the ground.  This
was effected in an instant--the greater part of the company--with all
the ladies--returning to the azotea.

With only a piece of raw-hide rope looped around the under jaw, and
carried headstall fashion behind the ears--with only one rein in hand--
Maurice sprang to the back of the wild mare.

It was the first time she had ever been mounted by man--the first insult
of the kind offered to her.

A shrill spiteful scream spoke plainly her appreciation of and
determination to resent it.  It proclaimed defiance of the attempt to
degrade her to the condition of a slave!

With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds
balancing her body in an erect position.  Her rider, anticipating the
trick, had thrown his arms around her neck; and, close clasping her
throat, appeared part of herself.  But for this she might have poised
over upon her back, and crushed him beneath her.

The uprearing of the hind quarters was the next "trick" of the mustang--
sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without
being thrown.  From sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle
and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he
could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the
prairies--_to tame the naked steed_.

He performed it without them.  As the mare raised her hind quarters
aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel
of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore
shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him.

Twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as
often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious
that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but,
springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to
have no goal this side the ending of the earth.

It must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the
spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer's return.

Conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly "crippled,"
were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it
so.  But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced
a painful impression--almost as painful as if her own life depended upon
his safe return.  Why Louise Poindexter, daughter of the proud Louisiana
sugar-planter--a belle--a beauty of more than provincial repute--who
could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and
noblest in the land--why she should have fixed her fancy, or even
permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of Texas, was
a mystery that even her own intellect--by no means a weak one--was
unable to fathom.

Perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him.  She
did not think so herself.  Had she thought so, and reflected upon it,
perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain
consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her
mind.

She was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a
strange individual--one who had presented himself in a fashion that
favoured fanciful reflections--one who differed essentially from the
common-place types introduced to her in the world of social
distinctions.

She was conscious, too, that this interest--originating in a word, a
glance, a gesture--listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt
prairie--instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase!

It was not diminished when Maurice the mustanger came riding back across
the plain, with the wild mare between his legs--no more wild--no longer
desiring to destroy him--but with lowered crest and mien submissive,
acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master!

Without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young
Creole was inspired with a similar reflection.

"Miss Poindexter!" said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, and
without making any acknowledgment to the plaudits that were showered
upon him--"may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her
neck, and lead her to the stable?  By so doing, she will regard you as
her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the
sign that first deprived her of her liberty."

A prude would have paltered with the proposal--a coquette would have
declined it--a timid girl have shrunk back.

Not so Louise Poindexter--a descendant of one of the
_filles-a-la-casette_.  Without a moment's hesitation--without the
slightest show of prudery or fear--she stepped forth from the
aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope;
whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang; and led the captive off
towards the _caballeriza_ of Casa del Corvo.

As she did so, the mustanger's words were ringing in her ears, and
echoing through her heart with a strange foreboding weird signification.

"_She will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will,
if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty_."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A PRAIRIE PIC-NIC.

The first rays from a rosy aurora, saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell
with a more subdued light upon an assemblage of objects occupying the
parade-ground below--in front of the "officers' quarters."

A small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached
to it a double span of tight little Mexican mules, whose quick impatient
"stomping," tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning
awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were
impatient to move off--warning the bystanders, as well, against a too
close approximation to their heels.

Literally speaking, there were no bystanders--if we except a man of
colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the
obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as
Zeb Stump, the hunter.

He was not standing either, but seated astride his "ole maar," that
showed less anxiety to be off than either the Mexican mules or her own
master.

The other forms around the vehicle were all in motion--quick, hurried,
occasionally confused--hither and thither, from the waggon to the door
of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle.

There were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in
the colour of their skins.  Most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though
of different arms of the service.  Two would be taken to be mess-cooks;
and two or three more, officers' servants, who had been detailed from
the ranks.

A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of
a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very
authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of _valet
de tout_ to the major in command of the cantonment.  A sergeant, as
shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party,
directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon
with eatables and drinkables--in short, the paraphernalia of a pic-nic.

That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the
amplitude and variety of the _impedimenta_.  There were hampers and
baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known
parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead;
while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal
sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to
Texas.

However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in
the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete.  The
dissatisfied Lucullus was Zeb Stump.

"Lookee hyur, surgint," said he, addressing himself confidentially to
the individual in charge, "I hain't seed neery smell o' corn put inter
the veehicle as yit; an', I reck'n, thet out on the purayra, thur'll be
some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o' thet theer furrin French
stuff.  Sham-pain, ye call it, I b'lieve."

"Prefer corn to champagne!  The horses you mean?"

"Hosses be durned.  I ain't talkin' 'bout hoss corn.  I mean
M'nongaheela."

"Oh--ah--I comprehend.  You're right about that, Mr Stump.  The whisky
mustn't be forgotten, Pomp.  I think I saw a jar inside, that's intended
to go?"

"Yaw--yaw, sagint," responded the dark-skinned domestic; "dar am dat
same wesicle.  Hya it is!" he added, lugging a large jar into the light,
and swinging it up into the waggon.

Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of
impatience to be off.

"Ain't ye riddy, surgint?" he inquired, shifting restlessly in his
stirrups.

"Not quite, Mr Stump.  The cook tells me the chickens want another turn
upon the spit, before we can take 'em along."

"Durn the chickens, an the cook too!  What air any dung-hill fowl to
compare wi' a wild turkey o' the purayra; an how am I to shoot one,
arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky?  The major sayed I war to
git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen.  'Tain't so durnation eezy to
kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi' a clamjamferry like this comin'
clost upon a fellur's heels?  Ye mustn't surpose, surgint, that thet ere
bird air as big a fool as the sodger o' a fort.  Of all the cunnin'
critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest;
an to git helf way roun' one o' 'em, ye must be up along wi' the sun;
and preehap a leetle urlier."

"True, Mr Stump.  I know the major wants a wild turkey.  He told me so;
and expects you to procure one on the way."

"No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi' a
baffler's tongue, an hump--seein' as thur ain't sech a anymal on the
purayras o' South Texas--nor hain't a been for good twenty yurs past--
noterthstandin' what Eur-op-ean writers o' books hev said to the
contrary, an 'specially French 'uns, as I've heern.  Thur ain't no
burner 'bout hyur.  Thur's baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o'
gobblers; but to hev one o' these critters for yur dinner, ye must git
it urly enuf for yur breakfist.  Unless I hev my own time, I won't
promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both.  So, surgint, ef ye
expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye'll do well to be
makin' tracks for the purayra."

Stirred by the hunter's representation, the sergeant did all that was
possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-
company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with Zeb Stump as its
guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between
the Leona and the "River of Nuts."

The parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce
twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced
assembling upon the same spot.

There were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the
"meet" in an English hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to
accompany them--their friends and acquaintances--fathers, brothers,
lovers, and husbands.  Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter's
dinner party, were soon upon the ground.

The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew
Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise--the young lady mounted upon
the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion
of the entertainment at Casa del Corvo.

The affair was a reciprocal treat--a simple return of hospitality; the
major and his officers being the hosts, the planter and his friends the
invited guests.  The entertainment about to be provided, if less
pretentious in luxurious appointments, was equally appropriate to the
time and place.  The guests of the cantonment were to be gratified by
witnessing a spectacle--grand as rare--a chase of wild steeds!

The arena of the sport could only be upon the wild-horse prairies--some
twenty miles to the southward of Fort Inge.  Hence the necessity for an
early start, and being preceded by a vehicle laden with an ample
_commissariat_.

Just as the sunbeams began to dance upon the crystal waters of the
Leona, the excursionists were ready to take their departure from the
parade-ground--with an escort of two-score dragoons that had been
ordered to ride in the rear.  Like the party that preceded them, they
too were provided with a guide--not an old backwoodsman in battered felt
hat, and faded blanket coat, astride a scraggy roadster; but a horseman
completely costumed and equipped, mounted upon a splendid steed, in
every way worthy to be the chaperone of such a distinguished expedition.

"Come, Maurice!" cried the major, on seeing that all had assembled,
"we're ready to be conducted to the game.  Ladies and gentlemen! this
young fellow is thoroughly acquainted with the haunts and habits of the
wild horses.  If there's a man in Texas, who can show us how to hunt
them, 'tis Maurice the mustanger."

"Faith, you flatter me, major!" rejoined the young Irishman, turning
with a courteous air towards the company; "I have not said so much as
that.  I can only promise to show you where you may _find_ them."

"Modest fellow!" soliloquised one, who trembled, as she gave thought to
what she more than half suspected to be an untruth.

"Lead on, then!" commanded the major; and, at the word, the gay
cavalcade, with the mustanger in the lead, commenced moving across the
parade-ground--while the star-spangled banner, unfurled by the morning
breeze, fluttered upon its staff as if waving them an elegant adieu!

A twenty-mile ride upon prairie turf is a mere bagatelle--before
breakfast, an airing.  In Texas it is so regarded by man, woman, and
horse.

It was accomplished in less than three hours--without further
inconvenience than that which arose from performing the last few miles
of it with appetites uncomfortably keen.

Fortunately the provision waggon, passed upon the road, came close upon
their heels; and, long before the sun had attained the meridian line,
the excursionists were in full pic-nic under the shade of a gigantic
pecan tree, that stood near the banks of the Nueces.

No incident had occurred on the way--worth recording.  The mustanger, as
guide, had ridden habitually in the advance; the company, with one or
two exceptions, thinking of him only in his official capacity--unless
when startled by some feat of horsemanship--such as leaping clear over a
prairie stream, or dry arroyo, which others were fain to ford, or cross
by the crooked path.

There may have been a suspicion of bravado in this behaviour--a desire
to exhibit.  Cassius Calhoun told the company there was.  Perhaps the
ex-captain spoke the truth--for once.

If so, there was also some excuse.  Have you ever been in a
hunting-field, at home, with riding habits trailing the sward, and
plumed hats proudly nodding around you?  You have: and then what?  Be
cautious how you condemn the Texan mustanger.  Reflect, that he, too,
was under the artillery of bright eyes--a score pair of them--some as
bright as ever looked love out of a lady's saddle.  Think, that Louise
Poindexter's were among the number--think of that, and you will scarce
feel surprised at the ambition to "shine."

There were others equally demonstrative of personal accomplishments--of
prowess that might prove manhood.  The young dragoon, Hancock,
frequently essayed to show that he was not new to the saddle; and the
lieutenant of mounted rifles, at intervals, strayed from the side of the
commissary's niece for the performance of some equestrian feat, without
looking exclusively to her, his reputed sweetheart, as he listened to
the whisperings of applause.

Ah, daughter of Poindexter!  Whether in the _salons_ of civilised
Louisiana, or the prairies of savage Texas, peace could not reign in thy
presence!  Go where thou wilt, romantic thoughts must spring up--wild
passions be engendered around thee!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE MANADA.

Had their guide held the prairies in complete control--its denizens
subject to his secret will--responsible to time and place--he could not
have conducted the excursionists to a spot more likely to furnish the
sport that had summoned them forth.

Just as the sparkling Johannisberger--obtained from the German
wine-stores of San Antonio--had imparted a brighter blue to the sky, and
a more vivid green to the grass, the cry "Mustenos!" was heard above the
hum of conversation, interrupting the half-spoken sentiment, with the
peal of merry laughter.  It came from a Mexican _vaquero_, who had been
stationed as a vidette on an eminence near at hand.

Maurice--at the moment partaking of the hospitality of his employers,
freely extended to him--suddenly quaffed off the cup; and springing to
his saddle, cried out--

"_Cavallada_?"

"No," answered the Mexican; "_manada_."

"What do the fellows mean by their gibberish?" inquired Captain Calhoun.

"_Mustenos_ is only the Mexican for mustangs," replied the major; "and
by `manada' he means they are wild mares--a drove of them.  At this
season they herd together, and keep apart from the horses; unless
when--"

"When what?" impatiently asked the ex-officer of volunteers,
interrupting the explanation.

"When they are attacked by asses," innocently answered the major.

A general peal of laughter rendered doubtful the _naivete_ of the
major's response--imparting to it the suspicion of a personality not
intended.

For a moment Calhoun writhed under the awkward misconception of the
auditory; but only for a moment.  He was not the man to succumb to an
unlucky accident of speech.  On the contrary, he perceived the chance of
a triumphant reply; and took advantage of it.

"Indeed!" he drawled out, without appearing to address himself to any
one in particular.  "I was not aware that mustangs were so dangerous in
these parts."

As Calhoun said this, he was not looking at Louise Poindexter or he
might have detected in her eye a glance to gratify him.

The young Creole, despite an apparent coolness towards him, could not
withhold admiration at anything that showed cleverness.  His case might
not be so hopeless?

The young dragoon, Hancock, did not think it so; nor yet the lieutenant
of rifles.  Both observed the approving look, and both became imbued
with the belief that Cassius Calhoun had--or might have--in his keeping,
the happiness of his cousin.

The conjecture gave a secret chagrin to both, but especially to the
dragoon.

There was but short time for him to reflect upon it; the manada was
drawing near.

"To the saddle!" was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every
tongue.

The bit was rudely inserted between teeth still industriously grinding
the yellow corn; the bridle drawn over shoulders yet smoking after the
quick skurry of twenty miles through the close atmosphere of a tropical
morn; and, before a hundred could have been deliberately counted, every
one, ladies and gentlemen alike, was in the stirrup, ready to ply whip
and spur.

By this time the wild mares appeared coming over the crest of the ridge
upon which the vidette had been stationed.  He, himself a horse-catcher
by trade, was already mounted, and in their midst--endeavouring to fling
his lazo over one of the herd.  They were going at mad gallop, as if
fleeing from a pursuer--some dreaded creature that was causing them to
"whigher" and snort!  With their eyes strained to the rear, they saw
neither the sumpter waggon, nor the equestrians clustering around it,
but were continuing onward to the spot; which chanced to lie directly in
the line of their flight.

"They are chased!" remarked Maurice, observing the excited action of the
animals.

"What is it, Crespino?" he cried out to the Mexican, who, from his
position, must have seen any pursuer that might be after them.

There was a momentary pause, as the party awaited the response.  In the
crowd were countenances that betrayed uneasiness, some even alarm.  It
might be Indians who were in pursuit of the mustangs!

"_Un asino cimmaron_!" was the phrase that came from the mouth of the
Mexican, though by no means terminating the suspense of the picknickers.
"_Un macho_!" he added.

"Oh!  That's it!  I thought it was!" muttered Maurice.  "The rascal must
be stopped, or he'll spoil our sport.  So long as he's after them,
they'll not make halt this side the sky line.  Is the macho coming on?"

"Close at hand, Don Mauricio.  Making straight for myself."

"Fling your rope over him, if you can.  If not, <DW36> him with a
shot--anything to put an end to his capers."

The character of the pursuer was still a mystery to most, if not all,
upon the ground: for only the mustanger knew the exact signification of
the phrases--"un asino cimmaron," "un macho."

"Explain, Maurice!" commanded the major.  "Look yonder!" replied the
young Irishman, pointing to the top of the hill.

The two words were sufficient.  All eyes became directed towards the
crest of the ridge, where an animal, usually regarded as the type of
slowness and stupidity, was seen advancing with the swiftness of a bird
upon the wing.

But very different is the "asino cimmaron" from the ass of
civilisation--the donkey be-cudgelled into stolidity.

The one now in sight was a male, almost as large as any of the mustangs
it was chasing; and if not fleet as the fleetest, still able to keep up
with them by the sheer pertinacity of its pursuit!

The tableau of nature, thus presented on the green surface of the
prairie, was as promptly produced as it could have been upon the stage
of a theatre, or the arena of a hippodrome.

Scarce a score of words had passed among the spectators, before the wild
mares were close up to them; and then, as if for the first time,
perceiving the mounted party, they seemed to forget their dreaded
pursuer, and shied off in a slanting direction.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the guide to a score of people,
endeavouring to restrain their steeds; "keep your places, if you can.  I
know where the herd has its haunt.  They are heading towards it now; and
we shall find them again, with a better chance of a chase.  If you
pursue them at this moment, they'll scatter into yonder chapparal; and
ten to one if we ever more get sight of them.

"Hola, Senor Crespino!  Send your bullet through that brute.  He's near
enough for your _escopette_, is he not?"

The Mexican, detaching a short gun--"escopeta"--from his saddle-flap,
and hastily bringing its butt to his shoulder, fired at the wild ass.

The animal brayed on hearing the report; but only as if in defiance.  He
was evidently untouched.  Crespino's bullet had not been truly aimed.

"I must stop him!" exclaimed Maurice, "or the mares will run on till the
end of daylight."

As the mustanger spoke, he struck the spur sharply into the flanks of
his horse.  Like an arrow projected from its bow, Castro shot off in
pursuit of the jackass, now galloping regardlessly past.

Half a dozen springs of the blood bay, guided in a diagonal direction,
brought his rider within casting distance; and like a flash of
lightning, the loop of the lazo was seen descending over the long ears.

On launching it, the mustanger halted, and made a half-wheel--the horse
going round as upon a pivot; and with like mechanical obedience to the
will of his rider, bracing himself for the expected pluck.

There was a short interval of intense expectation, as the wild ass,
careering onward, took up the slack of the rope.  Then the animal was
seen to rise erect on its hind legs, and fall heavily backward upon the
sward--where it lay motionless, and apparently as dead, as if shot
through the heart!

It was only stunned, however, by the shock, and the quick tightening of
the loop causing temporary strangulation; which the Mexican mustanger
prolonged to eternity, by drawing his sharp-edged _machete_ across its
throat.

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

The incident caused a postponement of the chase.  All awaited the action
of the guide; who, after "throwing" the macho, had dismounted to recover
his lazo.

He had succeeded in releasing the rope from the neck of the prostrate
animal, when he was seen to coil it up with a quickness that betokened
some new cause of excitement--at the same time that he ran to regain his
saddle.

Only a few of the others--most being fully occupied with their own
excited steeds--observed this show of haste on the part of the
mustanger.  Those who did, saw it with surprise.  He had counselled
patience in the pursuit.  They could perceive no cause for the eccentric
change of tactics, unless it was that Louise Poindexter, mounted on the
spotted mustang, had suddenly separated from the company, and was
galloping off after the wild mares, as if resolved on being foremost of
the field!

But the hunter of wild horses had not construed her conduct in this
sense.  That uncourteous start could scarce be an intention--except on
the part of the spotted mustang?  Maurice had recognised the manada, as
the same from which he had himself captured it: and, no doubt, with the
design of rejoining its old associates, it was running away with its
rider!

So believed the guide; and the belief became instantly universal.

Stirred by gallantry, half the field spurred off in pursuit.  Calhoun,
Hancock, and Crossman leading, with half a score of young planters,
lawyers, and legislators close following--each as he rode off reflecting
to himself, what a bit of luck it would be to bring up the runaway.

But few, if any, of the gentlemen felt actual alarm.  All knew that
Louise Poindexter was a splendid equestrian; a spacious plain lay before
her, smooth as a race-track; the mustang might gallop till it tired
itself down; it could not throw her; there could be little chance of her
receiving any serious injury?

There was one who did not entertain this confident view.  It was he who
had been the first to show anxiety--the mustanger himself.

He was the last to leave the ground.  Delayed in the rearrangement of
his lazo--a moment more in remounting--he was a hundred paces behind
every competitor, as his horse sprang forward upon the pursuit.

Calhoun was a like distance in the lead, pressing on with all the
desperate energy of his nature, and all the speed he could extract from
the heels of his horse.  The dragoon and rifleman were a little in his
rear; and then came the "ruck."

Maurice soon passed through the thick of the field, overlapped the
leaders one by one; and forging still further ahead, showed Cassius
Calhoun the heels of his horse.

A muttered curse was sent hissing through the teeth of the ex-officer of
volunteers, as the blood bay, bounding past, concealed from his sight
the receding form of the spotted mustang.

The sun, looking down from the zenith, gave light to a singular tableau.
A herd of wild mares going at reckless speed across the prairie; one of
their own kind, with a lady upon its back, following about four hundred
yards behind; at a like distance after the lady, a steed of red bay
colour, bestridden by a cavalier picturesquely attired, and apparently
intent upon overtaking her; still further to the rear a string of
mounted men--some in civil, some in military, garb; behind these a troop
of dragoons going at full gallop, having just parted from a mixed group
of ladies and gentlemen--also mounted, but motionless, on the plain, or
only stirring around the same spot with excited gesticulations!

In twenty minutes the tableau was changed.  The same personages were
upon the stage--the grand _tapis vert_ of the prairie--but the grouping
was different, or, at all events, the groups were more widely apart.
The manada had gained distance upon the spotted mustang; the mustang
upon the blood bay; and the blood bay--ah! his competitors were no
longer in sight, or could only have been seen by the far-piercing eye of
the _caracara_, soaring high in the sapphire heavens.

The wild mares--the mustang and its rider--the red horse, and his--had
the savanna to themselves!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE RUNAWAY OVERTAKEN.

For another mile the chase continued, without much change.  The mares
still swept on in full flight, though no longer screaming or in fear.
The mustang still uttered an occasional neigh, which its old associates
seemed not to notice; while its rider held her seat in the saddle
unshaken, and without any apparent alarm.

The blood bay appeared more excited, though not so much as his master;
who was beginning to show signs either of despondency or chagrin.

"Come, Castro!" he exclaimed, with a certain spitefulness of tone.
"What the deuce is the matter with your heels--to-day of all others?
Remember, you overtook her before--though not so easily, I admit.  But
now she's weighted.  Look yonder, you dull brute!  Weighted with that
which is worth more than gold--worth every drop of your blood, and mine
too.  The yegua pinta seems to have improved her paces.  Is it from
training; or does a horse run faster when ridden?

"What if I lose sight of her?  In truth, it begins to look queer!  It
would be an awkward situation for the young lady.  Worse than that--
there's danger in it--real danger.  If I should lose sight of her, she'd
be in trouble to a certainty!"

Thus muttering, Maurice rode on: his eyes now fixed upon the form still
flitting away before him; at intervals interrogating, with uneasy
glances, the space that separated him from it.

Up to this time he had not thought of hailing the rider of the runaway.

His shouts might have been heard; but no words of warning, or
instruction.  He had refrained: partly on this account; partly because
he was in momentary expectation of overtaking her; and partly because he
knew that acts, not words, were wanted to bring the mustang to a stand.

All along he had been flattering himself that he would soon be near
enough to fling his lazo over the creature's neck, and control it at
discretion.  He was gradually becoming relieved of this hallucination.

The chase now entered among copses that thickly studded the plain, fast
closing into a continuous chapparal.  This was a new source of
uneasiness to the pursuer.  The runaway might take to the thicket, or
become lost to his view amid the windings of the wood.

The wild mares were already invisible--at intervals.  They would soon be
out of sight altogether.  There seemed no chance of their old associate
overtaking them.

"What mattered that?  A lady lost on a prairie, or in a chapparal--
alone, or in the midst of a manada--either contingency pointed to
certain danger."

A still more startling peril suggested itself to the mind of the
mustanger--so startling as to find expression in excited speech.

"By heavens!" he ejaculated, his brow becoming more clouded than it had
been from his first entering upon the chase.  "_If the stallions should
chance this way_!  'Tis their favourite stamping ground among these
mottos.  They were here but a week ago; and this--yes--'tis the month of
their madness!"

The spur of the mustanger again drew blood, till its rowels were red;
and Castro, galloping at his utmost speed, glanced back upbraidingly
over his shoulder.

At this crisis the manada disappeared from, the sight both of the
blood-bay and his master; and most probably at the same time from that
of the spotted mustang and its rider.  There was nothing mysterious in
it.  The mares had entered between the closing of two copses, where the
shrubbery hid them from view.

The effect produced upon the runaway appeared to proceed from some
magical influence.  As if their disappearance was a signal for
discontinuing the chase, it suddenly slackened pace; and the instant
after came to a standstill!

Maurice, continuing his gallop, came up with it in the middle of a
meadow-like glade--standing motionless as marble--its rider, reins in
hand, sitting silent in the saddle, in an attitude of easy elegance, as
if waiting for him to ride up!

"Miss Poindexter!" he gasped out, as he spurred his steed within
speaking distance: "I am glad that you have recovered command of that
wild creature.  I was beginning to be alarmed about--"

"About what, sir?" was the question that startled the mustanger.

"Your safety--of course," he replied, somewhat stammeringly.  "Oh, thank
you, Mr Gerald; but I was not aware of having been in any danger.  Was
I really so?"

"Any danger!" echoed the Irishman, with increased astonishment.  "On the
back of a runaway mustang--in the middle of a pathless prairie!"

"And what of that?  The thing couldn't throw me.  I'm too clever in the
saddle, sir."

"I know it, madame; but that accomplishment would have availed you very
little had you lost yourself, a thing you were like enough to have done
among these chapparal copses, where the oldest Texan can scarce find his
way."

"Oh--_lost myself_!  That was the danger to be dreaded?"

"There are others, besides.  Suppose you had fallen in with--"

"Indians!" interrupted the lady, without waiting for the mustanger to
finish his hypothetical speech.  "And if I had, what would it have
mattered?  Are not the Comanches _en paz_ at present?  Surely they
wouldn't have molested me, gallant fellows as they are?  So the major
told us, as we came along.  'Pon my word, sir, I should seek, rather
than shun, such an encounter.  I wish to see the noble savage on his
native prairie, and on horseback; not, as I've hitherto beheld him,
reeling around the settlements in a state of debasement from too freely
partaking of our fire-water."

"I admire your courage, miss; but if I had the honour of being one of
your friends, I should take the liberty of counselling a little caution.
The `noble savage' you speak of, is not always sober upon the prairies;
and perhaps not so very gallant as you've been led to believe.  If you
had met him--"

"If I had met him, and he had attempted to misbehave himself, I would
have given him the go-by, and ridden, straight back to my friends.  On
such a swift creature as this, he must have been well mounted to have
overtaken me.  You found some difficulty--did you not?"

The eyes of the young Irishman, already showing astonishment, became
expanded to increased dimensions--surprise and incredulity being equally
blended in their glance.

"But," said he, after a speechless pause, "you don't mean to say that
you could have controlled--that the mustang was not running away with
you?  Am I to understand--"

"No--no--no!" hastily rejoined the fair equestrian, showing some slight
embarrassment.  "The mare certainly made off with me--that is, at the
first--but I--I found, that is--at the last--I found I could easily pull
her up.  In fact I did so: you saw it?"

"And could you have done it sooner?"

A strange thought had suggested the interrogatory; and with more than
ordinary interest the questioner awaited the reply.

"Perhaps--perhaps--I might; no doubt, if I had dragged a little harder
upon the rein.  But you see, sir, I like a good gallop--especially upon
a prairie, where there's no fear of running over pigs, poultry, or
people."

Maurice looked amaze.  In all his experience--even in his own native
land, famed for feminine _braverie_--above all in the way of bold
riding--he had met no match for the clever equestrian before him.

His astonishment, mixed with admiration, hindered him from making a
ready rejoinder.

"To speak truth," continued the young lady, with an air of charming
simplicity, "I was not sorry at being run off with.  One sometimes gets
tired of too much talk--of the kind called complimentary.  I wanted
fresh air, and to be alone.  So you _see_, Mr Gerald, it was rather a
bit of good fortune: since it saved explanations and adieus."

"You wanted to be alone?" responded the mustanger, with a disappointed
look.  "I am sorry I should have made the mistake to have intruded upon
you.  I assure you, Miss Poindexter, I followed, because I believed you
to be in danger."

"Most gallant of you, sir; and now that I know there _was_ danger, I am
truly grateful.  I presume I have guessed aright: you meant the
Indians?"

"No; not Indians exactly--at least, it was not of them I was thinking."

"Some other danger?  What is it, sir?  You will tell me, so that I may
be more cautious for the future?"

Maurice did not make immediate answer.  A sound striking upon his ear
had caused him to turn away--as if inattentive to the interrogatory.

The Creole, perceiving there was some cause for his abstraction,
likewise assumed a listening attitude.  She heard a shrill scream,
succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of
hoofs--the conjunction of sounds causing the still atmosphere to vibrate
around her.

It was no mystery to the hunter of horses.  The words that came quick
from his lips--though not designed--were a direct answer to the question
she had put.

"_The wild stallions_!" he exclaimed, in a tone that betokened alarm.
"I knew they must be among those mottes; and they are!"

"Is that the danger of which you have been speaking?"

"It is."

"What fear of them?  They are only mustangs!"

"True, and at other times there is no cause to fear them.  But just now,
at this season of the year, they become as savage as tigers, and equally
as vindictive.  Ah! the wild steed in his rage is an enemy more to be
dreaded than wolf, panther, or bear."

"What are we to do?" inquired the young lady, now, for the first time,
giving proof that she felt fear--by riding close up to the man who had
once before rescued her from a situation of peril, and gazing anxiously
in his face, as she awaited the answer.

"If they should charge upon us," answered Maurice, "there are but two
ways of escape.  One, by ascending a tree, and abandoning our horses to
their fury."

"The other?" asked the Creole, with a _sang froid_ that showed a
presence of mind likely to stand the test of the most exciting crisis.
"Anything but abandon our animals!  'Twould be but a shabby way of
making our escape!"

"We shall not have an opportunity of trying it, I perceive it is
impracticable.  There's not a tree within sight large enough to afford
us security.  If attacked, we have no alternative but to trust to the
fleetness of our horses.  Unfortunately," continued he, with a glance of
inspection towards the spotted mare, and then at his own horse, "they've
had too much work this morning.  Both are badly blown.  That will be our
greatest source of danger.  The wild steeds are sure to be fresh."

"Do you intend us to start now?"

"Not yet.  The longer we can breathe our animals the better.  The
stallions may not come this way; or if so, may not molest us.  It will
depend on their mood at the moment.  If battling among themselves, we
may look out for their attack.  Then they have lost their reason--if I
may so speak--and will recklessly rush upon one of their own kind--even
with a man upon his back.  Ha! 'tis as I expected: they are in conflict.
I can tell by their cries!  And driving this way, too!"

"But, Mr Gerald; why should we not ride off at once, in the opposite
direction?"

"'Twould be of no use.  There's no cover to conceal us, on that side--
nothing but open plain.  They'll be out upon it before we could get a
sufficient start, and would soon overtake us.  The place we must make
for--the only safe one I can think of--lies the other way.  They are now
upon the direct path to it, if I can judge by what I hear; and, if we
start too soon, we may ride into their teeth.  We must wait, and try to
steal away behind them.  If we succeed in getting past, and can keep our
distance for a two-mile gallop, I know a spot, where we shall be as safe
as if inside the corrals of Casa del Corvo.  You are sure you can
control the mustang?"

"Quite sure," was the prompt reply: all idea of deception being
abandoned in presence of the threatening peril.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

CHASED BY WILD STALLIONS.

The two sat expectant in their saddles--she, apparently, with more
confidence than he: for she confided in him.  Still but imperfectly
comprehending it, she knew there must be some great danger.  When such a
man showed sign of fear, it could not be otherwise.  She had a secret
happiness in thinking: that a portion of this fear was for her own
safety.

"I think we may venture now;" said her companion, after a short period
spent in listening; "they appear to have passed the opening by which we
must make our retreat.  Look well to your riding, I entreat you!  Keep a
firm seat in the saddle, and a sure hold of the rein.  Gallop by my
side, where the ground will admit of it; but in no case let more than
the length of my horse's tail be between us.  I must perforce go ahead
to guide the way.  Ha! they are coming direct for the glade.  They're
already close to its edge.  Our time is up!"

The profound stillness that but a short while before pervaded the
prairie, no longer reigned over it.  In its stead had arisen a fracas
that resembled the outpouring of some overcrowded asylum; for in the
shrill neighing of the steeds might have been fancied the screams of
maniacs--only ten times more vociferous.  They were mingled with a
thunder-like hammering of hoofs--a swishing and crashing of branches--
savage snorts, accompanied by the sharp snapping of teeth--the dull
"thud" of heels coming in contact with ribs and rounded hips--squealing
that betokened spite or pain--all forming a combination of sounds that
jarred harshly upon the ear, and caused the earth to quake, as if
oscillating upon its orbit!

It told of a terrible conflict carried on by the wild stallions; who,
still unseen, were fighting indiscriminately among themselves, as they
held their way among the mottes.

Not much longer unseen.  As Maurice gave the signal to start, the
speckled crowd showed itself in an opening between two copses.  In a
moment more it filled the gangway-like gap, and commenced disgorging
into the glade, with the impetus of an avalanche!

It was composed of living forms--the most beautiful known in nature: for
in this man must give way to the horse.  Not the unsexed horse of
civilisation, with hunched shoulders, bandied limbs, and bowed
frontlet--scarce one in a thousand of true equine shape--and this, still
further, mutilated by the shears of the coper and gentleman jockey--but
the wild steed of the savannas, foaled upon the green grass, his form
left free to develop as the flowers that shed their fragrance around
him.

Eye never beheld a more splendid sight than a _cavallada_ of wild
stallions, prancing upon a prairie; especially at that season when,
stirred by strong passions, they seek to destroy one another.  The
spectacle is more than splendid--it is fearful--too fearful to be
enjoyed by man, much less by timid woman.  Still more when the spectator
views it from an exposed position, liable to become the object of their
attack.

In such situation were the riders of the blood bay and spotted mustang.
The former knew it by past experience--the latter could not fail to
perceive it by the evidence before her.

"This way!" cried Maurice, lancing his horse's flanks with the spur, and
bending so as to oblique to the rear of the cavallada.

"By heaven--they've discovered us!  On--on!  Miss Poindexter!  Remember
you are riding for your life!"

The stimulus of speech was not needed.  The behaviour of the stallions
was of itself sufficient to show, that speed alone could save the
spotted mustang and its rider.

On coming out into the open ground, and getting sight of the ridden
horses, they had suddenly desisted from their internecine strife; and,
as if acting under the orders of some skilled leader, come to a halt.
In line, too, like cavalry checked up in the middle of a charge!

For a time their mutual hostility seemed to be laid aside--as if they
felt called upon to attack a common enemy, or resist some common danger!

The pause may have proceeded from surprise; but, whether or no, it was
favourable to the fugitives.  During the twenty seconds it continued,
the latter had made good use of their time, and accomplished the circuit
required to put them on the path of safety.

Only on the path, however.  Their escape was still problematical: for
the steeds, perceiving their intention, wheeled suddenly into the line
of pursuit, and went galloping after, with snorts and screams that
betrayed a spiteful determination to overtake them.

From that moment it became a straight unchanging chase across country--a
trial of speed between the horses without riders, and the horses that
were ridden.

At intervals did Maurice carry his chin to his shoulder; and though
still preserving the distance gained at the start, his look was not the
less one of apprehension.

Alone he would have laughed to scorn his pursuers.  He knew that the
blood-bay--himself a prairie steed--could surpass any competitor of his
race.  But the mare was delaying him.  She was galloping slower than he
had ever seen her--as if unwilling, or not coveting escape--like a horse
with his head turned away from home!

"What can it mean?" muttered the mustanger, as he checked his pace, to
accommodate it to that of his companion.  "If there should be any baulk
at the crossing, we're lost!  A score of seconds will make the
difference."

"We keep our distance, don't we?" inquired his fellow-fugitive, noticing
his troubled look.

"So far, yes.  Unfortunately there's an obstruction ahead.  It remains
to be seen how we shall get over it.  I know you are a clever rider, and
can take a long leap.  But your mount?  I'm not so sure of the mare.
You know her better than I.  Do you think she can carry you over--"

"Over what, sir?"

"You'll see in a second.  We should be near the place now."

The conversation thus carried on was between two individuals riding side
by side, and going at a gallop of nearly a mile to the minute!

As the guide had predicted, they soon came within sight of the
obstruction; which proved to be an arroyo--a yawning fissure in the
plain full fifteen feet in width, as many in depth, and trending on each
side to the verge of vision.

To turn aside, either to the right or left, would be to give the
pursuers the advantage of the diagonal; which the fugitives could no
longer afford.

The chasm must be crossed, or the stallions would overtake them.

It could only be crossed by a leap--fifteen feet at the least.  Maurice
knew that his own horse could go over it--he had done it before.  But
the mare?

"Do you think she can do it?" he eagerly asked, as, in slackened pace,
they approached the edge of the barranca.

"I am sure she can," was the confident reply.

"But are you sure you can sit her over it?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" scornfully laughed the Creole.  "What a question for an
Irishman to ask!  I'm sure, sir, one of your own countrywomen would be
offended at your speech.  Even I, a native of swampy Louisiana, don't
regard it as at all gallant.  Sit her over it!  Sit her anywhere she can
carry me."

"But, Miss Poindexter," stammered the guide, still doubting the powers
of the spotted mustang, "suppose she cannot?  If you have any doubts,
had you not better abandon her?  I know that my horse can bear us both
to the other side, and with safety.  If the mustang be left behind, in
all likelihood we shall escape further pursuit.  The wild steeds--"

"Leave Luna behind!  Leave her to be trampled to death, or torn to
pieces--as you say she would!  No--no, Mr Gerald.  I prize the spotted
mare too much for that.  She goes with me: over the chasm, if we can.
If not, we both break our necks at the bottom.  Come, my pretty pet!
This is he who chased, captured, and conquered you.  Show him you're not
yet so _subdued_, but that you can escape, when close pressed, from the
toils of either friend or enemy.  Show him one of those leaps, of which
you've done a dozen within the week.  Now for a flight in the air!"

Without even waiting for the stimulus of example, the courageous Creole
rode recklessly at the arroyo; and cleared it by one of those leaps of
which she had "done a dozen within the week."

There were three thoughts in the mind of the mustanger--rather might
they be called emotions--as he sate watching that leap.  The first was
simple astonishment; the second, intense admiration.  The third was not
so easily defined.  It had its origin in the words--"_I prize the
spotted mare too much for that_."

"Why?" reflected he, as he drove his spur-rowels into the flanks of the
blood bay; and the reflection lasted as long as Castro was suspended in
mid-air over the yawning abysm.

Cleverly as the chasm was crossed, it did not ensure the safety of the
fugitives.  It would be no obstruction to the steeds.  Maurice knew it,
and looked back with undiminished apprehension.

Rather was it increased.  The delay, short as it was, had given the
pursuers an advantage.  They were nearer than ever!  They would not be
likely to make a moment's pause, but clear the crevasse at a single
bound of their sure-footed gallop.

And then--what then?

The mustanger put the question to himself.  He grew paler, as the reply
puzzled him.

On alighting from the leap, he had not paused for a second, but gone
galloping on--as before, close followed by his fugitive companion.  His
pace, however, was less impetuous.  He seemed to ride with irresolution,
or as if some half-formed resolve was restraining him.

When about a score lengths from the edge of the arroyo, he reined up and
wheeled round--as if he had suddenly formed the determination to ride
back!

"Miss Poindexter!" he called out to the young lady, at that moment just
up with him.  "You must ride on alone."

"But why, sir?" asked she, as she jerked the muzzle of the mustang close
up to its counter, bringing it almost instantaneously to a stand.

"If we keep together we shall be overtaken.  I must do something to stay
those savage brutes.  Here there is a chance--nowhere else.  For
heaven's sake don't question me!  Ten seconds of lost time, and 'twill
be too late.  Look ahead yonder.  You perceive the sheen of water.  'Tis
a prairie pond.  Ride straight towards it.  You will find yourself
between two high fences.  They come together at the pond.  You'll see a
gap, with bars.  If I'm not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and
put the bars up behind you."

"And you, sir?  You are going to undergo some great danger?"

"Have no fear for me!  Alone, I shall run but little risk.  'Tis the
mustang.--For mercy's sake, gallop forward!  Keep the water under your
eyes.  Let it guide you like a beacon fire.  Remember to close the gap
behind you.  Away--away!"

For a second or two the young lady appeared irresolute--as if reluctant
to part company with the man who was making such efforts to ensure her
safety--perhaps at the peril of his own.

By good fortune she was not one of those timid maidens who turn frantic
at a crisis, and drag to the bottom the swimmer who would save them.
She had faith in the capability of her counsellor--believed that he knew
what he was about--and, once more spurring the mare into a gallop, she
rode off in a direct line for the prairie pond.

At the same instant, Maurice had given the rein to his horse, and was
riding in the opposite direction--back to the place where they had
leaped the arroyo!

On parting from his companion, he had drawn from his saddle holster the
finest weapon ever wielded upon the prairies--either for attack or
defence, against Indian, buffalo, or bear.  It was the six-chambered
revolver of Colonel Colt--not the spurious _improvement_ of Deane,
Adams, and a host of retrograde imitators--but the genuine article from
the "land of wooden nutmegs," with the Hartford brand upon its breech.

"They must get over the narrow place where we crossed," muttered he, as
he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the
arroyo.

"If I can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others
from attempting the leap; or delay them--long enough for the mustang to
make its escape.  The big sorrel is leading.  He will make the spring
first.  The pistol's good for a hundred paces.  He's within range now!"

Simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter.  The
largest of the stallions--a sorrel in colour--rolled headlong upon the
sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the
leap.

Half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand;
and then the whole cavallada!

The mustanger stayed not to note their movements.  Taking advantage of
the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire
of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after
the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond.

Whether dismayed by the fall of their chief--or whether it was that his
dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the
chasm could have been cleared at a leap--the stallions abandoned the
pursuit; and Maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his
fellow fugitive.

He overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the
pond.  She had obeyed him in everything--except as to the closing of the
gap.  He found it open--the bars lying scattered over the ground.  He
found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for
his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find
expression in speech.

The peril was passed.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE MUSTANG TRAP.

No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked
interrogatively around her.

There was a small lake--in Texan phraseology a "pond"--with countless
horse-tracks visible along its shores, proving that the place was
frequented by wild horses--their excessive number showing it to be a
favourite watering place.  There was a high rail fence--constructed so
as to enclose the pond, and a portion of the contiguous prairie, with
two diverging wings, carried far across the plain, forming a
funnel-shaped approach to a gap; which, when its bars were up, completed
an enclosure that no horse could either enter or escape from.

"What is it for?" inquired the lady, indicating the construction of
split rails.

"A mustang trap," said Maurice.

"A mustang trap?"

"A contrivance for catching wild horses.  They stray between the
_wings_; which, as you perceive, are carried far out upon the plain.
The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of
mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap.  Once within
the _corral_, there is no trouble in taking them.  They are then lazoed
at leisure."

"Poor things!  Is it yours?  You are a mustanger?  You told us so?"

"I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way.  I prefer being
alone, and rarely consort with men of my calling.  Therefore I could not
make use of this contrivance, which requires at least a score of
drivers.  My weapon, if I may dignify it by the name, is this--the
lazo."

"You use it with great skill?  I've heard that you do; besides having
myself witnessed the proof."

"It is complimentary of you to say so.  But you are mistaken.  There are
men on these prairies `to the manner born'--Mexicans--who regard, what
you are pleased to call skill, as sheer clumsiness."

"Are you sure, Mr Gerald, that your modesty is not prompting _you_ to
overrate your rivals?  I have been told the very opposite."

"By whom?"

"Your friend, Mr Zebulon Stump."

"Ha--ha!  Old Zeb is but indifferent authority on the subject of the
lazo."

"I wish I could throw the lazo," said the young Creole.  "They tell me
'tis not a lady-like accomplishment.  What matters--so long as it is
innocent, and gives one a gratification?"

"Not lady-like!  Surely 'tis as much so as archery, or skating?  I know
a lady who is very expert at it."

"An American lady?"

"No; she's Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes
across to the Leona--where she has relatives."

"A young lady?"

"Yes.  About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter."

"Size?"

"Not so tall as you."

"But much prettier, of course?  The Mexican ladies, I've heard, in the
matter of good looks, far surpass us plain _Americanos_."

"I think Creoles are not included in that category," was the reply,
worthy of one whose lips had been in contact with the famed boulder of
Blarney.

"I wonder if I could ever learn to fling it?" pursued the young Creole,
pretending not to have been affected by the complimentary remark.  "Am I
too old?  I've been told that the Mexicans commence almost in childhood;
that that is why they attain to such wonderful skill?"

"Not at all," replied Maurice, encouragingly.  "'Tis possible, with a
year or two's practice, to become a proficient lazoer.  I, myself, have
only been three years at; and--"

He paused, perceiving he was about to commit himself to a little
boasting.

"And you are now the most skilled in all Texas?" said his companion,
supplying the presumed finale of his speech.

"No, no!" laughingly rejoined he.  "That is but a mistaken belief on the
part of Zeb Stump, who judges my skill by comparison, making use of his
own as a standard."

"Is it modesty?" reflected the Creole.  "Or is this man mocking me?  If
I thought so, I should go mad!"

"Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?" said Maurice,
observing her abstracted air.  "Your father may be alarmed by your long
absence?  Your brother--your cousin--"

"Ah, true!" she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed either
pique, or compunction.  "I was not thinking of that.  Thanks, sir, for
reminding me of my duty.  Let us go back!"

Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny
spur--both acts being performed with an air of languid reluctance, as if
she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the "mustang
trap."

Once more upon the prairie, Maurice conducted his protegee by the most
direct route towards the spot where they had parted from the picnic
party.

Their backward way led them across a peculiar tract of country--what in
Texas is called a "weed prairie," an appellation bestowed by the early
pioneers, who were not very choice in their titles.

The Louisianian saw around her a vast garden of gay flowers, laid out in
one grand parterre, whose borders were the blue circle of the horizon--a
garden designed, planted, nurtured, by the hand of Nature.

The most plebeian spirit cannot pass through such a scene without
receiving an impression calculated to refine it.  I've known the
illiterate trapper--habitually blind to the beautiful--pause in the
midst of his "weed prairie," with the flowers rising breast high around
him, gaze for a while upon their gaudy corollas waving beyond the verge
of his vision; then continue his silent stride with a gentler feeling
towards his fellow-man, and a firmer faith in the grandeur of his God.

"_Pardieu_! 'tis very beautiful!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Creole,
reining up as if by an involuntary instinct.

"You admire these wild scenes, Miss Poindexter?"

"Admire them?  Something more, sir!  I see around me all that is bright
and beautiful in nature: verdant turf, trees, flowers, all that we take
such pains to plant or cultivate; and such, too, as we never succeed in
equalling.  There seems nothing wanting to make this picture
complete--'tis a park perfect in everything!"

"Except the mansion?"

"That would spoil it for me.  Give me the landscape where there is not a
house in sight--slate, chimney, or tile--to interfere with the outlines
of the trees.  Under their shadow could I live; under their shadow let
me--"

The word: "love" uppermost in her thoughts--was upon the tip of her
tongue.

She dexterously restrained herself from pronouncing it--changing it to
one of very different signification--"die."

It was cruel of the young Irishman not to tell her that she was speaking
his own sentiments--repeating them to the very echo.  To this was the
prairie indebted for his presence.  But for a kindred inclination--
amounting almost to a passion--he might never have been known as
_Maurice the mustanger_.

The romantic sentiment is not satisfied with a "sham."  It will soon
consume itself, unless supported by the consciousness of reality.  The
mustanger would have been humiliated by the thought, that he chased the
wild horse as a mere pastime--a pretext to keep him upon the prairies.
At first, he might have condescended to make such an acknowledgment--but
he had of late become thoroughly imbued with the pride of the
professional hunter.

His reply might have appeared chillingly prosaic.

"I fear, miss, you would soon tire of such a rude life--no roof to
shelter you--no society--no--"

"And you, sir; how is it _you_ have not grown tired of it?  If I have
been correctly informed--your friend, Mr Stump, is my authority--you've
been leading this life for several years.  Is it so?"

"Quite true: I have no other calling."

"Indeed!  I wish I could say the same.  I envy you your lot.  I'm sure I
could enjoy existence amid these beautiful scene for ever and ever!"

"Alone?  Without companions?  Without even a roof to shelter you?"

"I did not say that.  But, you've not told me.  How do you live?  Have
_you_ a house?"

"It does not deserve such a high-sounding appellation," laughingly
replied the mustanger.  "Shed would more correctly serve for the
description of my _jacale_, which may be classed among the lowliest in
the land."

"Where is it?  Anywhere near where we've been to-day?"

"It is not very far from where we are now.  A mile, perhaps.  You see
those tree-tops to the west?  They shade my hovel from the sun, and
shelter it from the storm."

"Indeed!  How I should like to have a look at it!  A real rude hut, you
say?"

"In that I have but spoken the truth."

"Standing solitary?"

"I know of no other within ten miles of it."

"Among trees, and picturesque?"

"That depends upon the eye that beholds it."

"I should like to see it, and judge.  Only a mile you say?"

"A mile there--the same to return--would be two."

"That's nothing.  It would not take us a score of minutes."

"Should we not be trespassing on the patience of your people?"

"On your hospitality, perhaps?  Excuse me, Mr Gerald!" continued the
young lady, a slight shadow suddenly overcasting her countenance.  "I
did not think of it!  Perhaps you do not live _alone_?  Some other
shares your--jacale--as you call it?"

"Oh, yes, I have a companion--one who has been with me ever since I--"

The shadow became sensibly darker.

Before the mustanger could finish his speech, his listener had pictured
to herself a certain image, that might answer to the description of his
companion: a girl of her own age--perhaps more inclining to
_embonpoint_--with a skin of chestnut brown; eyes of almond shade, set
piquantly oblique to the lines of the nose; teeth of more than pearly
purity; a tinge of crimson upon the cheeks; hair like Castro's tail;
beads and bangles around neck, arms, and ankles; a short kirtle
elaborately embroidered; mocassins covering small feet; and fringed
leggings, laced upon limbs of large development.  Such were the style
and equipments of the supposed companion, who had suddenly become
outlined in the imagination of Louise Poindexter.

"Your fellow tenant of the jacale might not like being intruded upon by
visitors--more especially a stranger?"

"On the contrary, he's but too glad to see visitors at any time--whether
strangers or acquaintances.  My foster-brother is the last man to shun
society; of which, poor fellow! he sees precious little on the Alamo."

"Your foster-brother?"

"Yes.  Phelim O'Neal by name--like myself a native of the Emerald Isle,
and shire of Galway; only perhaps speaking a little better brogue than
mine."

"Oh! the Irish brogue.  I should so like to hear it spoken by a native
of Galway.  I am told that theirs is the richest.  Is it so, Mr
Gerald?"

"Being a Galwegian myself, my judgment might not be reliable; but if you
will condescend to accept Phelim's hospitality for half-an-hour, he
will, no doubt, give you an opportunity of judging for yourself."

"I should be delighted.  'Tis something so new.  Let papa and the rest
of them wait.  There are plenty of ladies without me; or the gentlemen
may amuse themselves by tracing up our tracks.  'Twill be as good a
horse hunt as they are likely to have.  Now, sir, I'm ready to accept
your hospitality."

"There's not much to offer you, I fear.  Phelim has been several days by
himself, and as he's but an indifferent hunter, his larder is likely to
be low.  'Tis fortunate you had finished luncheon before the
_stampede_."

It was not Phelim's larder that was leading Louise Poindexter out of her
way, nor yet the desire to listen to his Connemara pronunciation.  It
was not curiosity to look at the jacale of the mustanger; but a feeling
of a far more irresistible kind, to which she was yielding, as if she
believed it to be her fate!

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

She paid a visit to the lone hut, on the Alamo; she entered under its
roof; she scanned with seeming interest its singular _penates_; and
noted, with pleased surprise, the books, writing materials, and other
chattels that betokened the refinement of its owner; she listened with
apparent delight to the _palthogue_ of the Connemara man, who called her
a "coleen bawn;" she partook of Phelim's hospitality--condescendingly
tasting of everything offered, except that which was most urgently
pressed upon her, "a dhrap of the crayther, drawn fresh from the
dimmyjan;" and finally made her departure from the spot, apparently in
the highest spirits.

Alas! her delight was short-lived: lasting only so long as it was
sustained by the excitement of the novel adventure.  As she recrossed
the flower prairie, she found time for making a variety of reflections;
and there was one that chilled her to the very core of her heart.

Was it the thought that she had been acting wrongly in keeping her
father, her brother, and friends in suspense about her safety?  Or had
she become conscious of playing a part open to the suspicion of being
unfeminine?

Not either.  The cloud that darkened her brow in the midst of that
blossoming brightness, was caused by a different, and far more
distressing, reflection.  During all that day, in the journey from the
fort, after overtaking her in the chase, in the pursuit while protecting
her, lingering by her side on the shore of the lake, returning across
the prairie, under his own humble roof--in short everywhere--her
companion had only been polite--_had only behaved as a gentleman_!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

JEALOUSY UPON THE TRAIL.

Of the two-score rescuers, who had started in pursuit of the runaway,
but few followed far.  Having lost sight of the wild mares, the mustang,
and the mustanger, they began to lose sight of one another; and before
long became dispersed upon the prairie--going single, in couples, or in
groups of three and four together.  Most of them, unused to tracking up
a trail, soon strayed from that taken by the manada; branching off upon
others, made, perhaps, by the same drove upon some previous stampede.

The dragoon escort, in charge of a young officer--a fresh fledgling from
West Point--ran astray upon one of these ramifications, carrying the
hindmost of the field along with it.

It was a rolling prairie through which the pursuit was conducted, here
and there intersected by straggling belts of brushwood.  These, with the
inequalities of the surface, soon hid the various pursuing parties from
one another; and in twenty minutes after the start, a bird looking from
the heavens above, might have beheld half a hundred horsemen,
distributed into half a score of groups--apparently having started from
a common centre--spurring at full speed towards every quarter of the
compass!

But one was going in the right direction--a solitary individual, mounted
upon a large strong-limbed chestnut horse; that, without any claim to
elegance of shape, was proving the possession both of speed and bottom.
The blue frock-coat of half military cut, and forage cap of
corresponding colour, were distinctive articles of dress habitually worn
by the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry--Cassius Calhoun.  He it was who
directed the chestnut on the true trail; while with whip and spur he was
stimulating the animal to extraordinary efforts.  He was himself
stimulated by a thought--sharp as his own spurs--that caused him to
concentrate all his energies upon the abject in hand.

Like a hungry hound he was laying his head along the trail, in hopes of
an issue that might reward him for his exertions.

What that issue was he had but vaguely conceived; but on occasional
glance towards his holsters--from which protruded the butts of a brace
of pistols--told of some sinister design that was shaping itself in his
soul.

But for a circumstance that assisted him, he might, like the others,
have gone astray.  He had the advantage of them, however, in being
guided by two shoe-tracks he had seen before.  One, the larger, he
recollected with a painful distinctness.  He had seen it stamped upon a
charred surface, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie.  Yielding to an
undefined instinct, he had made a note of it in his memory, and now
remembered it.

Thus directed, the _ci-devant_ captain arrived among the copses, and
rode into the glade where the spotted mustang had been pulled up in such
a mysterious manner.  Hitherto his analysis had been easy enough.  At
this point it became conjecture.  Among the hoof-prints of the wild
mares, the shoe-tracks were still seen, but no longer going at a gallop.
The two animals thus distinguished must have been halted, and standing
in juxtaposition.

Whither next?  Along the trail of the manada, there was no imprint of
iron; nor elsewhere!  The surface on all sides was hard, and strewn with
pebbles.  A horse going in rude gallop, might have indented it; but not
one passing over it at a tranquil pace.

And thus had the spotted mustang and blood bay parted from that spot.
They had gone at a walk for some score yards, before starting on their
final gallop towards the mustang trap.

The impatient pursuer was puzzled.  He rode round and round, and along
the trail of the wild mares, and back again, without discovering the
direction that had been taken by either of the ridden horses.

He was beginning to feel something more than surprise, when the sight of
a solitary horseman advancing along the trail interrupted his
uncomfortable conjectures.

It was no stranger who was drawing near.  The colossal figure, clad in
coarse habiliments, bearded to the buttons of his blanket coat, and
bestriding the most contemptible looking steed that could have been
found within a hundred miles of the spot, was an old acquaintance.
Cassius Calhoun knew Zebulon Stump, and Zeb Stump knew Cash Calhoun,
long before either had set foot upon the prairies of Texas.

"You hain't seed nuthin' o' the young lady, hev ye, Mister Calhoun?"
inquired the hunter, as he rode up, with an unusual impressiveness of
manner.  "No, ye hain't," he continued, as if deducing his inference
from the blank looks of the other.  "Dog-gone my cats!  I wonder what
the hell hev becomed o' her!  Kewrious, too; sech a rider as she air,
ter let the durned goat o' a thing run away wi' her.  Wal! thur's not
much danger to be reeprehended.  The mowstanger air putty sartin to
throw his rope aroun' the critter, an that 'll put an eend to its
capers.  Why hev ye stopped hyur?"

"I'm puzzled about the direction they've taken.  Their tracks show
they've been halted here; but I can see the shod hoofs no farther."

"Whoo! whoo! yur right, Mister Cashus!  They hev been halted hyur; an
been clost thegither too.  They hain't gone no further on the trail o'
the wild maars.  Sartin they hain't.  What then?"

The speaker scanned the surface of the plain with an interrogative
glance; as if there, and not from Cassius Calhoun, expecting an answer
to his question.

"I cannot see their tracks anywhere," replied the ex-captain.

"No, kan't ye?  I kin though.  Lookee hyur!  Don't ye see them thur
bruises on the grass?"

"No."

"Durn it! thur plain es the nose on a Jew's face.  Thur's a big shoe, an
a little un clost aside o' it.  Thet's the way they've rud off, which
show that they hain't follered the wild maars no further than hyur.
We'd better keep on arter them?"

"By all means!"

Without further parley, Zeb started along the new trail; which, though
still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous
as he had figuratively declared it.

In a little while it became visible to his companion--on their arrival
at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a
gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply
indented the turf.

Shortly after their trail was again lost--or would have been to a
scrutiny less keen than that of Zeb Stump--among the hundreds of other
hoof-marks seen now upon the sward.

"Hilloo!" exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign.
"What's been a doin' hyur?  This air some 'at kewrious."

"Only the tracks of the wild mares!" suggested Calhoun.  "They appear to
have made a circuit, and come round again?"

"If they hev it's been arter the others rud past them.  The chase must a
changed sides, I reck'n."

"What do you mean, Mr Stump?"

"That i'stead o' them gallupin' arter the maars, the maars hev been
gallupin' arter them."

"How can you tell that?"

"Don't ye see that the shod tracks air kivered by them o' the maars?
Maars--no!  By the 'turnal airthquake!--them's not maar-tracks.  They
air a inch bigger.  Thur's been _studs_ this way--a hul cavayurd o'
them.  Geehosofat!  I hope they hain't--"

"Haven't what?"

"Gone arter Spotty.  If they hev, then thur will be danger to Miss
Peintdexter.  Come on!"

Without waiting for a rejoinder, the hunter started off at a shambling
trot, followed by Calhoun, who kept calling to him for an explanation of
his ambiguous words.

Zeb did not deign to offer any--excusing himself by a backward sweep of
the hand, which seemed to say, "Do not bother me now: I am busy."

For a time he appeared absorbed in taking up the trail of the shod
horses--not so easily done, as it was in places entirely obliterated by
the thick trampling of the stallions.  He succeeded in making it out by
piecemeal--still going on at a trot.

It was not till he had arrived within a hundred yards of the arroyo that
the serious shadow disappeared from his face; and, checking the pace of
his mare, he vouchsafed the explanation once more demanded from him.

"Oh! that was the danger," said Calhoun, on hearing the explanation.
"How do you know they have escaped it?"

"Look thur!"

"A dead horse!  Freshly killed, he appears?  What does that prove?"

"That the mowstanger hes killed him."

"It frightened the others off, you think, and they followed no further?"

"They follered no further; but it wa'n't adzackly thet as scared 'em
off.  Thur's the thing as kep them from follerin'.  Ole Hickory, what a
jump!"

The speaker pointed to the arroyo, on the edge of which both riders had
now arrived.

"You don't suppose they leaped it?" said Calhoun.  "Impossible."

"Leaped it clur as the crack o' a rifle.  Don't ye see thur toe-marks,
both on this side an the t'other?  An' Miss Peintdexter fust, too!  By
the jumpin' Geehosofat, what a gurl she air sure enuf!  They must both a
jumped afore the stellyun war shot; else they kedn't a got at it.
Thur's no other place whar a hoss ked go over.  Geeroozalem! wa'n't it
cunnin' o' the mowstanger to throw the stud in his tracks, jest in the
very gap?"

"You think that he and my cousin crossed here together?"

"Not adzackly thegither," explained Zeb, without suspecting the motive
of the interrogatory.  "As I've sayed, Spotty went fust.  You see the
critter's tracks yonner on t'other side?"

"I do."

"Wal--don't ye see they air kivered wi' them o' the mowstanger's hoss?"

"True--true."

"As for the stellyuns, they hain't got over--ne'er a one o' the hul
cavayurd.  I kin see how it hez been.  The young fellur pulled up on
t'other side, an sent a bullet back inter this brute's karkidge.  'Twar
jest like closin' the gap ahint him; an the pursooers, seein' it shet,
guv up the chase, an scampered off in a different direckshun.  Thur's
the way they hev gone--up the side o' the gully!"

"They may have crossed at some other place, and continued the pursuit?"

"If they dud, they'd hev ten mile to go, afore they ked git back hyur--
five up, an five back agin.  Not a bit o' that, Mister Calhoun.  To
needn't be uneezy 'bout Miss Lewaze bein' pursooed by _them_ any
further.  Arter the jump, she's rud off along wi' the mowstanger--both
on 'em as quiet as a kupple o' lambs.  Thur wa'n't no danger then; an by
this time, they oughter be dog-goned well on torst rejoinin' the people
as stayed by the purvision waggon."

"Come on!" cried Calhoun, exhibiting as much impatience as when he
believed his cousin to be in serious peril.  "Come on, Mr Stump!  Let
us get back as speedily as possible!"

"Not so fast, if you pleeze," rejoined Zeb, permitting himself to slide
leisurely out of his saddle, and then drawing his knife from his sheath.
"I'll only want ye to wait for a matter o' ten minutes, or thereabout."

"Wait!  For what?" peevishly inquired Calhoun.

"Till I kin strip the hide off o' this hyur sorrel.  It appear to be a
skin o' the fust qualerty; an oughter fetch a five-dollar bill in the
settlements.  Five-dollar bills ain't picked up every day on these hyur
purayras."

"Damn the skin!" angrily ejaculated the impatient Southerner.  "Come on,
an leave it!"

"Ain't a goin' to do anythin' o' the sort," coolly responded the hunter,
as he drew the sharp edge of his blade along the belly of the prostrate
steed.  "You kin go on if ye like, Mister Calhoun; but Zeb Stump don't
start till he packs the hide of this hyur stellyun on the krupper o' his
old maar.  Thet he don't."

"Come, Zeb; what's the use of talking about my going back by myself?
You know I can't find my way?"

"That air like enough.  I didn't say ye ked."

"Look here, you obstinate old case!  Time's precious to me just at this
minute.  It 'll take you a full half-hour to skin the horse."

"Not twenty minutes."

"Well, say twenty minutes.  Now, twenty minutes are of more importance
to me than a five-dollar bill.  You say that's the value of the skin?
Leave it behind; and I agree to make good the amount."

"Wal--that air durned gin'rous, I admit--dog-goned gin'rous.  But I
mussent except yur offer.  It 'ud be a mean trick o' me--mean enuf for a
yeller-bellied Mexikin--to take yur money for sech a sarvice as thet:
the more so es I ain't no stranger to ye, an myself a goin' the same
road.  On the t'other hand, I kan't afford to lose the five dollars'
worth o' hoss-hide which ud be rotten as punk--to say nuthin' o' it's
bein' tored into skreeds by the buzzarts and coyoats--afore I mout find
a chance to kum this way agin."

"'Tis very provoking!  What am I to do?"

"You _air_ in a hurry?  Wal--I'm sorry to discommerdate ye.  But--stay!
Thur's no reezun for yur waitin' on me.  Thur's nuthin' to hinder ye
from findin' yur way to the waggon.  Ye see that tree stannin' up agin
the sky-line--the tall poplar yonner?"

"I do."

"Wal; do you remember ever to hev seed it afore?  It air a queery
lookin' plant, appearin' more like a church steeple than a tree."

"Yes--yes!" said Calhoun.  "Now you've pointed it out, I do remember it.
We rode close past it while in pursuit of the wild mares?"

"You dud that very thing.  An' now, as ye know it, what air to hinder
you from ridin' past it agin; and follering the trail o' the maars
back'ard?  That ud bring ye to yur startin'-peint; where, ef I ain't out
o' my reck'nin', ye'll find yur cousin, Miss Peintdexter, an the hul o'
yur party enjoying themselves wi' that 'ere French stuff, they call
shampain.  I hope they'll stick to it, and spare the Monongaheela--of
which licker I shed like to hev a triflin' suck arter I git back
myself."

Calhoun had not waited for the wind-up of this characteristic speech.
On the instant after recognising the tree, he had struck the spurs into
the sides of his chestnut, and gone off at a gallop, leaving old Zeb at
liberty to secure the coveted skin.

"Geeroozalem!" ejaculated the hunter, glancing up, and noticing the
quick unceremonious departure.  "It don't take much o' a head-piece to
tell why he air in sech a durned hurry.  I ain't myself much guv torst
guessin'; but if I ain't doggonedly mistaken it air a clur case o'
jellacy on the trail!"

Zeb Stump was not astray in his conjecture.  It _was_ jealousy that
urged Cassius Calhoun to take that hasty departure--black jealousy, that
had first assumed shape in a kindred spot--in the midst of a charred
prairie; that had been every day growing stronger from circumstances
observed, and others imagined; that was now intensified so as to have
become his prevailing passion.

The presentation and taming of the spotted mustang; the acceptance of
that gift, characteristic of the giver, and gratifying to the receiver,
who had made no effort to conceal her gratification; these, and other
circumstances, acting upon the already excited fancy of Cassius Calhoun,
had conducted him to the belief: that in Maurice the mustanger he would
find his most powerful rival.

The inferior social position of the horse-hunter should have hindered
him from having such belief, or even a suspicion.

Perhaps it might have done so, had he been less intimately acquainted
with the character of Louise Poindexter.  But, knowing her as he did--
associating with her from the hour of childhood--thoroughly
understanding her independence of spirit--the _braverie_ of her
disposition, bordering upon very recklessness--he could place no
reliance on the mere idea of gentility.  With most women this may be
depended upon as a barrier, if not to _mesalliance_, at least to
absolute imprudence; but in the impure mind of Cassius Calhoun, while
contemplating the probable conduct of his cousin, there was not even
this feeble support to lean upon!

Chafing at the occurrences of the day--to him crookedly inauspicious--he
hurried back towards the spot where the pic-nic had been held.  The
steeple-like tree guided him back to the trail of the manada; and beyond
that there was no danger of straying.  He had only to return along the
path already trodden by him.

He rode at a rapid pace--faster than was relished by his now tired
steed--stimulated by bitter thoughts, which for more than an hour were
his sole companions--their bitterness more keenly felt in the tranquil
solitude that surrounded him.

He was but little consoled by a sight that promised other companionship:
that of two persons on horseback, riding in advance, and going in the
same direction as himself, upon the same path.  Though he saw but their
backs--and at a long distance ahead--there was no mistaking the identity
of either.  They were the two individuals that had brought that
bitterness upon his spirit.

Like himself they were returning upon the trail of the wild mares;
which, when first seen, they had just struck, arriving upon it from a
lateral path.  Side by side--their saddles almost chafing against each
other--to all appearance absorbed in a conversation of intense interest
to both, they saw not the solitary horseman approaching them in a
diagonal direction.

Apparently less anxious than he to rejoin the party of picknickers, they
were advancing at a slow pace--the lady a little inclining to the rear.

Their proximity to one another--their attitudes in the saddle--their
obvious inattention to outward objects--the snail-like pace at which
they were proceeding--these, along with one or two other slighter
circumstances observed by Calhoun, combined to make an impression on his
mind--or rather to strengthen one already made--that almost drove him
mad.

To gallop rapidly up, and rudely terminate the _tete-a-tete_, was but
the natural instinct of the _chivalric_ Southerner.  In obedience to it
he spitefully plied the spur; and once more forced his jaded chestnut
into an unwilling canter.

In a few seconds, however, he slackened pace--as if changing his
determination.  The sound of his horse's hoofs had not yet warned the
others of his proximity--though he was now less than two hundred yards
behind them!  He could hear the silvery tones of his cousin's voice
bearing the better part of the conversation.  How interesting it must be
to both to have hindered them from perceiving his approach!

If he could but overhear what they were saying?

It seemed a most unpropitious place for playing eavesdropper; and yet
there might be a chance?

The seeming interest of the dialogue to the individuals engaged in it
gave promise of such opportunity.  The turf of the savannah was soft as
velvet.  The hoof gliding slowly over it gave forth not the slightest
sound.

Calhoun was still too impatient to confine himself to a walk; but his
chestnut was accustomed to that gait, peculiar to the horse of the
South-Western States--the "pace"; and into this was he pressed.

With hoofs horizontally striking the sward--elevated scarce an inch
above the ground--he advanced swiftly and noiselessly; so quick withal,
that in a few seconds he was close upon the heels of the spotted
mustang, and the red steed of the mustanger!

He was then checked to a pace corresponding to theirs; while his rider,
leaning forward, listened with an eagerness that evinced some terrible
determination.  His attitude proclaimed him in the vein for vituperation
of the rudest kind--ready with ribald tongue; or, if need be, with knife
and pistol!

His behaviour depended on a contingency--on what might be overheard.

As chance, or fate, willed it, there was nothing.  If the _two_
equestrians were insensible to external sounds, their steeds were not so
absorbed.  In a walk the chestnut stepped heavily--the more so from
being fatigued.  His footfall proclaimed his proximity to the sharp
ears, both of the blood-bay and spotted mustang; that simultaneously
flung up their heads, neighing as they did so.

Calhoun was discovered.

"Ha! cousin Cash!" cried the lady, betraying more of pique than
surprise; "you there?  Where's father, and Harry, and the rest of the
people?"

"Why do you ask that, Loo?  I reckon you know as well as I."

"What! haven't you come out to meet us?  And they too--ah! your chestnut
is all in a sweat!  He looks as if you had been riding a long race--like
ourselves?"

"Of coarse he has.  I followed you from the first--in hopes of being of
some service to you."

"Indeed!  I did not know that you were after us.  Thank you, cousin!
I've just been saying thanks to this gallant gentleman, who also came
after, and has been good enough to rescue both Luna and myself from a
very unpleasant dilemma--a dreadful danger I should rather call it.  Do
you know that we've been chased by a drove of wild steeds, and had
actually to ride for our lives?"

"I am aware of it."

"You saw the chase then?"

"No.  I only knew it by the tracks."

"The tracks!  And were you able to tell by that?"

"Yes--thanks to the interpretation of Zeb Stump."

"Oh! he was with you?  But did you follow them to--to--how far did you
follow them?"

"To a crevasse in the prairie.  You leaped over it, Zeb said.  Did you?"

"Luna did."

"With you on her back?"

"I _wasn't anywhere else_!  What a question, cousin Cash!  Where would
you expect me to have been?  Clinging to her tail?  Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did _you_ leap it?" inquired the laugher, suddenly changing tone.  "Did
you follow us any farther?"

"No, Loo.  From the crevasse I came direct here, thinking you had got
back before me.  That's how I've chanced to come up with you."

The answer appeared to give satisfaction.

"Ah!  I'm glad you've overtaken us.  We've been riding slowly.  Luna is
so tired.  Poor thing!  I don't know how I shall ever get her back to
the Leona."

Since the moment of being joined by Calhoun, the mustanger had not
spoken a word.  However pleasant may have been his previous intercourse
with the young Creole, he had relinquished it, without any apparent
reluctance; and was now riding silently in the advance, as if by tacit
understanding he had returned to the performance of the part for which
he had been originally engaged.

For all that, the eye of the ex-captain was bent blightingly upon him--
at times in a demoniac glare--when he saw--or fancied--that another eye
was turned admiringly in the same direction.

A long journey performed by that trio of travellers might have led to a
tragical termination.  Such finale was prevented by the appearance of
the picknickers; who soon after surrounding the returned runaway, put to
flight every other thought by the chorus of their congratulations.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

WHISKY AND WATER.

In the embryo city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the
"hotel" was the most conspicuous building.  This is but the normal
condition of every Texan town--whether new or founded forty years ago;
and none are older, except the sparse cities of Hispano-Mexican origin--
where the _presidio_ and convent took precedence, now surpassed by, and
in some instances transformed into, the "tavern."

The Fort Inge establishment, though the largest building in the place,
was, nevertheless, neither very grand nor imposing.  Its exterior had
but little pretence to architectural style.  It was a structure of hewn
logs, having for ground-plan the letter T according to the grotesque
alphabet--the shank being used for eating and sleeping rooms, while the
head was a single apartment entirely devoted to drinking--smoking and
_expectorating_ included.  This last was the bar-room, or "saloon."

The sign outside, swinging from the trunk of a post-oak, that had been
_pollarded_ some ten feet above the ground, exhibited on both sides the
likeness of a well known military celebrity--the hero of that quarter of
the globe--General Zachariah Taylor.  It did not need looking at the
lettering beneath to ascertain the name of the hotel.  Under the
patronage of such a portrait it could only be called "Rough and Ready."

There was a touch of the apropos about this designation.  Outside things
appeared rough enough; while inside, especially if you entered by the
"saloon," there was a readiness to meet you half way, with a mint julep,
a sherry cobbler, a gin sling, or any other _mixed_ drink known to
trans-Mississippian tipplers--provided always that you were ready with
the _picayunes_ to pay for them.

The saloon in question would not call for description, had you ever
travelled in the Southern, or South-Western, States of America.  If so,
no Lethean draught could ever efface from your memory the "bar-room" of
the hotel or _tavern_ in which you have had the unhappiness to sojourn.
The counter extending longitudinally by the side; the shelved wall
behind, with its rows of decanters and bottles, containing liquors, of
not only all the colours of the prism, but every possible combination of
them; the elegant young fellow, standing or sidling between counter and
shelves, ycleped "clerk"--don't call him a "barkeeper," or you may get a
decanter in your teeth--this elegant young gentleman, in blouse of blue
_cottonade_, or white linen coat, or maybe in his shirt sleeves--the
latter of finest linen and lace--ruffled, in the year of our Lord
eighteen hundred and fifty--this elegant young gentleman, who, in mixing
you a sherry cobbler, can look you straight in the face, talk to you the
politics of the day, while the ice, and the wine, and the water, are
passing from glass to glass, like an iris sparkling behind his
shoulders, or an aureole surrounding his perfumed head!  Traveller
through the Southern States of America you; cannot fail to remember him?

If so, my words will recall him, along with his surroundings--the saloon
in which he is the presiding administrator, with its shelves and
 decanters; its counter; its floor sprinkled with white sand, at
times littered with cigar stumps, and the brown asterisks produced by
_expectoration_--its odour of mint, absinthe, and lemon-peel, in which
luxuriate the common black fly, the blue-bottle, and the sharp-tongued
mosquito.  All these must be sharply outlined on the retina of your
memory.

The hotel, or tavern, "Rough and Ready," though differing but little
from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular.
Its proprietor, instead of being a speculative Yankee, was a German--in
this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of
food.  He kept his own bar; so that on entering the saloon, instead of
the elegant young gentleman with ruffled shirt and odorous chevelure,
your "liquor" was mixed for you by a staid Teuton, who looked as sober
as if he never tasted--notwithstanding the temptation of wholesale
price--the delicious drinks served out to his customers.  Oberdoffer was
the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by
his Texan customers into "Old Duffer."

There was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the "Rough and
Ready," though it scarce deserved to be so designated; since it was not
uncommon elsewhere.  As already stated, the building was shaped like a
capital T; the saloon representing the head of the letter.  The counter
extended along one side, that contiguous to the shank; while at each end
was a door that opened outward into the public square of the incipient
city.

This arrangement had been designed to promote the circulation of the
air--a matter of primary importance in an atmosphere where the
thermometer for half the year stands at 90 degrees in the shade.

The hotels of Texas or the South-Western States--I may say every part of
the American Union--serve the double purpose of exchange and club-house.
Indeed, it is owing to the cheap accommodation thus afforded--often of
the most convenient kind--that the latter can scarce be said to exist.

Even in the larger cities of the Atlantic states the "club" is by no
means a necessity.  The moderate charges of the hotels, along with their
excellent _cuisine_ and elegant accommodations, circumscribe the
prosperity of this institution; which in America is, and ever must be,
an unhealthy exotic.

The remark is still more true of the Southern and South-western cities;
where the "saloon" and "bar-room" are the chief places of resort and
rendezvous.

The company, too, is there of a more miscellaneous character.  The proud
planter does not disdain--for he does not dare--to drink in the same
room with the "poor white trash;" often as proud as himself.

There is no _peasant_ in that part of the world--least of all in the
state called Texas; and in the saloon of "Rough and Ready" might often
be seen assembled representatives of every class and calling to be met
with among the settlements.

Perhaps not upon any occasion since "Old Duffer" had hung out the sign
of his tavern, was he favoured with a larger company, or served more
customers across his counter, than upon that night, after the return of
the horse-hunting party to Fort Inge.

With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in
the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the "Rough and
Ready" was necessary as a "nightcap" before retiring to rest; and as the
Dutch clock, quaintly ticking among the  decanters, indicated
the hour of eleven, one after another--officers of the Fort--planters
living near along the river--Sutlers--commissariat
contractors--"sportsmen"--and others who might be called nondescripts--
came dropping in; each as he entered marching straight up to the
counter, calling for his favourite drink, and then falling back to
converse with some group already occupying the floor.

One of these groups was conspicuous.  It consisted of some eight or ten
individuals, half of them in uniform.  Among the latter were the three
officers already introduced; the captain of infantry, and the two
lieutenants--Hancock of the dragoons, and Crossman of the mounted
rifles.

Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in
authority, as could be told by the embroidery on his shoulder-strap,
that proclaimed him of the rank of major.  As he was the only "field
officer" at Fort Inge, it is unnecessary to say he was the commandant of
the cantonment.

These gentlemen were conversing as freely as if all were subalterns of
equal rank--the subject of the discourse being the incidents of the day.

"Now tell us, major!" said Hancock: "you must know.  Where did the girl
gallop to?"

"How should I know?" answered the officer appealed to.  "Ask her cousin,
Mr Cassius Calhoun."

"We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction.  It's clear he
knows no more than we.  He only met them on the return--and not very far
from the place where we had our bivouac.  They were gone a precious long
time; and judging by the sweat of their horses they must have had a hard
ride of it.  They might have been to the Rio Grande, for that matter,
and beyond it."

"Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?" inquired the captain of
infantry.  "There was a scowl upon his face that betokened some very
unpleasant emotion within his mind, I should say."

"He did look rather unhappy," replied the major; "but surely, Captain
Sloman, you don't attribute it to--?"

"Jealousy.  I do, and nothing else."

"What! of Maurice the mustanger?  Poh--poh! impossible--at least, very
improbable."

"And why, major?"

"My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald--"

"May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary."

"Pshaw!" scornfully exclaimed Crossman; "a trader in horses!  The major
is right--the thing's improbable--impossible."

"Ah, gentlemen!" pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant
shake of the head.  "You don't know Miss Poindexter, so well as I.  An
eccentric young lady--to say the least of her.  You may have already
observed that for yourselves."

"Come, come, Sloman!" said the major, in a bantering way; "you are
inclined to be talking scandal, I fear.  That would be a scandal.
Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding
your pretensions to be considered a Joseph?  Now, I could understand
your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman--
supposing him to be disengaged.  But as for a common mustanger--poh--
poh!"

"He's an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some
reason to suspect--"

"Whatever he be," interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards
the door, "he's there to answer for himself; and as he's a sufficiently
plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that
seems to be of so much interest to you."

"I don't think you will," muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three
others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the
major's suggestion.

Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his
stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.

"A glass of whisky and water, if you please?" was the modest request
with which to saluted the landlord.

"Visky und vachter!" echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to
wait upon his new guest.  "Ya, woe, visky und vachter!  It ish two
picayunsh the glass."

"I was not inquiring the price," replied the mustanger, "I asked to be
served with a glass of whisky and water.  Have you got any?"

"Yesh--yesh," responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp
rejoinder.  "Plenty--plenty of visky und vachter.  Here it ish."

While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received
nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but
modest air.  Most of them knew him personally, on account of his
business relations with the Fort.

They were on the eve of interrogating him--as the major had suggested--
when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend
their design.

The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun.  In his presence it would scarce have
been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.

Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military
men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in
their company, and had been absent only for a short interval.  If not
absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of
volunteers was under the influence of drink.  The unsteady sparkle of
his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead--still further clouded
by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it--with the somewhat
grotesque set of his forage cap--told that he had been taking one beyond
the limits of wisdom.

"Come, gentlemen!" cried he, addressing himself to the major's party, at
the same time stepping up to the counter; "let's hit the waggon a crack,
or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we're wasting his
lights.  Drinks all round.  What say you?"

"Agreed--agreed!" replied several voices.

"You, major?"

"With pleasure, Captain Calhoun."

According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line
along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his
liking at the moment.

Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in
the party; Calhoun himself shouting out--"Brown sherry for me;" and
immediately adding--"with a dash of bitters."

"Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?" said the landlord,
as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner
of an extensive estate.

"Certainly, you stupid Dutchman!  I said brown sherry, didn't I?"

"All rights, mein herr; all rights!  Prandy und pitters--prandy und
pitters," repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the
decanter before his ill-mannered guest.

With the large accession of the major's party, to several others already
in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became
occupied--with scarce an inch to spare.

Apparently by accident--though it may have been design on the part of
Calhoun--he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had
responded to his invitation.

This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone--as
regarded boon companionship--was quietly drinking his whisky and water,
and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.

The two were back to back--neither having taken any notice of the other.

"A toast!" cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.

"Let us have it!" responded several voices.

"America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers--
especially the damned Irish!"

On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which
brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger--at the moment
standing with the glass raised to his lips.

The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water;
which fell over the mustanger's breast.

Was it an accident?  No one believed it was--even for a moment.
Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront
intended and premeditated.

All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his
insulter.  They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner
in which the mustanger seemed to take it.  There were some who even
fancied he was about to submit to it.

"If he does," whispered Hancock in Sloman's ear, "he ought to be kicked
out of the room."

"Don't you be alarmed about that," responded the infantry officer, in
the same _sotto voce_.  "You'll find it different.  I'm not given to
betting, as you know; but I'd lay a month's pay upon it the mustanger
don't back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an
ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned
about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him.  Odd devil he is!"

While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related
was still standing by the bar--to use a hackneyed phrase, "the observed
of all observers."

Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk
handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt
bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.

There was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible
with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that
they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come.  In
silence they awaited the development.

They had not long to wait.  The whole affair--speculations and
whisperings included--did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then
did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in.

"_I_ am an Irishman," said the mustanger, as he returned his
handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.

Simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had
been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning.  If the hunter
of wild horses had tweaked the nose of Cassius Calhoun, it would not
have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge.  Its simplicity
but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor.

"You?" scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round, and standing with his
arms _akimbo_.  "You?" he continued, with his eye measuring the
mustanger from head to foot, "you an Irishman?  Great God, sir, I should
never have thought so!  I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging
by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt."

"I can't perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun;
and as you've done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon
it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion."

So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before the ex-captain
of volunteers could duck his head, or get out of the way, the remains of
the mixed Monongahela were "swilled" into his face, sending him off into
a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford
satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.

The murmur of approbation was soon suppressed.  The circumstances were
not such as to call for speech; and the exclamations that accompanied
the act were succeeded by a hush of silence.  All saw that the quarrel
could not be otherwise than a serious one.  The affair must end in a
fight.  No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that
conclusion.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

AN UNSAFE POSITION.

On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter,
and drawn it from its holster.  He only waited to get the whisky out of
his eyes before advancing upon his adversary.

The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a
similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist--
shot for shot.

The more timid of the spectators had already commenced making their
escape out of doors tumbling over one another, in their haste to get out
of harm's way.

A few stayed in the saloon from sheer irresolution; a few others, of
cooler courage, from choice; or, perhaps, actuated by a more astute
instinct, which told them that in attempting to escape they might get a
bullet in the back.

There was an interval--some six seconds--of silence, during which a pin
might have been heard falling upon the floor.  It was but the interlude
that often occurs between resolution and action; when the mind has
completed its task, and the body has yet to begin.

It might have been more brief with other actors on the scene.  Two
ordinary men would have blazed away at once, and without reflection.
But the two now confronting each other were not of the common kind.
Both had seen _street fighting_ before--had taken part in it--and knew
the disadvantage of an idle shot.  Each was determined to take sure aim
on the other.  It was this that prolonged the interval of inaction.

To those outside, who dared not even look through the doors, the
suspense was almost painful.  The cracking of the pistols, which they
expected every moment to hear, would have been a relief.  It was almost
a disappointment when, instead, they heard the voice of the major--who
was among the few who had stayed inside--raised in a loud authoritative
tone.

"Hold!" commanded he, in the accent of one accustomed to be obeyed, at
the same time whisking his sabre out of its scabbard, and interposing
its long blade between the disputants.

"Hold your fire--I command you both.  Drop your muzzles; or by the
Almighty I'll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger!
Hold, I say!"

"Why?" shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion.  "Why, Major
Ringwood?  After an insult like that, and from a low fellow--"

"You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun."

"Damn me if I care!  I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished.
Stand out of the way, major.  The quarrel is not yours--you have no
right to interfere!"

"Indeed!  Ha! ha!  Sloman!  Hancock!  Crossman! hear that?  I have no
right to interfere!  Hark ye, Mr Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of
volunteers!  Know you where you are, sir?  Don't fancy yourself in the
state of Mississippi--among your slave-whipping chivalry.  This, sir, is
a military post--under military law--my humble self its present
administrator.  I therefore command you to return your six-shooter to
the holster from which you have taken it.  This instant too, or you
shall go to the guard-house, like the humblest soldier in the
cantonment!"

"Indeed!" sneeringly replied the Mississippian.  "What a fine country
you intend Texas to become!  I suppose a man mustn't fight, however much
aggrieved, without first obtaining a licence from Major Ringwood?  Is
that to be the law of the land?"

"Not a bit of it," retorted the major.  "I'm not the man--never was--to
stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel.  You shall be
quite at liberty--you and your antagonist--to kill one another, if it so
please you.  But not just now.  You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that
your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the
slightest interest in it.  I've no idea of being bored by a bullet not
intended for me.  Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe
distance; and you may crack away to your heart's content.  Now, sir,
will that be agreeable to you?"

Had the major been a man of ordinary character his commands might have
been disregarded.  But to his official weight, as chief officer of the
post, was added a certain reverence due to seniority in age--along with
respect for one who was himself known to wield a weapon with dangerous
skill, and who allowed no trilling with his authority.

His sabre had not been unsheathed by way of empty gesticulation.  The
disputants knew it; and by simultaneous consent lowered the muzzles of
their pistols--still holding them in hand.

Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth, like a beast of
prey momentarily withheld from making attack upon its victim; while the
mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an
Irishman.

"I suppose you are determined upon fighting?" said the major, knowing
that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.

"I have no particular wish for it," modestly responded Maurice.  "If Mr
Calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has
done--"

"He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!" suggested several of the
bystanders.

"Never!" scornfully responded the ex-captain.  "Cash Calhoun ain't
accustomed to that sort of thing.  Apologise indeed!  And to a
masquerading monkey like that!"

"Enough!" cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious
anger; "I gave him a chance for his life.  He refuses to accept it: and
now, by the Mother of God, we don't both leave this room alive!  Major!
I insist that you and your friends withdraw.  I can stand his insolence
no longer!"

"Ha--ha--ha!" responded the Southerner, with a yell of derisive
laughter; "a chance for my life!  Clear out, all of ye--clear out; and
let me at him!"

"Stay!" cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist.
"It's not quite safe.  You may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger
a second too soon.  We must get out of doors before you do.  Besides,
gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to those around him, "there
should be some system about this.  If they are to fight, let it be fair
for both sides.  Let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!"

"By all means!" chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their
eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal.

"Neither of you can object?" continued the major, interrogatively.

"I sha'n't object to anything that's fair," assented the
Irishman--"devil a bit!"

"I shall fight with the weapon I hold in my hand," doggedly declared
Calhoun.

"Agreed! the very weapon for me!" was the rejoinder of his adversary.

"I see you both carry Colt's six-shooter Number 2," said the major,
scanning the pistols held in hand.  "So far all right! you're armed
exactly alike."

"Have they any other weapons?" inquired young Hancock, suspecting that
under the cover of his coat the ex-captain had a knife.

"I have none," answered the mustanger, with a frankness that left no
doubt as to his speaking the truth.

All eyes were turned upon Calhoun, who appeared to hesitate about making
a reply.  He saw he must declare himself.

"Of course," he said, "I have my toothpick as well.  You don't want me
to give up that?  A man ought to be allowed to use whatever weapon he
has got."

"But, Captain Calhoun," pursued Hancock, "your adversary has no knife.
If you are not afraid to meet him on equal terms you should surrender
yours."

"Certainly he should!" cried several of the bystanders.  "He must! he
must!"

"Come, Mr Calhoun!" said the major, in a soothing tone.  "Six shots
ought to satisfy any reasonable man; without having recourse to the
steel.  Before you finish firing, one or the other of you--"

"Damn the knife!" interrupted Calhoun, unbuttoning his coat.  Then
drawing forth the proscribed weapon, and flinging it to the farthest
corner of the saloon, he added, in a tone of bravado, intended to
encowardice his adversary.  "I sha'n't want it for such a spangled
jay-bird as that.  I'll fetch him out of his boots at the first shot."

"Time enough to talk when you've done something to justify it.  Cry boo
to a goose; but don't fancy your big words are going to frighten me, Mr
Calhoun!  Quick, gentlemen!  I'm impatient to put an end to his boasting
and blasphemy!"

"Hound!" frantically hissed out the chivalric Southerner.  "Low dog of
an Irish dam!  I'll send you howling to your kennel!  I'll--"

"Shame, Captain Calhoun!" interrupted the major, seconded by other
voices.  "This talk is idle, as it is unpolite in the presence of
respectable company.  Have patience a minute longer; and you may then
say what you like.  Now, gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to
the surrounding, "there is only one more preliminary to be arranged.
They must engage not to begin firing till we have got out of their way?"

A difficulty here presented itself.  How was the engagement to be given?
A simple promise would scarce be sufficient in a crisis like that?  The
combatants--one of them at least--would not be over scrupulous as to the
time of pulling trigger.

"There must be a signal," pursued the major.  "Neither should fire till
that be given.  Can any one suggest what it is to be?"

"I think.  I can," said the quiet Captain Sloman, advancing as he spoke.
"Let the gentlemen go outside, along with us.  There is--as you
perceive--a door at each end of the room.  I see no difference between
them.  Let them enter again--one at each door, with the understanding
that neither is to fire before setting foot across the threshold."

"Capital! the very thing!" replied several voices.  "And what for a
signal?" demanded the major.  "A shot?"

"No.  Ring the tavern bell!"

"Nothing could be better--nothing fairer," conclusively declared the
major, making for one of the doors, that led outward into the square.

"Mein Gott, major!" screamed the German Boniface, rushing out from
behind his bar; where, up to this time, he had been standing transfixed
with fear.  "Mein Gott--surely the shentlemens pe not going to shoot
their pisthols inside the shaloon: Ach! they'll preak all my pottles,
and my shplendid looking-glashes, an my crystal clock, that hash cost me
von--two hundred dollars.  They'll shpill my pesht liquors--ach!  Major,
it'll ruin me--mein Gott--it will!"

"Never fear, Oberdoffer!" rejoined the major, pausing to reply.  "No
doubt you'll be paid for the damage.  At all events, you had better
betake yourself to some place of safety.  If you stay in your saloon
you'll stand a good chance of getting a bullet through your body, and
that would be worse than the preaking of your pottles."

Without further parley the major parted from the unfortunate landlord,
and hurried across the threshold into the street, whither the
combatants, who had gone out by separate doors, had already preceded
him.

"Old Duffer," left standing in the middle of his sanded floor, did not
remain long in that perilous position.  In six seconds after the major's
coat-tail had disappeared through the outer door, an inner one closed
upon his own skirts; and the bar-room, with its camphine lamps, its
sparkling decanters, and its costly mirrors, was left in untenanted
silence--no other sound being heard save the ticking of its crystal
clock.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A DUEL WITHIN DOORS.

Once outside, the major took no further part in the affair.  As the
commanding officer of the post, it would have been out of place for him
to have given encouragement to a fight--even by his interfering to see
that it should be a fair one.  This, however, was attended to by the
younger officers; who at once set about arranging the conditions of the
duel.

There was not much time consumed.  The terms had been expressed already;
and it only remained to appoint some one of the party to superintend the
ringing of the bell, which was to be the signal for the combat to
commence.

This was an easy matter, since it made no difference who might be
entrusted with the duty.  A child might have sounded the summons for the
terrible conflict that was to follow.

A stranger, chancing at that moment to ride into the rude square of
which the hotel "Rough and Ready" formed nearly a side, would have been
sorely puzzled to comprehend what was coming to pass.  The night was
rather dark, though there was still light enough to make known the
presence of a conglomeration of human beings, assembled in the proximity
of the hotel.  Most were in military garb: since, in addition to the
officers who had lately figured inside the saloon, others, along with
such soldiers as were permitted to pass the sentries, had hastened down
from the Fort on receiving intelligence that something unusual was going
on within the "square."  Women, too, but scantily robed--soldiers'
wives, washerwomen, and "senoritas" of more questionable calling--had
found their way into the street, and were endeavouring to extract from
those who had forestalled them an explanation of the _fracas_.

The conversation was carried on in low tones.  It was known that the
commandant of the post was present, as well as others in authority; and
this checked any propensity there might have been for noisy
demonstration.

The crowd, thus promiscuously collected, was not in close proximity with
the hotel; but standing well out in the open ground, about a dozen yards
from the building.  Towards it, however, the eyes of all were directed,
with that steady stare which tells of the attention being fixed on some
engrossing spectacle.  They were watching the movements of two men,
whose positions were apart--one at each end of the heavy blockhouse,
known to be the bar-room of the hotel; and where, as already stated,
there was a door.

Though separated by the interposition of two thick log walls, and
mutually invisible, these men were manoeuvring as if actuated by a
common impulse.  They stood contiguous to the entrance doors, at
opposite ends of the bar-room, through both of which glared the light of
the camphine lamps--falling in broad divergent bands upon the rough
gravel outside.  Neither was in front of the contiguous entrance; but a
little to one side, just clear of the light.  Neither was in an upright
attitude, but crouching--not as if from fear, but like a runner about to
make a start, and straining upon the spring.

Both were looking inwards--into the saloon, where no sound could be
heard save the ticking of a clock.  Their attitudes told of their
readiness to enter it, and that they were only restrained by waiting for
some preconcerted signal.

That their purpose was a serious one could be deduced from several
circumstances.  Both were in their shirt sleeves, hatless, and stripped
of every rag that might form an impediment to action; while on their
faces was the stamp of stern determination--alike legible in the
attitudes they had assumed.

But there was no fine reflection needed to discover their design.  The
stranger, chancing to come into the square, could have seen at a glance
that it was deadly.  The pistols in their hands, cocked and tightly
clutched; the nervous energy of their attitudes; the silence of the
crowd of spectators; and the concentrated interest with which the two
men were regarded, proclaimed more emphatically than words, that there
was danger in what they were doing--in short, that they were engaged in
some sort of a strife, with death for its probable consummation!

So it was at that moment when the crisis had come.  The duellists stood,
each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance--
perhaps into eternity!  They only waited for a signal to cross the
threshold; and engage in a combat that must terminate the existence of
one or the other--perhaps both.

Were they listening for that fatal formulary:--One--two--fire?

No.  Another signal had been agreed upon; and it was given.

A stentorian voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable--

"Ring!"

Three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on
which swung the tavern bell.  The command instantly set them in motion;
and, along with the oscillation of their arms--dimly seen through the
darkness--could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell.  That bell, whose
sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy--calling men
together to partake of that which perpetuates life--was now listened to
as a summons of death!

The "ringing in" was of short duration.  The bell had made less than a
score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their
services were no longer required.  The disappearance of the duellists,
who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols;
the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was
but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the
rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside.

No eyes--save those of the combatants themselves--were witnesses to that
strange duel.

At the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room.
Neither made an attempt to skulk outside.  To have done so would have
been a ruin to reputation.  A hundred eyes were upon them; and the
spectators understood the conditions of the duel--that neither was to
fire before crossing the threshold.

Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room
with smoke.  Both kept their feet, though both were wounded--their blood
spurting out over the sanded floor.

The second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the
smoke hindering the aim.

Then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by
an interval of quiet.

Previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the
room.  This noise was no longer being made.

Instead there was profound silence.  Had they killed one another?  Were
both dead?  No!  Once more the double detonation announced that both
still lived.  The suspension had been caused as they stood peering
through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another.  Neither
spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position.

Again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more
prolonged.

It ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the
falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor.

There was the sound of sprawling--the overturning of chairs--then a
single shot--the eleventh--and this was the last that was fired!

The spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out
of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps.  This, with
an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack,
was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye.

But the ear--that was gratified by a greater variety.  There were heard
shots--after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp
shivering of broken glass, the duller crash of falling furniture, rudely
overturned in earnest struggle--the trampling of feet upon the boarded
floor--at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but
neither of the voices of the men whose insensate passions were the cause
of all this commotion!  The crowd in the street heard the confused
noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able
to interpret them.  The reports of the pistols were all they had to
proclaim the progress of the duel.  Eleven had been counted; and in
breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.

Instead of a pistol report their ears were gratified by the sound of a
voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.

"My pistol is at your head!  I have one shot left--an apology, or you
die!"

By this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching
its termination.  Some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a
strange scene.  They saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor;
both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white
sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails,
where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other--one of
them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting
the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive
him of life.

Such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the
sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave
them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon.

At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had
already spoken.  It was Calhoun's--no longer in roistering bravado, but
in low whining accents, almost a whisper.  "Enough, damn it!  Drop your
shooting-iron--I apologise."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AN UNKNOWN DONOR.

In Texas a duel is not even a nine days' wonder.  It oftener ceases to
be talked about by the end of the third day; and, at the expiration of a
week, is no longer thought of, except by the principals themselves, or
their immediate friends and relatives.

This is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable
standing in society.  When the duellists are of humble position--or, as
is often the case, strangers in the place--a single day may suffice to
doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the
combatant who has survived it--oftener one than both--and perhaps some
ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the
slash of a knife, not designed for him.

More than once have I been witness to a "street fight"--improvised upon
the pavement--where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along,
has become the victim--even unto death--of this irregular method of
seeking "satisfaction."

I have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in
such cases.  They are regarded as belonging to the "chapter of
accidents!"

Though Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald were both comparatively
strangers in the settlement--the latter being only seen on occasional
visits to the Fort--the affair between them caused something more than
the usual interest; and was talked about for the full period of the nine
days, the character of the former as a noted bully, and that of the
latter as a man of singular habitudes, gave to their duello a certain
sort of distinction; and the merits and demerits of the two men were
freely discussed for days after the affair had taken place nowhere with
more earnestness than upon the spot where they had shed each other's
blood--in the bar-room of the hotel.

The conqueror had gained credit and friends.  There were few who
favoured his adversary; and not a few who were gratified at the result
for, short as had been the time since Calhoun's arrival, there was more
than one saloon lounger who had felt the smart of his insolence.  For
this it was presumed the young Irishman had administered a cure; and
there was almost universal satisfaction at the result.

How the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell.  He was
no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the "Rough and Ready;"
though the cause of his absence was well understood.  It was not
chagrin, but his couch; to which he was confined by wounds, that, if not
skilfully treated, might consign him to his coffin.

Maurice was in like manner compelled to stay within doors.  The injuries
he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, were
nevertheless of such a character as to make it necessary for him to keep
to his chamber--a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in "Old
Duffer's" hotel; where, notwithstanding the _eclat_ derived from his
conquest, he was somewhat scurvily treated.

In the hour of his triumph, he had fainted from loss of blood.  He could
not be taken elsewhere; though, in the shabby apartment to which he had
been consigned, he might have thought of the luxurious care that
surrounded the couch of his wounded antagonist.  Fortunately Phelim was
by his side, or he might have been still worse attended to.

"Be Saint Pathrick! it's a shame," half soliloquised this faithful
follower.  "A burnin' shame to squeeze a gintleman into a hole like
this, not bigger than a pig-stoy!  A gintleman like you, Masther
Maurice.  An' thin such aytin' and drinkin'.  Och! a well fid Oirish pig
wud turn up its nose at such traytment.  An' fwhat <DW37> yez think I've
heerd Owld Duffer talkin' about below?"

"I hav'n't the slightest idea, my dear Phelim; nor do I care straw to
know what you've heard Mr Oberdoffer saying below; but if you don't
want him to hear what you are saying above, you'll moderate your voice a
little.  Remember, _ma bohil_, that the partitions in this place are
only lath and plaster."

"Divil take the partitions; and divil burn them, av he loikes.  Av yez
don't care fur fwhat's sed, I don't care far fwhat's heeurd--not the
snappin' av me fingers.  The Dutchman can't trate us any worse than he's
been doin' already.  For all that, Masther Maurice, I thought it bist to
lit you know."

"Let me know then.  What is it he has been saying?"

"Will, thin; I heerd him tellin' wan av his croneys that besoides the
mate an the dhrink, an the washin', an lodgin', he intinded to make you
pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the
night av the shindy."

"Me pay?"

"Yis, yerself, Masther Maurice; an not a pinny charged to the Yankee.
Now I call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty Dutchman
wud iver hiv thought av it.  Av there be anythin' to pay, the man that's
bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn't a discindant
av the owld Geralds av Ballyballagh.  Hoo--hooch! wudn't I loike to
shake a shaylaylah about Duffer's head for the matther of two minutes?
Wudn't I?"

"What reason did he give for saying that I should pay?  Did you hear him
state any?"

"I did, masther--the dhirtiest av all raisuns.  He sid that you were the
bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score."

"He'll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do
better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush.  I shall be
willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more.  You may tell him
so, if he speak to you about it.  And, in troth, Phelim, I don't know
how I am to do even that.  There must have been a good many breakages.
I remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it.  If I don't
mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the
kind."

"A big lookin'-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin', that was set over
the clock.  They say two hunderd dollars.  I don't belave they were
worth wan half av the money."

"Even so, it is a serious matter to me--just at this crisis.  I fear,
Phelim, you will have to make a journey to the Alamo, and fetch away
some of the household gods we have hidden there.  To get clear of this
scrape I shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my
gun!"

"Don't say that, masther!  How are we to live, if the gun goes?"

"As we best can, _ma bohil_.  On horseflesh, I suppose: and the lazo
will supply that."

"Be Japers! it wudn't be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore
us.  It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it."

The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber
door; which was done without knocking.  A slatternly servant--whose sex
it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices--appeared
in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the
termination of a long sinewy arm.

"Fwhat is it, Gertrude?" asked Phelim, who, from some previous
information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of
the intruder.

"A shentlemans prot this."

"A gentleman!  Who, Gertrude?"

"Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans."

"Brought by a gentleman.  Who can he be?  See what it in, Phelim."

Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the
basket.  It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered
several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among
a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies--both of the
confectionery and the kitchen.  There was no note accompanying the
present--not even a direction--but the trim and elegant style in which
it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.

Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim
supposed, to take note of its value.  Little was he thinking of this,
while searching for the "invoice."

There proved to be none--not a scrap of paper--not so much as a _card_!

The generosity of the supply--well-timed as it was--bespoke the donor to
be some person in affluent circumstances.  Who could it be?

As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he
could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor.  Could it
be Louise Poindexter?

In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might;
and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet
beatitude.

As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for
this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there
remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.

"A gintleman lift it," spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy.  "A
gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say!  Who <DW37> yez think he was,
masther?"

"I haven't the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the
officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think
of me in this fashion."

"Nayther yez need.  It wasn't wan av them.  No officer, or gintleman
ayther, phut them things in the basket."

"Why do you think that?"

"Pwhy <DW37> I think it!  Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun?
Isn't there the smell av swate fingers about it?  Jist look at the nate
way them papers is tied up.  That purty kreel was niver packed by the
hand av a man.  It was done by a wuman; and I'll warrant a raal lady at
that."

"Nonsense, Phelim!  I know no lady who should take so much interest in
me."

"Aw, murdher!  What a thumpin' big fib!  I know won that shud.  It wud
be black ungratytude av she didn't--afther what yez did for her.  Didn't
yez save her life into the bargain?"

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Now, don't be desateful, masther.  Yez know that I mane the purty
crayther that come to the hut ridin' Spotty that you presinted her,
widout resavin' a dollar for the mare.  If it wasn't her that sint ye
this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver
born about Ballyballagh.  Be the Vargin, masther, speakin' of the owld
place phuts me in mind of its paple.  Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen
say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?"

"Danger! it's all over.  The doctor has said so; and that I may go out
of doors in a week from this time.  Don't distress yourself about that."

"Troth, masther, yez be only talkin'.  That isn't the danger I was
drhamin' av.  Yez know will enough what I mane.  Maybe yez have resaved
a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets.  Or, maybe,
somebody ilse has; an that's why ye've had the things sint ye."

"You're all wrong, Phelim.  The thing must have come from the Fort; but
whether it did, or not, there's no reason why we should stand upon
ceremony with its contents.  So, here goes to make trial of them!"

Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of
the products--both of collar and _cuisine_--while eating and drinking,
his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a
string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the
princely present.

Could it be the young Creole--the cousin of his direst enemy as well as
his reputed sweetheart?

The thing appeared improbable.

If not she, who else could it be?

The mustanger would have given a horse--a whole drove--to have been
assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious
refection.

Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.

Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second
present--very similar to the first--another basket, containing other
bottles, and crammed with fresh "confections."

The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result.  A
"shentlemans" had "prot" it--the same "stranger shentlemans" as before.
She could only add that "the shentlemans" was very "_Schwartz_," wore a
glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.

Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the
unknown donor; though no one--not even Phelim--was made the confidant of
his thoughts.

In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety--on
the receipt of a third basket, "prot by the Schwartz gentleman" in the
glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.

The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket--
almost the counterpart of what had been sent before.  It might be
accounted for by the contents of a _billet doux_, that accompanied the
gift--attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.

"'Tis only Isidora!" muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the
superscription upon the note.

Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read:--

"_Querido Senor_!

"_Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tio Silvio.  De questra
desfortuna he oido--tambien que V. esta mal ciudado en la fonda.  He
mandado algunas cositas.  Sea graciosa usarlos, coma una chiquitita
memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy.  En la silla
soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas
del mio cavallo.  En un momento mas, partira por el Rio Grande_.

"_Bienhichor_--_de mi vida Salvador_--_y de que a una mujer esa mas
querida, la honra_--_adios_--_adios_!

"Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.

"_Al Senor Don Mauricio Gerald_."

Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note
ran thus:--

"Dear Sir,--I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio.
Of your mischance I have heard--also, that you are indifferently cared
for at the hotel.  I have sent you some little things.  Be good enough
to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which
I am your debtor.  I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw
blood from the flanks of my horse.  In another moment I am off for the
Rio Grande!

"Benefactor--preserver of my life--of what to a woman is dearer--my
honour--adieu! adieu!

"Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos."

"Thanks--thanks, sweet Isidora!" muttered the mustanger, as he refolded
the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch.  "Ever
grateful--considerate--kind!  But for Louise Poindexter, I might have
loved you!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

VOWS OF VENGEANCE.

Calhoun, chafing in his chamber, was not the object of such assiduous
solicitude.  Notwithstanding the luxurious appointments that surrounded
him, he could not comfort himself with the reflection: that he was cared
for by living creature.  Truly selfish in his own heart, he had no faith
in friendships; and while confined to his couch--not without some fears
that it might be his death-bed--he experienced the misery of a man
believing that no human being cared a straw whether he should live or
die.

Any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship.  It could
scarce have been otherwise.  His conduct towards his cousins had not
been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud Woodley
Poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a
subdued fear.

It is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of
certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew.  As already
hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and
creditor--or mortgagor and mortgagee--the nephew being the latter.  To
such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that Cassius Calhoun
was in effect the real owner of Casa del Corvo; and could at any moment
have proclaimed himself its master.

Conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a
particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had
long fiercely loved--his cousin Louise.  He had come to know that he
stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but
slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit.  Trusting to the
peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on
taking no slight denial.

These circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer
of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy
from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him.

While dreading, death--which for a length of time he actually did--he
had become a little more amiable to those around him.  The agreeable
mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery,
all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with
the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture.

It had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful
bully--the master of every crowd that might gather around him.  He could
no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart
to its very core.

To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement--
above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he
suspected of being his rival in her affections--a more nameless
adventurer--was too much to be endured with equanimity.  Even an
ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction.  Calhoun writhed
under it.

He had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done.  If
he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge
himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the
apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced
reflecting upon this very subject.

Maurice, the mustanger, must die!  If not by his (Calhoun's) own hand,
then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the
settlement.  There could not be much difficulty in procuring a
confederate.  There are _bravoes_ upon the broad prairies of Texas, as
well as within the walls of Italian cities.  Alas! there is no spot upon
earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin.

Calhoun possessed gold--more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to
such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it.

In the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans;
which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger.  He did not
purpose doing the deed himself.  His late defeat had rendered him
fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary--even
under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise.  He had become too
much encowardised to play the assassin.  He wanted an accomplice--an arm
to strike for him.  Where was he to find it?

Unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man.  There was a
Mexican at the time making abode in the village--like Maurice himself--a
mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a
disinclination to associate.

As a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the
greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the "Lone Star."
By birth and breed they are mostly Mexicans, or mongrel Indians;
though, not unfrequently, a Frenchman, or American, finds it a congenial
calling.  They are usually the outcasts of civilised society--oftener
its outlaws--who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant
dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of _salvo_ for a conscience that has
been severely tried.

While dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently
the pests of the society that surrounds them--ever engaged in broil and
debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not
always to be encountered with safety.  More than once is it recorded in
the history of Texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce,
converted itself into a band of _cuadrilla_ of _salteadores_; or,
disguised as Indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie
traveller.

One of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the
memory of Cassius Calhoun.  The latter remembered having met the man in
the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially
on the night of the duel.  He remembered that he had been one of those
who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant
expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun
had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the
mustanger.

Since then he had learnt that he was Maurice's deadliest enemy--himself
excepted.

With these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the Mexican to
his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of
the invalid.

There was nothing in all this to excite suspicion--even had Calhoun
cared for that.  His visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle.
Some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them.  So any
one would have supposed.  And so for a time thought the Mexican himself:
for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted
between them.  The astute Mississippian knew better than to declare his
ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous
horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and
cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards
Maurice the mustanger.

In that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to
know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might
require--even to the committal of murder.

The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young
mustanger.  He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could
guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it
was the same as that by which he was himself actuated--the same to which
may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from
Troy to Texas--a woman!

The Helen in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed _doncella_ dwelling
upon the Rio Grande, where Maurice had been in the habit of making an
occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage
of her own _conpaisano_.

The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his
explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted
him might have won the heart of his rival.

During his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place
between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of
vengeance--enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete.

Whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish
designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates.
The outside world but knew that Captain Cassius Calhoun and Miguel
Diaz--known by the nickname "El Coyote," appeared to have taken a fancy
for keeping each other's company; while the more respectable portion of
it wondered at such an ill-starred association.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ON THE AZOTEA.

There are no sluggards on a Texan plantation.  The daybreak begins the
day; and the bell, conch, or cow-horn, that summons the dark-skinned
proletarians to their toil, is alike the signal for their master to
forsake his more luxurious couch.

Such was the custom of Casa del Corvo under its original owners: and the
fashion was followed by the family of the American planter--not from any
idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of Nature.
In a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments
are not to be wasted in sleep.  The _siesta_ belongs to the hours of
noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar
luminary--as if surfeited with their superabundance.

On his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy.  Then
do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage--the flowers
their dew-besprinkled petals--to receive his fervent kisses.  All nature
again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god.

Resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western
Texas--fair as any flower that blooms within it--gladdest was she who
appeared upon the housetop of Casa del Corvo.

Aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than
the young Creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very
couch, from which a Texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning
gold.

She was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the
east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet
with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed
within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite
bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie.

Was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge
admiration?  No.

Equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair
pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising!

Listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling
harmoniously around her?

On the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye
intent upon any object.  Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts
went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor
near.

In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow
upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the
sign of sadness on her cheek.

She was alone.  There was no one to take note of this melancholy mood,
nor inquire into its cause.

The cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if
involuntarily, from her lips.

"He may be dangerously wounded--perhaps even to death?"

Who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed?

The invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the
hacienda--her cousin Cassius Calhoun?

It could scarce be he.  The doctor had the day before pronounced him out
of danger, and on the way to quick recovery.  Any one listening to her
soliloquy--after a time continued in the same sad tone--would have been
convinced it was not he.

"I may not send to inquire.  I dare not even ask after him.  I fear to
trust any of our people.  He may be in some poor place--perhaps
uncourteously treated--perhaps neglected?  Would that I could convey to
him a message--something more--without any one being the wiser!  I
wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?"

As if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of Zeb
making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the
opposite side of the river--where a road led up and down.  It was the
common highway between Fort Inge and the plantations on the lower Leona.
It traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank;
approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the
base of the bluffs.  A reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was
visible in the direction of the Fort; as also a cross-path that led to a
ford; thence running on to the hacienda.  In the opposite direction--
down the stream--the view was open for a like length, until the
chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna.

The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge.  Zeb Stump
should come that way.  He was not in sight; nor was any one else.

She could not feel disappointment.  She had no reason to expect him.
She had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct.

Something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round,
and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter.

If expecting some one to appear that way, she was not disappointed.  A
horse was just stepping out from among the trees, where the road
debouched from the chapparal.  He was ridden by one, who, at first
sight, appeared to be a man, clad in a sort of Arab costume; but who, on
closer scrutiny, and despite the style of equitation--_a la Duchesse de
Berri_--was unquestionably of the other sex--a lady.  There was not much
of her face to be seen; but through the shadowy opening of the
_rebozo_--rather carelessly _tapado_--could be traced an oval facial
outline, somewhat brownly "complected," But with a carmine tinting upon
the cheeks, and above this a pair of eyes whose sparkle appeared to
challenge comparison with the brightest object either on the earth, or
in the sky.

Neither did the loosely falling folds of the lady's scarf, nor her
somewhat _outre_ attitude in the saddle, hinder the observer from coming
to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face.

The man following upon the mule, six lengths of his animal in the rear,
by his costume--as well as the respectful distance observed--was
evidently only an attendant.

"Who can that woman be?" was the muttered interrogatory of Louise
Poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes,
and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure.  "Who _can_ she be?"
was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down,
and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny.  "A Mexican,
of course; the man on the mule her servant.  Some grand senora, I
suppose?  I thought they had all gone to the other side of the Rio
Grande.  A basket carried by the attendant.  I wonder what it contains;
and what errand she can have to the Port--it may be the village.  'Tis
the third time I've seen her passing within this week?  She must be from
some of the plantations below!"

What an outlandish style of riding!  _Par Dieu_!  I'm told it's not
uncommon among the daughters of Anahuac.  What if I were to take to it
myself?  No doubt it's much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle
were seen in the States it would be styled unfeminine.  How our Puritan
mammas would scream out against it!  I think I hear them.  Ha, ha, ha!

The mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration.  There came a
change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud
darkens the disc of the sun.  It was not a return to that melancholy so
late shadowing it; though something equally serious--as might be told by
the sudden blanching of her cheeks.

The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed
equestrian on the other side of the river.  An antelope had sprung up,
out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside.  The creature
appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the
horse--a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full
gallop in pursuit of the affrighted "pronghorn;" while his rider, with
her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming
behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of
circular sweeps in the air!

"What is the woman going to do?" was the muttered interrogatory of the
spectator upon the house-top.  "Ha!  As I live, 'tis a lazo!"

The senora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the
national implement:--by flinging its noose around the antelope's neck,
and throwing the creature in its tracks!

The attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted
from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to
administer the _coup de grace_.  Then, flinging the carcass over the
croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after
his mistress--who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf,
and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for!

It was at that moment--when the noose was seen circling in the air--that
the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole.  It was
not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character--a
thought far more unpleasant.

Nor did it pass speedily away.  It was still there--though a white hand
holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being
seen--still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the
open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the
screening of the acacias.

"I wonder--oh, I wonder if it be she!  My own age, he said--not quite so
tall.  The description suits--so far as one may judge at this distance.
Has her home on the Rio Grande.  Comes occasionally to the Leona, to
visit some relatives.  Who are they?  Why did I not ask him the name?
_I wonder--oh, I wonder if it be she_!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A GIFT UNGIVEN.

For some minutes after the lady of the lazo and her attendant had passed
out of sight, Louise Poindexter pursued the train of reflection--started
by the somewhat singular episode of which she had been spectator.  Her
attitude, and air, of continued dejection told that her thoughts had not
been directed into a more cheerful channel.

Rather the reverse.  Once or twice before had her mind given way to
imaginings, connected with that accomplished _equestrienne_; and more
than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road.
The incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into
suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature.

It was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the
chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater
relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to
the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump
the hunter.

The face of the Creole became bright again--almost to gaiety.  There was
something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest
backwoodsman.

"The man I was wanting to see!" she exclaimed in joyous accents.  "_He_
can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who _she_ is.  He must have met
her on the road.  That will enable me to introduce the subject, without
Zeb having any suspicion of my object.  Even with him I must be
circumspect--after what has happened.  Ah, me!  Not much should I care,
if I were sure of _his_ caring for me.  How provoking his indifference!
And to me--Louise Poindexter!  _Par dieu_!  Let it proceed much further,
and I shall try to escape from the toils if--if--I should crush my poor
heart in the attempt!"

It need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted,
was not Zeb Stump.

Her next speech, however, was addressed to Zeb, as he reined up in front
of the hacienda.

"Dear Mr Stump!" hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to
listen.  "I'm so glad to see you.  Dismount, and come up here!  I know
you're a famous climber, and won't mind a flight of stone stairs.
There's a view from this housetop that will reward you for your
trouble."

"Thur's suthin' on the house-top theear," rejoined the hunter, "the view
o' which 'ud reward Zeb Stump for climbin' to the top o' a steamboat
chimbly; 'an thet's yurself, Miss Lewaze.  I'll kum up, soon as I ha'
stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin' o' a goat's
tail.  Gee-up, ole gal!" he continued, addressing himself to the mare,
after he had dismounted, "Hold up yur head, an may be Plute hyur 'll gie
ye a wheen o' corn shucks for yur breakfist."

"Ho--ho!  Mass 'Tump," interposed the sable coachman, making his
appearance in the _patio_.  "Dat same do dis nigga--gub um de shucks wi'
de yaller corn inside ob dem.  Ho--ho!  You gwup 'tairs to de young
missa; an Plute he no 'gleck yar ole mar."

"Yur a dod-rotted good sample o' a <DW65>, Plute; an the nix occashun I
shows about hyur, I'll fetch you a 'possum--wi' the meat on it as tender
as a two-year old chicken.  Thet's what I'm boun' ter do."

After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the
stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at
a stride.

He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the
young mistress of the mansion.

Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a
remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been
summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.

"Tell me, Mr Stump!" said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the
blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb's
grey eye--"You must know all.  How is he?  Are his wounds of a dangerous
nature?"

"If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon--"

"No--no--no.  I know all about him.  It's not of Mr Calhoun I'm
speaking."

"Wall, Miss Lewasse; thur air only one other as I know of in these parts
thet hev got wownds; an thet air's Maurice the mowstanger.  Mout it be
thet ere individooal yur inquirin' abeout?"

"It is--it is!  You know I cannot be indifferent to his welfare,
notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin.
You are aware that he rescued me--twice I may say--from imminent peril.
Tell me--is he in great danger?"

Such earnestness could no longer be trifled with.  Zeb without further
parley, made reply:--

"Ne'er a morsel o' danger.  Thur's a bullet-hole jest above the
ankle-jeint.  It don't signerfy more'n the scratch o' a kitting.  Thur's
another hev goed through the flesh o' the young fellur's left arm.  It
don't signerfy neyther--only thet it drawed a good sup o' the red out o'
him.  Howsomdever, he's all right now; an expecks to be out o' doors in
a kupple o' days, or tharabout.  He sez that an hour in the seddle, an a
skoot acrosst the purayra, 'ud do him more good than all the docters in
Texas.  I reckon it wud; but the docter--it's the surgint o' the Fort as
attends on him--he won't let him git to grass yit a bit."

"Where is he?"

"He air stayin' at the hotel--whar the skrimmage tuk place."

"Perhaps he is not well waited upon?  It's a rough place, I've heard.
He may not have any delicacies--such as an invalid stands in need of?
Stay here, Mr Stump, till I come up to you again.  I have something I
wish to send to him.  I know I can trust you to deliver it.  Won't you?
I'm sure you will.  I shall be with you in six seconds."

Without waiting to note the effect of her speech, the young lady tripped
lightly along the passage, and as lightly descended the stone stairway.

Presently she reappeared--bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which
was evidently filled with eatables, with something to send them down.

"Now dear old Zeb, you will take this to Mr Gerald?  It's only some
little things that Florinda has put up; some cordials and jellies and
the like, such as sick people at times have a craving for.  They are not
likely to be kept in the hotel.  Don't tell _him_ where they come
from--_neither him, nor any one else_.  You won't?  I know you won't,
you dear good giant."

"He may depend on Zeb Stump for thet, Miss Lewaze.  Nobody air a goin'
to be a bit the wiser about who sent these hyur delekissies; though, for
the matter o' cakes an kickshaws, an all that sort o' thing, the
mowstanger hain't had much reezun to complain.  He hev been serplied wi'
enuf o' them to hev filled the bellies o' a hul school o'
shugar-babbies."

"Ha!  Supplied already!  By whom?"

"Wal, thet theer this chile can't inform ye, Miss Lewaze; not be-knowin'
it hisself.  I on'y hyurd they wur fetched to the tavern in baskets, by
some sort o' a sarving-man as air a Mexikin.  I've seed the man myself.
Fact, I've jest this minnit met him, ridin' arter a wuman sot stridy
legs in her seddle, as most o' these Mexikin weemen ride.  I reck'n he
be her sarvingt, as he war keepin' a good ways ahint, and toatin' a
basket jest like one o' them Maurice hed got arready.  Like enuf it air
another lot o' Rickshaws they wur takin' to the tavern."

There was no need to trouble Zeb Stump with further cross-questioning.
A whole history was supplied by that single speech.  The case was
painfully clear.  In the regard of Maurice Gerald, Louise Poindexter had
a rival--perhaps something more.  The lady of the lazo was either his
_fiancee_, or his mistress!

It was not by accident--though to Zeb Stump it may have seemed so--that
the hamper, steadied for a time, upon the coping of the balustrade, and
still retained in the hand of the young Creole, escaped from her clutch,
and fell with a crash upon the stones below.  The bottles were broken,
and their contents spilled into the stream that surged along the
basement of the wall.

The action of the arm that produced this effect, apparently springing
from a spasmodic and involuntary effort, was nevertheless due to design;
and Louise Poindexter, as she leant over the parapet, and contemplated
the ruin she had caused, felt as if her heart was shattered like the
glass that lay glistening below!

"How unfortunate!" said she, making a feint to conceal her chagrin.
"The dainties are destroyed, I declare!  What will Florinda say?  After
all, if Mr Gerald be so well attended to, as you say he is, he'll not
stand in need of them.  I'm glad to hear he hasn't been neglected--one
who has done me a service.  But, Mr Stump, you needn't say anything of
this, or that I inquired after him.  You know his late antagonist is our
near relative; and it might cause scandal in the settlement.  Dear Zeb,
you promise me?"

"Swa-ar it ef ye like.  Neery word, Miss Lewaze, neery word; ye kin
depend on ole Zeb."

"I know it.  Come!  The sun is growing hot up here.  Let as go down, and
see whether we can find you such a thing as a glass of your favourite
Monongahela.  Come!"

With an assumed air of cheerfulness, the young Creole glided across the
azotea; and, trilling the "New Orleans Waltz," once more commenced
descending the _escalera_.

In eager acceptance of the invitation, the old hunter followed close
upon her skirts; and although, by habit, stoically indifferent to
feminine charms--and with his thoughts at that moment chiefly bent upon
the promised Monongahela--he could not help admiring those ivory
shoulders brought so conspicuously under his eyes.

But for a short while was he permitted to indulge in the luxurious
spectacle.  On reaching the bottom of the stair his fair hostess bade
him a somewhat abrupt adieu.  After the revelations he had so
unwittingly made, his conversation seemed no longer agreeable; and she,
late desirous of interrogating, was now contented to leave him alone
with the Monongahela, as she hastened to hide her chagrin in the
solitude of her chamber.

For the first time in her life Louise Poindexter felt the pangs of
jealousy.  It was her first real love: for she was in love with Maurice
Gerald.

A solicitude like that shown for him by the Mexican senora, could scarce
spring from simple friendship?  Some closer tie must have been
established between them?  So ran the reflections of the now suffering
Creole.

From what Maurice had said--from what she had herself seen--the lady of
the lazo was just such a woman as should win the affections of such a
man.  Hers were accomplishments he might naturally be expected to
admire.

Her figure had appeared perfect under the magnifying effect of the lens.
The face had not been so fairly viewed, and was still undetermined.
Was it in correspondence with the form?  Was it such as to secure the
love of a man so much master of his passions, as the mustanger appeared
to be?

The mistress of Casa del Corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied
herself on this score.  As soon as Zeb Stump had taken his departure,
she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she
sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on
the opposite side.

Advancing in the direction of the Fort, as she expected, she soon
encountered the Mexican senora on her return; no _senora_ according to
the exact signification of the term, but a _senorita_--a young lady, not
older than herself.

At the place of their meeting, the road ran under the shadow of the
trees.  There was no sun to require the coifing of the rebozo upon the
crown of the Mexican equestrian.  The scarf had fallen upon her
shoulders, laying bare a head of hair, in luxuriance rivalling the tail
of a wild steed, in colour the plumage of a crow.  It formed the framing
of a face, that, despite a certain darkness of complexion, was
charmingly attractive.

Good breeding permitted only a glance at it in passing; which was
returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger.  But as the two
rode on, back to back, going in opposite directions, neither could
restrain herself from turning round in the saddle, and snatching a
second glance at the other.

Their reflections were not very dissimilar: if Louise Poindexter had
already learnt something of the individual thus encountered, the latter
was not altogether ignorant of _her_ existence.

We shall not attempt to portray the thoughts of the senorita consequent
on that encounter.  Suffice it to say, that those of the Creole were
even more sombre than when she sallied forth on that errand of
inspection; and that the young mistress of Casa del Corvo rode back to
the mansion, all the way seated in her saddle in an attitude that
betokened the deepest dejection.

"Beautiful!" said she, after passing her supposed rival upon the road.
"Yes; too beautiful to be his friend!"

Louise was speaking to her own conscience; or she might have been more
chary of her praise.

"I cannot have any doubt," continued she, "of the relationship that
exists between them--He loves her!--he loves her!  It accounts for his
cold indifference to me?  I've been mad to risk my heart's happiness in
such an ill-starred entanglement!

"And now to disentangle it!  Now to banish him from my thoughts!  Ah!
'tis easily said!  Can I?"

"I shall see him no more.  That, at least, is possible.  After what has
occurred, he will not come to our house.  We can only meet by accident;
and that accident I must be careful to avoid.  Oh, Maurice Gerald! tamer
of wild steeds! you have subdued a spirit that may suffer long--perhaps
never recover from the lesson!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

STILL ON THE AZOTEA.

To banish from the thoughts one who has been passionately loved is a
simple impossibility.  Time may do much to subdue the pain of an
unreciprocated passion, and absence more.  But neither time, nor
absence, can hinder the continued recurrence of that longing for the
lost loved one--or quiet the heart aching with that void that has never
been satisfactorily filled.

Louise Poindexter had imbibed a passion that could not be easily
stifled.  Though of brief existence, it had been of rapid growth--
vigorously overriding all obstacles to its indulgence.  It was already
strong enough to overcome such ordinary scruples as parental consent, or
the inequality of rank; and, had it been reciprocated, neither would
have stood in the way, so far as she herself was concerned.  For the
former, she was of age; and felt--as most of her countrywomen do--
capable of taking care of herself.  For the latter, who ever really
loved that cared a straw for class, or caste?  Love has no such meanness
in its composition.  At all events, there was none such in the passion
of Louise Poindexter.

It could scarce be called the first illusion of her life.  It was,
however, the first, where disappointment was likely to prove dangerous
to the tranquillity of her spirit.

She was not unaware of this.  She anticipated unhappiness for a while--
hoping that time would enable her to subdue the expected pain.

At first, she fancied she would find a friend in her own strong will;
and another in the natural buoyancy of her spirit.  But as the days
passed, she found reason to distrust both: for in spite of both, she
could not erase from her thoughts the image of the man who had so
completely captivated her imagination.

There were times when she hated him, or tried to do so--when she could
have killed him, or seen him killed, without making an effort to save
him!  They were but moments; each succeeded by an interval of more
righteous reflection, when she felt that the fault was hers alone, as
hers only the misfortune.

_No_ matter for this.  It mattered not if he had been her enemy--the
enemy of all mankind.  If Lucifer himself--to whom in her wild fancy she
had once likened him--she would have loved him all the same!

And it would have proved nothing abnormal in her disposition--nothing to
separate her from the rest of womankind, all the world over.  In the
mind of man, or woman either, there is no connection between the _moral_
and the _passional_.  They are as different from each other as fire from
water.  They may chance to run in the same channel; but they may go
diametrically opposite.  In other words, we may love the very being we
hate--ay, the one we despise!

Louise Poindexter could neither hate, nor despise, Maurice Gerald.  She
could only endeavour to feel indifference.

It was a vain effort, and ended in failure.  She could not restrain
herself from ascending to the azotea, and scrutinising the road where
she had first beheld the cause of her jealousy.  Each day, and almost
every hour of the day, was the ascent repeated.

Still more.  Notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an
encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the
saddle and abroad, scouring the country around--riding through the
streets of the village--with no other object than to meet him.

During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once
again had she seen--from the housetop as before--the lady of the lazo
_en route_ up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the
pannier across his arm--that Pandora's box that had bred such mischief
in her mind--while she herself stood trembling with jealousy--envious of
the other's errand.

She knew more now, though not much.  Only had she learnt the name and
social standing of her rival.  The Dona Isidora Covarubio de los
Llanos--daughter of a wealthy haciendado, who lived upon the Rio Grande,
and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the
boundaries of her father's new purchase.  An eccentric young lady, as
some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything
else excepting her own caprices.

Such was the character of the Mexican senorita, as known to the American
settlers on the Leona.

A knowledge of it did not remove the jealous suspicions of the Creole.
On the contrary, it tended to confirm them.  Such practices were her own
predilections.  She had been created with an instinct to admire them.
She supposed that others must do the same.  The young Irishman was not
likely to be an exception.

There was an interval of several days--during which the lady of the lazo
was not seen again.

"He has recovered from his wounds?" reflected the Creole.  "He no longer
needs such unremitting attention."

She was upon the azotea at the moment of making this reflection--
lorgnette in hand, as she had often been before.

It was in the morning, shortly after sunrise: the hour when the Mexican
had been wont to make her appearance.  Louise had been looking towards
the quarter whence the senorita might have been expected to come.

On turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld--that which
caused her something more than surprise.  She saw Maurice Gerald,
mounted on horseback, and riding down the road!

Though seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle, and going at a slow pace,
it was certainly he.  The glass declared his identity; at the same time
disclosing the fact, that his left arm was suspended in a sling.

On recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet--as she did so, giving
utterance to a suppressed cry.

Why that anguished utterance?  Was it the sight of the disabled arm, or
the pallid face: for the glass had enabled her to distinguish both?

Neither one nor the other.  Neither could be a cause of surprise.
Besides, it was an exclamation far differently intoned to those of
either pity or astonishment.  It was an expression of sorrow, that had
for its origin some heartfelt chagrin.

The invalid was convalescent.  He no longer needed to be visited by his
nurse.  He was on the way to visit _her_!

Cowering behind the parapet--screened by the flower-spike of the
_yucca_--Louise Poindexter watched the passing horseman.  The lorgnette
enabled her to note every movement made by him--almost to the play of
his features.

She felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face
at intervals and fixed his regard upon Casa del Corvo.  It was
increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road,
and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a
long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion.

She almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress!

It was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain
shadow of an eclipse.  It was succeeded by a sadness that might be
appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that
moment seemed filled with gloom.

Maurice Gerald had ridden on.  He had entered the chapparal; and become
lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.

Whither was he bound?  Whither, but to visit Dona Isidora Covarubio de
los Llanos?

It mattered not that he returned within less than an hour.  They might
have met in the woods--within eyeshot of that jealous spectator--but for
the screening of the trees.  An hour was sufficient interview--for
lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence.

It mattered not, that in passing upwards he again cast regards towards
Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed some time in
apparent scrutiny of the mansion.

It was but mockery--or exultation.  He might well feel triumphant; but
why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips--the kisses he had
received from the Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

I LOVE YOU!--I LOVE YOU!

Louise Poindexter upon the azotea again--again to be subjected to a
fresh chagrin!  That broad stone stairway trending up to the housetop,
seemed to lead only to spectacles that gave her pain.  She had mentally
vowed no more to ascend it--at least for a long time.  Something
stronger than her strong will combatted--and successfully--the keeping
of that vow.  It was broken ere the sun of another day had dried the dew
from the grass of the prairie.

As on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the
opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the
slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from
observation.

He was going downwards, as on the day preceding.  In like manner did he
cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump
of trees that grew opposite.

Her heart fluttered between hope and fear.  There was an instant when
she felt half inclined to show herself.  Fear prevailed; and in the next
instant he was gone.

Whither?

The self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday.  It met
with a similar response.

Whither, if not to meet Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Could there be a doubt of it?

If so, it was soon to be determined.  In less than twenty minutes after,
a parded steed was seen upon the same road--and in the same direction--
with a lady upon its back.

The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer.  No truth
could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through
suspicion.  She had resolved on assuring herself, though the knowledge
should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes.

She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce
twenty minutes before.  She rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the
acacias.  She rode in silence upon the soft turf--keeping close to the
side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones.  The
long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled
with the plumes in her hat.  She sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to
avoid being observed--all the while with earnest glance scanning the
open space before her.

She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond.  There
was a house in sight surrounded by tall trees.  It might have been
termed a mansion.  It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the
uncle of Dona Isidora.  So much had she learnt already.

There were other houses to be seen upon the plain below; but on this
one, and the road leading to it, the eyes of the Creole became fixed in
a glance of uneasy interrogation.

For a time she continued her scrutiny without satisfaction.  No one
appeared either at the house, or near it.  The private road leading to
the residence of the haciendado, and the public highway, were alike
without living forms.  Some horses were straying over the pastures; but
not one with a rider upon his back.

Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?

Were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house?
If the former, was Don Silvio aware of it?  If the latter, was he at
home--an approving party to the assignation?

With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of
a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the chinking of a shod
hoof against the stones of the causeway.  She looked below: for she had
halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity.  The mustanger was ascending
it--riding directly towards her.  She might have seen him sooner, had
she not been occupied with the more distant view.

He was alone, as he had ridden past Casa del Corvo.  There was nothing
to show that he had recently been in company--much less in the company
of an _inamorata_.

It was too late for Louise to shun him.  The spotted mustang had replied
to the salutation of an old acquaintance.  Its rider was constrained to
keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.

"Good day, Miss Poindexter?" said he--for upon the prairies it is _not_
etiquette for the lady to speak first.  "Alone?"

"Alone, sir.  And why not?"

"'Tis a solitary ride among the chapparals.  But true: I think I've
heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?"

"You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald.  To you, however, it is not
so solitary, I presume?"

"In faith I do like it; and just for that very reason.  I have the
misfortune to live at a tavern, or `hotel,' as mine host is pleased to
call it; and one gets so tired of the noises--especially an invalid, as
I have the bad luck to be--that a ride along this quiet road is
something akin to luxury.  The cool shade of these acacias--which the
Mexicans have vulgarised by the name of _mezquites_--with the breeze
that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would
invigorate the feeblest of frames.  Don't you think so, Miss
Poindexter?"

"You should know best, sir," was the reply vouchsafed, after some
seconds of embarrassment.  "You, who have so often tried it."

"Often!  I have been only twice down this road since I have been able to
sit in my saddle.  But, Miss Poindexter, may I ask how you knew that I
have been this way at all?"

"Oh!" rejoined Louise, her colour going and coming as she spoke, "how
could I help knowing it?  I am in the habit of spending much time on the
housetop.  The view, the breeze, the music of the birds, ascending from
the garden below, makes it a delightful spot--especially in the cool of
the morning.  Our roof commands a view of this road.  Being up there,
how could I avoid seeing you as you passed--that is, so long as you were
not under _the shade of the acacias_?"

"You saw me, then?" said Maurice, with an embarrassed air, which was not
caused by the innuendo conveyed in her last words--which he could not
have comprehended--but by a remembrance of how he had himself behaved
while riding along the reach of open road.

"How could I help it?" was the ready reply.  "The distance is scarce six
hundred yards.  Even a lady, mounted upon a steed much smaller than
yours, was sufficiently conspicuous to be identified.  When I saw her
display her wonderful skill, by strangling a poor little antelope with
her lazo, I knew it could be no other than she whose accomplishments you
were so good as to give me an account of."

"Isidora?"

"Isidora!"

"Ah; true!  She has been here for some time."

"And has been very kind to Mr Maurice Gerald?"

"Indeed, it is true.  She has been very kind; though I have had no
chance of thanking her.  With all her friendship for poor me, she is a
great hater of us foreign invaders; and would not condescend to step
over the threshold of Mr Oberdoffer's hotel."

"Indeed!  I suppose she preferred meeting you under the _shade of the
acacias_!"

"I have not met her at all; at least, not for many months; and may not
for months to come--now that she has gone back to her home on the Rio
Grande."

"Are you speaking the truth, sir?  You have not seen her since--she is
gone away from the house of her uncle?"

"She has," replied Maurice, exhibiting surprise.  "Of course, I have not
seen her.  I only knew she was here by her sending me some delicacies
while I was ill.  In truth, I stood in need of them.  The hotel
_cuisine_ is none of the nicest; nor was I the most welcome of Mr
Oberdoffer's guests.  The Dona Isidora has been but too grateful for the
slight service I once did her."

"A service!  May I ask what it was, Mr Gerald?"

"Oh, certainly.  It was merely a chance.  I had the opportunity of being
useful to the young lady, in once rescuing her from some rude Indians--
Wild Oat and his Seminoles--into whose hands she had fallen, while
making a journey from the Rio Grande to visit her uncle on the Leona--
Don Silvio Martinez, whose house you can see from here.  The brutes had
got drunk; and were threatening--not exactly her life--though that was
in some danger, but--well, the poor girl was in trouble with them, and
might have had some difficulty in getting away, had I not chanced to
ride up."

"A slight service, you call it?  You are modest in your estimate, Mr
Gerald.  A man who should do that much for _me_!"

"What would you do for _him_?" asked the mustanger, placing a
significant emphasis on the final word.

"I should _love_ him," was the prompt reply.

"Then," said Maurice, spurring his horse close up to the side of the
spotted mustang, and whispering into the ear of its rider, with an
earnestness strangely contrasting to his late reticence, "I would give
half my life to see you in the hands of Wild Cat and his drunken
comrades--the other half to deliver you from the danger."

"Do you mean this, Maurice Gerald?  Do not trifle with me: I am not a
child.  Speak the truth!  Do you mean it?"

"I do!  As heaven is above me, I do!"

The sweetest kiss I ever had in my life, was when a woman--a fair
creature, in the hunting field--leant over in her saddle and kissed me
as I sate in mine.

The fondest embrace ever received by Maurice Gerald, was that given by
Louise Poindexter; when, standing up in her stirrup, and laying her hand
upon his shoulder, she cried in an agony of earnest passion--

"_Do with me as thou wilt: I love you, I love you_!"



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A PLEASURE FORBIDDEN.

Ever since Texas became the scene of an Anglo-Saxon immigration--I might
go a century farther back and say, from the time of its colonisation by
the descendants of the Conquistadores--the subject of primary importance
has been the disposition of its aborigines.

Whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of
open war--or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were
consenting to a temporary peace--made but slight difference, so far as
they were talked about.  In either case they were a topic of daily
discourse.  In the former it related to the dangers to be hourly
apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such
treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks
entombed.

In Mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at
_desayuno, almuerzo, comida, y cena_; in American times, up to this
present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast,
dinner, and supper tables.  In the planter's piazza, as in the hunter's
camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary, are not named with half the
frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word
"Indian."  It is this that scares the Texan child instead of the
stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed
mattress--disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent.

Despite the surrounding of strong walls--more resembling those of a
fortress than a gentleman's dwelling--the inmates of Casa del Corvo were
not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the
frontier.  As yet they knew little of the Indians, and that little only
from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with
the character of this natural "terror" that interfered with the slumbers
of their fellow settlers.

That it was no mere "bogie" they had begun to believe; but if any of
them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the
Fort--about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition--was calculated
to cure them of their incredulity.  It came in the early morning,
carried by a mounted rifleman.  It was put into the hands of the planter
just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which
were assembled the three individuals who composed his household--his
daughter Louise, his son Henry, and his nephew Cassius Calhoun.

"Startling news!" he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note.  "Not
very pleasant if true; and I suppose there can be no doubt of that,
since the major appears convinced."

"Unpleasant news, papa?" asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to
her cheek as she put the question.

The spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud.

"What can the major have written to him?  I met him yesterday while
riding in the chapparal.  He saw me in company with--Can it be that?
_Mon Dieu_! if father should hear it--"

"`The Comanches on the war trail'--so writes the major."

"Oh, that's all!" said Louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase,
as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it.  "You frightened us,
sir.  I thought it was something worse."

"Worse!  What trifling, child, to talk so!  There is nothing worse, in
Texas, than Comanches on the war trail--nothing half so dangerous."

Louise might have thought there was--a danger at least as difficult to
be avoided.  Perhaps she was reflecting upon a pursuit of wild steeds--
or thinking of the _trail of a lazo_.

She made no reply.  Calhoun continued the conversation.

"Is the major sure of the Indians being up?  What does he say, uncle?"

"That there have been rumours of it for some days past, though not
reliable.  Now it is certain.  Last night Wild Cat, the Seminole chief,
came to the Fort with a party of his tribe; bringing the news that the
painted pole has been erected in the camps of the Comanches all over
Texas, and that the war dance has been going on for more than a month.
That several parties are already out upon the maraud, and may be looked
for among the settlements at any moment."

"And Wild Cat himself--what of him?" asked Louise, an unpleasant
reminiscence suggesting the inquiry.  "Is that renegade Indian to be
trusted, who appears to be as much an enemy to the whites as to the
people of his own race?"

"Quite true, my daughter.  You have described the chief of the Seminoles
almost in the same terms as I find him spoken of, in a postscript to the
major's letter.  He counsels us to beware of the two-faced old rascal,
who will be sure to take sides with the Comanches, whenever it may suit
his convenience to do so."

"Well," continued the planter, laying aside the note, and betaking
himself to his coffee and waffles, "I trust we sha'n't see any redskins
here--either Seminoles or Comanches.  In making their marauds, let us
hope they will not like the look of the crenelled parapets of Casa del
Corvo, but give the hacienda a wide berth."

Before any one could respond, a sable face appearing at the door of the
dining-room--which was the apartment in which breakfast was being
eaten--caused a complete change in the character of the conversation.

The countenance belonged to Pluto, the coachman.

"What do you want, Pluto?" inquired his owner.

"Ho, ho!  Massr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin 't all.  Only look in t'
tell Missa Looey dat soon's she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner
de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf.  Ho! ho! dat
critter do dance 'bout on de pave stone as ef it wa' mad to 'treak it
back to de smoove tuff ob de praira."

"Going out for a ride, Louise?" asked the planter with a shadow upon his
brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.

"Yes, papa; I was thinking of it."

"You must not."

"Indeed!"

"I mean, that you must not ride out _alone_.  It is not proper."

"Why do you think so, papa?  I have often ridden out alone."

"Yes; perhaps too often."

This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of
the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was
to put upon it.

Notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation.  On
the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply.

"If you think so, papa, I shall not go out again.  Though to be cooped
up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad
upon business--is that the life you intend me to lead in Texas?"

"Nothing of the sort, my daughter.  I have no objection to your riding
out as much as you please; but Henry must be with you, or your cousin
Cassius.  I only lay an embargo on your going alone.  I have my
reasons."

"Reasons!  What are they?"

The question came involuntarily to her lips.  It had scarce passed them,
ere she regretted having asked it.  By her uneasy air it was evident she
had apprehensions as to the answer.

The reply appeared partially to relieve her.

"What other reasons do you want," said the planter, evidently
endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the Statement
of a convenient fact--"what better, than the contents of this letter
from the major?  Remember, my child, you are not in Louisiana, where a
lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but
in Texas, where she may dread both--where even her life may be in
danger.  Here there are Indians."

"My excursions don't extend so far from the house, that I need have any
fear of Indians.  I never go more than five miles at the most."

"Five miles!" exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic
smile; "you would be as safe at fifty, cousin Loo.  You are just as
likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as
at the distance of a hundred miles.  When they are on the war trail they
may be looked for anywhere, and at any time.  In my opinion, uncle
Woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone."

"Oh! _you_ say so?" sharply retorted the young Creole, turning
disdainfully towards her cousin.  "And pray, sir, may I ask of what
service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the
Comanches, which I don't believe there's the slightest danger of my
doing?  A pretty figure we'd cut--the pair of us--in the midst of a
war-party of painted savages!  Ha! ha!  The danger would be yours, not
mine: since I should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own
devices.  Danger, indeed, within five miles of the house!  If there's a
horseman in Texas--savages not excepted--who can catch up with my little
Luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more
than you do, Mr Cash!"

"Silence, daughter!" commanded Poindexter.  "Don't let me hear you talk
in that absurd strain.  Take no notice of it, nephew.  Even if there
were no danger from Indians, there are other outlaws in these parts
quite as much to be shunned as they.  Enough that I forbid you to ride
abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do."

"Be it as you will, papa," rejoined Louise, rising from the
breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the
room.  "Of course I shall obey you--at the risk of losing my health for
want of exercise.  Go, Pluto!" she added, addressing herself to the
darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, "turn Luna loose into
the corral--the pastures--anywhere.  Let her stray back to her native
prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she's no longer needed here."

With this speech, the young lady swept out of the _sala_, leaving the
three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect
upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words.

They were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series.
As she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low
murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips.  They were in the shape of
interrogatories--a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by
conjecture.

"What can papa have heard?  Is it but his suspicions?  Can any one have
told him?  Does he knew that we have met?"



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

EL COYOTE AT HOME.

Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly
as his cousin; but, on leaving the _sala_ instead of returning to his
own chamber, he sallied forth from the house.

Still suffering from wounds but half healed, he was nevertheless
sufficiently convalescent to go abroad--into the garden, to the stables,
the corrals--anywhere around the house.

On the present occasion, his excursion was intended to conduct him to a
more distant point.  As if under the stimulus of what had turned up in
the conversation--or perhaps by the contents of the letter that had been
read--his feebleness seemed for the time to have forsaken him; and,
vigorously plying his crutch, he proceeded up the river in the direction
of Fort Inge.

In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda
and the Fort--and that did not appear to belong to any one--he arrived
at the terminus of his limping expedition.  There was a grove of
_mezquit_, with, some larger trees shading it; and in the midst of this,
a rude hovel of "wattle and dab," known in South-Western Texas as a
_jacale_.

It was the domicile of Miguel Diaz, the Mexican mustanger--a lair
appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the
distinctive appellation of _El Coyote_ ("Prairie Wolf.")

It was not always that the wolf could be found in his den--for his
_jacale_ deserved no better description.  It was but his occasional
sleeping-place; during those intervals of inactivity when, by the
disposal of a drove of captured mustangs, he could afford to stay for a
time within the limits of the settlement, indulging in such gross
pleasures as its proximity afforded.

Calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so
fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety.  He was not exactly
intoxicated--having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially
recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence.

"_H'la nor_!" he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the
salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the _jacale_.  "_P'r
Dios_!  Who'd have expected to see you?  _Sientese_!  Be seated.  Take a
chair.  There's one.  A chair!  Ha! ha! ha!"

The laugh was called up at contemplation of that which he had
facetiously termed a chair.  It was the skull of a mustang, intended to
serve as such; and which, with another similar piece, a rude table of
cleft yucca-tree, and a couch of cane reeds, upon which the owner of the
_jacale_ was reclining, constituted the sole furniture of Miguel Diaz's
dwelling.

Calhoun, fatigued with his halting promenade, accepted the invitation of
his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull.

He did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of
his errand.

"Senor Diaz!" said he, "I have come for--"

"Senor Americano!" exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting
short the explanation, "why waste words upon that?  _Carrambo_!  I know
well enough for what you've come.  You want me to _wipe out_ that
devilish _Irlandes_!"

"Well!"

"Well; I promised you I would do it, for five hundred _pesos_--at the
proper time and opportunity.  I will.  Miguel Diaz never played false to
his promise.  But the time's not come, _nor capitan_; nor yet the
opportunity, _Carajo_!  To kill a man outright requires skill.  It can't
be done--even on the prairies--without danger of detection; and if
detected, ha! what chance for me?  You forget, _nor capitan_, that I'm a
Mexican.  If I were of your people, I might slay Don Mauricio; and get
clear on the score of its being a quarrel.  _Maldita_!  With us Mexicans
it is different.  If we stick our machete into a man so as to let out
his life's blood, it is called murder; and you Americanos, with your
stupid juries of twelve _honest_ men, would pronounce it so: ay, and
hang a poor fellow for it.  _Chingaro_!  I can't risk that.  I hate the
Irlandes as much as you; but I'm not going to chop off my nose to spite
my own face.  I must wait for the time, and the chance--_carrai_, the
time and the chance."

"Both are come!" exclaimed the tempter, bending earnestly towards the
bravo.  "You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian
trouble going on?"

"Of course I said so.  If there was that--"

"You have not heard the news, then?"

"What news?"

"That the Comanches are starting on the war trail."

"_Carajo_!" exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch of reeds,
and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the
scent of prey.  "_Santissima Virgen_!  Do you speak the truth, _nor
capitan_?"

"Neither more nor less.  The news has just reached the Fort.  I have it
on the best authority--the officer in command."

"In that case," answered the Mexican reflecting!--"in that case, Don
Mauricio may die.  The Comanches can kill him.  Ha! ha! ha!"

"You are sure of it?"

"I should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead
of five hundred."

"It _is_ worth that sum."

"What sum?"

"A thousand dollars."

"You promise it?"

"I do."

"Then the Comanches _shall_ scalp him, _nor capitan_.  You may return to
Casa del Corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the
opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair.  You understand?"

"I do."

"Get ready your thousand _pesos_."

"They wait your acceptance."

"_Carajo_!  I shall earn them in a trice.  Adios!  Adios!"

"_Santissima Virgen_!" exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor
limped out of sight.  "What a magnificent fluke of fortune!  A perfect
_chiripe_.  A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on
my own account, without charging anybody a single _claco_ for the deed!

"The Comanches upon the war trail!  _Chingaro_! can it be true?  If so,
I must look up my old disguise--gone to neglect through these three long
years of accursed peace.  _Viva la guerra de los Indios_!  Success to
the pantomime of the prairies!"



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A SAGITTARY CORRESPONDENCE.

Louise Poindexter, passionately addicted to the sports termed "manly,"
could scarce have overlooked archery.

She had not.  The how, and its adjunct the arrow, were in her hands as
toys which she could control to her will.

She had been instructed in their _manege_ by the Houma Indians; a
remnant of whom--the last descendants of a once powerful tribe--may
still be encountered upon the "coast" of the Mississippi, in the
proximity of Point Coupe and the _bayou_ Atchafalaya.

For a long time her bow had lain unbent--unpacked, indeed, ever since it
had formed part of the paraphernalia brought overland in the waggon
train.  Since her arrival at Casa del Corvo she had found no occasion to
use the weapon of Diana; and her beautiful bow of Osage-orange wood, and
quiver of plumed arrows, had lain neglected in the lumber-room.

There came a time when they were taken forth, and honoured with some
attention.  It was shortly after that scene at the breakfast table; when
she had received the paternal command to discontinue her equestrian
excursions.

To this she had yielded implicit obedience, even beyond what was
intended: since not only had she given up riding out alone, but declined
to do so in company.

The spotted mustang stood listless in its stall, or pranced frantically
around the corral; wondering why its spine was no longer crossed, or its
ribs compressed, by that strange caparison, that more than aught else
reminded it of its captivity.

It was not neglected, however.  Though no more mounted by its fair
mistress, it was the object of her daily--almost hourly--solicitude.
The best corn in the _granaderias_ of Casa del Corvo was selected, the
most nutritions grass that grows upon the lavanna--the _gramma_--
furnished for its manger; while for drink it had the cool crystal water
from the current of the Leona.

Pluto took delight in grooming it; and, under his currycomb and brushes,
its coat had attained a gloss which rivalled that upon Pluto's own sable
skin.

While not engaged attending upon her pet, Miss Poindexter divided the
residue of her time between indoor duties and archery.  The latter she
appeared to have selected as the substitute for that pastime of which
she was so passionately fond, and in which she was now denied
indulgence.

The scene of her sagittary performances was the garden, with its
adjacent shrubbery--an extensive enclosure, three sides of which were
fenced in by the river itself, curving round it like the shoe of a
racehorse, the fourth being a straight line traced by the rearward wall
of the hacienda.

Within this circumference a garden, with ornamental grounds, had been
laid out, in times long gone by--as might have been told by many ancient
exotics seen standing over it.  Even the statues spoke of a past age--
not only in their decay, but in the personages they were intended to
represent.  Equally did they betray the chisel of the Spanish sculptor.
Among them you might see commemorated the figure and features of the
great Conde; of the Campeador; of Ferdinand and his energetic queen; of
the discoverer of the American world; of its two chief
_conquistadores_--Cortez and Pizarro; and of her, alike famous for her
beauty and devotion, the Mexican Malinche.

It was not amidst these sculptured stones that Louise Poindexter
practised her feats of archery; though more than once might she have
been seen standing before the statue of Malinche, and scanning the
voluptuous outline of the Indian maiden's form; not with any severe
thought of scorn, that this dark-skinned daughter of Eve had succumbed
to such a conqueror as Cortez.

The young creole felt, in her secret heart, that she had no right to
throw a stone at that statue.  To one less famed than Cortez--though in
her estimation equally deserving of fame--she had surrendered what the
great conquistador had won from Marina--her heart of hearts.

In her excursions with the bow, which were of diurnal occurrence, she
strayed not among the statues.  Her game was not there to be found; but
under the shadow of tall trees that, keeping the curve of the river,
formed a semicircular grove between it and the garden.  Most of these
trees were of indigenous growth--wild Chinas, mulberries, and pecans--
that in the laying out of the grounds had been permitted to remain where
Nature, perhaps some centuries ago, had scattered their seed.

It was under the leafy canopy of these fair forest trees the young
Creole delighted to sit--or stray along the edge of the pellucid river,
that rolled dreamily by.

Here she was free to be alone; which of late appeared to be her
preference.  Her father, in his sternest mood, could not have denied her
so slight a privilege.  If there was danger upon the outside prairie,
there could be none within the garden--enclosed, as it was, by a river
broad and deep, and a wall that could not have been scaled without the
aid of a thirty-round ladder.  So far from objecting to this solitary
strolling, the planter appeared something more than satisfied that his
daughter had taken to these tranquil habits; and the suspicions which he
had conceived--not altogether without a cause--were becoming gradually
dismissed from his mind.

After all he might have been misinformed?  The tongue of scandal takes
delight in torturing; and he may have been chosen as one of its victims?
Or, perhaps, it was but a casual thing--the encounter of which he had
been told, between his daughter and Maurice the mustanger?  They may
have met by accident in the chapparal?  She could not well pass, without
speaking to, the man who had twice rescued her from a dread danger.
There might have been nothing in it, beyond the simple acknowledgment of
her gratitude?

It looked well that she had, with such willingness, consented to
relinquish her rides.  It was but little in keeping with her usual
custom, when crossed.  Obedience to that particular command could not
have been irksome; and argued innocence uncontaminated, virtue still
intact.

So reasoned the fond father; who, beyond conjecture, was not permitted
to scrutinise too closely the character of his child.  In other lands,
or in a different class of society, he might possibly have asked direct
questions, and required direct answers to them.  This is not the method
upon the Mississippi; where a son of ten years old--a daughter of less
than fifteen--would rebel against such scrutiny, and call it
inquisition.

Still less might Woodley Poindexter strain the statutes of parental
authority--the father of a Creole belle--for years used to that proud
homage whose incense often stills, or altogether destroys, the simpler
affections of the heart.

Though her father, and by law her controller, he knew to what a short
length his power might extend, if exerted in opposition to her will.  He
was, therefore, satisfied with her late act of obedience--rejoiced to
find that instead of continuing her reckless rides upon the prairie, she
now contented herself within the range of the garden--with bow and arrow
slaying the small birds that were so unlucky as to come under her aim.

Father of fifty years old, why reason in this foolish fashion?  Have you
forgotten your own youth--the thoughts that then inspired you--the
deceits you practised under such inspiration--the counterfeits you
assumed--the "stories" you told to cloak what, after all, may have been
the noblest impulse of your nature?

The father of the fair Louise appeared to have become oblivious to
recollections of this kind: for his early life was not without facts to
have furnished them.  They must have been forgotten, else he would have
taken occasion to follow his daughter into the garden, and observe her--
himself unobserved--while disporting herself in the shrubbery that
bordered the river bank.

By doing so, he would have discovered that her disposition was not so
cruel as may have been supposed.  Instead of transfixing the innocent
birds that fluttered in such foolish confidence around her, her greatest
feat in archery appeared to be the impaling of a piece of paper upon the
point of her arrow, and sending the shaft thus charged across the river,
to fall harmlessly into a thicket on the opposite side.

He would have witnessed an exhibition still more singular.  He would
have seen the arrow thus spent--after a short interval, as if
dissatisfied with the place into which it had been shot, and desirous of
returning to the fair hand whence it had taken its departure--come back
into the garden with the same, or a similar piece of paper, transfixed
upon its shaft!

The thing might have appeared mysterious--even supernatural--to an
observer unacquainted with the spirit and mechanism of that abnormal
phenomenon.  There was no observer of it save the two individuals who
alternately bent the bow, shooting with a single arrow; and by them it
was understood.

"Love laughs at locksmiths."  The old adage is scarce suited to Texas,
where lock-making is an unknown trade.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," expresses pretty much the same
sentiment, appropriate to all time and every place.  Never was it more
correctly illustrated than in that exchange of bow-shots across the
channel of the Leona.

Louise Poindexter had the will; Maurice Gerald had suggested the way.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A STREAM CLEVERLY CROSSED.

The sagittary correspondence could not last for long.  They are but
lukewarm lovers who can content themselves with a dialogue carried on at
bowshot distance.  Hearts brimful of passion must beat and burn
together--in close proximity--each feeling the pulsation of the other.
"If there be an Elysium on earth, it is this!"

Maurice Gerald was not the man--nor Louise Poindexter the woman--to shun
such a consummation.

It came to pass: not under the tell-tale light of the sun, but in the
lone hour of midnight, when but the stars could have been witnesses of
their social dereliction.

Twice had they stood together in that garden grove--twice had they
exchanged love vows--under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a
third interview had been arranged between them.

Little suspected the proud planter--perhaps prouder of his daughter than
anything else he possessed--that she was daily engaged in an act of
rebellion--the wildest against which parental authority may pronounce
itself.

His own daughter--his only daughter--of the best blood of Southern
aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a
splendid alliance--holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter!

Could he have but dreamt it when slumbering upon his soft couch, the
dream would have startled him from his sleep like the call of the
eternal trumpet!

He had no suspicion--not the slightest.  The thing was too improbable--
too monstrous, to have given cause for one.  Its very monstrosity would
have disarmed him, had the thought been suggested.

He had been pleased at his daughter's compliance with his late
injunctions; though he would have preferred her obeying them to the
letter, and riding out in company with her brother or cousin--which she
still declined to do.  This, however, he did not insist upon.  He could
well concede so much to her caprice: since her staying at home could be
no disadvantage to the cause that had prompted him to the stern counsel.

Her ready obedience had almost influenced him to regret the prohibition.
Walking in confidence by day, and sleeping in security by night, he
fancied, it might be recalled.

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

It was one of those nights known only to a southern sky, when the full
round moon rolls clear across a canopy of sapphire; when the mountains
have no mist, and look as though you could lay your hand upon them; when
the wind is hushed, and the broad leaves of the tropical trees droop
motionless from their boughs; themselves silent as if listening to the
concert of singular sounds carried on in their midst, and in which
mingle the voices of living creatures belonging to every department of
animated nature--beast, bird, reptile, and insect.

Such a night was it, as you would select for a stroll in company with
the being--the one and only being--who, by the mysterious dictation of
Nature, has entwined herself around your heart--a night upon which you
feel a wayward longing to have white arms entwined around your neck, and
bright eyes before your face, with that voluptuous gleaming that can
only be felt to perfection under the mystic light of the moon.

It was long after the infantry drum had beaten tattoo, and the cavalry
bugle sounded the signal for the garrison of Fort Inge to go to bed--in
fact it was much nearer the hour of midnight--when a horseman rode away
from the door of Oberdoffer's hotel; and, taking the down-river road,
was soon lost to the sight of the latest loiterer who might have been
strolling through the streets of the village.

It is already known, that this road passed the hacienda of Casa del
Corvo, at some distance from the house, and on the opposite side of the
river.  It is also known that at the same place it traversed a stretch
of open prairie, with only a piece of copsewood midway between two
extensive tracts of chapparal.

This clump of isolated timber, known in prairie parlance as a "motte" or
"island" of timber, stood by the side of the road, along which the
horseman had continued, after taking his departure from the village.

On reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the
underwood; "hitched" him, by looping his bridle rein around the topmost
twigs of an elastic bough; then detaching a long rope of twisted
horsehair from the "horn" of his saddle, and inserting his arm into its
coil, he glided out to the edge of the "island," on that side that lay
towards the hacienda.

Before forsaking the shadow of the copse, he cast a glance towards the
sky, and at the moon sailing supremely over it.  It was a glance of
inquiry, ending in a look of chagrin, with some muttered phrases that
rendered it more emphatic.

"No use waiting for that beauty to go to bed?  She's made up her mind,
she won't go home till morning--ha! ha!"

The droll conceit, which has so oft amused the nocturnal inebriate of
great cities, appeared to produce a like affect upon the night patroller
of the prairie; and for a moment the shadow, late darkening his brow,
disappeared.  It returned anon; as he stood gazing across the open space
that separated him from the river bottom--beyond which lay the hacienda
of Casa del Corvo, clearly outlined upon the opposite bluff, "If there
_should_ be any one stirring about the place?  It's not likely at this
hour; unless it be the owner of a bad conscience who can't sleep.
Troth! there's one such within those walls.  If he be abroad there's a
good chance of his seeing me on the open ground; not that I should care
a straw, if it were only myself to be compromised.  By Saint Patrick, I
see no alternative but risk it!  It's no use waiting upon the moon,
deuce take her!  She don't go down for hours; and there's not the sign
of a cloud.  It won't do to keep _her_ waiting.  No; I must chance it in
the clear light.  Here goes?"

Saying this, with a swift but stealthy step, the dismounted horseman
glided across the treeless tract, and soon readied the escarpment of the
cliff, that formed the second height of land rising above the channel of
the Leona.

He did not stay ten seconds in this conspicuous situation; but by a path
that zigzagged down the bluff--and with which he appeared familiar--he
descended to the river "bottom."

In an instant after he stood upon the bank; at the convexity of the
river's bend, and directly opposite the spot where a skiff was moored,
under the sombre shadow of a gigantic cotton-tree.

For a short while he stood gazing across the stream, with a glance that
told of scrutiny.  He was scanning the shrubbery on the other side; in
the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its
shadow.

Becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his
lazo--for it was this he carried over his arm--and giving it half a
dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream.

The noose settled over the cutwater of the skiff; and closing around the
stem, enabled him to tow the tiny craft to the side on which he stood.

Stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars that lay along the planking
at the bottom; and, placing them between the thole-pins, pulled the boat
back to its moorings.

Leaping out, he secured it as it had been before, against the drift of
the current; and then, taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree,
he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one,
expected by appointment.

His manoeuvres up to this moment, had they been observed, might have
rendered him amenable to the suspicion that he was a housebreaker, about
to "crack the crib" of Casa del Corvo.

The phrases that fell from his lips, however, could they have been
heard, would have absolved him of any such vile or vulgar intention.  It
is true he had designs upon the hacienda; but these did not contemplate
either its cash, plate, or jewellery--if we except the most precious
jewel it contained--the mistress of the mansion herself.

It is scarce necessary to say, that the man who had hidden his horse in
the "motte," and so cleverly effected the crossing of the stream, was
Maurice the mustanger.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

LIGHT AND SHADE.

He had not long to chafe under the trysting-tree, if such it were.  At
the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a casement window
that looked to the rear of the hacienda commenced turning upon its
hinges, and was then for a time held slightly ajar; as if some one
inside was intending to issue forth, and only hesitated in order to be
assured that the "coast was clear."

A small white hand--decorated with jewels that glistened under the light
of the moon--grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened
the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their
costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure--soon
after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the
garden--could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.

It was she.

For a second or two the lady stood listening.  She heard, or fancied she
heard, the dip of an oar.  She might be mistaken; for the stridulation
of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound.  No matter.
The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand
upon punctilios as to time--especially after spending two hours of
solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many.
With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided
sylph-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the
shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly
outstretched to receive her.

Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace--strange to say, sweeter
from being stolen?  Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at
such a moment--too sacred to be touched by the pen?

It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had
begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes
proper, or even possible to report them.

Thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative:--

"To-morrow night you will meet me again--to-morrow night, dearest
Maurice?"

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,--if I were free to say the
word."

"And why not?  Why are you not free to say it?"

"To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo."

"Indeed!  Is it imperative you should go?"

The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure.  A vision
of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at
mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.

And why?  It had afforded her hospitality.  One would suppose that her
visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections
of her life.  And yet it was not!

"I have excellent reasons for going," was the reply she received.

"Excellent reasons!  Do you expect to meet any one there?"

"My follower Phelim--no one else.  I hope the poor fellow is still above
the grass.  I sent him out about ten days ago--before there was any
tidings of these Indian troubles."

"Only Phelim you expect to meet?  Is it true, Gerald?  Dearest! do not
deceive me!  Only him?"

"Why do you ask the question, Louise?"

"I cannot tell you why.  I should die of shame to speak my secret
thoughts."

"Do not fear to speak them!  I could keep no secret from you--in truth I
could not.  So tell me what it is, love!"

"Do you wish me, Maurice?"

"I do--of course I do.  I feel sure that whatever it may be, I shall be
able to explain it.  I know that my relations with you are of a
questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of
them.  It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo."

"And to stay there?"

"Only for a single day, or two at most.  Only to gather up my household
gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life."

"Indeed!"

"You appear surprised."

"No! only mystified.  I cannot comprehend you.  Perhaps I never shall!"

"'Tis very simple--the resolve I have taken.  I know you will forgive
me, when I make it known to you."

"Forgive you, Maurice!  For what do you ask forgiveness?"

"For keeping it a secret from you, that--that I am not what I seem."

"God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me--noble,
grand, beautiful, rare among men!  Oh, Maurice! you know not how I
esteem--how I love you!"

"Not more than I esteem and love you.  It is that very esteem that now
counsels me to a separation."

"A separation?"

"Yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time."

"How long?"

"While a steamer can cross the Atlantic, and return."

"An age!  And why this?"

"I am called to my native country--Ireland, so much despised, as you
already know.  'Tis only within the last twenty hours I received the
summons.  I obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me I shall be able
soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor
horse-hunter who won his daughter's heart--have I won it, Louise?"

"Idle questioner!  Won it?  You know you have more than won it--
conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape.  Mock me
not, Maurice, nor my stricken heart--henceforth, and for evermore, your
slave!"

During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by
which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered
herself--heart, soul, and body--to the man who had made conquest of her
affections, there was silence perfect and profound.

The grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the
mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring
still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous
instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though
one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred
ceremony transpiring in their presence!

But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause.  A
footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden--and yet touching
it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact--
was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.

The lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection,
heard it not.  They saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or
devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now
cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became
stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot
where they were kissing each other!

Little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all
nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their
passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time,
betraying their excited actions.

That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a
witness to both.  Within easy earshot, he could hear every word--even
the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery
light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect
their slightest gestures.

It is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper.
That of Cassius Calhoun will have suggested itself.

It was he.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A TORTURING DISCOVERY.

How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour
of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning?  Had he
been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some
instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his
sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of
the garden?

In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon
information previously communicated to him?

The former was the fact.  Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear
night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul
with the fires of hell.

Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight--what had taken him
up there cannot be guessed--breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an
atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming
_cereus_; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any
particular anxiety.  He had recovered from the injuries received in his
encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did
not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up
before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted
by hopes of revenge--towards a plan for which he had already made some
progress.

Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented
of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly
suggested the prohibition to her going abroad.  Equally had he remained
ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar
manner had misconceived it.  In fact, he had begun to flatter himself,
that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on
the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his.  She had been less
cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant
impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.

He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a
partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any
renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there
was none.

Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted
up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the
careless _insouciance_ with which he applied the light to his cigar, and
afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there
for any very important purpose.  It may have been to exchange the sultry
atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may
have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon--though he was not much
given to such romantic contemplation.

Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying
it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face
turned towards the river.

It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the
chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open
plain.

He knew of the road that was there.  Some traveller, he supposed, who
preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night--a night, too,
that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey.
It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village,
after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.

In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight,
it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.

The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road;
but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some
common waif drifting down the current of a river.

It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of
timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the
spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his
movements.

"What the devil can that mean?" muttered Calhoun to himself, as he
hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth.  "Damn the man,
he's dismounted!" continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by
the inner edge of the copse.

"And coming this way--towards the bend of the river--straight as he can
streak it!

"Down the bluff--into the bottom--and with a stride that shows him well
acquainted with the way.  Surely to God he don't intend making his way
across into the garden?  He'd have to swim for that; and anything he
could get there would scarce pay him for his pains.  What the old
Scratch can be his intention?  A thief?"

This was Calhoun's first idea--rejected almost as soon as conceived.  It
is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on
horseback.  Much more might the thief?

For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight
expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.

What else could he be after?

The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and
coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be
seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man's
errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises
of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.

What could it be?

Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun
upon the housetop.  The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite
side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.

"What can the man be after?"

After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth
time--each with increasing emphasis--the composure of the ex-captain was
still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly
like a plunge in the river.  It was slight, but clearly the concussion
of some hard substance brought in contact with water.

"The stroke of an oar," muttered he, on hearing it.  "Is, by the holy
Jehovah!  He's got hold of the skiff, and's crossing over to the garden.
What on earth can he be after?"

The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine.  His
thought was to slip silently downstairs--rouse the male members of the
family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the
intruder by a clever ambuscade.

He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping
back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that
caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.

This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it
proceed from the direction of the river.  It was the creaking of a door
as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement
window; while it came from below--almost directly underneath the spot
where the listener stood.

On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks
to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them--what sent the
blood curdling through every corner of his heart.

The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the
bed-chamber of his cousin Louise.  He knew it.  The lady herself was
standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her
face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.

Loosely attired in white, as though in the neglige of a _robe de
chambre_, with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she
resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom
Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!

Calhoun reasoned rapidly.  He could not do otherwise than connect her
appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was
making his way across the river.

And who could this man be?  Who but Maurice the mustanger?

A clandestine meeting!  And by appointment!

There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been
dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the
stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length
disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the
skiff.

Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for
some time upon the azotea--speechless and without motion.  It was only
after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of
voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve
upon some course of proceeding.

He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house--at least not
then.  Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin's
disgrace; and then--and then--

In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and,
acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried
down the _escalera_, and made his way through the house, and out into
the garden.

He felt feeble as he pressed forward.  His legs had tottered under him
while descending the stone steps.  They did the same as he glided along
the gravelled walk.  They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the
tree trunk that hindered him from being seen--while playing spectator of
a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.

He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination
of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow's day; as also
his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.

With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by
Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.

He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to
strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that
had scared the cicadas into silence.

Why at that moment did he not spring forward--put a termination to the
intolerable _tete-a-tete_--and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his
rival low--at his own feet and that of his mistress?  Why had he not
done this at the beginning--for to him there needed no further evidence,
than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been
dishonoured?

There was a time when he would not have been so patient.  What, then,
was the _punctilio_ that restrained him?  Was it the presence of that
piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon
the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be
distinguished as a "Colt's six-shooter?"

Perhaps it may have been.  At all events, despite the terrible
temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered
him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that
maddening spectacle--the final embrace--prompted him to turn away from
the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet
exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers,
still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet
interview to an ending--sure to be procrastinated.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A CHIVALROUS DICTATION.

Where went Cassius Calhoun?

Certainly not to his own sleeping-room.  There was no sleep for a spirit
suffering like his.

He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin.  Not hers--now
untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed--but to
that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.

He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him--in haste, without
waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.

It was not needed.  The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of
the _reja_, filled the chamber with light--sufficient for his purpose.
They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple
furniture--a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed
with "mosquito curtains."

Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber
experienced only by the innocent.  His finely formed head rested calmly
upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.

As Calhoun lifted the muslin "bar," the moonbeams fell upon his face,
displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.

What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such
close proximity!  Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion to
the Satyr.

"Awake, Harry! awake!" was the abrupt salutation extended to the
sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.

"Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash?  What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?"

"Worse than that--worse! worse!  Quick!  Rouse yourself, and see!
Quick, or it will be too late!  Quick, and be the witness of your own
disgrace--the dishonour of your house.  Quick, or the name of Poindexter
will be the laughing-stock of Texas!"

After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep--at least on
the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest
representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood
upon his feet in the middle of the floor--in an attitude of speechless
astonishment.

"Don't wait to dress," cried his excited counsellor, "stay, you may put
on your pants.  Damn the clothes!  There's no time for standing upon
trifles.  Quick!  Quick!"

The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting
of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas _cottonade_, were adjusted to
his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more,
obedient to the command of his cousin--without understanding why he had
been so unceremoniously summoned forth--he was hurrying along the
gravelled walks of the garden.

"What is it, Cash?" he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of
coming to a stop.  "What does it all mean?"

"See for yourself!  Stand close to me!  Look through yonder opening in
the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept.  Do you
see anything there?"

"Something white.  It looks like a woman's dress.  It is that.  It's a
woman!"

"It _is_ a woman.  Who do you suppose she is?"

"I can't tell.  Who do you say she is?"

"There's another figure--a dark one--by her side."

"It appears to be a man?  It is a man!"

"And who do you suppose _he_ is?"

"How should I know, cousin Cash?  Do you?"

"I do.  That man is Maurice the mustanger!"

"And the woman?"

"_Is Louise--your sister--in his arms_!"

As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded
upward, and then onward, along the path.

"Stay!" said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him.  "You
forget that you are unarmed!  The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him.
Take this, and this," continued he, passing his own knife and pistol
into the hands of his cousin.  "I should have used them myself, long ere
this; but I thought it better that you--her brother--should be the
avenger of your sister's wrongs.  On, my boy!  See that you don't hurt
_her_; but take care not to lose the chance at him.  Don't give him a
word of warning.  As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his
belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife.  I'll stay
near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger.  Now!  Steal
upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!"

It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to
hasty action.  The brother of a sister--a beautiful sister--erring,
undone!

In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.

"Low villain!" he cried, "unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of
my sister.  Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him!
Aside, sister!  Aside, I say!"

Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at
that moment have ceased to exist--unless he had found heart to kill
Henry Poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his
six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done.

Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for
defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair
arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.

For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his
sister's life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before
pulling trigger.

That pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three.  The
Creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly
released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same
instant, threw her arms around those of her brother.  She knew there was
nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of Maurice.  Henry alone had
to be held doing mischief.

"Go, go!" she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the
infuriated youth.  "My brother is deceived by appearances.  Leave me to
explain.  Away, Maurice! away!"

"Henry Poindexter," said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the
friendly command, "I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to
pronounce me.  Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has
formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother,
or cousin.  I claim but six months.  If at the end of that time I do not
show myself worthy of her confidence--her love--then shall I make you
welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyote, that
chanced to cross your track.  Till then, I bid you adieu."

Henry's struggle to escape from his sister's arms--perhaps stronger than
his own--grew less energetic as he listened to these words.  They became
feebler and feebler--at length ceasing--when a plunge in the river
announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of Casa
del Corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his
home.

It was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive
fashion.  On the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff;
which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the
tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the
caparison presented along with the spotted mustang.

"Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!" were the
words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure.  "Oh,
Henry--dearest Hal, if you but knew how noble he is!  So far from
desiring to do me an injury, 'tis only this moment he has been
disclosing a plan to--to--prevent--scandal--I mean to make me happy.
Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not--if only the
common man you take him for--I could not help what I have done--I could
not, for _I love him_!"

"Louise! tell me the truth!  Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as
to your own self.  From what I have this night seen, more than from your
own words, I know that you love this man.  Has he taken advantage of
your--your--unfortunate passion?"

"No--no--no.  As I live he has not.  He is too noble for that--even had
I--Henry! he is innocent!  If there be cause for regret, I alone am to
blame.  Why--oh! brother! why did you insult him?"

"Have I done so?"

"You have, Henry--rudely, grossly."

"I shall go after, and apologise.  If you speak truly, sister, I owe him
that much.  I shall go this instant.  I liked him from the first--you
know I did?  I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act.  I can't
now.  Sister! come back into the house with me.  And now, dearest Loo!
you had better go to bed.  As for me, I shall be off _instanter_ to the
hotel, where I may still hope to overtake him.  I cannot rest till I
have made reparation for my rudeness."

So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the
hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger,
he hastily returned to the hacienda--intending to go after the young
Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the
circumstances, might have been deemed excusable.

As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto
crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them
up the stone steps.  This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.

He, too, had thoughts of _going after_ the mustanger.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

AN UNCOURTEOUS HOST.

"The chicken-hearted fool!  Fool myself, to have trusted to such a hope!
I might have known she'd cajole the young calf, and let the scoundrel
escape.  I could have shot him from behind the tree--dead as a drowned
rat!  And without risking anything--even disgrace!  Not a particle of
risk.  Uncle Woodley would have thanked me--the whole settlement would
have said I had done right.  My cousin, a young lady, betrayed by a
common scamp--a horse, trader--who would have said a word against it?
Such a chance!  Why have I missed it?  Death and the devil--it may not
trump up again!"

Such were the reflections of the ex-captain of cavalry, while at some
paces distance following his two cousins on their return to the
hacienda.

"I wonder," muttered he, on re-entering the _patio_, "whether the
blubbering baby be in earnest?  Going after to apologise to the man who
has made a fool of his sister!  Ha--ha!  It would be a good joke were it
not too serious to be laughed at.  He _is_ in earnest, else why that row
in the stable?  'Tis he bringing but his horse!  It is, by the
Almighty!"

The door of the stable, as is customary in Mexican haciendas opened upon
the paved _patio_.

It was standing ajar; but just as Calhoun turned his eye upon it, a man
coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the
threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him.

The man had a Panama hat upon his head, and a cloak thrown loosely
around his shoulders.  This did not hinder Calhoun from recognising his
cousin Henry, as also the dark brown horse that belonged to him.

"Fool!  So--you've let him off?" spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as
the other came within whispering distance.  "Give me back my bowie and
pistol.  They're not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours!
Bah!  Why did you not use them as I told you?  You've made a mess of
it!"

"I have," tranquilly responded the young planter.  "I know it.  I've
insulted--and grossly too--a noble fellow."

"Insulted a noble fellow!  Ha--ha--ha!  You're mad--by heavens, you're
mad!"

"I should have been had I followed your counsel, cousin Cash.
Fortunately I did not go so far.  I have done enough to deserve being
called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, I may
obtain forgiveness for my fault.  At all events, I intend to try for it,
and without losing time."

"Where are you going?"

"After Maurice the mustanger--to apologise to him for my misconduct."

"Misconduct!  Ha--ha--ha!  Surely you are joking?"

"No.  I'm in earnest.  If you come along with me, you shall see!"

"Then I say again you are mad!  Not only mad, but a damned natural-born
idiot! you are, by Jesus Christ and General Jackson!"

"You're not very polite, cousin Cash; though, after the language I've
been lately using myself, I might excuse you.  Perhaps you will, one day
imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness."

Without adding another word, the young gentleman--one of the somewhat
rare types of Southern chivalry--sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to
his horse; and rode hurriedly through the _saguan_.

Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but
faintly distinguishable in the distance.

Then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the
verandah to his own room; entered it; reappeared in a rough overcoat;
crossed back to the stable; went in; came out again with his own horse
saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, as gently as if
he was stealing him; and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his
back, and rode rapidly away.

For a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by
Henry Poindexter.  It could not have been with any idea of overtaking
the latter: since, long before, the hoofstrokes of Henry's horse had
ceased to be heard; and proceeding at a slower pace, Calhoun did not
ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin.

He had taken the up-river road.  When about midway between Casa del
Corvo and the Fort, he reined up; and, after scrutinising the chapparal
around him, struck off by a bridle-path leading back toward the bank of
the river.  As he turned into it he might have been heard muttering to
himself--

"A chance still left; a good one, though not so cheap as the other.  It
will cost me a thousand dollars.  What of that, so long as I get rid of
this Irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence!  If true
to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the
morning.  What time, I wonder.  These men of the prairies call it late
rising, if they be abed till daybreak!  Never mind.  There's yet time
for the Coyote to get before him on the road!  I know that.  It must be
the same as we followed to the wild horse prairies.  He spoke of his hut
upon the Alamo.  That's the name of the creek where we had our pic-nic.
The hovel cannot be far from there!  The Mexican must know the place, or
the trail leading to it; which last will be sufficient for his purpose
and mine.  A fig for the shanty itself!  The owner may never reach it.
There may be Indians upon the road!  There _must_ be, before daybreak in
the morning!"

As Calhoun concluded this string of strange reflections, he had arrived
at the door of another "shanty"--that of the Mexican mustanger.  The
_jacale_ was the goal of his journey.

Having slipped out of his saddle, and knotted his bridle to a branch, he
set foot upon the threshold.

The door was standing wide open.  From the inside proceeded a sound,
easily identified as the snore of a slumberer.

It was not as of one who sleeps either tranquilly, or continuously.  At
short intervals it was interrupted--now by silent pauses--anon by
hog-like gruntings, interspersed with profane words, not perfectly
pronounced, but slurred from a thick tongue, over which, but a short
while before, must have passed a stupendous quantity of alcohol.

"_Carrambo! carrai! carajo--chingara! mil diablos_!" mingled with more--
perhaps less--reverential exclamations of "_Sangre de Cristo!  Jesus!
Santissima Virgen!  Santa Maria!  Dios!  Madre de Dios_!" and the like,
were uttered inside the _jacale_, as if the speaker was engaged in an
apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the Popish
Pantheon.

Calhoun paused upon the threshold, and listened.

"_Mal--dit--dit--o_!" muttered the sleeper, concluding the exclamation
with a hiccup.  "_Buen--buenos nove-dad-es_!  Good news, _por sangre
Chrees--Chreest--o!  Si S'nor Merican--cano!  Nove--dad--es s'perbos!
Los Indyos Co--co--manchees_ on the war-trail--_el rastro de guerra_.
God bless the Co--co--manchees!"

"The brute's drunk!" said his visitor, mechanically speaking aloud.

"_H'la S'nor_!" exclaimed the owner of the _jacale_, aroused to a state
of semi-consciousness by the sound of a human voice.  "_Quien llama_!
Who has the honour--that is, have I the happiness--I, Miguel Diaz--el
Co--coyote, as the _leperos_ call me.  Ha, ha! coyo--coyot.  Bah! what's
in a name?  Yours, S'nor?  _Mil demonios_! who are you?"

Partially raising himself from his reed couch, the inebriate remained
for a short time in a sitting attitude--glaring, half interrogatively,
half unconsciously, at the individual whose voice had intruded itself
into his drunken dreams.

The unsteady examination lasted only for a score of seconds.  Then the
owner of the _jacale_, with an unintelligible speech, subsided into a
recumbent position; when a savage grunt, succeeded by a prolonged snore,
proved him to have become oblivious to the fact that his domicile
contained a guest.

"Another chance lost!" said the latter, hissing the words through his
teeth, as he turned disappointedly from the door.

"A sober fool and a drunken knave--two precious tools wherewith, to
accomplish a purpose like mine!  Curse the luck!  All this night it's
been against me!  It maybe three long hours before this pig sleeps off
the swill that has stupefied him.  Three long hours, and then what would
be the use of him?  'Twould be too late--too late!"

As he said this, he caught the rein of his bridle, and stood by the head
of his horse, as if uncertain what course to pursue.

"No use my staying here!  It might be daybreak before the damned liquor
gets out of his skull.  I may as well go back to the hacienda and wait
there; or else--or else--"

The alternative, that at this crisis presented itself, was nor, spoken
aloud.  Whatever it may have been, it had the effect of terminating the
hesitancy that living over him, and stirring him to immediate action.

Roughly tearing his rein from the branch, and passing it over his
horse's head, he sprang into the saddle, and rode off from the _jacale_
in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THREE TRAVELLERS ON THE SAME TRACK.

No one can deny, that a ride upon a smooth-turfed prairie is one of the
most positive pleasures of sublunary existence.  No one _will_ deny it,
who has had the good fortune to experience the delightful sensation.
With a spirited horse between your thighs, a well-stocked valise
strapped to the cantle of your saddle, a flask of French brandy slung
handy over the "horn," and a plethoric cigar-case protruding from under
the flap of your pistol holster, you may set forth upon a day's journey,
without much fear of feeling weary by the way.

A friend riding by your side--like yourself alive to the beauties of
nature, and sensitive to its sublimities--will make the ride, though
long, and otherwise arduous, a pleasure to be remembered for many, many
years.

If that friend chance to be some fair creature, upon whom you have fixed
your affections, then will you experience a delight to remain in your
memory for ever.

Ah! if all prairie-travellers were to be favoured with such
companionship, the wilderness of Western Texas would soon become crowded
with tourists; the great plains would cease to be "pathless,"--the
savannas would swarm with snobs.

It is better as it is.  As it is, you may launch yourself upon the
prairie: and once beyond the precincts of the settlement from which you
have started--unless you keep to the customary "road," indicated only by
the hoof-prints of half a dozen horsemen who have preceded you--you may
ride on for hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps a whole year, without
encountering aught that bears the slightest resemblance to yourself, or
the image in which you have been made.

Only those who have traversed the great plain of Texas can form a true
estimate of its illimitable vastness; impressing the mind with
sensations similar to those we feel in the contemplation of infinity.

In some sense may the mariner comprehend my meaning.  Just as a ship may
cross the Atlantic Ocean--and in tracks most frequented by sailing
craft--without sighting a single sail, so upon the prairies of
South-western Texas, the traveller may journey on for months, amid a
solitude that seems eternal!

Even the ocean itself does not give such an impression of endless space.
Moving in its midst you perceive no change--no sign to tell you you are
progressing.  The broad circular surface of azure blue, with the concave
hemisphere of a tint but a few shades lighter, are always around and
above you, seeming ever the same.  You think they _are_ so; and fancy
yourself at rest in the centre of a sphere and a circle.  You are thus
to some extent hindered from having a clear conception of "magnificent
distances."

On the prairie it is different.  The "landmarks"--there are such, in the
shape of "mottes," mounds, trees, ridges, and rocks--constantly changing
before your view, admonish you that you are passing through space; and
this very knowledge imbues you with the idea of vastness.

It is rare for the prairie traveller to contemplate such scenes alone--
rarer still upon the plains of South-western Texas.  In twos at least--
but oftener in companies of ten or a score--go they, whose need it is to
tempt the perils of that wilderness claimed by the Comanches as
ancestral soil.

For all this, a solitary traveller may at times be encountered: for on
the same night that witnessed the tender and stormy scenes in the garden
of Casa del Corvo, no less than three such made the crossing of the
plain that stretches south-westward from the banks of the Leona River.

Just at the time that Calhoun was making his discontented departure from
the _jacale_ of the Mexican mustanger, the foremost of these nocturnal
travellers was clearing the outskirts of the village--going in a
direction which, if followed far enough, would conduct him to the Nueces
River, or one of its tributary streams.

It is scarcely necessary to say, that he was on horseback.  In Texas
there are no pedestrians, beyond the precincts of the town or
plantation.

The traveller in question bestrode a strong steed; whose tread, at once
vigorous and elastic, proclaimed it capable of carrying its rider
through a long journey, without danger of breaking down.

Whether such a journey was intended, could not have been told by the
bearing of the traveller himself.  He was equipped, as any Texan
cavalier might have been, for a ten-mile ride--perhaps to his own house.
The lateness of the hour forbade the supposition, that he could be
going from it.  The serape on his shoulders--somewhat carelessly
hanging--might have been only put on to protect them against the dews of
the night.

But as there was no dew on that particular night--nor any outlying
settlement in the direction he was heading to--the horseman was more
like to have been a real traveller--_en route_ for some distant point
upon the prairies.

For all this he did not appear to be in haste; or uneasy as to the hour
at which he might reach his destination.

On the contrary, he seemed absorbed in some thought, that linked itself
with the past; sufficiently engrossing to render him unobservant of
outward objects, and negligent in the management of his horse.

The latter, with the rein lying loosely upon his neck, was left to take
his own way; though instead of stopping, or straying, he kept steadily
on, as if over ground oft trodden before.

Thus leaving the animal to its own guidance, and pressing it neither
with whip nor spur, the traveller rode tranquilly over the prairie, till
lost to view--not by the intervention of any object, but solely through
the dimness of the light, where the moon became misty in the far
distance.

Almost on the instant of his disappearance--and as if the latter had
been taken for a cue--a second horseman spurred out from the suburbs of
the village; and proceeded along the same path.

From the fact of his being habited in a fashion to defend him against
the chill air of the night, he too might have been taken for a
traveller.

A cloak clasped across his breast hung over his shoulders, its ample
skirts draping backward to the hips of his horse.

Unlike the horseman who had preceded him, he showed signs of haste--
plying both whip and spur as he pressed on.

He appeared intent on overtaking some one.  It might be the individual
whose form had just faded out of sight?

This was all the more probable from the style of his equitation--at
short intervals bending forward in his saddle, and scanning the horizon
before him, as if expecting to see some form outlined above the line of
the sky.

Continuing to advance in this peculiar fashion, he also disappeared from
view--exactly at the same point, where his precursor had ceased to be
visible--to any one whose gaze might have been following him from the
Fort or village.

An odd contingency--if such it were--that just at that very instant a
third horseman rode forth from the outskirts of the little Texan town,
and, like the other two, continued advancing in a direct line across the
prairie.

He, also, was costumed as if for a journey.  A "blanket-coat" of scarlet
colour shrouded most of his person from sight--its ample skirts spread
over his thighs, half concealing a short jager rifle, strapped aslant
along the flap of his saddle.

Like the foremost of the three, he exhibited no signs of a desire to
move rapidly along the road.  He was proceeding at a slow pace--even for
a traveller.  For all that, his manner betokened a state of mind far
from tranquil; and in this respect he might be likened to the horseman
who had more immediately preceded him.

But there was an essential difference between the actions of the two
men.  Whereas the cloaked cavalier appeared desirous of overtaking some
one in advance, he in the red blanket coat seemed altogether to occupy
himself in reconnoitring towards his rear.

At intervals he would slue himself round in the stirrups--sometimes half
turn his horse--and scan the track over which he had passed; all the
while listening, as though he expected to hear some one who should be
coming after him.

Still keeping up this singular surveillance, he likewise in due time
reached the point of disappearance, without having overtaken any one, or
been himself overtaken.

Though at nearly equal distances apart while making the passage of the
prairie, not one of the three horsemen was within sight of either of the
others.  The second, half-way between the other two, was beyond reach of
the vision of either, as they were beyond his.

At the same glance no eye could have taken in all three, or any two of
them; unless it had been that of the great Texan owl perched upon the
summit of some high eminence, or the "whip-poor-will" soaring still
higher in pursuit of the moon-loving moth.

An hour later, and at a point of the prairie ten miles farther from Fort
Inge, the relative positions of the three travellers had undergone a
considerable change.

The foremost was just entering into a sort of alley or gap in the
chapparal forest; which here extended right and left across the plain,
far as the eye could trace it.  The alley might have been likened to a
strait in the sea: its smooth turfed surface contrasting with the darker
foliage of the bordering thickets; as water with dry land.  It was
illumined throughout a part of its length--a half mile or so--the moon
showing at its opposite extremity.  Beyond this the dark tree line
closed it in, where it angled round into sombre shadow.

Before entering the alley the foremost of the trio of travellers, and
for the first time, exhibited signs of hesitation.  He reined up; and
for a second or two sate in his saddle regarding the ground before him.
His attention was altogether directed to the opening through the trees
in his front.  He made no attempt at reconnoitring his rear.

His scrutiny, from whatever cause, was of short continuance.

Seemingly satisfied, he muttered an injunction to his horse, and rode
onward into the gap.

Though he saw not him, he was seen by the cavalier in the cloak,
following upon the same track, and now scarce half a mile behind.

The latter, on beholding him, gave utterance to a slight exclamation.

It was joyful, nevertheless; as if he was gratified by the prospect of
at length overtaking the individual whom he had been for ten miles so
earnestly pursuing.

Spurring his horse to a still more rapid pace, he also entered the
opening; but only in time to get a glimpse of the other, just passing
under the shadow of the trees, at the point where the avenue angled.

Without hesitation, he rode after; soon disappearing at the same place,
and in a similar manner.

It was a longer interval before the third and hindmost of the horsemen
approached the pass that led through the chapparal.

He did approach it, however; but instead of riding into it, as the
others had done, he turned off at an angle towards the edge of the
timber; and, after leaving his horse among the trees, crossed a corner
of the thicket, and came out into the opening on foot.

Keeping along it--to all appearance still more solicitous about
something that might be in his rear than anything that was in front of
him--he at length arrived at the shadowy turning; where, like the two
others, he abruptly disappeared in the darkness.

An hour elapsed, during which the nocturnal voices of the chapparal--
that had been twice temporarily silenced by the hoofstroke of a horse,
and once by the footsteps of a man--had kept up their choral cries by a
thousand stereotyped repetitions.

Then there came a further interruption; more abrupt in its commencement,
and of longer continuance.  It was caused by a sound, very different
from that made by the passage of either horseman or pedestrian over the
prairie turf.

It was the report of a gun, quick, sharp, and clear--the "spang" that
denotes the discharge of a rifle.

As to the authoritative wave of the conductor's baton the orchestra
yields instant obedience, so did the prairie minstrels simultaneously
take their cue from that abrupt detonation, that inspired one and all of
them with a peculiar awe.

The tiger cat miaulling in the midst of the chapparal, the coyote
howling along its skirts; even the jaguar who need not fear any forest
foe that might approach him, acknowledged his dread of that quick, sharp
explosion--to him unexplainable--by instantly discontinuing his cries.

As no other sound succeeded the shot--neither the groan of a wounded
man, nor the scream of a stricken animal--the jaguar soon recovered
confidence, and once more essayed to frighten the denizens of the
thicket with his hoarse growling.

Friends and enemies--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--disregarding
his voice in the distance, reassumed the thread of their choral strain;
until the chapparal was restored to its normal noisy condition, when two
individuals standing close together, can only hold converse by speaking
in the highest pitch of their voices!



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A MAN MISSING.

The breakfast bell of Casa del Corvo had sounded its second and last
summons--preceded by a still earlier signal from a horn, intended to
call in the stragglers from remote parts of the plantation.

The "field hands" labouring near had collected around the "quarter;" and
in groups, squatted upon the grass, or seated upon stray logs, were
discussing their diet--by no means spare--of "hog and hominy" corn-bread
and "corn-coffee," with a jocosity that proclaimed a keen relish of
these, their ordinary comestibles.

The planter's family assembled in the _sala_ were about to begin
breakfast, when it was discovered that one of its members was missing.

Henry was the absent one.

At first there was but little notice taken of the circumstance.  Only
the conjecture: that he would shortly make his appearance.

As several minutes passed without his coming in, the planter quietly
observed that it was rather strange of Henry to be behind time, and
wonder where he could be.

The breakfast of the South-western American is usually a well appointed
meal.  It is eaten at a fixed hour, and _table-d'hote_ fashion--all the
members of the family meeting at the table.

This habit is exacted by a sort of necessity, arising out of the nature
of some of the viands peculiar to the country; many of which, as
"Virginia biscuit," "buckwheat cakes," and "waffles," are only relished
coming fresh from, the fire: so that the hour when breakfast is being
eaten in the dining-room, is that in which the cook is broiling her skin
in the kitchen.

As the laggard, or late riser, may have to put up with cold biscuit, and
no waffles or buckwheat cakes, there are few such on a Southern
plantation.

Considering this custom, it _was_ somewhat strange, that Henry
Poindexter had not yet put in an appearance.

"Where can the boy be?" asked his father, for the fourth time, in that
tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.

None was made by either of the other two guests at the table.  Louise
only gave expression to a similar conjecture.  For all that, there was a
strangeness in her glance--as in the tone of her voice--that might have
been observed by one closely scrutinising her features.

It could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the
breakfast-table?  The circumstance was too trifling to call up an
emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one.

What was it?  No one put the inquiry.  Her father did not notice
anything odd in her look.  Much less Calhoun, who was himself markedly
labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an
assumed _naivete_.

Ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence;
keeping his eyes averted, instead of, according to his usual custom,
constantly straying towards his cousin.

He sate nervously in his chair; and once or twice might have been seen
to start, as a servant entered the room.

Beyond doubt he was under the influence of some extraordinary agitation.

"Very strange Henry not being here to his breakfast!" remarked the
planter, for about the tenth time.  "Surely he is not abed till this
hour?  No--no--he never lies so late.  And yet if abroad, he couldn't be
at such a distance as not to have heard the horn.  He _may_ be in his
room?  It is just possible.  Pluto!"

"Ho--ho! d'ye call me, Mass' Woodley?  I'se hya."  The sable coachee,
acting as table waiter, was in the _sala_, hovering around the chairs.

"Go to Henry's sleeping-room.  If he's there, tell him we're at
breakfast--half through with it."

"He no dar, Mass' Woodley."

"You have been to his room?"

"Ho--ho!  Yas.  Dat am I'se no been to de room itseff; but I'se been to
de 'table, to look atter Massa Henry hoss; an gib um him fodder an corn.
Ho--ho!  Dat same ole hoss he ain't dar; nor han't a been all ob dis
mornin'.  I war up by de fuss skreek ob day.  No hoss dar, no saddle, no
bridle; and ob coass no Massa Henry.  Ho--ho!  He been an gone out 'fore
anb'dy wor 'tirrin' 'bout de place."

"Are you sure?" asked the planter, seriously stirred by the
intelligence.

"Satin, shoo, Mass' Woodley.  Dar's no hoss doins in dat ere 'table,
ceppin de sorrel ob Massa Cahoon.  Spotty am in de 'closure outside.
Massa Henry hoss ain't nowha."

"It don't follow that Master Henry himself is not in his room.  Go
instantly, and see!"

"Ho--ho!  I'se go on de instum, massr; but f'r all dat dis chile no
speck find de young genl'um dar.  Ho! ho! wha'ebber de ole hoss am, darr
Massr Henry am too."

"There's something strange in all this," pursued the planter, as Pluto
shuffled out of the sala.  "Henry from home; and at night too.  Where
can he have gone?  I can't think of any one he would be visiting at such
unseasonable hours!  He must have been out all night, or very early,
according to the <DW65>'s account!  At the Port, I suppose, with those
young fellows.  Not at the tavern, I hope?"

"Oh, no!  He wouldn't go there," interposed Calhoun, who appeared as
much mystified by the absence of Henry as was Poindexter himself.  He
refrained, however, from suggesting any explanation, or saying aught of
the scenes to which he had been witness on the preceding night.

"It is to be hoped _he_ knows nothing of it," reflected the young
Creole.  "If not, it may still remain a secret between brother and
myself.  I think I can manage Henry.  But why is he still absent?  I've
sate up all night waiting for him.  He must have overtaken Maurice, and
they have fraternised.  I hope so; even though the tavern may have been
the scene of their reconciliation.  Henry is not much given to
dissipation; but after such a burst of passion, followed by his sudden
repentance, he may have strayed from his usual habits?  Who could blame
him if he has?  There can be little harm in it: since he has gone astray
in good company?"

How far the string of reflections might have extended it is not easy to
say: since it did not reach its natural ending.

It was interrupted by the reappearance of Pluto; whose important air, as
he re-entered the room, proclaimed him the bearer of eventful tidings.

"Well!" cried his master, without waiting for him to speak, "is he
there?"

"No, Mass' Woodley," replied the black, in a voice that betrayed a large
measure of emotion, "he are not dar--Massa Henry am not.  But--but," he
hesitatingly continued, "dis chile grieb to say dat--dat--_him hoss am
dar_."

"His horse there!  Not in his sleeping-room, I suppose?"

"No, massa; nor in de 'table neider; but out da, by de big gate."

"His horse at the gate?  And why, pray, do you grieve about that?"

"'Ecause, Mass' Woodley, 'ecause de hoss--dat am Massa Henry
hoss--'ecause de anymal--"

"Speak out, you stammering <DW65>!  What because?  I suppose the horse
has his head upon him?  Or is it his tail that is missing?"

"Ah, Mass' Woodley, dis nigga fear dat am missin' wuss dan eider him
head or him tail.  I'se feer'd dat de ole hoss hab loss him rider!"

"What!  Henry thrown from his horse?  Nonsense, Pluto!  My son is too
good a rider for that.  Impossible that _he_ should have been pitched
out of the saddle--impossible!"

"Ho! ho!  I doan say he war frown out ob de saddle.  Gorramity!  I fear
de trouble wuss dan dat.  O! dear ole Massa, I tell you no mo'.  Come to
de gate ob do hashashanty, and see fo youseff."

By this time the impression conveyed by Pluto's speech--much more by his
manner--notwithstanding its ambiguity, had become sufficiently alarming;
and not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily
forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their
way to the outside gate of the hacienda.

A sight was there awaiting them, calculated to inspire all three with
the most terrible apprehensions.

A <DW64> man--one of the field slaves of the plantation--stood holding a
horse, that was saddled and bridled.  The animal wet with the dews of
the night, and having been evidently uncared for in any stable, was
snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some
scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part.

He was speckled with a colour darker than that of the dewdrops--darker
than his own coat of bay-brown.  The spots scattered over his
shoulders--the streaks that ran parallel with the downward direction of
his limbs, the blotches showing conspicuously on the saddle-flaps, were
all of the colour of coagulated blood.  Blood had caused them--spots,
streaks, and blotches!

Whence came that horse?

From the prairies.  The <DW64> had caught him, on the outside plain, as,
with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying
towards the hacienda.

To whom did he belong?

The question was not asked.  All present knew him to be the horse of
Henry Poindexter.

Nor did any one ask whose blood bedaubed the saddle-flaps.  The three
individuals most interested could think only of that one, who stood to
them in the triple relationship of son, brother, and cousin.

The dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted
from the veins of Henry Poindexter.  They had no other thought.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE AVENGERS.

Hastily--perhaps too truly--construing the sinister evidence, the
half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct
for the Fort.

Calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after.

The hue and cry soon spread abroad.  Rapid riders carried it up and down
the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement.

The Indians were out, and near at hand, reaping their harvest of scalps!
That of young Poindexter was the firstfruits of their sanguinary
gleaning!

Henry Poindexter--the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all
Texas!  Who but Indians could have spilled such innocent blood?  Only
the Comanches could have been so cruel?

Among the horsemen, who came quickly together on the parade ground of
Port Inge, no one doubted that the Comanches had done the deed.  It was
simply a question of how, when, and where.

The blood drops pretty clearly, proclaimed the first.  He who had shed
them must have been shot, or speared, while sitting in his saddle.  They
were mostly on the off side; where they presented an appearance, as if
something had been slaked over them.  This was seen both on the
shoulders of the horse, and the flap of the saddle.  Of course it was
the body of the rider as it slipped lifeless to the earth.

There were some who spoke with equal certainty as to the time--old
frontiersmen experienced in such matters.

According to them the blood was scarce "ten hours old:" in other words,
must have been shed about ten hours before.

It was now noon.  The murder must have been committed at _two_ o'clock
in the morning.

The third query was, perhaps, the most important--at least now that the
deed was done.

_Where_ had it been done?  Where was the body to be found?

After that, where should the assassins be sought for?

These were the questions discussed by the mixed council of settlers and
soldiers, hastily assembled at Port Inge, and presided over by the
commandant of the Fort--the afflicted father standing speechless by his
side.

The last was of special importance.  There are thirty-two points in the
compass of the prairies, as well as in that which guides the ocean
wanderer; and, therefore, in any expedition going in search of a
war-party of Comanches, there would be thirty-two chances to one against
its taking the right track.

It mattered not that the home of these nomadic savages was in the west.
That was a wide word; and signified anywhere within a semicircle of some
hundreds of miles.

Besides, the Indians were now upon the _war-trail_; and, in an isolated
settlement such as that of the Leona, as likely to make their appearance
from the east.  More likely, indeed, since such is a common strategic
trick of these astute warriors.

To have ridden forth at random would have been sheer folly; with such
odds against going the right way, as thirty-two to one.

A proposal to separate the command into several parties, and proceed in
different directions, met with little favour from any one.  It was
directly negatived by the major himself.

The murderers might be a thousand, the avengers were but the tenth of
that number: consisting of some fifty dragoons who chanced to be in
garrison, with about as many mounted civilians.  The party must be kept
together, or run the risk of being attacked, and perhaps cut off, in
detail!

The argument was deemed conclusive.  Even, the bereaved father--and
cousin, who appeared equally the victim of a voiceless grief--consented
to shape their course according to the counsels of the more prudent
majority, backed by the authority of the major himself.

It was decided that the searchers should proceed in a body.

In what direction?  This still remained the subject of discussion.

The thoughtful captain of infantry now became a conspicuous figure, by
suggesting that some inquiry should be made, as to what direction had
been last taken by the man who was supposed to be murdered.  Who last
saw Henry Poindexter?

His father and cousin were first appealed to.

The former had last seen his son at the supper table; and supposed him
to have gone thence to his bed.

The answer of Calhoun was less direct, and, perhaps, less satisfactory.
He had conversed with his cousin at a later hour, and had bidden him
good night, under the impression that he was retiring to his room.

Why was Calhoun concealing what had really occurred?  Why did he refrain
from giving a narration of that garden scene to which he had been
witness?

Was it, that he feared humiliation by disclosing the part he had himself
played?

Whatever was the reason, the truth was shunned; and an answer given, the
sincerity of which was suspected by more than one who listened to it.

The evasiveness might have been more apparent, had there been any reason
for suspicion, or had the bystanders been allowed longer time to reflect
upon it.

While the inquiry was going on, light came in from a quartet hitherto
unthought of.  The landlord of the Rough and Ready, who had come
uncalled to the council, after forcing his way through the crowd,
proclaimed himself willing to communicate some facts worth their
hearing--in short, the very facts they were endeavouring to find out:
when Henry Poindexter had been last seen, and what the direction he had
taken.

Oberdoffer's testimony, delivered in a semi-Teutonic tongue, was to the
effect: that Maurice the mustanger--who had been staying at his hotel
ever since his fight with Captain Calhoun--had that night ridden out at
a late hour, as he had done for several nights before.

He had returned to the hotel at a still later hour; and finding it
open--on account of a party of _bons vivants_ who had supped there--had
done that which he had not done for a long time before--demanded his
bill, and to Old Duffer's astonishment--as the latter naively
confessed--settled every cent of it!

Where he had procured the money "Gott" only knew, or why he left the
hotel in such a hurry.  Oberdoffer himself only knew that he had left
it, and taken all his `trapsh' along with him--just as he was in the
habit of doing, whenever he went off upon one of his horse-catching
expeditions.

On one of these the village Boniface supposed him to have gone.

What had all this to do with the question before the council?  Much
indeed; though it did not appear till the last moment of his
examination, when the witness revealed the more pertinent facts:--that
about twenty minutes after the mustanger had taken his departure from
the hotel, "Heinrich Poindexter" knocked at the door, and inquired after
Mr Maurice Gerald;--that on being told the latter was gone, as also the
time, and probable direction he had taken, the "young gentlemans" rode
off a a quick pace, as if with the intention of overtaking him.

This was all Mr Oberdoffer knew of the matter; and all he could be
expected to tell.

The intelligence, though containing several points but ill understood,
was nevertheless a guide to the expeditionary party.  It furnished a
sort of clue to the direction they ought to take.  If the missing man
had gone off with Maurice the mustanger, or after him, he should be
looked for on the road the latter himself would be likely to have taken.

Did any one know where the horse-hunter had his home?

No one could state the exact locality; though there were several who
believed it was somewhere among the head-waters of the Nueces, on a
creek called the "Alamo."

To the Alamo, then, did they determine upon proceeding in quest of the
missing man, or his dead body--perhaps, also, to find that of Maurice
the mustanger; and, at the same time, avenge upon the savage assassins
two murders instead of one.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE POOL OF BLOOD.

Notwithstanding its number--larger than usual for a party of borderers
merely in search of a strayed neighbour--the expedition pursued its way
with, considerable caution.

There was reason.  The Indians were upon the war-trail.  Scouts were
sent out in advance; and professed "trackers" employed to pick up, and
interpret the "sign."

On the prairie, extending nearly ten miles to the westward of the Leona,
no trail was discovered.  The turf, hard and dry, only showed the tracks
of a horse when going in a gallop.  None such were seen along the route.

At ten miles' distance from the Fort the plain is traversed by a tract
of chapparal, running north-west and south-east.  It is a true Texan
jungle, laced by llianas, and almost impenetrable for man and horse.

Through this jungle, directly opposite the Fort, there is an opening,
through which passes a path--the shortest that leads to the head waters
of the Nueces.  It is a sort of natural avenue among the trees that
stand closely crowded on each side, but refrain from meeting.  It may be
artificial: some old "war-trail" of the Comanches, erst trodden by their
expeditionary parties on the maraud to Tamaulipas, Coahuila, or New
Leon.

The trackers knew that it conducted to the Alamo; and, therefore, guided
the expedition into it.

Shortly after entering among the trees, one of the latter, who had gone
afoot in the advance, was seen standing by the edge of the thicket, as
if waiting to announce some recently discovered fact.

"What is it?" demanded the major, spurring ahead of the others, and
riding up to the tracker.  "Sign?"

"Ay, that there is, major; and plenty of it.  Look there!  In that bit
of sottish ground you see--"

"The tracks of a horse."

"Of two horses, major," said the man, correcting the officer with an air
of deference.

"True.  There are two."

"Farther on they become four; though they're all made by the same two
horses.  They have gone up this openin' a bit, and come back again."

"Well, Spangler, my good fellow; what do you make of it?"

"Not much," replied Spangler, who was one of the paid scouts of the
cantonment; "not much of _that_; I hav'n't been far enough up the
openin' to make out what it means--only far enough to know that _a man
has been murdered_."

"What proof have you of what you say?  Is there a dead body?"

"No.  Not as much as the little finger; not even a hair of the head, so
fur as I can see."

"What then?"

"Blood, a regular pool of it--enough to have cleared out the carcass of
a hull buffalo.  Come and see for yourself.  But," continued the scout
in a muttered undertone, "if you wish me to follow up the sign as it
ought to be done, you'll order the others to stay back--'specially them
as are now nearest you."

This observation appeared to be more particularly pointed at the planter
and his nephew; as the tracker, on making it, glanced furtively towards
both.

"By all means," replied the major.  "Yes, Spangler, you shall have every
facility for your work.  Gentlemen! may I request you to remain where
you are for a few minutes.  My tracker, here, has to go through a
performance that requires him to have the ground to himself.  He can
only take me along with him."

Of course the major's request was a command, courteously conveyed, to
men who were not exactly his subordinates.  It was obeyed, however, just
as if they had been; and one and all kept their places, while the
officer, following his scout, rode away from the ground.

About fifty yards further on, Spangler came to a stand.

"You see that, major?" said he, pointing to the ground.

"I should be blind if I didn't," replied the officer.  "A pool of
blood--as you say, big enough to have emptied the veins of a buffalo.
If it has come from those of a man, I should say that whoever shed it is
no longer in the land of the living."

"Dead!" pronounced the tracker.  "Dead before that blood had turned
purple--as it is now."

"Whose do you think it is, Spangler?"

"That of the man we're in search of--the son of the old gentleman down
there.  That's why I didn't wish him to come forward."

"He may as well know the worst.  He must find it out in time."

"True what you say, major; but we had better first find out how the
young fellow has come to be thrown in his tracks.  That's what is
puzzling me."

"How! by the Indians, of course?  The Comanches have done it?"

"Not a bit of it," rejoined the scout, with an air of confidence.

"Hu! why do you say that, Spangler?"

"Because, you see, if the Indyins had a been here, there would be forty
horse-tracks instead of four, and them made by only two horses."

"There's truth in that.  It isn't likely a single Comanch would have had
the daring, even to assassinate--"

"No Comanche, major, no Indyin of any kind committed this murder.  There
are two horse-tracks along the opening.  As you see, both are shod; and
they're the same that have come back again.  Comanches don't ride shod
horses, except when they've stolen them.  Both these were ridden by
white men.  One set of the tracks has been made by a mustang, though it
it was a big 'un.  The other is the hoof of an American horse.  Goin'
west the mustang was foremost; you can tell that by the overlap.  Comin'
back the States horse was in the lead, the other followin' him; though
it's hard to say how fur behind.  I may be able to tell better, if we
keep on to the place whar both must have turned back.  It can't be a
great ways off."

"Let us proceed thither, then," said the major.  "I shall command the
people to stay where they are."

Having issued the command, in a voice loud enough to be heard by his
following, the major rode away from the bloodstained spot, preceded by
the tracker.

For about four hundred yards further on, the two sets of tracks were
traceable; but by the eye of the major, only where the turf was softer
under the shadow of the trees.  So far--the scout said the horses had
passed and returned in the order already declared by him:--that is, the
mustang in the lead while proceeding westward, and in the rear while
going in the opposite direction.

At this point the trail ended--both horses, as was already known, having
returned on their own tracks.

Before taking the back track, however, they had halted, and stayed some
time in the same place--under the branches of a spreading cottonwood.
The turf, much trampled around the trunk of the tree, was evidence of
this.

The tracker got off his horse to examine it; and, stooping to the earth,
carefully scrutinised the sign.

"They've been here thegither," said he, after several minutes spent in
his analysis, "and for some time; though neither's been out of the
saddle.  They've been on friendly terms, too; which makes it all the
more unexplainable.  They must have quarrelled afterwards."

"If you are speaking the truth, Spangler, you must be a witch.  How on
earth can you know all that?"

"By the sign, major; by the sign.  It's simple enough.  I see the shoes
of both horses lapping over each other a score of times; and in such a
way that shows they must have been thegither--the animals, it might be,
restless and movin' about.  As for the time, they've taken long enough
to smoke a cigar apiece--close to the teeth too.  Here are the stumps;
not enough left to fill a fellow's pipe."

The tracker, stooping as he spoke, picked up a brace of cigar stumps,
and handed them to the major.

"By the same token," he continued, "I conclude that the two horsemen,
whoever they were, while under this tree could not have had any very
hostile feelins, the one to the tother.  Men don't smoke in company with
the design of cutting each other's throats, or blowing out one another's
brains, the instant afterwards.  The trouble between them must have come
on after the cigars were smoked out.  That it did come there can be no
doubt.  As sure, major, as you're sittin' in your saddle, one of them
has wiped out the other.  I can only guess which has been wiped out, by
the errand we're on.  Poor Mr Poindexter will niver more see his son
alive."

"'Tis very mysterious," remarked the major.

"It is, by jingo!"

"And the body, too; where can _it_ be?"

"That's what purplexes me most of all.  If 't had been Indyins, I
wouldn't a thought much o' its being missin'.  They might a carried the
man off wi them to make a target of him, if only wounded; and if dead,
to eat him, maybe.  But there's been no Indyins here--not a redskin.
Take my word for it, major, one o' the two men who rid these horses has
wiped out the other; and sartinly he _have_ wiped him out in the
litterlest sense o' the word.  What he's done wi' the body beats me; and
perhaps only hisself can tell."

"Most strange!" exclaimed the major, pronouncing the words with
emphasis--"most mysterious!"

"It's possible we may yet unravel some o' the mystery," pursued
Spangler.  "We must follow up the tracks of the horses, after they
started from this--that is, from where the deed was done.  We may make
something out of that.  There's nothing more to be learnt here.  We may
as well go back, major.  Am I to tell _him_?"

"Mr Poindexter, you mean?"

"Yes.  You are convinced that his son is the man who has been murdered?"

"Oh, no; not so much as that comes to.  Only convinced that the horse
the old gentleman is now riding is one of the two that's been over this
ground last night--the States horse I feel sure.  I have compared the
tracks; and if young Poindexter was the man who was on _his back_, I
fear there's not much chance for the poor fellow.  It looks ugly that
the other _rid after_ him."

"Spangler! have you any suspicion as to who the other may be?"

"Not a spark, major.  If't hadn't been for the tale of Old Duffer I'd
never have thought of Maurice the mustanger.  True, it's the track o' a
shod mustang; but I don't know it to be hisn.  Surely it can't be?  The
young Irishman aint the man to stand nonsense from nobody; but as little
air he the one to do a deed like this--that is, if it's been
cold-blooded killin'."

"I think as you about that."

"And you may think so, major.  If young Poindexter's been killed, and by
Maurice Gerald, there's been a fair stand-up fight atween them, and the
planter's son has gone under.  That's how I shed reckon it up.  As to
the disappearance o' the dead body--for them two quarts o' blood could
only have come out o' a body that's now dead--that _trees me_.  We must
follow the trail, howsoever; and maybe it'll fetch us to some sensible
concloosion.  Am I to tell the old gentleman what I think o't?"

"Perhaps better not.  He knows enough already.  It will at least fall
lighter upon him if he find things out by piecemeal.  Say nothing of
what we've seen.  If you can take up the trail of the two horses after
going off from the place where the blood is, I shall manage to bring the
command after you without any one suspecting what we've seen."

"All right, major," said the scout, "I think I can guess where the off
trail goes.  Give me ten minutes upon it, and then come on to my
signal."

So saying the tracker rode back to the "place of blood;" and after what
appeared a very cursory examination, turned off into a lateral opening
in the chapparal.

Within the promised time his shrill whistle announced that he was nearly
a mile distant, and in a direction altogether different from the spot
that had been profaned by some sanguinary scene.

On hearing the signal, the commander of the expedition--who had in the
meantime returned to his party--gave orders to advance; while he
himself, with Poindexter and the other principal men, moved ahead,
without his revealing to any one of his retinue the chapter of strange
disclosures for which he was indebted to the "instincts" of his tracker.



CHAPTER FORTY.

THE MARKED BULLET.

Before coming up with the scout, an incident occurred to vary the
monotony of the march.  Instead of keeping along the avenue, the major
had conducted his command in a diagonal direction through the chapparal.
He had done this to avoid giving unnecessary pain to the afflicted
father; who would otherwise have looked upon the life-blood of his son,
or at least what the major believed to be so.  The gory spot was
shunned, and as the discovery was not yet known to any other save the
major himself, and the tracker who had made it, the party moved on in
ignorance of the existence of such a dread sign.

The path they were now pursuing was a mere cattle-track, scarce broad
enough for two to ride abreast.  Here and there were glades where it
widened out for a few yards, again running into the thorny chapparal.

On entering one of these glades, an animal sprang out of the bushes, and
bounded off over the sward.  A beautiful creature it was, with its
fulvous coat ocellated with rows of shining rosettes; its strong lithe
limbs supporting a smooth cylindrical body, continued into a long
tapering tail; the very type of agility; a creature rare even in these
remote solitudes--the jaguar.

Its very rarity rendered it the more desirable as an object to test the
skill of the marksman; and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the
expedition, two of the party were tempted to discharge their rifles at
the retreating animal.

They were Cassius Calhoun, and a young planter who was riding by his
side.

The jaguar dropped dead in its tracks: a bullet having entered its body,
and traversed the spine in a longitudinal direction.

Which of the two was entitled to the credit of the successful shot?
Calhoun claimed it, and so did the young planter.

The shots had been fired simultaneously, and only one of them had hit.

"I shall show you," confidently asserted the ex-officer, dismounting
beside the dead jaguar, and unsheathing his knife.  "You see, gentlemen,
the ball is still in the animal's body?  If it's mine, you'll find my
initials on it--C.C.--with a crescent.  I mould my bullets so that I can
always tell when I've killed my game."

The swaggering air with which he held up the leaden missile after
extracting it told that he had spoken the truth.  A few of the more
curious drew near and examined the bullet.  Sure enough it was moulded
as Calhoun had declared, and the dispute ended in the discomfiture of
the young planter.

The party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them
along a fresh trail.

It was no longer a track made by two horses, with shod hooves.  The turf
showed only the hoof-marks of one; and so indistinctly, that at times
they were undiscernible to all eyes save those of the tracker himself.

The trace carried them through the thicket, from glade to glade--after a
circuitous march--bringing them back into the lane-like opening, at a
point still further to the west.

Spangler--though far from being the most accomplished of his calling--
took it; up as fast as the people could ride after him.  In his own mind
he had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was
following.  He knew it to be a mustang--the same that had stood under
the cottonwood whilst its rider was smoking a cigar--the same whose
hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human
blood.

The track of the States horse he had also followed for a short
distance--in the interval, when he was left alone.  He saw that it would
conduct him back to the prairie through which they had passed; and
thence, in all likelihood, to the settlements on the Leona.

He had forsaken it to trace the footsteps of the shod mustang; more
likely to lead him to an explanation of that red mystery of murder--
perhaps to the den of the assassin.

Hitherto perplexed by the hoof-prints of two horses alternately
overlapping each other, he was not less puzzled now, while scrutinising
the tracks of but one.

They went not direct, as those of an animal urged onwards upon a
journey; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon
themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; and then
circling again, as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider
was asleep in the saddle!

Could these be the hoof-prints of a horse with a man upon his back--an
assassin skulking away from the scene of assassination, his conscience
freshly excited by the crime?

Spangler did not think so.  He knew not what to think.  He was mystified
more than ever.  So confessed he to the major, when being questioned as
to the character of the trail.

A spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes--simultaneously
seen by every individual of the party--so far from solving the mystery,
had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable.

More than this.  What had hitherto been but an ambiguous affair--a
subject for guess and speculation--was suddenly transformed into a
horror; of that intense kind that can only spring from thoughts of the
supernatural.

No one could say that this feeling of horror had arisen without reason.

When a man is seen mounted on a horse's back, seated firmly in the
saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding
the rein--in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider;
when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something
wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still
closer scrutiny, that this something is the _head_, it would be strange
if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the
very core of his heart.

And this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously
to rein up, and with as much suddenness, as if each had rashly ridden
within less than his horse's length of the brink of an abyss!

The sun was low down, almost on a level with the sward.  Facing
westward, his disc was directly before them.  His rays, glaring redly in
their eyes, hindered them from having a very accurate view, towards the
quarter of the west.  Still could they see that strange shape above
described--a horseman without a head!

Had only one of the party declared himself to have seen it, he would
have been laughed at by his companions as a lunatic.  Even two might
have been stigmatised in a similar manner.

But what everybody saw at the same time, could not be questioned; and
only he would have been thought crazed, who should have expressed
incredulity about the presence of the abnormal phenomenon.

No one did.  The eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their
gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or
the best counterfeit that could have been contrived.

Was it this?  If not, what was it?

These interrogatories passed simultaneously through the minds of all.
As no one could answer them, even to himself, no answer was vouchsafed.
Soldiers and civilians sate silent in their saddles--each expecting an
explanation, which the other was unable to supply.

There could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror.
No one even offered a conjecture.

The headless horseman, whether phantom or real, when first seen, was
about entering the avenue--near the debouchure of which the searchers
had arrived.  Had he continued his course, he must have met them in the
teeth--supposing their courage to have been equal to the encounter.

As it was, he had halted at the same instant as themselves; and stood
regarding them with a mistrust that may have been mutual.

There was an interval of silence on both sides, during which a cigar
stump might have been heard falling upon the sward.  It was then the
strange apparition was most closely scrutinised by those who had the
courage: for the majority of the men sate shivering in their stirrups--
through sheer terror, incapable even of thought!

The few who dared face the mystery, with any thought of accounting for
it, were baffled in their investigation by the glare of the setting sun.
They could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble
shape, with a man upon his back.  The figure of the man was less easily
determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while
his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering.

What signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most
essential to existence?  A man without a head--on horseback, sitting
erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace--with spurs
sparkling upon his heels--the bridle-rein held in one hand--the other
where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh!

Great God! what could it mean?

Was it a phantom?  Surely it could not be human?

They who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or
phantasmagoria.  Many of them had met Nature in her remotest solitudes,
and wrestled with her in her roughest moods.  They were not given to a
belief in ghosts.

But the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so
strange--so absolutely unnatural--and to such an extent, that the
stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words:--

"_Is it a phantom?  Surely it cannot be human_?"

Its size favoured the idea of the supernatural.  It appeared double that
of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse.  It was more like a giant on
a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory
light under which it was seen--the refraction of the sun's rays passing
horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain.

There was but little time to philosophise--not enough to complete a
careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present,
with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare,
was endeavouring to make.

Nothing of colour could be noted--neither the garments of the man, nor
the hairy coat of the horse.  Only the shape could be traced, outlined
in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this
in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned
stern towards them, was still the same--still that inexplicable
phenomenon: _a horseman without a head_!

Was it a phantom?  Surely it could not be human?

"'Tis old Nick upon horseback!" cried a fearless frontiersman, who would
scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise.
"By the 'tarnal Almighty, it's the devil himself."

The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the
reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous
comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman.
Wheeling suddenly round--his horse at the same time sending forth a
scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble--he
commenced galloping away.

He went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by
his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have
puzzled the philosopher--at length altogether disappearing, as though he
had ridden into the dazzling disc!



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

CUATRO CAVALLEROS.

The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only
one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.

Nor was it the earliest to take saddle.  Long before--in fact close
following the dawn of day--a much smaller party, consisting of only four
horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and
heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.

These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter.
At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that
he was missing.  The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the
tale of woe.  The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that
innocent blood had been spilt.

Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like
direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two
parties of mounted men.  Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian
blood; or this commingled with Aztecan.  In other words they were
Mexicans.

It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this.  A glance
at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight
muscular development of their thighs and hips--more strikingly
observable in their deep-tree saddles--the gaily  serapes
shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs,
the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their
heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican
costume.

That they were the former there was not a question.  The sallow hue; the
pointed Vandyke beard, covering the chin, sparsely--though not from any
thinning by the shears--the black, close-cropped _chevelure_; the
regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the
Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the
Moctezumas.

One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions.
He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his
person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise
distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the
_cuartilla_.

He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the
latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek--furnished with a
short and carefully trimmed whisker--gave him the appearance of being
younger than he was.

But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a
tendency to behave with brutality--if not with positive cruelty--the
individual in question might have been described as handsome.

A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips,
even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this
unpleasant impression.  It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic
grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had
succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.

It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his
comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the
plains of Texas.

His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet
"El Coyote."

How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the
morning--apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others--when on
the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his
jacale--so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all
events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?

The change of situation though sudden--and to some extent strange--is
not so difficult of explanation.  It will be understood after an account
has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun's leaving him,
till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three
_conpaisanos_.

On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found
it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning--El Coyote all
the time continuing his sonorous slumber.

At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in
the shape of a chilly fog.  This to some extent sobered him; and,
springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over
the floor--all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the
door for letting it in.

It might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the
instant; but he did not.  It was the only aperture, excepting some holes
arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior
of the jacale; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the
design that had summoned him to his feet.

The grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway,
scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while
spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and
accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in
finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a
strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more
frequently _mezcal_.

The odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently
contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced
by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as
he made the discovery.

"_Sangre de Cristo_!" he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment,
giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness.  "Not a
drop--not enough to drown a chiga!  And my tongue sticking to my teeth.
My throat feels as if I had bolted a _brazero_ of red-hot charcoal.  Por
Dios!  I can't stand it.  What's to be done?  Daylight?  It is.  I must
up to the _pueblita_.  It's possible that Senor Doffer may have his trap
open by this time to catch the early birds.  If so, he'll find a
customer in the Coyote.  Ha, ha, ha!"

Slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through
the slit of his serape, he set forth for the village.

The tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of
the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with
his eyes under "tapojos."  In twenty minutes after, he was staggering
past the sign-post of the "Rough and Ready."

He chanced to be in luck.  Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some
early customers--a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to
swallow their morning dram.

"Mein Gott, Mishter Dees!" said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived
guest, and without ceremony forsaking six _credit_ customers, for one
that he knew to be _cash_.  "Mein Gott! is it you I sees so early
ashtir?  I knowsh vat you vant.  You vant your pig coord fill mit ze
Mexican spirits--ag--ag--vat you call it?"

"_Aguardiente_!  You've guessed it, cavallero.  That's just what I
want."

"A tollar--von tollar ish the price."

"_Carrambo_!  I've paid it often enough to know that.  Here's the coin,
and there's the canteen.  Fill, and be quick about it!"

"Ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr.  Fel--I von't keeps you waitin'; I
suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish.  If there's anything
goot among the droves, I'm afeart that the Irishmans will pick it up
before you.  He went off lasht night.  He left my housh at a late hour--
after midnight it wash--a very late hour, to go a shourney!  But he's a
queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, Mister Maurish Sherralt.  Nobody
knows his ways.  I shouldn't say anythings againsht him.  He hash been a
goot cushtomer to me.  He has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash
plenty peside.  Mein Gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!"

On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the "horsh prairish," as
Oberdoffer termed them, the Mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than
an ordinary interest in the announcement.

It was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an
impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while
listening to the long rigmarole that followed.

It was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed.
Instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or
voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless
drawl--

"It don't concern me, cavallero.  There are plenty of _mustenos_ on the
plains--enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas.
Look alive, senor, and let's have the aguardiente!"

A little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a
gossip, the German Boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and,
without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the
dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back
to his military customers, more amiable because drinking _upon the
score_.

Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain
the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without
taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!

His excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass
of ardent spirits.  There was something stronger stirring within, that
for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite.

Whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for
not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to
his own--all situated in the suburbs of the _pueblita_, and inhabited by
men like himself--not till then, did he return to his jacale.

It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of
a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that
stood near the hut.

"_Carrambo_!" he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, "_the Capitan
Americano_ has been here in the night.  Por Dios!  I remember
something--I thought I had dreamt it.  I can guess his errand.  He has
heard of Don Mauricio's departure.  Perhaps he'll repeat his visit, when
he thinks I'm in a proper state to receive him?  Ha! ha!  It don't
matter now.  The thing's all understood; and I sha'n't need any further
instructions from him, till I've earned his thousand dollars.  _Mil
pesos_!  What a splendid fortune!  Once gained, I shall go back to the
Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora."

After delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long
enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted _tasajo_, washing them down
with as many gulps of mezcal.  Then having caught and caparisoned his
horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to
the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the
leathern sheathed machete on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and
rode rapidly away.

The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the
open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village--waiting for the
three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their
being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that
required their assistance.

Whatever it was, his trio of _confreres_ appeared to have been made
acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the
exploit was to be on the Alamo.  When a short distance out upon the
plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out
to warn him, that he was not going the right way.

"I know the Alamo well," said one of them, himself a mustanger.  "I've
hunted horses there many a time.  It's southwest from here.  The nearest
way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder.
You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!"

"Indeed!" contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla.  "You're
a _gringo_, Senor Vicente Barajo!  You forget the errand we're upon; and
that we are riding shod horses?  Indians don't go out from Port Inge and
then direct to the Alamo to do--no matter what.  I suppose you
understand me?"

"Oh true!" answered Senor Vicente Barajo, "I beg your pardon, Don
Miguel.  _Carrambo_!  I did not think of that."

And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into
his tracks, and followed him in silence--scarce another word passing
between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point
several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.

Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after
tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only
be compared to a scene in the gentlemen's dressing-room of a suburban
theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary
drama.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

VULTURES ON THE WING.

He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to
have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence--a flock of black
vultures upon the wing.

An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral
gyrations--now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the
spray of the chapparal--anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing
bears no part--their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear
sky--they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly
characteristic of a tropical clime.

The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up
his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious
interest.  Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on
without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated
to call forth.

There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds.  On the ground
beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some
stricken creature--quadruped, or it may be _man_--dead, or it may be
_dying_.

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

On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary
horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that
described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they
had ridden.  A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting
above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.

At daybreak not one could have been seen.  In less than an hour after,
hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their
shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.

A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous
assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his
track.

Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of
blood trampled by the hooves of horses.

Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial
evolutions.  The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some
distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered
the quarry that had called them together.

At that early hour there was no traveller--Texan, or stranger--to test
the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.

At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the
blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was
engaging the attention of the vultures.

It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being--a man!

A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape--so far as
could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form--with a
face fair to look upon, even in death.

Was he dead?

At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed
it.  His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.

He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky--no care being
taken to shelter it from the sun.  His limbs, too, were not in a natural
posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost
the power to control them.

A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him.  He was
outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun's beams, just beginning
to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face--paler
by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.

His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep.
It had more the look of death than sleep.  The eyes were but half
closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy
and dilated.  Was the man dead?

Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was.  But the black birds
were judging only by appearances.  Their wish was parent to the thought.
They were mistaken.

Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened
orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of
the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a
movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.

Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow,
stared confusedly around him.

The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a
higher flight.

"Am I dead, or living?" muttered he to himself.  "Dreaming, or awake?
Which is it?  Where am I?"

The sunlight was blinding him.  He could see nothing, till he had shaded
his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.

"Trees above--around me!  Stones underneath!  That I can tell by the
aching of my bones.  A chapparal forest!  How came I into it?

"Now I have it," continued he, after a short spell of reflection.  "My
head was dashed against a tree.  There it is--the very limb that lifted
me out of the saddle.  My left leg pains me.  Ah!  I remember; it came
in contact with the trunk.  By heavens, I believe it is broken!"

As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect
attitude.  It proved a failure.  His sinister limb would lend him no
assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint--either shattered or
dislocated.

"Where is the horse?  Gone off, of course.  By this time, in the stables
of Casa del Corvo.  I need not care now.  I could not mount him, if he
were standing by my side.

"The other?" he added, after a pause.  "Good heavens! what a spectacle
it was!  No wonder it scared the one I was riding!

"What am I to do?  My leg may be broken.  I can't stir from this spot,
without some one to help me.  Ten chances to one--a hundred--a
thousand--against any one coming this way; at least not till I've become
food for those filthy birds.  Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out
their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!

"How long have I been lying here?  The surf don't seem very high.  It
was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle.  I suppose I've been
unconscious about an hour.  By my faith, I'm in a serious scrape?  In
all likelihood a broken limb--it feels broken--with no surgeon to set
it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal--the thicket around
me, perhaps for miles--no chance to escape from it of myself--no hope of
human creature coming to help me--wolves on the earth, and vultures in
the air!  Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein?
I may have ridden my last ride!"

The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew
darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous
position in which a simple accident had placed him.

Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find,
that he had but one leg on which he could rely!  It was no use, standing
upon it; and he lay down again.

Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which
he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing.  He only
desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all
likely to hear him.

The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this
appetite--surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had
received.

The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything
else--even the pain of his wounds--became of trifling consideration.

"It will kill me, if I stay here?" reflected the sufferer.  "I must make
an effort to reach water.  If I remember aright there's a stream
somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off.  I must get
to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees.  Knees! and only one
in a condition to support me!  There's no help for it but try.  The
longer I stay here, the worse it will be.  The sun grows hotter.  It
already burns into my brain.  I may lose my senses, and then--the
wolves--the vultures--"

The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering.  After a time he
continued:

"If I but knew the right way to go.  I remember the stream well enough.
It runs towards the chalk prairie.  It should be south-east, from here.
I shall try that way.  By good luck the sun guides me.  If I find water
all may yet be well.  God give me strength to reach it!"

With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the
thicket--creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his
disabled leg, like some huge Saurian whose vertebrae have been
disjointed by a blow!

Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.

The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which
he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.

He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst--
almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.

Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.

At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength
by a little rest.  A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees,
without feeling fatigued.  Much more, when one of the four members
cannot be employed in the effort.

His progress was slow and irksome.  Besides, it was being made under the
most discouraging circumstances.  He might not be going in the right
direction?  Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to
keep on.

He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when
it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted--
one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.

"Perhaps," said he, "I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a
crutch?  Ho! my knife is still here.  Thank fortune for that!  And
there's a sapling of the right size--a bit of blackjack.  It will do."

Drawing the knife--a "bowie"--from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak;
and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving
for the head.

Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded
with his exploration.

He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen
the south-east, he continued in this direction.

It was not so easy.  The sun was his only compass; but this had now
reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that
season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith.  Moreover,
he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant detours to take
advantage of its openings.  He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the
ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.

After proceeding about a mile--not in one continued march, but by short
stages, with intervals of rest between--he came upon a track made by the
wild animals that frequent the chapparal.  It was slight, but running in
a direct line--a proof that it led to some point of peculiar
consideration--in all likelihood a watering-place--stream, pond, or
spring.

Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking
to the sun, or the <DW72> of the ground, he advanced along the trail--now
hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode,
dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.

The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail,
soon, came to a termination.  It became _blind_.  In other words it ran
out--ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood.  He
saw, to his dismay, that it led _from_ the glade, instead of _towards_
it.  He had been following it the wrong way!

Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return
upon his track.  To stay in the glade would have been to die there.

He retraced the trodden path--going on beyond the point where he had
first struck it.

Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength
or spirit to proceed.  And this was every moment becoming more
unendurable.

The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias,
interspersed with cactus and wild agave.  They afforded scarce any
shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their
gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.

The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the
tendency to thirst--until the appetite became an agony!

Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the _mezquites_,
filled with mellifluous moisture.  The agaves and cactus plants, if
tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice.  The former was too
sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.

He was acquainted with the character of both.  He knew that, instead of
allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.

He passed the depending pods, without plucking them.  He passed the
succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.

To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was,
every moment, becoming more unmanageable.  It had swollen to enormous
dimensions.  Every step caused him a spasm of pain.  Even if going in
the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in
reaching it?  If not, there was no hope for him.  He could but lie down
in the thicket, and die!

Death would not be immediate.  Although suffering acute pain in his
head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his
knee, were like to prove speedily fatal.  He might dread a more painful
way of dying than from wounds.  Thirst would be his destroyer--of all
shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.

The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow
progress he was able to make--despite the pain experienced in making
it--he toiled on.

The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and
laborious crawl.  Now more than a mile from the point of their first
segregation, they were all of them still there--their numbers even
augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected
prey.  Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that
it was stricken.  Instinct--perhaps rather experience--told them it must
soon succumb.

Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced--
filling him with ominous fears for the end.

There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight--even
when excited by the prospect of a repast.  The hot sun had stilled the
voices of the crickets and tree-toads.  Even the hideous "horned frog"
reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body
under the stones.

The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made
by the sufferer himself--the swishing of his garments, as they brushed
against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his
cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.

By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin.  The
spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been
doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face,
hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.

He was near to the point of despondence--in real truth, he had reached
it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along
the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.

In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him.  Lying with his
ear close to the surface, he heard a sound--so slight, that it would not
have been otherwise discernible.

Slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which
his senses were sharpened.  It was the murmur of moving water!

With an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were
amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound.

He plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy.  Even the disabled
leg appeared to sustain him.  It was strength and the love of life,
struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death.

The former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay
stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet--
wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable
agony!



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE CUP AND THE JAR.

Once more the mustanger's hut!  Once more his henchman, astride of a
stool in the middle of the floor!  Once more his hound lying astretch
upon the skin-covered hearth, with snout half buried in the cinders!

The relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same--
as when seen on a former occasion--their attitudes almost identical.
Otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted--a
transformation at once striking and significant.

The horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the
smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls.  The
slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the
"shake down" of the servitor.

But the other "chattels" wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry
are either out of sight, or displaced.  The double gun has been removed
from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer
suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and
serapes are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and _papeterie_ have
entirely disappeared.

At first sight it might be supposed that Indians have paid a visit to
the jacale, and pillaged it of its _penates_.

But no.  Had this been the case, Phelim would not be sitting so
unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head.

Though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away.  The
articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence
of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor--among
which is the leathern portmanteau--proclaims the purpose of the
transposition.

Though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is
intended.

In the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was
still seen in its accustomed corner--the demijohn.  It was seen by
Phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in
what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round
again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the
angle.

"Ach! me jewel, it's there yez are!" said he, apostrophising the
demijohn for about the twentieth time, "wid more than two quarts av the
crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin' ye a bit av good,
nayther.  If the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty
binnefit to me intistines.  Trath wud it that same.  Wudn't it, Tara?"

On hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked
inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him.

Perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he
resumed his attitude of repose.

"Faix!  I don't want any answer to that, owld boy.  It's meself that
knows it, widout tillin'.  A hape av good a glass of that same potyeen
would do me; and I dar'n't touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid
to me about it.  Afther all that packin', too, till me throat is
stickin' to me tongue, as if I had been thryin' to swallow a pitch
plaster.  Sowl! it's a shame av Masther Maurice to make me promise
agaynst touchin' the dhrink--espacially when it's not goin' to be
wanted.  Didn't he say he wudn't stay more than wan night, whin he come
back heeur; an shure he won't conshume two quarts in wan night--unless
that owld sinner Stump comes along wid him.  Bad luck to his greedy gut!
he gets more av the Manongahayla than the masther himsilf.

"There's wan consolashun, an thank the Lord for it, we're goin' back to
the owld _sad_, an the owld place at Ballyballagh.  Won't I have a
skinful when I get thare--av the raal stuff too, instid of this
Amerikyan rotgut!  Hooch--hoop--horoo!  The thought av it's enough to
sit a man mad wid deloight.  Hooch--hoop--horoo!"

Tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came
down again, the excited Galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous
shibboleth.  Then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence--his
thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited
him at Ballyballagh.

They soon reverted to the objects around him--more especially to the
demijohn in the corner.  On this once more his eyes became fixed in a
gaze, in which increasing covetousness was manifestly visible.

"Arrah, me jewel!" said he, again apostrophising the vessel, "ye're
extramely bewtifull to look at--that same ye arr.  Shure now, yez wudn't
till upon me, if I gave yez a thrifle av a kiss?  Ye wudn't be the
thraiter to bethray me?  Wan smack only.  Thare can be no harum in that.
Trath, I don't think the masther 'ud mind it--when he thinks av the
throuble I've had wid this packin', an the dhry dust gettin' down me
throat.  Shure he didn't mane me to kape that promise for this time--
which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin' away.  A
dhry flittin', they say, makes a short sittin'.  I'll tell the masther
that, whin he comes back; an shure it 'll pacify him.  Besoides, there's
another ixcuse.  He's all av tin hours beyant his time; an I'll say I
took a thriflin' dhrap to kape me from thinkin' long for him.  Shure he
won't say a word about it.  Be Sant Pathrick!  I'll take a smell at the
dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist.  Loy down, Tara, I'm not
agoin' out."

The staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door.

But the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose--which was simply
to take a survey of the path by which the jacale was approached, and
make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his
intended dealings with the demijohn.

Becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the
floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed
something more than a "thriflin' dhrap av its contints."

Then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool.

After remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more
proceeded to soliloquise--now and then changing his speech to the
apostrophic form--Tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured
by his discourse.

"In the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, I wondher what's
kapin' the masther!  He sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the
marnin', and it's now good six in the afthernoon, if thare's any truth
in a Tixas sun.  Shure thare's somethin' detainin' him?  Don't yez think
so, Tara?"

This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative "sniff"--having poked his
nose too far into the ashes.

"Be the powers! then, I hope it's no harum that's befallen him!  If
there has, owld dog, fwhat 'ud become av you an me?  Thare might be no
Ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage
wid these thraps av the masther's.  The drinkin' cup--raal silver it
is--wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage.  Be japers! now that it
stroikes me, I niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel.  I'm
shure the liquor must taste swater that way.  Does it, I wondher--trath,
now's just the time to thry."

Saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had
packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion
of its contents--of about the measure of a wineglassful.

Quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips--as if to
assure himself of the quality of the liquor.

"Sowl!  I don't know that it _does_ taste betther," said he, still
holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other.  "Afther all, I
think, it's swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as I cyan
remimber.  But it isn't givin' the gawblet fair play.  It's so long
since I had the jar to me mouth, that I a'most forget how it tasted that
way.  I cowld till betther if I thryed thim thegither.  I'll do that,
before I decoide."

The demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several "glucks" was
again taken away.

Then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion,
with the head held reflectingly steadfast.

"Trath! an I'm wrong agane!" said he, accompanying the remark with
another doubtful shake of the head.  "Althegither asthray.  It's swater
from the silver.  Or, is it only me imaginayshin that's desavin' me?
It's worth while to make shure, an I can only do that by tastin' another
thrifle out av the cup.  That wud be givin' fair play to both av the
vessels; for I've dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the
silver.  Fair play's a jewil all the world over; and thare's no raison
why this bewtiful little mug showldn't be trated as dacently as that big
basket av a jar.  Be japers! but it shall tho'!"

The cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of
the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it--to be poured
immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied
connoisseur.

Whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he
retained his preference for the jar, is not known.  After the fourth
potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had
tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside.

Instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his
mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any
sign to indicate the advent of his master.

"Come, Tara!" cried he, striding towards the door.  "Let us stip up to
the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain.  If masther's
comin' at all, he shud be in sight by this.  Come along, ye owld dog!
Masther Maurice 'll think all the betther av us, for bein' a little
unazy about his gettin' back."

Taking the path through the wooded bottom--with the staghound close at
his heels--the Galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping
ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.

From this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that
stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was
standing.

The sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a
cloudless sky.  There was nothing to interrupt his view.  Here and
there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent
yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain.  Otherwise
the surface was smooth; and a coyote could not have crossed it without
being seen.

Beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of
trees--where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream
stretched transversely across the _llano_.

The Galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which
he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for
him.

Ere long his vigil was rewarded.  A horseman was seen coming out from
among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.

He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the
faithful servant could identify his master.  The striped serape of
brilliant hues--a true Navajo blanket, which Maurice was accustomed to
take with him when travelling--was not to be mistaken.  It gleamed
gaudily under the glare of the setting sun--its bands of red, white, and
blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain.

Phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his
shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to
the cantle of his saddle!

"Trath, Tara! it looks quare, doesn't it?  It's hot enough to roast a
stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don't seem to think so.  I
hope he hasn't caught a cowld from stayin' in that close crib at owld
Duffer's tavern.  It wasn't fit for a pig to dwill in.  Our own shanty's
a splindid parlour to it."

The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the
approaching horseman--by this time about half a mile distant, and still
drawing nearer.

When his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed.
It was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment.  But
it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under
restraint.

"Mother av Moses!" cried he.  "What can the masther mane?  Not contint
with havin' the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he's got it
over his head!

"He's playin' us a thrick, Tara.  He wants to give you an me a
surproise.  He wants to have a joke agaynst us!

"Sowl! but it's quare anyhow.  It looks as if he _had_ no head.  In faix
does it!  Ach! what cyan it mane?  Be the Howly Virgin! it's enough to
frighten wan, av they didn't know it was the masther!

"_Is_ it the masther?  Be the powers, it's too short for him!  The head?
Saint Patrick presarve us, whare is it?  It cyan't be smothered up in
the blankyet?  Thare's no shape thare!  Be Jaysus, thare's somethin'
wrong!  What does it mane, Tara?"

The tone of the speaker had again undergone a change.  It was now close
bordering upon terror--as was also the expression of his countenance.

The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different.  He
stood a little in advance--half cowering, half inclined to spring
forward--with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching
horseman--now scarce two hundred yards from the spot!

As Phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound
gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer.

Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the
strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally
puzzling him.

Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far
different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to
welcome the coming home of the mustanger.

If Phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still
further astonished by what now appeared to him.

As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay--which the
ex-groom had long before identified as his master's horse--turned
sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!

While performing the wheel, Phelim saw--or fancied he saw--that, which
not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his
veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.

It was a head--that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in
its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider's hand,
just behind the pommel of the saddle!

As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the
face--ghastly and covered with gore--half hidden behind the shaggy hair
of the holster!

He saw no more.  In another instant his back was turned towards the
plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his
enfeebled limbs would carry him!



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

A QUARTETTE OF COMANCHES.

With his flame- curls bristling upward--almost raising the hat
from his head--the Galwegian continued his retreat--pausing not--scarce
looking back, till he had re-entered the jacale, closed the skin door
behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near.

Even then he did not feel secure.  What protection could there be in a
shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not
earthly?

And surely what he had seen was not of the earth--not of this world!
Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle--a man mounted upon
horseback, and carrying his head in his hand?  Who had ever heard of a
phenomenon so unnatural?  Certainly not "Phaylim Onale."

His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of
the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding
to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through
the chinks.

At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched
hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes--as if to make
sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was
horrifying him.

One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the
slightest.  While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk
below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward.  He had
derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless
rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo,
going on at a gallop.

But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still
more terrified--if that were possible--while striding back and forth
upon the floor of the jacale.

For a long time he was speechless--not knowing what to say--and only
giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips.

As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of
confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored
to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded.
They were all addressed to himself.  Tara was no longer there, to take
part in the conversation.

They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his
voice might be heard outside the jacale.

"Ochone!  Ochone! it cyan't av been him!  Sant Pathrick protict me, but
fwhat was it thin?

"Thare was iverything av his--the horse--the sthriped blankyet--them
spotted wather guards upon his legs--an the head itself--all except the
faytures.  Thim I saw too, but wasn't shure about eyedintifycashin; for
who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood?

"Ach! it cudn't be Masther Maurice at all, at all!

"It's all a dhrame.  I must have been aslape, an dhramin?  Or, was it
the whisky that did it?

"Shure, I wasn't dhrunk enough for that.  Two goes out av the little
cup, an two more from the dimmyjan--not over a kupple av naggins in all!
That wudn't make me dhrunk.  I've taken twice that, widout as much as
thrippin in my spache.  Trath have I.  Besoides, if I had been the worse
for the liquor, why am I not so still?

"Thare's not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I'm as sober as a
judge upon the binch av magistrates.

"Sowl! a dhrap 'ud do me a power av good just now.  If I don't take wan,
I'll not get a wink av slape.  I'll be shure to kape awake all the night
long thinkin' about it.  Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow?  An'
where cyan the masther be, if it wasn't him?  Howly Sant Pathrick! look
down an watch over a miserable sinner, that's lift all alone be himself,
wid nothin' but ghosts an goblins around him!"

After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed
himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very
different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.

His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than
an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the
pagan god--represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky--he was
shrived of all his sufferings--if not of his sins--and lay stretched
along the floor of the jacale, not only oblivious of the spectacle that
had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly
unconscious of his soul's existence.

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

There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger--not even a
clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing
into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.

There are sounds outside; but only as usual.  The rippling of the stream
close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the
chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but
the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.

Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning.  Her
light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the
shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.

Passing through these alternations of light and shadow--apparently
avoiding the former, as much as possible--goes a group of mounted men.

Though few in number--as there are only four of them--they are
formidable to look upon.  The vermilion glaring redly over their naked
skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet
feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of
weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and
dangerous kind.

Whence come they?

They are in the war costume of the Comanche.  Their paint proclaims it.
There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck
behind it.  The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts--
everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites of Texas may
be recognised, when out upon the _maraud_.

They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.

Whither go they?

This is a question more easily answered.  They are closing in upon the
hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate.  The jacale of Maurice Gerald
is evidently the _butt_ of their expedition.

That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of
their wearing the war costume.  It is also apparent from their manner of
making approach.  Still further, by their dismounting at some distance
from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing
their advance on foot.

Their stealthy tread--taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the
fallen leaves--the precaution to keep inside the shadow--the frequent
pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening--the silent gestures with
which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader--
all proclaim design, to reach the jacale unperceived by whoever may
chance to be inside it.

In this they are successful--so far as may be judged by appearances.
They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show
that they have been seen.

The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing.
There is nothing heard--not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.

And yet the hut is inhabited.  But a man may get drunk beyond the power
of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is
the tenant of the jacale.

The four Comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking attitudes
scrutinise it.

It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides.  To these the savages set
their ears--all at the same time--and stand silently listening.

No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!

"It is possible," says their chief to the follower nearest him--speaking
in a whisper, but in good grammatical Castilian, "just possible he has
not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have
reached here long before this.  He may have ridden out again?  Now I
remember: there's a horse-shed at the back.  If the man be inside the
house, the beast should be found in the shed.  Stay here, _camarados_,
till I go round and see."

Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable.  No horse in
it.

As many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it.  No
horse has been there--at least not lately.

These points determined, the chief returns to his followers--still
standing by the doorway in front.

"_Maldito_!" he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, "he's _not_
here, nor has he been this day."

"We had better go inside, and make sure?" suggests one of the common
warriors, in Spanish fairly pronounced.  "There can be no harm in our
seeing how the _Irlandes_ has housed himself out here?"

"Certainly not!" answers a third, equally well versed in the language of
Cervantes.  "Let's have a look at his larder too.  I'm hungry enough to
eat raw tasajo."

"_Por Dios_!" adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same
sonorous tongue.  "I've heard that he keeps a cellar.  If so--"

The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical
speech.  The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect
upon him--stimulating to immediate action.

He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it
open.

It resists the effort.

"_Carrambo_! it's barred inside!  Done to keep out intruders in his
absence!  Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes--perhaps Indians.  Ha! ha!
ha!"

Another kick is given with greater force.  The door still keeps its
place.

"Barricaded with something--something heavy too.  It won't yield to
kicking.  No matter.  I'll soon see what's inside."

The machete is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the
stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.

Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the
nature of the obstruction.

The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.

The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on
their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.

A man lying in the middle of the floor!

"_Carajo_!"

"Is he asleep?"

"He must be dead not to have heard us?"

"Neither," says the chief, after stooping to examine him, "only dead
drunk--_boracho--embriaguado_!  He's the servitor of the Irlandes.  I've
seen this fellow before.  From his manner one may safely conclude, that
his master is not at home, nor has been lately.  I hope the brute hasn't
used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition.
Ah! a jar.  And smelling like a rose!  There's a rattle among these
rods.  There's stuff inside.  Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!"

A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of
the demijohn.  There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with
two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the
superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution.  In a
trice the jar is empty.  What next?

The master of the house must come home, some time or other.  An
interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon
him--particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of
their visit.  The chief is especially anxious to see him.

What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?

Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no
secret of their object in being there.

_They have come to murder him_!

Their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and
assistants.

The business is too important to permit of his trifling.  He will gain a
thousand dollars by the deed--besides a certain gratification
independent of the money motive.  His three braves will earn a hundred
each--a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a Comanche, and purchase
him for any purpose.

The travesty need not be carried any further.  By this time the mask
must have fallen off.  Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief,
Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.

"We must lie in wait for him."

This is the counsel of El Coyote.

"He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him.  You,
Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain.  The
rest remain here with me.  He must come that way from the Leona.  We can
meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree.  'Tis
the best place for our purpose."

"Had we not better silence _him_?" hints the bloodthirsty Barajo,
pointing to the Galwegian--fortunately unconscious of what is
transpiring around him.

"Dead men tell no tales!" adds another of the conspirators, repeating
the proverb in its original language.

"It would tell a worse tale were we to kill him," rejoins Diaz.
"Besides, it's of no use.  He's silent enough as it is, the droll devil.
Let the dog have his day.  I've only bargained for the life of his
master.  Come, Barajo!  _Vayate! vayate_!  Up to the cliff.  We can't
tell the moment Don Mauricio may drop in upon us.  A miscarriage must
not be made.  We may never have such a chance again.  Take your stand at
the top of the gorge.  From that point you have a view of the whole
plain.  He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight
as this.  As soon as you've set eyes on him, hasten down and let us
know.  Be sure you give us time to get under the cypress."

Barajo is proceeding to yield obedience to this chapter of instructions,
but with evident reluctance.  He has, the night before, been in ill
luck, having lost to El Coyote a large sum at the game of _monte_.  He
is desirous of having his _revanche_: for he well knows how his
_confreres_ will spend the time in his absence.

"Quick.  Senor Vicente!" commands Diaz, observing his dislike to the
duty imposed upon him; "if we fail in this business, you will lose more
than you can gain at an _albur_ of monte.  Go, man!" continues El
Coyote, in an encouraging way.  "If he come not within the hour, some
one will relieve you.  Go!"

Barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacale, proceeds to his post upon
the top of the cliff.

The others seat themselves inside the hut--having already established a
light.

Men of their class and calling generally go provided with the means of
killing time, or, at all events, hindering it from hanging on their
hands.

The slab table is between them, upon which is soon displayed, not their
supper, but a pack of Spanish cards, which every Mexican _vagabondo_
carries under his serape.

_Cavallo_ and _soto_ (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monte
table is established; the cards are shuffled; and the play proceeds.

Absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without
note being taken of the time.

El Coyote is banker, and also croupier.

The cries "_Cavallo en la puerta_!" "_Soto mozo_!"  "The queen in the
gate!"  "The knave winner!"--at intervals announced in set phrase--echo
from the skin-covered walls.

The silver dollars are raked along the rough table, their sharp chink
contrasting with the soft shuffle of the cards.

All at once a more stentorous sound interrupts the play, causing a
cessation of the game.

It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of
intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share
with him the shelter of the jacale.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetes.  Phelim
stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long Toledos.

He is only saved by a contingency--another interruption that has the
effect of staying the intent.

Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath.

It is scarce necessary for him to announce his errand, though he
contrives to gasp out--

"He is _coming_--on the bluff already--at the head of the _canada_--
quick, comrades, quick!"

The Galwegian is saved.  There is scarce time to kill him--even were it
worth while.

But it is not--at least so think the masqueraders; who leave him to
resume his disturbed slumber, and rush forth to accomplish the more
profitable assassination.

In a score of seconds they are under the cliff, at the bottom of the
sloping gorge by which it must be descended.

They take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the
approach of their victim.

They listen for the hoofstrokes that should announce it.

These are soon heard.  There is the clinking of a shod hoof--not in
regular strokes, but as if a horse was passing over an uneven surface.
One is descending the <DW72>!

He is not yet visible to the eyes of the ambuscaders.  Even the gorge is
in gloom--like the valley below, shadowed by tall trees.

There is but one spot where the moon throws light upon the turf--a
narrow space outside the sombre shadow that conceals the assassins.
Unfortunately this does not lie in the path of their intended victim.
He must pass under the canopy of the cypress!

"Don't kill him!" mutters Miguel Diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest
tone.  "There's no need for that just yet.  I want to have him alive--
for the matter of an hour or so.  I have my reasons.  Lay hold of him
and his horse.  There can be no danger, as he will be taken by surprise,
and unprepared.  If there be resistance, we must shoot him down; but let
me fire first."

The confederates promise compliance.

They have soon an opportunity of proving the sincerity of their promise.
He for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the <DW72>,
and is passing under the shadow of the cypress.

"_Abajo las armas!  A tierra_!"  ("Down with your weapons.  To the
ground!") cries El Coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while
the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the
saddle.

There is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no blade drawn; no
shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest!

They see a man standing upright in the stirrups; they lay their hands
upon limbs that feel solid flesh and bone, and yet seem insensible to
the touch!

The horse alone shows resistance.  He rears upon his hind legs, makes
ground backward, and draws his captors after him.

He carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the
shadow.

Merciful heaven! what does it mean?

His captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout.
It is a scream of wild terror!

Not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence
retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have
been left tied.

Mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away.

They have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more
courageous than theirs--_a horseman without a head_!



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A TRAIL GONE BLIND.

Was it a phantom?  Surely it could not be human?

So questioned El Coyote and his terrified companions.  So, too, had the
scared Galwegian interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by
repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the
terror.

In a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others,
to whom the headless horseman had shown himself--the party of searchers
who accompanied the major.

It was at an earlier hour, and a point in the prairie five miles farther
east, that to these the weird figure had made itself manifest.

Looking westward, with the sun-glare in their eyes, they had seen only
its shape, and nothing more--at least nothing to connect it with Maurice
the mustanger.

Viewing it from the west, with the sun at his back, the Galwegian had
seen enough to make out a resemblance to his master--if not an absolute
identification.

Under the light of the moon the four Mexicans, who knew Maurice Gerald
by sight, had arrived at a similar conclusion.

If the impression made upon the servant was one of the wildest awe,
equally had it stricken the conspirators.

The searchers, though less frightened by the strange phenomenon, were
none the less puzzled to explain it.

Up to the instant of its disappearance no explanation had been
attempted--save that jocularly conveyed in the bizarre speech of the
borderer.

"What _do_ you make of it, gentlemen?" said the major, addressing those
that had clustered around him: "I confess it mystifies me."

"An Indian trick?" suggested one.  "Some decoy to draw us into an
ambuscade?"

"A most unlikely lure, then;" remarked another; "certainly the last that
would attract me."

"I don't think it's Indian," said the major; "I don't know what to
think.  What's your opinion of it, Spangler?"

The tracker shook his head, as if equally uncertain.

"Do you think it's an Indian in disguise?" urged the officer, pressing
him for an answer.

"I know no more than yourself, major," replied he.  "It _should_ be
somethin' of that kind: for what else _can_ it be?  It must eyther be a
man, or a dummy!"

"That's it--a dummy!" cried several, evidently relieved by his
hypothesis.

"Whatsomever it is--man, dummy, or devil," said the frontiersman, who
had already pronounced upon it, "thar's no reason why we should be
frightened from followin' its trail.  Has it left any, I wonder?"

"If it has," replied Spangler, "we'll soon see.  Ours goes the same
way--so fur as can be judged from here.  Shall we move forr'ad, major?"

"By all means.  We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like
that.  Forward!"

The horsemen again advanced--some of them not without a show of
reluctance.  There were among them men, who, if left to themselves,
would have taken the back track.  Of this number was Calhoun, who, from
the first moment of sighting the strange apparition, had shown signs of
affright even beyond the rest of his companions.  His eyes had suddenly
assumed an unnatural glassiness; his lips were white as ashes; while his
drooping jaw laid bare two rows of teeth, which he appeared with
difficulty to restrain from chattering!

But for the universal confusion, his wild manner might have been
observed.  So long as the singular form was in sight, there were eyes
only for it; and when it had at length disappeared, and the party
advanced along the trail, the ex-captain hung back, riding unobserved
among the rearmost.

The tracker had guessed aright.  The spot upon which the ghostly shape
had for the moment stood still, lay direct upon the trail they were
already taking up.

But, as if to prove the apparition a spirit, on reaching the place there
were no tracks to be seen!

The explanation, however, was altogether natural.  Where the horse had
wheeled round, and for miles beyond, the plain was thickly strewn with
white shingle.  It was, in trapper parlance, a "chalk prairie."  The
stones showed displacement; and here and there an abrasion that appeared
to have been made by the hoof of a horse.  But these marks were scarce
discernible, and only to the eyes of the skilled tracker.

It was the case with the trail they had been taking up--that of the shod
mustang; and as the surface had lately been disturbed by a wild herd,
the particular hoof-marks could no longer be distinguished.

They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless
rider.  The sun would have been their guide, and after that the evening
star.  But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to
overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in
fruitless search for his trail--gone blind among the shingle.

Spangler proclaimed himself at fault, as the sun disappeared over the
horizon.

They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal, and bivouac
among the bushes.

The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail,
at the earliest hour of the morning.

It was not fulfilled, at least as regarded time.  The trial was
postponed by an unexpected circumstance.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch
for the major.  It was from the commanding officer of the district,
whose head-quarters were at San Antonio do Bexar.  It had been sent to
Fort Inge, and thence forwarded.

The major made known its tenor by ordering "boots and saddles" to be
sounded; and before the sweat had become dry upon the horses, the
dragoons were once more upon their backs.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were
committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the
eastward, close to the town of San Antonio itself.

It was no longer a mere rumour.  The maraud had commenced by the murder
of men, women, and children, with the firing of their houses.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could
spare to the scene of operations.  Hence his hurried decampment.

The civilians might have stayed; but friendship--even parental
affection--must yield to the necessities of nature.  Most of them had
set forth without further preparation than the saddling of their horses,
and shouldering their guns; and hunger now called them home.

There was no intention to abandon the search.  That was to be resumed as
soon as they could change horses, and establish a better system of
commissariat.  Then would it be continued--as one and all declared, to
the "bitter end."

A small party was left with Spangler to take up the trail of the
American horse, which according to the tracker's forecast would lead
back to the Leona.  The rest returned along with the dragoons.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to
them--what he had hitherto kept back--the facts relating to the bloody
sign, and the tracker's interpretation of it.  As he was no longer to
take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those
who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, with whom in
the way of his calling he had held some pleasant intercourse.  But duty
was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger's
guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help
acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion.  Now that
the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice
Gerald a murderer.

That the deed had been done no one thought of doubting.

Oberdoffer's story had furnished the first chapter of the evidence.
Henry's horse returning with the blood-stained saddle the last.  The
intermediate links were readily supplied--partly by the interpretations
of the tracker, and partly by conjecture.

No one paused to investigate the motive--at least with any degree of
closeness.  The hostility of Gerald was accounted for by his quarrel
with Calhoun; on the supposition that it might have extended to the
whole family of the Poindexters!

It was very absurd reasoning; but men upon the track of a supposed
murderer rarely reason at all.  They think only of destroying him.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the
following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two
men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be
found--one or both, living or dead.

The party left with Spangler remained upon the spot which the major had
chosen as a camping ground.

They were in all less than a dozen.  A larger number was deemed
unnecessary.  Comanches, in that quarter, were no longer to be looked
for; nor was there any other danger that called for a strength of men.
Two or three would have been sufficient for the duty required of them.

Nine or ten stayed--some out of curiosity, others for the sake of
companionship.  They were chiefly young men--sons of planters and the
like.  Calhoun was among them--the acknowledged chief of the party;
though Spangler, acting as guide, was tacitly understood to be the man
to whom obedience should be given.

Instead of going to sleep, after the others had ridden away, they
gathered around a roaring fire, already kindled within the thicket
glade.

Among them was no stint for supper--either of eatables or drinkables.
The many who had gone back--knowing they would not need them--had
surrendered their haversacks, and the "heel-taps" of their canteens, to
the few who remained.  There was liquor enough to last through the
night--even if spent in continuous carousing.

Despite their knowledge of this--despite the cheerful crackling of the
logs, as they took their seats around the fire--they were not in high
spirits.

One and all appeared to be under some influence, that, like a spell,
prevented them from enjoying a pleasure perhaps not surpassed upon
earth.

You may talk of the tranquil joys of the domestic hearth.  At times,
upon the prairie, I have myself thought of, and longed to return to
them.  But now, looking back upon both, and calmly comparing them, one
with the other, I cannot help exclaiming:

"Give me the circle of the camp-fire, with half-a-dozen of my hunter
comrades around it--once again give me that, and be welcome to the
wealth I have accumulated, and the trivial honours I have gained--thrice
welcome to the care and the toil that must still be exerted in retaining
them."

The sombre abstraction of their spirits was easily explained.  The weird
shape was fresh in their thoughts.  They were yet under the influence of
an indefinable awe.

Account for the apparition as they best could, and laugh at it--as they
at intervals affected to do--they could not clear their minds of this
unaccountable incubus, nor feel satisfied with any explanation that had
been offered.

The guide Spangler partook of the general sentiment, as did their leader
Calhoun.

The latter appeared more affected by it than any of the party!  Seated,
with moody brow, under the shadow of the trees, at some distance from
the fire, he had not spoken a word since the departure of the dragoons.
Nor did he seem disposed to join the circle of those who were basking in
the blaze; but kept himself apart, as if not caring to come under the
scrutiny of his companions.

There was still the same wild look in his eyes--the same scared
expression upon his features--that had shown itself before sunset.

"I say, Cash Calhoun!" cried one of the young fellows by the fire, who
was beginning to talk "tall," under the influence of the oft-repeated
potations--"come up, old fellow, and join us in a drink!  We all respect
your sorrow; and will do what we can to get satisfaction, for you and
yours.  But a man mustn't always mope, as you're doing.  Come along
here, and take a `smile' of the Monongaheela!  It'll do you a power of
good, I promise you."

Whether it was that he was pleased at the interpretation put upon his
silent attitude--which the speech told him had been observed--or whether
he had become suddenly inclined towards a feeling of good fellowship,
Calhoun accepted the invitation; and stepping up to the fire, fell into
line with the rest of the roysterers.  Before seating himself, he took a
pull at the proffered flask.

From that moment his air changed, as if by enchantment.  Instead of
showing sombre, he became eminently hilarious--so much so as to cause
surprise to more than one of the party.  The behaviour seemed odd for a
man, whose cousin was supposed to have been murdered that very morning.

Though commencing in the character of an invited guest, he soon
exhibited himself as the host of the occasion.  After the others had
emptied their respective flasks, he proved himself possessed of a supply
that seemed inexhaustible.  Canteen after canteen came forth, from his
capacious saddle-bags--the legacy left by many departed friends, who had
gone back with the major.

Partaking of these at the invitation of their leader--encouraged by his
example--the young planter "bloods" who encircled the camp fire, talked,
sang, danced, roared, and even rolled around it, until the alcohol could
no longer keep them awake.  Then, yielding to exhausted nature, they
sank back upon the sward, some perhaps to experience the dread slumber
of a first intoxication.

The ex-officer of volunteers was the last of the number who laid himself
along the grass.

If the last to lie down, he was the first to get up.  Scarce had the
carousal ceased--scarce had the sonorous breathing of his companions
proclaimed them asleep--when he rose into an erect attitude, and with
cautious steps stole out from among them.  With like stealthy tread he
kept on to the confines of the camp--to the spot where his horse stood
"hitched" to a tree.

Releasing the rein from its knot, and throwing it over the neck of the
animal, he clambered into the saddle, and rode noiselessly away.

In all these actions there was no evidence that he was intoxicated.  On
the contrary, they proclaimed a clear brain, bent upon some purpose
previously determined.  What could it be?

Urged by affection, was he going forth to trace the mystery of the
murder, by finding the body of the murdered man?  Did he wish to show
his zeal by going alone?

Some such design might have been interpreted from a series of speeches
that fell carelessly from his lips, as he rode through the chapparal.

"Thank God, there's a clear moon, and six good hours before those
youngsters will think of getting to their feet!  I'll have time to
search every corner of the thicket, for a couple of miles around the
place; and if the body be there I cannot fail to find it.  But what
could that thing have meant?  If I'd been the only one to see it, I
might have believed myself mad.  But they all saw it--every one of them.
Almighty heavens! what could it have been?"

The closing speech ended in an exclamation of terrified surprise--
elicited by a spectacle that at the moment presented itself to the eyes
of the ex-officer--causing him to rein up his horse, as if some dread
danger was before him.

Coming in by a side path, he had arrived on the edge of the opening
already described.  He was just turning into it, when he saw, that he
was not the only horseman, who at that late hour was traversing the
chapparal.

Another, to all appearance as well mounted as himself, was approaching
along the avenue--not slowly as he, but in a quick trot.

Long before the strange rider had come near, the moonlight, shining fall
upon him, enabled Calhoun to see that he was _headless_!

There could be no mistake about the observation.  Though quickly made,
it was complete.  The white moon beams, silvering his shoulders, were
reflected from no face, above or between them!  It could be no illusion
of the moon's light.  Calhoun had seen that same shape under the glare
of the sun.

He now saw more--the missing head, ghastly and gory, half shrouded
behind the hairy holsters!  More still--he recognised the horse--the
striped serape upon the shoulders of the rider--the water-guards upon
his legs--the complete caparison--all the belongings of Maurice the
mustanger!

He had ample time to take in these details.  At a stand in the
embouchure of the side path, terror held him transfixed to the spot.
His horse appeared to share the feeling.  Trembling in its tracks, the
animal made no effort to escape; even when the headless rider pulled up
in front, and, with a snorting, rearing steed, remained for a moment
confronting the frightened party.

It was only after the blood bay had given utterance to a wild
"whigher"--responded to by the howl of a hound close following at his
heels--and turned into the avenue to continue his interrupted trot--only
then that Calhoun became sufficiently released from the spell of horror
to find speech.

"God of heaven!" he cried, in a quivering voice, "what can it mean?  Is
it man, or demon, that mocks me?  Has the whole day been a dream?  Or am
I mad--mad--mad?"

The scarce coherent speech was succeeded by action, instantaneous but
determined.  Whatever the purpose of his exploration, it was evidently
abandoned: for, turning his horse with a wrench upon the rein, he rode
back by the way he had come--only at a far faster pace,--pausing not
till he had re-entered the encampment.

Then stealing up to the edge of the fire, he lay down among the
slumbering inebriates--not to sleep, but to stay trembling in their
midst, till daylight disclosed a haggard pallor upon his cheeks, and
ghastly glances sent forth from his sunken eyes.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A SECRET CONFIDED.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the
hacienda of Casa del Corvo.  The courtyard was crowded with men--armed,
though not in the regular fashion.  They carried long hunting rifles,
having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns;
single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even
tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of  blanket,
and "Kentucky jeans," trowsers of brown "homespun," and blue
"cottonade," hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned
leather, and leggings of buck--these stalwart men furnished a faithful
picture of an assemblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier
settlements of Texas.

Despite the _bizarrerie_ of their appearance, and the fact of their
carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object
in thus coming together.  Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they
would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with
the dragoons.  Others had now joined the assemblage--settlers who lived
farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day--even
exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the
soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the assembled crowd
that could boast of an organisation.  Irregular it may be deemed,
notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished.  These
were the "_Regulators_."

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms,
or equipments.  A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any
other individual.  They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder--of the murder of Henry Poindexter--coupled
with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character.  Those
who had seen it, were telling those who had not--of the strange
spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke.  But
the wholesale testimony--and the serious manner in which it was given--
could not long be resisted; and the existence of the _headless horseman_
became a universal belief.  Of course there was an attempt to account
for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested.
The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction,
was that already set forward by the frontiersman--that the horse was
real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its
contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little
time wasted in preparation.  All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside--some of them held in hand by the servants of
the establishment, but most "hitched" to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley
Poindexter--on this occasion their chief--to give the signal for setting
forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct
them to the Alamo--who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the
mustanger.

There was no such person present.  Planters, merchants, shopkeepers,
lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of
the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable
of performing the required service--old Zeb Stump.  But Zeb could not be
found.  He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the
messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to
announce a bootless errand.

There was a _woman_, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the
searchers upon their track--to the very hearthstone of the supposed
assassin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so.  Had
the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there
was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo,
his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an
erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda
without him.  The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and
the avengers went forth.

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

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two
individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became
engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed.  It was
a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking
excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the "plunder"--as he
was wont to term it--procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home.  She was even
eager for the interview--so eager, as to have kep almost a continual
watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the
setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after
rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare--the latter
laden with the spoils of the chase--slowly moving along the road on the
opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.

A glad sight to her--that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood.
She recognised in it the form of a true friend--to whose keeping she
could safely entrust her most secret confidence.  And she had now such a
secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully
pent up within her bosom.

Long before Zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she
had gone out into the verandah to receive him.

The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him
still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over
the house.  There was just perceptible the slightest expression of
surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred.

It had not been the custom of the hacienda--at least during its present
proprietary.

The sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of
the saguan, strengthened Zeb's surprise--sufficiently to call forth an
inquiry.

"Why, Pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi' ye?  Yur
lookin' like a '<DW53> wi' his tail chopped off--clost to the stump at
thet!  An' why air the big gate shet an barred--in the middle o'
breakfist time?  I hope thur hain't nuthin' gone astray?"

"Ho! ho!  Mass 'Tump, dat's jess what dar hab goed stray--dat's preecise
de ting, dis chile sorry t' say--berry much goed stray.  Ho! berry,
berry much!"

"Heigh!" exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone.  "Thur
air sommeat amiss?  What is't, <DW65>?  Tell me sharp quick.  It can't
be no wuss than yur face shows it.  Nothin' happened to yur young
mistress, I hope?  Miss Lewaze--"

"Ho--ho! nuffin' happen to de young Missa Looey.  Ho--ho!  Bad enuf
'thout dat.  Ho! de young missa inside de house yar, 'Tep in, Mass'
'Tump.  She tell you de drefful news herseff."

"Ain't yur master inside, too?  He's at home, ain't he?"

"Golly, no.  Dis time no.  Massa ain't 'bout de house at all nowhar.  He
wa' hya a'most a quarrer ob an hour ago.  He no hya now.  He off to de
hoss prairas--wha de hab de big hunt 'bout a momf ago.  You know, Mass'
Zeb?"

"The hoss purayras!  What's tuk him thur?  Who's along wi' him?"

"Ho! ho! dar's Mass Cahoon, and gobs o' odder white genlum.  Ho! ho!
Dar's a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis nigga tell you."

"An' yur young Master Henry--air he gone too?"

"O Mass' 'Tump!  Dat's wha am be trubble.  Dat's de whole ob it.  Mass'
Hen' he gone too.  He nebber mo' come back.  De hoss he been brought
home all kibbered over wif blood.  Ho! ho! de folks say Massa Henry he
gone dead."

"Dead!  Yur jokin'?  Air ye in airnest, <DW65>?"

"Oh!  I is, Mass' 'Tump.  Sorry dis chile am to hab say dat am too troo.
Dey all gone to sarch atter de body."

"Hyur!  Take these things to the kitchen.  Thur's a gobbler, an some
purayra chickens.  Whar kin I find Miss Lewaze?"

"Here, Mr Stump.  Come this way!" replied a sweet voice well known to
him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised
it.

"Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you.  My brother is
missing.  He has not been seen since the night before last.  His horse
came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle.  O Zeb! it's fearful to
think of it!"

"Sure enuf that _air_ ugly news.  He rud out somewhar, and the hoss kim
back 'ithout him?  I don't weesh to gie ye unneedcessary pain, Miss
Lewaze; but, as they air still sarchin' I mout be some help at that ere
bizness; and maybe ye won't mind tellin' me the particklers?"

These were imparted, as far as known to her.  The gardes scene and its
antecedents were alone kept back.  Oberdoffer was given as authority for
the belief, that Henry had gone off after the mustanger.

The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to
indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by
the people--that Maurice was the murderer.

"It air a lie!" cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: "a
false, parjured lie! an he air a stinkin' skunk that invented it.  The
thing's impossible.  The mowstanger ain't the man to a dud sech a deed
as that.  An' why shed he have dud it?  If thur hed been an ill-feelin'
atween them.  But thur wa'n't.  I kin answer for the mowstanger--for
more'n oncest I've heern him talk o' your brother in the tallest kind o'
tarms.  In coorse he hated yur cousin Cash--an who doesn't, I shed like
to know?  Excuse me for sayin' it.  As for the other, it air different.
Ef thar hed been a quarrel an hot blood atween them--"

"No--no!" cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her
grief.  "It was all over.  Henry was reconciled.  He said so; and
Maurice--"

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech.
Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of
tears.

"Hoh--oh!" muttered Zeb; "thur _hev_ been somethin'?  D'ye say, Miss
Lewaze, thur war a--a--quarrel atween yur brother--"

"Dear, dear Zeb!" cried she, removing her hands, and confronting the
stalwart hunter with an air of earnest entreaty, "promise me, you will
keep my secret?  Promise it, as a friend--as a brave true-hearted man!
You will--you will?"

The pledge was given by the hunter raising his broad palm, and extending
it with a sonorous slap over the region of his heart.

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely
confides to man--except to him who can profoundly appreciate the
confidence.

The hunter showed less surprise than might have been expected; merely
muttering to himself:--

"I thort it wild come to somethin' o' the sort--specially arter thet ere
chase acrost the purayra."

"Wal, Miss Lewaze," he continued, speaking in a tone of kindly approval,
"Zeb Stump don't see anythin' to be ashamed o' in all thet.  Weemen will
be weemen all the world over--on the purayras or off o' them; an ef ye
have lost yur young heart to the mowstanger, it wud be the tallest kind
o' a mistake to serpose ye hev displaced yur affeckshuns, as they calls
it.  Though he air Irish, he aint none o' the common sort; thet he aint.
As for the rest ye've been tellin' me, it only sarves to substantify
what I've been sayin'--that it air parfickly unpossible for the
mowstanger to hev dud the dark deed; that is, ef thur's been one dud at
all.  Let's hope thur's nothin' o' the kind.  What proof hez been found?
Only the hoss comin' home wi' some rid spots on the seddle?"

"Alas! there is more.  The people were all out yesterday.  They followed
a trail, and saw something, they would not tell me what.  Father did not
appear as if he wished me to know what they had seen; and I--I feared,
for reasons, to ask the others.  They've gone off again--only a short
while--just as you came in sight on the other side."

"But the mowstanger?  What do it say for hisself?"

"Oh, I thought you knew.  He has not been found either.  _Mon Dieu! mon
Dieu_!  He, too, may have fallen by the same hand that has struck down
my brother!"

"Ye say they war on a trail?  His'n I serpose?  If he be livin' he
oughter be foun' at his shanty on the crik.  Why didn't they go thar?
Ah! now I think o't, thur's nobody knows the adzack sittavashun o' that
ere domycile 'ceptin' myself I reckon: an if it war that greenhorn
Spangler as war guidin' o' them he'd niver be able to lift a trail
acrost the chalk purayra.  Hev they gone that way agin?"

"They have.  I heard some of them say so."

"Wal, if they're gone in sarch o' the mowstanger I reck'n I mout as well
go too.  I'll gie tall odds I find him afore they do."

"It is for that I've been so anxious to see you.  There am many rough
men along with papa.  As they went away I heard them use wild words.
There were some of those called `Regulators.'  They talked of lynching
and the like.  Some of them swore terrible oaths of vengeance.  O my
God! if they should find _him_, and he cannot make clear his innocence,
in the height of their angry passions--cousin Cassius among the number--
you understand what I mean--who knows what may be done to him?  Dear
Zeb, for my sake--for his, whom you call friend--go--go!  Reach the
Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger!  Your horse is slow.
Take mine--any one you can find in the stable--"

"Thur's some truth in what ye say," interrupted the hunter, preparing to
move off.  "Thur mout be a smell o' danger for the young fellur; an I'll
do what I kin to avart it.  Don't be uneezay, Miss Lewaze.  Thur's not
sech a partickler hurry.  Thet ere shanty ain't agoin' ter be foun'
'ithout a spell o' sarchin'.  As to ridin' yur spotty I'll manage better
on my ole maar.  Beside, the critter air reddy now if Plute hain't tuk
off the saddle.  Don't be greetin' yur eyes out--thet's a good chile!
Maybe it'll be all right yit 'bout yur brother; and as to the
mowstanger, I hain't no more surspishun o' his innersense than a unborn
babby."

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance in backwoodsman style, and
striding out of the verandah; while the young Creole glided off to her
chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit in supplications for his success.



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

AN INTERCEPTED EPISTLE.

Urged by the most abject fear, had El Coyote and his three comrades
rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle.

They had no idea of returning to the jacale of Maurice Gerald.  On the
contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and
that solitary dwelling--whose owner they had encountered riding towards
it in such strange guise.

That it was "Don Mauricio" not one of them doubted.  All four knew him
by sight--Diaz better than any--but all well enough to be sure it was
the _Irlandes_.  There was his horse, known to them; his _armas de agua_
of jaguar-skin; his _Navajo_ blanket, in shape differing from the
ordinary serape of Saltillo;--and his _head_!

They had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in
its place--the sombrero of black glaze which Maurice was accustomed to
wear.  It had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the
moon.

Besides, they had seen the great dog, which Diaz remembered to be his.
The staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with
a fierce growl attacked the assailant--though it had not needed this to
accelerate their retreat.

Fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom
timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines--not that where
they had meant to commit murder--they reached the level of the upper
plateau.

Nor did they halt there for a single second; but, galloping across the
plain, re-entered the chapparal, and spurred on to the place where they
had so skilfully transformed themselves into Comanches.

The reverse metamorphosis, if not so carefully, was more quickly
accomplished.  In haste they washed the war-paint from their skins--
availing themselves of some water carried in their canteens;--in haste
they dragged their civilised habiliments from the hollow tree, in which
they had hidden them; and, putting them on in like haste, they once more
mounted their horses, and rode towards the Leona.

On their homeward way they conversed only of the headless horseman: but,
with their thoughts under the influence of a supernatural terror, they
could not satisfactorily account for an appearance so unprecedented; and
they were still undecided as they parted company on the outskirts of the
village--each going to his own jacale.

"_Carrai_!" exclaimed the Coyote, as he stepped across the threshold of
his, and dropped down upon his cane couch.  "Not much chance of sleeping
after that.  _Santos Dios_! such a sight!  It has chilled the blood to
the very bottom of my veins.  And nothing here to warm me.  The canteen
empty; the posada shut up; everybody in bed!

"_Madre de Dios_! what can it have been?  Ghost it could not be; flesh
and bones I grasped myself; so did Vicente on the other side?  I felt
that, or something very like it, under the tiger-skin.  _Santissima_! it
could not be a cheat!

"If a contrivance, why and to what end?  Who cares to play carnival on
the prairies--except myself, and my camarados?  _Mil demonios_! what a
grim masquerader!

"_Carajo_! am I forestalled?  Has some other had the offer, and earned
the thousand dollars?  Was it the Irlandes himself, dead, decapitated,
carrying his head in his hand?

"Bah! it could not be--ridiculous, unlikely, altogether improbable!

"But what then?

"Ha!  I have it!  A hundred to one I have it!  He may have got warning
of our visit, or, at least, had suspicions of it.  'Twas a trick got up
to try us!--perhaps himself in sight, a witness of our disgraceful
flight?  _Maldito_!

"But who could have betrayed us?  No one.  Of course no one could tell
of _that_ intent.  How then should he have prepared such an infernal
surprise?

"Ah!  I forget.  It was broad daylight as we made the crossing of the
long prairie.  We may have been seen, and our purpose suspected?  Just
so--just so.  And then, while we were making our toilet in the
chapparal, the other could have been contrived and effected.  That, and
that only, can be the explanation!

"Fools! to have been frightened at a scarecrow!

"_Carrambo_!  It shan't long delay the event.  To-morrow I go back to
the Alamo.  I'll touch that thousand yet, if I should have to spend
twelve months in earning it; and, whether or not, the _deed_ shall be
done all the same.  Enough to have lost Isidora.  It may not be true;
but the very suspicion of it puts me beside myself.  If I but find out
that she loves him--that they have met since--since--Mother of God!  I
shall go mad; and in my madness destroy not only the man I hate, but the
woman I love!  O Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos!  Angel of beauty,
and demon of mischief!  I could kill you with my caresses--I can kill
you with my steel!  One or other shall be your fate.  It is for you to
choose between them!"

His spirit becoming a little tranquillised, partly through being
relieved by this conditional threat--and partly from the explanation he
had been able to arrive at concerning the other thought that had been
troubling it--he soon after fell asleep.

Nor did he awake until daylight looked in at his door, and along with it
a visitor.

"Jose!" he cried out in a tone of surprise in which pleasure was
perceptible--"you here?"

"_Si, Senor; yo estoy_."

"Glad to see you, good Jose.  The Dona Isidora here?--on the Leona, I
mean?"

"_Si, Senor_."

"So soon again!  She was here scarce two weeks ago, was she not?  I was
away from the settlement, but had word of it.  I was expecting to hear
from you, good Jose.  Why did you not write?"

"Only, Senor Don Miguel, for want of a messenger that could be relied
upon.  I had something to communicate, that could not with safety be
entrusted to a stranger.  Something, I am sorry to say, you won't thank
me for telling you; but my life is yours, and I promised you should know
all."

The "prairie wolf" sprang to his feet, as if pricked with a
sharp-pointed thorn.

"Of her, and him?  I know it by your looks.  Your mistress has met him?"

"No, Senor, she hasn't--not that I know of--not since the first time."

"What, then?" inquired Diaz, evidently a little relieved, "She was here
while he was at the posada.  Something passed between them?"

"True, Don Miguel--something did pass, as I well know, being myself the
bearer of it.  Three times I carried him a basket of _dulces_, sent by
the Dona Isidora--the last time also a letter."

"A letter!  You know the contents?  You read it?"

"Thanks to your kindness to the poor _peon_ boy, I was able to do that;
more still--to make a copy of it."

"You have one?"

"I have.  You see, Don Miguel, you did not have me sent to school for
nothing.  This is what the Dona Isidora wrote to him."

Diaz reached out eagerly, and, taking hold of the piece of paper,
proceeded to devour its contents.

It was a copy of the note that had been sent among the sweetmeats.

Instead of further exciting, it seemed rather to tranquillise him.

"_Carrambo_!" he carelessly exclaimed, as he folded up the epistle.
"There's not much in this, good Jose.  It only proves that your mistress
is grateful to one who has done her a service.  If that's all--"

"But it is not all, Senor Don Miguel; and that's why I've come to see
you now.  I'm on an errand to the _pueblita_.  This will explain it."

"Ha!  Another letter?"

"_Si, Senor_!  This time the original itself, and not a poor copy
scribbled by me."

With a shaking hand Diaz took hold of the paper, spread it out, and
read:--

Al Senor Don Mauricio Gerald.

_Querido amigo_!

_Otra vez aqui estoy--con tio Silvio quedando!  Sin novedades de V. no
puedo mas tiempo existir.  La incertitud me malaba.  Digame que es V.
convalescente!  Ojala, que estuviera asi!  Suspiro en vuestros ojos
mirar, estos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos--a ver, si es restablecido
vuestra salud.  Sea graciosa darme este favor.  Hay--opportunidad.  En
una cortita media de hora, estuviera quedando en la cima de loma, sobre
la cosa del tio.  Ven, cavallero, ven_!

Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

With a curse El Coyote concluded the reading of the letter.  Its sense
could scarce be mistaken.  Literally translated it read thus:--

"Dear Friend,--I am once more here, staying with uncle Silvio.  Without
hearing of you I could not longer exist.  The uncertainty was killing
me.  Tell me if you are convalescent.  Oh! that it may be so.  I long to
look into your eyes--those eyes so beautiful, so expressive--to make
sure that your health is perfectly restored.  Be good enough to grant me
this favour.  There is an opportunity.  In a short half hour from this
time, I shall be on the top of the hill, above my uncle's house.  Come,
sir, come!

"Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos."

"_Carajo_! an assignation!" half shrieked the indignant Diaz.  "That and
nothing else!  She, too, the proposer.  Ha!  Her invitation shall be
answered; though not by him for whom it is so cunningly intended.  Kept
to the hour--to the very minute; and by the Divinity of Vengeance--

"Here, Jose! this note's of no use.  The man to whom it is addressed
isn't any longer in the pueblita, nor anywhere about here.  God knows
where he is!  There's some mystery about it.  No matter.  You go on to
the posada, and make your inquiries all the same.  You must do that to
fulfil your errand.  Never mind the _papelcito_; leave it with me.  You
can have it to take to your mistress, as you come back this way.  Here's
a dollar to get you a drink at the inn.  Senor Doffer keeps the best
kind of aguardiente.  _Hasta luejo_!"

Without staying to question the motive for these directions given to
him, Jose, after accepting the _douceur_, yielded tacit obedience to
them, and took his departure from the jacale.

He was scarce out of sight before Diaz also stepped over its threshold.
Hastily setting the saddle upon his horse, he sprang into it, and rode
off in the opposite direction.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

ISIDORA.

The sun has just risen clear above the prairie horizon, his round disc
still resting upon the sward, like a buckler of burnished gold.  His
rays are struggling into the chapparal, that here and there diversifies
the savanna.  The dew-beads yet cling upon the acacias, weighting their
feathery fronds, and causing them to droop earthward, as if grieving at
the departure of the night, whose cool breeze and moist atmosphere are
more congenial to them than the fiery sirocco of day.  Though the birds
are stirring--for what bird could sleep under the shine of such glorious
sunrise?--it is almost too early to expect human being abroad--elsewhere
than upon the prairies of Texas.  There, however, the hour of the sun's
rising is the most enjoyable of the day; and few there are who spend it
upon the unconscious couch, or in the solitude of the chamber.

By the banks of the Leona, some three miles below Fort Inge, there is
one who has forsaken both, to stray through the chapparal.  This early
wanderer is not afoot, but astride a strong, spirited horse, that seems
impatient at being checked in his paces.  By this description, you may
suppose the rider to be a man; but, remembering that the scene is in
Southern Texas still sparsely inhabited by a Spano-Mexican population--
you are equally at liberty to conjecture that the equestrian is a woman.
And this, too, despite the round hat upon the head--despite the serape
upon the shoulders, worn as a protection against the chill morning air--
despite the style of equitation, so _outre_ to European ideas, since the
days of La Duchesse de Berri; and still further, despite the crayon-like
colouring on the upper lip, displayed in the shape of a pair of silken
moustaches.  More especially may this last mislead; and you may fancy
yourself looking upon some Spanish youth, whose dark but delicate
features bespeak the _hijo de algo_, with a descent traceable to the
times of the Cid.

If acquainted with the character of the Spano-Mexican physiognomy, this
last sign of virility does not decide you as to the sex.  It may be that
the rider in the Texan chapparal, so distinguished, is, after all, a
woman!

On closer scrutiny, this proves to be the case.  It is proved by the
small hand clasping the bridle-rein; by the little foot, whose tiny toes
just touch the "estribo"--looking less in contrast with the huge wooden
block that serves as a stirrup; by a certain softness of shape, and
pleasing rotundity of outline, perceptible even through the thick serape
of Saltillo; and lastly, by the grand luxuriance of hair coiled up at
the back of the head, and standing out in shining clump beyond the rim
of the sombrero.  After noting these points, you become convinced that
you are looking upon a woman, though it may be one distinguished by
certain idiosyncrasies.  You are looking upon the Dona Isidora Covarubio
de los Llanos.

You are struck by the strangeness of her costume--still more by the way
she sits her horse.  In your eyes, unaccustomed to Mexican modes, both
may appear odd--unfeminine--perhaps indecorous.

The Dona Isidora has no thought--not even a suspicion--of there being
anything odd in either.  Why should she?  She is but following the
fashion of her country and her kindred.  In neither respect is she
peculiar.

She is young, but yet a woman.  She has seen twenty summers, and perhaps
one more.  Passed under the sun of a Southern sky, it is needless to say
that her girlhood is long since gone by.  In her beauty there is no sign
of decadence.  She is fair to look upon, as in her "buen quince"
(beautiful fifteen), Perhaps fairer.  Do not suppose that the dark
lining on her lip damages the feminine expression of her face.  Rather
does it add to its attractiveness.  Accustomed to the glowing complexion
of the Saxon blonde, you may at first sight deem it a deformity.  Do not
so pronounce, till you have looked again.  A second glance, and--my word
for it--you will modify your opinion.  A third will do away with your
indifference; a fourth change it to admiration!

Continue the scrutiny, and it will end in your becoming convinced: that
a woman wearing a moustache--young, beautiful, and brunette--is one of
the grandest sights which a beneficent Nature offers to the eye of man.

It is presented in the person of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.  If
there is anything unfeminine in her face, it is not this; though it may
strengthen a wild, almost fierce, expression, at times discernible, when
her white teeth gleam conspicuously under the sable shadow of the
"bigotite."

Even then is she beautiful; but, like that of the female jaguar, 'tis a
beauty that inspires fear rather than affection.

At all times it is a countenance that bespeaks for its owner the
possession of mental attributes not ordinarily bestowed upon her sex.
Firmness, determination, courage--carried to the extreme of reckless
daring--are all legible in its lines.  In those cunningly-carved
features, slight, sweet, and delicate, there is no sign of fainting or
fear.  The crimson that has struggled through the brown skin of her
cheeks would scarce forsake them in the teeth of the deadliest danger.

She is riding alone, through the timbered bottom of the Leona.  There is
a house not far off; but she is leaving it behind her.  It is the
hacienda of her uncle, Don Silvio Martinez, from the portals of which
she has late issued forth.

She sits in her saddle as firmly as the skin that covers it.  It is a
spirited horse, and has the habit of showing it by his prancing paces.
But you have no fear for the rider: you are satisfied of her power to
control him.

A light lazo, suited to her strength, is suspended from the saddle-bow.
Its careful coiling shows that it is never neglected.  This almost
assures you, that she understands how to use it.  She does--can throw
it, with the skill of a mustanger.

The accomplishment is one of her conceits; a part of the idiosyncrasy
already acknowledged.

She is riding along a road--not the public one that follows the
direction of the river.  It is a private way leading from the hacienda
of her uncle, running into the former near the summit of a hill--the
hill itself being only the bluff that abuts upon the bottom lands of the
Leona.

She ascends the sloping path--steep enough to try the breathing of her
steed.  She reaches the crest of the ridge, along which trends the road
belonging to everybody.

She reins up; though not to give her horse an opportunity of resting.
She has halted, because of having reached the point where her excursion
is to terminate.

There is an opening on one side of the road, of circular shape, and
having a superficies of some two or three acres.  It is grass-covered
and treeless--a prairie in _petto_.  It is surrounded by the chapparal
forest--very different from the bottom timber out of which she has just
emerged.  On all sides is the enclosing thicket of spinous plants,
broken only by the embouchures of three paths, their triple openings
scarce perceptible from the middle of the glade.

Near its centre she has pulled up, patting her horse upon the neck to
keep him quiet.  It is not much needed.  The scaling of the "cuesta" has
done that for him.  He has no inclination either to go on, or tramp
impatiently in his place.

"I am before the hour of appointment," mutters she, drawing a gold watch
from under her serape, "if, indeed, I should expect him at all.  He may
not come?  God grant that he be able!

"I am trembling!  Or is it the breathing of the horse?  _Valga me Dios_,
no!  'Tis my own poor nerves!

"I never felt so before!  Is it fear?  I suppose it is.

"'Tis strange though--to fear the man I love--the only one I over have
loved: for it could not have been love I had for Don Miguel.  A girl's
fancy.  Fortunate for me to have got cured of it!  Fortunate my
discovering him to be a coward.  That disenchanted me--quite dispelled
the romantic dream in which he was the foremost figure.  Thank my good
stars, for the disenchantment; for now I hate him, now that I hear he
has grown--_Santissima_! can it be true that he has become--a--a
_salteador_?

"And yet I should have no fear of meeting him--not even in this lone
spot!

"_Ay de mi_!  Fearing the man I love, whom I believe to be of kind,
noble nature--and having no dread of him I hate, and know to be cruel
and remorseless!  'Tis strange--incomprehensible!

"No--there is nothing strange in it.  I tremble not from any thought of
danger--only the danger of not being beloved.  That is why I now shiver
in my saddle--why I have not had one night of tranquil sleep since my
deliverance from those drunken savages.

"I have never told _him_ of this; nor do I know how he may receive the
confession.  It must, and shall be made.  I can endure the uncertainty
no longer.  In preference I choose despair--death, if my hopes deceive
me!

"Ha!  There is a hoof stroke!  A horse comes down the road!  It is his?
Yes.  I see glancing through the trees the bright hues of our national
costume.  He delights to wear it.  No wonder; it so becomes him!

"_Santa Virgin_!  I'm under a serape, with a sombrero on my head.  He'll
mistake me for a man!  Off, ye ugly disguises, and let me seem what I
am--a woman."

Scarce quicker could be the transformation in a pantomime.  The casting
off the serape reveals a form that Hebe might have envied; the removal
of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of Canova!

A splendid picture is exhibited in that solitary glade; worthy of being
framed, by its bordering of spinous trees, whose hirsute arms seem
stretched out to protect it.

A horse of symmetrical shape, half backed upon his haunches, with
nostrils spread to the sky, and tail sweeping the ground; on his back
one whose aspect and attitude suggest a commingling of grand, though
somewhat incongruous ideas, uniting to form a picture, statuesque as
beautiful.

The _pose_ of the rider is perfect.  Half sitting in the saddle, half
standing upon the stirrup, every undulation of her form is displayed--
the limbs just enough relaxed to show that she is a woman.

Notwithstanding what she has said, on her face there is no fear--at
least no sign to betray it.  There is no quivering lip--no blanching of
the cheeks.

The expression is altogether different.  It is a look of love--couched
under a proud confidence, such as that with which the she-eagle awaits
the wooing of her mate.

You may deem the picture overdrawn--perhaps pronounce it unfeminine.

And yet it is a copy from real life--true as I can remember it; and more
than once had I the opportunity to fix it in my memory.

The attitude is altered, and with the suddenness of a _coup d'eclair_;
the change being caused by recognition of the horseman who comes
galloping into the glade.  The shine of the gold-laced vestments had
misled her.  They are worn not by Maurice Gerald, but by Miguel Diaz!

Bright looks become black.  From her firm seat in the saddle she
subsides into an attitude of listlessness--despairing rather than
indifferent; and the sound that escapes her lips, as for an instant they
part over her pearl-like teeth, is less a sigh than an exclamation of
chagrin.

There is no sign of fear in the altered attitude--only disappointment,
dashed with defiance.

El Coyote speaks first.

"_H'la!  S'norita_, who'd have expected to find your ladyship in this
lonely place--wasting your sweetness on the thorny chapparal?"

"In what way can it concern you, Don Miguel Diaz?"

"Absurd question, S'norita!  You know it can, and does; and the reason
why.  You well know how madly I love you.  Fool was I to confess it, and
acknowledge myself your slave.  'Twas that that cooled you so quickly."

"You are mistaken, Senor.  I never told you I loved you.  If I did
admire your feats of horsemanship, and said so, you had no right to
construe it as you've done.  I meant no more than that I admired
_them_--not you.  'Tis three years ago.  I was a girl then, of an age
when such things have a fascination for our sex--when we are foolish
enough to be caught by personal accomplishments rather than moral
attributes.  I am now a woman.  All that is changed, as--it ought to
be."

"_Carrai_!  Why did you fill me with false hopes?  On the day of the
_herradero_, when I conquered the fiercest bull and tamed the wildest
horse in your father's herds--a horse not one of his _vaqueros_ dared so
much as lay hands upon--on that day you smiled--ay, looked love upon me.
You need not deny it, Dona Isidora!  I had experience, and could read
the expression--could tell your thoughts, as they were then.  They are
changed, and why?  Because I was conquered by your charms, or rather
because I was the silly fool to acknowledge it; and you, like all women,
once you had won and knew it, no longer cared for your conquest.  It is
true, S'norita; it is true."

"It is not, Don Miguel Diaz.  I never gave you word or sign to say that
I loved, or thought of you otherwise than as an accomplished cavalier.
You appeared so then--perhaps were so.  What are you now?  You know
what's said of you, both here and on the Rio Grande!"

"I scorn to reply to calumny--whether it proceeds from false friends or
lying enemies.  I have come here to seek explanations, not to give
them."

"Prom whom?"

"Prom your sweet self, Dona Isidora."

"You are presumptive, Don Miguel Diaz!  Think, Senor, to whom you are
addressing yourself.  Remember, I am the daughter of--"

"One of the proudest _Haciendados_ in Tamaulipas, and niece to one of
the proudest in Texas.  I have thought of all that; and thought too that
I was once a haciendado myself and am now only a hunter of horses.
_Carrambo_! what of that?  You're not the woman to despise a man for the
inferiority of his rank.  A poor mustanger stands as good a chance in
your eyes as the owner of a hundred herds.  In that respect, _I have
proof of your generous spirit_!"

"What proof?" asked she, in a quick, entreating tone, and for the first
time showing signs of uneasiness.  "What evidence of the generosity you
are so good as to ascribe to me?"

"This pretty epistle I hold in my hand, indited by the Dona Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos, to one who, like myself, is but a dealer in
horseflesh.  I need not submit it to very close inspection.  No doubt
you can identify it at some distance?"

She could, and did; as was evinced by her starting in the saddle--by her
look of angry surprise directed upon Diaz.

"Senor! how came you in possession of this?" she asked, without any
attempt to disguise her indignation.

"It matters not.  I am in possession of it, and of what for many a day I
have been seeking; a proof, not that you had ceased to care for me--for
this I had good reason to know--but that you had begun to care for him.
This tells that you love him--words could not speak plainer.  You long
to look into his beautiful eyes.  _Mil demonios_! you shall never see
them again!"

"What means this, Don Miguel Diaz?"

The question was put not without a slight quivering of the voice that
seemed to betray fear.  No wonder it should.  There was something in the
aspect of El Coyote at that moment well calculated to inspire the
sentiment.

Observing it, he responded, "You may well show fear: you have reason.
If I have lost you, my lady, no other shall enjoy you.  I have made up
my mind about that."

"About what?"

"What I have said--that no other shall call you his, and least of all
Maurice the mustanger."

"Indeed!"

"Ay, indeed!  Give me a promise that you and he shall never meet again,
or you depart not from this place!"

"You are jesting, Don Miguel?"

"I am in earnest, Dona Isidora."

The manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech.
Coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks,
whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his machete.

Despite her Amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of
uneasiness.  She saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of
averting it.  Something of this she had felt from the first moment of
the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the
unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change
its character.

During the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for
the sound of a horse's hoof--casting occasional and furtive glances
through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it.

This hope was no more.  The sight of her own letter told its tale: it
had not reached its destination.

Deprived of this hope--hitherto sustaining her--she next thought of
retreating from the spot.

But this too presented both difficulties and dangers.  It was possible
for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for
her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet.  The butt of El Coyote's
pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his machete.

She was fully aware of the danger.  Almost any other woman would have
given way to it.  Not so Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.  She did not
even show signs of being affected by it.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of
well dissembled incredulity.  "You are making sport of me, Senor.  You
wish to frighten me.  Ha! ha! ha!  Why should I fear _you_?  I can ride
as well--fling my lazo as sure and far as you, Look at this I see how
skilfully I can handle it!"

While so speaking--smiling as she spoke--she had lifted the lazo from
her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate
her observations.

The act had a very different intent, though it was not perceived by
Diaz; who, puzzled by her behaviour, sate speechless in his saddle.

Not till he felt the noose closing around his elbows did he suspect her
design; and then too late to hinder its execution.  In another instant
his arms were pinioned to his sides--both the butt of his pistol and the
hilt of his machete beyond the grasp of his fingers!

He had not even time to attempt releasing himself from the loop.  Before
he could lay hand upon the rope, it tightened around his body, and with
a violent pluck jerked him out of his saddle--throwing him stunned and
senseless to the ground.

"Now, Don Miguel Diaz!" cried she who had caused this change of
situation, and who was now seen upon her horse, with head turned
homeward, the lazo strained taut from the saddle-tree.  "Menace me no
more!  Make no attempt to release yourself.  Stir but a finger, and I
spur on!  Cruel villain! coward as you are, you would have killed me--I
saw it in your eye.  Ha! the tables are turned, and now--"

Perceiving that there was no rejoinder, she interrupted her speech,
still keeping the lazo at a stretch, with her eyes fixed upon the fallen
man.

El Coyote lay upon the ground, his arms enlaced in the loop, without
stirring, and silent as a stick of wood.  The fall from his horse had
deprived him of speech, and consciousness at the same time.  To all
appearance he was dead--his steed alone showing life by its loud
neighing, as it reared back among the bushes.

"Holy Virgin! have I killed him?" she exclaimed, reining her horse
slightly backward, though still keeping him headed away, and ready to
spring to the spur.  "Mother of God!  I did not intend it--though I
should be justified in doing even that: for too surely did he intend to
kill _me_!  Is he dead, or is it a _ruse_ to get me near?  By our good
Guadaloupe!  I shall leave others to decide.  There's not much fear of
his overtaking me, before I can reach home; and if he's in any danger
the people of the hacienda will get back soon enough to release him.
Good day, Don Miguel Diaz!  _Hasta luego_!"

With these words upon her lips--the levity of which proclaimed her
conscience clear of having committed a crime she drew a small
sharp-bladed knife from beneath the bodice of her dress; severed the
rope short off from her saddle-bow; and, driving the spur deep into the
flanks of her horse, galloped off out of the glade--leaving Diaz upon
the ground, still encircled by the loop of the lazo!



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

THE LAZO UNLOOSED.

An eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed Cottonwood, with a scream,
soars upward into the air.

Startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre.

A single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade.  There,
poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the
open space and the chapparal that surrounds it.  In the former it
beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance--a man
thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him--prostrate--
apparently dead.  In the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman,
with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong
steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other,
also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion,
riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace,
but with equal earnestness in her looks.

Such is the _coup d'oeil_ presented to the eye of the eagle.

Of these fair equestrians both are already known.  She galloping away is
Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she who approaches, Louise Poindexter.

It is known why the first has gone out of the glade.  It remains to be
told for what purpose the second is coming into it.

After her interview with Zeb Stump, the young creole re-entered her
chamber, and kneeling before an image of the Madonna, surrendered her
spirit to prayer.

It is needless to say that, as a Creole, she was a Catholic, and
therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession.
Strange and sad was the theme of her supplication--the man who had been
marked as the murderer of her brother!

She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime.
It could not be.  The very suspicion of it would have lacerated her
heart.

Her prayer was not for pardon, but protection.  She supplicated the
Virgin to save him from his enemies--her own friends!

Tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the
ear of Heaven.  She had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly
affection.  She sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that
other affection, stronger than the ties of blood.  While mourning her
brother's loss she prayed for her lover's safety.

As she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow--that implement so
cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved.

"Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger!  I
may never use it again!"

The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character.  Might
there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the
place where it had been carried on?

She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in
the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo.  He must have been
left in the boat!

On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of
this.  It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as
she supposed, no tongue but theirs--and that for ever silent--could tell
the tale.

The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass.  She
threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding
towards the skiff.  In the _balcon_ her steps were arrested, on hearing
voices above.

Two persons were conversing.  They were her maid Florinde, and the sable
groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the
_azotea_.

Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not
intentionally listen to them.  It was only on their pronouncing a name,
that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.

"Dey calls de young fella Jerrad.  Mors Jerrad am de name.  Dey do say
he Irish, but if folks 'peak de troof, he an't bit like dem Irish dat
works on de Lebee at New Orlean.  Ho, ho!  He more like bos gen'lum
planter.  Dat's what he like."

"You don't tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Massa Henry?"

"I doan't tink nuffin ob de kind.  Ho, ho!  He kill Massa Henry! no more
dan dis chile hab done dat same.  Goramity--Goramity!  'Peak ob de
debbil and he dar--de berry individible we talkin' 'bout.  Ho, ho! look
Florinde; look yonner!"

"Whar?"

"Dar--out dar, on todder side ob de ribber.  You see man on horseback.
Dat's Mors Jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira.  De same dat
gub Missa Loode 'potted hoss; de same dey've all gone to sarch for.  Ho,
ho!  Dey gone dey wrong way.  Dey no find him out on dem prairas dis
day."

"O, Pluto! an't you glad?  I'm sure he innocent--dat brave bewful young
gen'lum.  He nebba could been de man--"

The listener below stayed to hear no more.  Gliding back into her
chamber she made her way towards the _azotea_.  The beating of her heart
was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the
_escalera_.  It was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from
the two individuals whose conversation had caused it.  "What have you
seen, that you talk so loudly?" said she, trying to hide her agitation
under a pretended air of severity, "Ho, ho!  Missa Looey--look ober dar.
De young fella!"

"What young fellow?"

"Him as dey be gone sarch for--him dat--"

"I see no one."

"Ho, ho!  He jess gone in '<DW41> de tree.  See yonner--yonner!  You see
de black glaze hat, de shinin' jacket ob velvet, an de glancin' silver
buttons--dat's him.  I sartin sure dat's de same young fella."

"You may be mistaken for all that, Master Pluto.  There are many here
who dress in that fashion.  The distance is too great for you to
distinguish; and now that he's almost out of sight--Never mind,
Florinde.  Hasten below--get out my hat and habit.  I'm going out for a
ride.  You, Pluto! have the saddle on Luna in the shortest time.  I must
not let the sun get too high.  Haste! haste!"

As the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more
towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts.
Unobserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal.

She was too late.  The horseman had ridden entirely out of sight.

"It was very like him, and yet it was not.  It can scarce be possible.
If it be he, why should he be going that way?"

A new pang passed through her bosom.  She remembered once before having
asked herself the same question.

She no longer stayed upon the _azotea_ to watch the road.  In ten
minutes' time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the
horseman had disappeared.

She rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance.

Suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked
the Leona.  The act was consequent on the hearing of voices.

She listened.  Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices
could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.

What man?  What woman?  Another pang passed through her heart at these
put questions.

She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.

The conversation was carried on in Spanish.  There was no relief to her
in this.  Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos.  The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently
to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to
distinguish the words.  The tone was animated on both sides, as if both
speakers were in a passion.  The listener was scarce displeased at this.

She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.

The man's voice was heard no longer.  The woman's sounded dear and firm,
as if in menace!

There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of
horses--another pause--another speech on the part of the woman, at first
loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy--then another
interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single
horse was galloping away from the ground.

Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry
tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.

The listener knew of the opening--to her a hallowed spot.  The voices
had come out of it.  She had made her last halt a little way from its
edge.  She had been restrained from advancing by a fear--the fear of
finding out a bitter truth.

Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.

A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro--a man prostrate upon the
ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead--a
_sombrero_ and _serape_ lying near, evidently not the man's!  What could
be the interpretation of such a tableau?

The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican _ranchero_--the
horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.

At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy.  Whether
dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the _azotea_; and
he was _not_ Maurice Gerald.

She had doubted before--had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were
now sweetly confirmed.

She drew near and examined the prostrate form.  She scanned the face,
which was turned up--the man lying upon his back.  She fancied she had
seen it before, but was not certain.

It was plain that he was a Mexican.  Not only his dress but his
countenance--every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.

He was far from being ill-featured.  On the contrary, he might have been
pronounced handsome.

It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her
saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.

The joy caused by his presence--by the discovery that he was not
somebody else--found gratification in performing an act of humanity.

"He does not seem dead.  Surely he is breathing?"

The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.

It was loosened on the instant--the noose giving way to a Woman's
strength.

"Now, he can breathe more freely.  Pardieu! what can have caused it?
Lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth?  That is most probable.
But who could have done it?  It was a woman's voice.  Surely it was?  I
could not be mistaken about that.

"And yet there is a man's hat, and a _serape_, not this man's!  Was
there another, who has gone away with the woman?  Only one horse went
off.

"Ah! he is coming to himself! thank Heaven for that!  He will be able to
explain all.  You are recovering, sir?"

"S'norita! who are you?" asked Don Miguel Diaz, raising his head, and
looking apprehensively around.

"Where is she?" he continued.

"Of whom do you speak?  I have seen no one but yourself."

"_Carrambo_! that's queer.  Haven't you met a woman astride a grey
horse?"

"I heard a woman's voice, as I rode up."

"Say rather a she-devil's voice: for that, sure, is Isidora Covarubio de
los Llanos."

"Was it she who has done this?"

"Maldito, yes!  Where is she now?  Tell me that, s'norita."

"I cannot.  By the sound of the hoofs I fancy she has gone down the
hill.  She must have done so, as I came the other way myself."

"Ah--gone down the hill--home, then, to --.  You've been very kind,
s'norita, in loosening this lazo--as I make no doubt you've done.
Perhaps you will still further assist me by helping me into the saddle?
Once in it, I think I can stay there.  At all events, I must not stay
here.  I have enemies, not far off.  Come, Carlito!" he cried to his
horse, at the same time summoning the animal by a peculiar whistle.
"Come near!  Don't be frightened at the presence of this fair lady.
She's not the same that parted you and me so rudely--_en verdad_, almost
for ever!  Come on, _cavallo_! come on!"

The horse, on hearing the whistle, came trotting up, and permitted his
master--now upon his feet--to lay hold of the bridle-rein.

"A little help from you, kind s'norita, and I think I can climb into my
saddle.  Once there, I shall be safe from their pursuit."

"You expect to be pursued?"

"_Quien sale_?  I have enemies, as I told you.  Never mind that.  I feel
very feeble.  You will not refuse to help me?"

"Why should I?  You are welcome, sir, to any assistance I can give you."

"_Mil gracias, s'norita!  Mil, mil gracias_!"

The Creole, exerting all her strength, succeeded in helping the disabled
horseman into his saddle; where, after some balancing, he appeared to
obtain a tolerably firm seat.

Gathering up his reins, he prepared to depart.

"Adios, s'norita!" said he, "I know not who you are.  I see you are not
one of our people.  Americano, I take it.  Never mind that.  You are
good as you are fair; and if ever it should chance to be in his power,
Miguel Diaz will not be unmindful of the service you have this day done
him."

Saying this El Coyote rode off, not rapidly, but in a slow walk, as if
he felt some difficulty in preserving his equilibrium.

Notwithstanding the slowness of the pace--he was soon out of sight,--the
trees screening him as he passed the glade.  He went not by any of the
three roads, but by a narrow track, scarce discernible where it entered
the underwood.

To the young Creole the whole thing appeared like a dream--strange,
rather than disagreeable.

It was changed to a frightful reality, when, after picking up a sheet of
paper left by Diaz where he had been lying, she read what was written
upon it.  The address was "Don Mauricio Gerald;" the signature, "Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos."

To regain her saddle, Louise Poindexter was almost as much in need of a
helping hand as the man who had ridden away.

As she forded the Leona, in returning to Casa del Corvo, she halted her
horse in the middle of the stream; and for some time sate gazing into
the flood that foamed up to her stirrup.  There was a wild expression
upon her features that betokened deep despair.  One degree deeper, and
the waters would have covered as fair a form as was ever sacrificed to
their Spirit!



CHAPTER FIFTY.

A CONFLICT WITH COYOTES.

The purple shadows of a Texan twilight were descending upon the earth,
when the wounded man, whose toilsome journey through the chapparal has
been recorded, arrived upon the banks of the streamlet.

After quenching his thirst to a surfeit, he stretched himself along the
grass, his thoughts relieved from the terrible strain so long and
continuously acting upon them.

His limb for the time pained him but little; and his spirit was too much
worn to be keenly apprehensive as to the future.

He only desired repose; and the cool evening breeze, sighing through the
feathery fronds of the acacias, favoured his chances of obtaining it.

The vultures had dispersed to their roosts in the thicket; and, no
longer disturbed by their boding presence, he soon after fell asleep.

His slumber was of short continuance.  The pain of his wounds, once more
returning, awoke him.

It was this--and not the cry of the coyote--that kept him from sleeping
throughout the remainder of the night.

Little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies--a true jackal--
that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying.

He did not believe that he was dying.

It was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would
never dawn.

The light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him.  Along with
it came the birds, and the beasts went not away.

Over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended
their shadowy wings.  Around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyote,
in a hundred hideous repetitions.

Crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst.

He now hungered; and looked round for something to eat.

A pecan tree stood, near.  There were nuts upon its branches, within six
feet of the ground.

He was able to reach the pecan upon his hands and knees; though the
effort caused agony.

With his crutch he succeeded in detaching some of the nuts; and on these
broke his fast.

What was the next step to be taken?

To stir away from the spot was simply impossible.  The slightest
movement gave him pain; at the same time assuring him of his utter
inability to go anywhere.

He was still uncertain as to the nature of the injuries he had
sustained--more especially that in his leg, which was so swollen that he
could not well examine it.  He supposed it to be either a fracture of
the knee-cap, or a dislocation of the joint.  In either case, it might
be days before he could use the limb; and what, meanwhile, was he to do?

He had but little expectation of any one coming that way.  He had
shouted himself hoarse; and though, at intervals, he still continued to
send forth a feeble cry, it was but the intermittent effort of hope
struggling against despair.

There was no alternative but stay where he was; and, satisfied of this,
he stretched himself along the sward, with the resolve to be as patient
as possible.

It required all the stoicism of his nature to bear up against the acute
agony he was enduring.  Nor did he endure it altogether in silence.  At
intervals it elicited a groan.

Engrossed by his sufferings, he was for a while unconscious of what was
going on around him.  Still above him wheeled the black birds; but he
had become accustomed to their presence, and no longer regarded it--not
even when, at intervals, some of them swooped so near, that he could
hear the "wheep" of their wings close to his ears.

Ha! what was that--that sound of different import?

It resembled the pattering of little feet upon the sandy channel of the
stream, accompanied by quick breathings, as of animal in a state of
excitement.

He looked around for an explanation.

"Only the coyotes!" was his reflection, on seeing a score of these
animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream,
and "squatting" upon the grass.

Hitherto he had felt no fear--only contempt--for these cowardly
creatures.

But his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and
attitudes.  The former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening.
Clearly did the coyotes mean mischief.

He now remembered having heard, that these animals--ordinarily
innocuous, from sheer cowardice--will attack man when disabled beyond
the capability of defending himself.  Especially will they do so when
stimulated by the smell of blood.

His had flowed freely, and from many veins--punctured by the spines of
the cactus.  His garments were saturated with it, still but half dry.

On the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour.  The
coyotes could not help scenting it.

Was it this that was stirring them to such excited action--apparently
making them mad?

Whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to
attack him.

He had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place
in his belt.  His rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been
carried off by his horse.

He drew the knife; and, resting upon his right knee, prepared to defend
himself.

He did not perform the action a second too soon.  Emboldened by having
been so long left to make their menaces unmolested--excited to courage
by the smell of blood, stronger as they drew nearer--stimulated by their
fierce natural appetites--the wolves had by this time reached the
turning point of their determination: which was, to spring forward upon
the wounded man.

They did so--half a dozen of them simultaneously--fastening their teeth
upon his arms, limbs, and body, as they made their impetuous onset.

With a vigorous effort he shook them off, striking out with his knife.
One or two were gashed by the shining blade, and went howling away.  But
a fresh band had by this time entered into the fray, others coming up,
till the assailants counted a score.  The conflict became desperate,
deadly.  Several of the animals were slain.  But the fate of their
fallen comrades did not deter the survivors from continuing the strife.
On the contrary, it but maddened them the more.

The struggle became more and more confused--the coyotes crowding over
one another to lay hold of their victim.  The knife was wielded at
random; the arm wielding it every moment becoming weaker, and striking
with less fatal effect.  The disabled man was soon further disabled.  He
felt fear for his life.  No wonder--death was staring him in the face.

At this crisis a cry escaped his lips.  Strange it was not one of
terror, but joy!  And stranger still that, on hearing it, the coyotes
for an instant desisted from their attack!

There was a suspension of the strife--a short interval of silence.  It
was not the cry of their victim that had caused it, but that which had
elicited the exclamation.

There was the sound of a horse's hoofs going at a gallop, followed by
the loud baying of a hound.

The wounded man continued to exclaim,--in shouts calling for help.  The
horse appeared to be close by.  A man upon his back could not fail to
hear them.

But there was no response.  The horse, or horseman, had passed on.

The hoof-strokes became less distinct.  Despair once more returned to
the antagonist of the coyotes.

At the same time his skulking assailants felt a renewal of their
courage, and hastened to renew the conflict.

Once more it commenced, and was soon raging fiercely as before--the
wretched man believing himself doomed, and only continuing the strife
through sheer desperation.

Once more was it interrupted, this time by an intruder whose presence
inspired him with fresh courage and hope.

If the horseman had proved indifferent to his calls for help, not so the
hound.  A grand creature of the staghound species--of its rarest and
finest breed--was seen approaching the spot, uttering a deep sonorous
bay, as with impetuous bound it broke through the bushes.

"_A friend! thank Heaven, a friend_!"

The baying ceased, as the hound cleared the selvage of the chapparal,
and rushed open-mouthed among the cowed coyotes--already retreating at
his approach!

One was instantly seized between the huge jaws; jerked upward from the
earth; shaken as if it had been only a rat; and let go again, to writhe
over the ground with a shattered spine!

Another was served in a similar manner; but ere a third could be
attacked, the terrified survivors dropped their tails to the sward, and
went yelping away; one and all retreating whence they had come--into the
silent solitudes of the chapparal.

The rescued man saw no more.  His strength was completely spent.  He had
just enough left to stretch forth his arms, and with a smile close them
around the neck of his deliverer.  Then, murmuring some soft words, he
fainted gradually away.

His syncope was soon over, and consciousness once more assumed away.

Supporting himself on his elbow, he looked inquiringly around.

It was a strange, sanguinary spectacle that met his eyes.  But for his
swoon, he would have seen a still stranger one.  During its continuance
a horseman had ridden into the glade, and gone out again.  He was the
same whose hoofstroke had been heard, and who had lent a deaf ear to the
cries for help.  He had arrived too late, and then without any idea of
offering assistance.  His design appeared to be the watering of his
horse.

The animal plunged straight into the streamlet, drank to its
satisfaction, climbed out on the opposite bank, trotted across the open
ground, and disappeared in the thicket beyond.

The rider had taken no notice of the prostrate form; the horse only by
snorting, as he saw it, and springing from side to side, as he trod
amidst the carcases of the coyotes.

The horse was a magnificent animal, not large, but perfect in all his
parts.  The man was the very reverse--having no head!

There was a head, but not in its proper place.  It rested against the
holster, seemingly held in the rider's hand!

A fearful apparition.

The dog barked, as it passed through the glade, and followed it to the
edge of the underwood.  He had been with it for a long time, straying
where it strayed, and going where it went.

He now desisted from this fruitless fellowship; and, returning to the
sleeper, lay down by his side.

It was then that the latter was restored to consciousness, and
remembered what had made him for the moment oblivious.

After caressing the dog he again sank into a prostrate position; and,
drawing the skirt of the cloak over his face to shade it from the glare
of the sun, he fell asleep.

The staghound lay down at his feet, and also slumbered; but only in
short spells.  At intervals it raised its head, and uttered an angry
growl, as the wings of the vultures came switching too close to its
ears.

The young man muttered in his sleep.  They were wild words that came
from his unconscious lips, and betokened a strange commingling of
thoughts: now passionate appeals of love--now disjointed speeches, that
pointed to the committal of murder!



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

TWICE INTOXICATED.

Our story takes us back to the lone hut on the Alamo, so suddenly
forsaken by the gambling guests, who had made themselves welcome in the
absence of its owner.

It is near noon of the following day, and he has not yet come home.  The
_ci-devant_ stable-boy of Bally-ballagh is once more sole occupant of
the _jacale_--once more stretched along the floor, in a state of
inebriety; though not the same from which we have seen him already
aroused.  He has been sober since, and the spell now upon him has been
produced by a subsequent appeal to the Divinity of drink.

To explain, we must go back to that hour between midnight and morning,
when the monte players made their abrupt departure.

The sight of three red savages, seated around the slab table, and
industriously engaged in a game of cards, had done more to restore
Phelim to a state of sobriety than all the sleep he had obtained.

Despite a certain grotesqueness in the spectacle, he had not seen such a
ludicrous sight, as was proved by the terrific screech with which he
saluted them.  There was nothing laughable in what followed.  He had no
very clear comprehension of what _did_ follow.  He only remembered that
the trio of painted warriors suddenly gave up their game, flung their
cards upon the floor, stood over him for a time with naked blades,
threatening his life; and then, along with a fourth who had joined them,
turned their backs abruptly, and rushed pellmell out of the place!

All this occupied scarce twenty seconds of time; and when he had
recovered from his terrified surprise, he found himself once more alone
in the _jacale_!

Was the sleeping, or awake?  Drunk, or dreaming?  Was the scene real?
Or was it another chapter of incongruous impossibilities, like that
still fresh before his mind?

But no.  The thing was no fancy.  It could not be.  He had seen the
savages too near to be mistaken as to their reality.  He had heard them
talking in a tongue unknown to him.  What could it be but Indian jargon?
Besides, there were the pieces of pasteboard strewn over the floor!

He did not think of picking one up to satisfy himself of _their_
reality.  He was sober enough, but not sufficiently courageous for that.
He could not be sure of their not burning his fingers--those queer
cards?  They might belong to the devil?

Despite the confusion of his senses, it occurred to him that the hut was
no longer a safe place to stay in.  The painted players might return to
finish their game.  They had left behind not only their cards, but
everything else the _jacale_ contained; and though some powerful motive
seemed to have caused their abrupt departure, they might re-appear with
equal abruptness.

The thought prompted the Galwegian to immediate action; and, blowing out
the candle, so as to conceal his movements, he stole softly out of the
hut.

He did not go by the door.  The moon was shining on the grass-plat in
front.  The savages might still be there.

He found means of exit at the back, by pulling one of the horse hides
from its place, and squeezing himself through the stockade wall.

Once outside, he skulked off under the shadow of the trees.

He had not gone far when a clump of dark objects appeared before him.
There was a sound, as of horses champing their bitts, and the occasional
striking of a hoof.  He paused in his steps, screening his body behind
the trunk of a cypress.

A short observation convinced him, that what he saw was a group of
horses.  There appeared to be four of them; no doubt belonging to the
four warriors, who had turned the mustanger's hut into a gaming-house.
The animals appeared to be tied to a tree, but for all that, their
owners might be beside them.

Having made this reflection, he was about to turn back and go the other
way; but just at that moment he heard voices in the opposite direction--
the voices of several men speaking in tones of menace and command.

Then came short, quick cries of affright, followed by the baying of a
hound, and succeeded by silence, at intervals interrupted by a swishing
noise, or the snapping of a branch--as if several men were retreating
through the underwood in scared confusion!

As he continued to listen, the noises sounded nearer.  The men who made
them were advancing towards the cypress tree.

The tree was furnished with buttresses all around its base, with shadowy
intervals between.  Into one of these he stepped hastily; and, crouching
close, was completely screened by the shadow.

He had scarce effected his concealment, when four men came rushing up;
and, without stopping, hastened on towards the horses.

As they passed by him, they were exchanging speeches which the Irishman
could not understand; but their tone betrayed terror.  The excited
action of the men confirmed it.  They were evidently retreating from
some enemy that had filled them with fear.

There was a glade where the moon-beams fell upon the grass.  It was just
outside the shadow of the cypress.  To reach the horses they had to
cross it; and, as they did so, the vermilion upon their naked skins
flashed red under the moonlight.

Phelim identified the four gentlemen who had made so free with the
hospitality of the hut.

He kept his place till they had mounted, and rode off--till he could
tell by the tramp of their horses that they had ascended the upper
plain, and gone off in a gallop--as men who were not likely to come back
again.

"Doesn't that bate Banagher?" muttered he, stepping out from his
hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment.  "Be japers! it
diz.  Mother av Moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow?  What are them divvils
afther?  An fwhat's afther them?  Shure somethin' has given them a
scare--that's plain as a pikestaff.  I wondher now if it's been that
same.  Be me sowl it's jist it they've encounthered.  I heerd the hound
gowlin, an didn't he go afther it.  O Lard! what cyan _it_ be?  May be
it'll be comin' this way in purshoot av them?"

The dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld
by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree;
where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense.

"Afther all, _it_ must be some thrick av Masther Maurice.  Maybe to give
me a scare; an comin' back he's jist been in time to frighten off these
ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too.  Sowl!  I
hope it is that.  How long since I saw it first?  Trath! it must be some
considerable time.  I remimber having four full naggins, an that's all
gone off.  I wondher now if them Indyins has come acrass av the
dimmyjan?  I've heerd that they're as fond of the crayther as if their
skins was white.  Sowl! if they've smelt the jar there won't be a dhrap
in it by this time.  I'll jist slip back to the hut an see.  If thare's
any danger now it won't be from them.  By that tarin' gallop, I cyan
tell they've gone for good."

Once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards
the _jacale_.

He approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself
that no one was near.

Notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself,
he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman--
who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it.

But for the hope of finding a "dhrap" in the demijohn, he would not have
ventured back that night.  As it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a
trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped
doubtfully into the darkness.

He made no attempt to rekindle the light.  Every inch of the floor was
familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find
the demijohn.

He tried for it.  An exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment
told that it was not there.

"Be dad!" muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; "it looks as if
they'd been at it.  Av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its
place?  I lift it thare--shure I lift it thare."

"Ach, me jewel! an it's thare yez are yet," he continued, as his hand
came in contact with the wickerwork; "an' bad luck to their imperence--
impty as an eggshill!  Ach! ye greedy gutted bastes!  If I'd a known yez
were goin' to do that, I'd av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into
the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye--jist fwhat yez wants.
Divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin' a man's liquor
when he's aslape!  Och-an-anee! fwhat am I to do now?  Go to slape
agane?  I don't belave I cyan, thinkin' av tham an the tother, widout a
thrifle av the crayther to comfort me.  An' thare isn't a dhrap widin
twenty--Fwhat--fwhat!  Howly Mary!  Mother av Moses!  Sant Pathrick and
all the others to boot, fwhat am I talkin' about?  The pewther flask--
the pewther flask!  Be japers! it's in the thrunk--full to the very
neck!  Didn't I fill it for Masther Maurice to take wid him the last
time he went to the sittlements?  And didn't he forget to take it?  Lard
have mercy on me!  If the Indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon
_that_ I shall be afther takin' lave at me sinses."

"Hoo--hoop--hoorro!" he cried, after an interval of silence, during
which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau.
"Hoo--hoop--hoorro! thanks to the Lord for all his mercies.  The
rid-skins haven't been cunnin' enough to look thare.  The flask as full
as a tick--not wan av them has had a finger on it.  Hoo--hoop--hoorro!"

For some seconds the discoverer of the spirituous treasure, giving way
to a joyous excitement, could be heard in the darkness, dancing over the
floor of the _jacale_.

Then there was an interval of silence, succeeded by the screwing of a
stopper, and after that a succession of "glucks," that proclaimed the
rapid emptying of a narrow-necked vessel.

After a time this sound was suspended, to be replaced by a repeated,
smacking of lips, interlarded with grotesque ejaculations.

Again came the gluck-gluck, again the smackings, and so on alternately,
till an empty flask was heard falling upon the floor.

After that there were wild shouts--scraps of song intermingled with
cheers and laughter--incoherent ravings about red Indians and headless
horsemen, repeated over and over again, each time in more subdued tones,
till the maudlin gibberish at length ended in loud continuous snoring!



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

AN AWAKENER.

Phelim's second slumber was destined to endure for a more protracted
term than his first.  It was nearly noon when he awoke from it; and then
only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered
him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.

It was Zeb Stump who administered the _douche_.

After parting from the precincts of Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had
taken the road, or rather _trail_, which he knew to be the most direct
one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.

Without staying to notice tracks or other "sign," he rode straight
across the prairie, and into the avenue already mentioned.

Prom what Louise Poindexter had told him--from a knowledge of the people
who composed the party of searchers--he knew that Maurice Gerald was in
danger.

Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them--coupled with caution to
keep out of their way.

He knew that if he came up with the Regulators, equivocation would be a
dangerous game; and, _nolens volens_, he should be compelled to guide
them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer.

On turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the
searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently
engaged in the examination of "sign."

At the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was
rewarded, by himself remaining unseen.

"Durn them!" he muttered, with bitter emphasis.  "I mout a know'd they'd
a bin hyur.  I must go back an roun' the tother way.  It'll deelay me
better'n a hour.  Come, ole maar!  This air an obstruckshun _you_, won't
like.  It'll gi'e ye the edition o' six more mile to yur journey.
Ee-up, ole gal!  Roun' an back we go!"

With a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and
rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue.

Once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering
it by the path which on the day before had been taken by Diaz and his
trio of confederates.  From this point he proceeded without pause or
adventure until he had descended to the Alamo bottom-land, and arrived
within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger's
dwelling.

Instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and
leaving her behind him, approached the _jacale_ with his customary
caution.

The horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the
middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out.  What was
the meaning of that?

Zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture.

It increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much
stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope.

He kept round by the rear--so as to avail himself of the cover afforded
by the trees; and at length, having crouched into the horse-shed at the
back, he knelt down and listened.

There was an opening before his eyes; where one of the split posts had
been pushed out of place, and the skin tapestry torn off.  He saw this
with some surprise; but, before he could shape any conjecture as to its
cause, his ears were saluted with a sonorous breathing, that came out
through the aperture.  There was also a snore, which he fancied he could
recognise, as proceeding from Irish nostrils.

A glance through the opening settled the point.  The sleeper was Phelim.

There was an end to the necessity for stealthy manoeuvring.  The hunter
rose to his feet, and stepping round to the front, entered by the door--
which he found unbolted.

He made no attempt to rouse the sleeper, until after he had taken stock
of the paraphernalia upon the floor.

"Thur's been packin' up for some purpiss," he observed, after a cursory
glance.  "Ah!  Now I reccollex.  The young fellur sayed he war goin' to
make a move from hyur some o' these days.  Thet ere anymal air not only
soun' asleep, but dead drunk.  Sartin he air--drunk as Backis.  I kin
tell that by the smell o' him.  I wonder if he hev left any o' the
licker?  It air dewbious.  Not a drop, dog-gone him!  Thur's the jar,
wi' the stop plug out o' it, lyin' on its side; an thur's the flask,
too, in the same preedikamint--both on 'em fall o' empiness.  Durn him
for a drunken cuss!  He kin suck up as much moister as a chalk purayra.

"Spanish curds!  A hul pack on 'em scattered abeout the place.  What kin
he ha' been doin' wi' them?  S'pose he's been havin' a game o' sollatury
along wi' his licker."

"But what's cut the hole in the door, an why's the tother broken out at
the back?  I reckon he kin tell.  I'll roust him, an see.  Pheelum!
Pheelum!"

Phelim made no reply.

"Pheelum, I say!  Pheelum!"

Still no reply.  Although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud
enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the
slumberer to show that he even heard it.

A rude shaking administered by Zeb had no better effect.  It only
produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same
stentorous respiration.

"If 'twa'n't for his snorin' I mout b'lieve him to be dead.  He _air_
dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o' his
toe-nails.  Kickin' him 'ud be no use.  Dog-goned, ef I don't try
_this_."

The old hunter's eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in
a corner of the cabin.  It was full of water, which Phelim, for some
purpose, had fetched from the creek.  Unfortunately for himself, he had
not wasted it.

With a comical expression in his eye, Zeb took up the pail; and swilled
the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the
sleeper.

It had the effect intended.  If not quite sobered, the inebriate was
thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came
from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud
cachinnations of the hunter.

It was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit
of the two men entering upon a serious conversation.

Phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, was still under the
influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump,
notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced
himself.

As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without
waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail, as concisely
as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of
strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.

It was the first that Zeb Stump had heard of the _Headless Horseman_.

Although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning
broadly scattered around Fort Inge, and along the Leona, Zeb, having
passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at Casa
del Corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such
a startling item of intelligence.  In fact, he had exchanged speech only
with Pluto and Louise Poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard
anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by
the party of searchers.  The planter, for some reason or another, had
been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse
with any of the others.

At first Zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head.
He called it "a fantassy of Pheelum's brain, owin' to his havin' tuk too
much of the corn-juice."

He was puzzled, however, by Phelim's persistence in declaring it to be a
fact--more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known
to him.

"Arrah, now, how could I be mistaken?" argued the Irishman.  "Didn't I
see Masther Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minnit?  All
except the hid, and that I had a peep at as he turned to gallop away.
Besides, thare was the Mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth,
and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty
horse?  An' havn't I towld yez that Tara went away afther him, an thin I
heerd the dog gowlin', jist afore the Indyins--"

"Injuns!" exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head.
"Injuns playin' wi' Spanish curds!  White Injuns, I reck'n."

"<DW37> yez think they waren't Indyins, afther all?"

"Ne'er a matter what I think.  Thur's no time to talk o' that now.  Go
on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern."

When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question
him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon
the grass.

His object was, as he said himself, to have "a good think;" which, he
had often declared, he could not obtain while "hampered wi' a house
abeout him."

It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian
groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.

Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be
accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the
non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had
started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant,
have been there at an early hour on the day before.

Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding
about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands!
This last might be a trick.  What else could it be?

Still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered,
and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the
murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should
be playing them!

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather
conglomeration of circumstances--events without causes--causes without
sequence--crimes committed without any probable motive--mysteries that
could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter--a
quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery--Maurice having
departed for the prairies--Henry having followed to sue for
forgiveness--in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry
Poindexter.  More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the
young planter.  Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had
frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.

That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin,
was too improbable for belief.  Only by the evidence of his eyes could
Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.

After spending a full half hour at his "think," he had made but little
progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected,
circumstances.  Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession
of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational
solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men--he did not
believe them to be Indians--had been making free with the mustanger's
hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with
the murder that had been committed.  But the presence of these men at
the _jacale_, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner,
conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that
more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the
thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!

A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction
forced itself upon his mind.  He entertained for the young Irishman a
peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son;
and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure
corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard
and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of
his heart.

He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he
could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet,
he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his
purpose of vengeance.

So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the
staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque
Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature's presence.  And
then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled
with his own name, attracted his attention.

"What is it, Pheelum?  What's wrong?  Hes a snake bit ye?"

"Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara!  See! thare's somethin' tied about his
neck.  It wasn't there when he lift.  What do yez think it is?"

The hunter's eyes turned immediately upon the hound.  Sure enough there
was something around the animal's neck: a piece of buckskin thong.  But
there was something besides--a tiny packet attached to the thong, and
hanging underneath the throat!

Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog.  The creature recoiled in
fear.

A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he
came up again.

The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a _card_!

There was a name upon the card, and writing--writing in what appeared to
be red ink; but it was _blood_!

The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read.  Even Zeb Stump was no
exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of
pasteboard.

As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the
groans he had been just uttering.  It was a shout of gladness, of joy!

"Thank the Almighty for this!" he added; "and thank my ole Katinuck
schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my Webster's spellin'-book.  He
lives, Pheelum! he lives!  Look at this.  Oh, _you_ can't read.  No
matter.  He lives! he lives!"

"Who?  Masther Maurice?  Thin the Lord be thanked--"

"Wagh! thur's no time to thank him now.  Get a blanket an some pieces o'
horse-hide thong.  Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar.  Quick!
Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!"



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

JUST IN TIME.

"Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!"

They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.

They were true, except as to the time.  Had he said half-a-minute, he
would have been nearer the mark.  Even at the moment of their utterance,
the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in
dread danger--once more surrounded by the coyotes.

But it was not these he had need to fear.  A far more formidable foe was
threatening his destruction.

Maurice Gerald--by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and
Panama hat--after doing battle with the wolves, as already described,
and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.

With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect
him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with
which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours
enjoyed it.

He awoke of his own accord.  Finding his strength much restored, he once
more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.

The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him
against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it.  But to what
end?  The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and
to stay there would be to die of hunger--perhaps of the wounds he had
received?

He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright.
Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a
pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position.

At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him.  Tara might take a
message to the hut!

"If I could but get him to go," said he, as he turned inquiringly
towards the dog.  "Come hither, old fellow!" he continued, addressing
himself to the dumb animal; "I want you to play postman for me--to carry
a letter.  You understand?  Wait till I've got it written.  I shall then
explain myself more fully."

"By good luck I've got a card," he added, feeling for his case.  "No
pencil!  That don't matter.  There's plenty of ink around; and for a pen
I can use the thorn of yonder maguey."

He crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long
spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyote
that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it.

With a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the
staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the
lining of the Panama hat.

It only remained to despatch the canine post upon his errand.  This
proved a somewhat difficult task.  The dumb creature, despite a wondrous
intelligence, could not comprehend why he should forsake the side of one
he had so faithfully befriended; and for a long time resisted the
coaxings and chidings, meant to warn him away.

It was only after being scolded in a tone of assumed anger, and beaten
by the black-jack crutch--stricken by the man whose life he had so
lately saved, that he had consented to leave the spot.  Even canine
affection could not endure this; and with repeated looks of reproach,
cast backwards as he was chased off, he trotted reluctantly into the
chapparal.

"Poor fellow!" soliloquised Maurice, as the dog disappeared from his
view.  "'Tis like boating one's self, or one's dearest friend!  Well, I
shall make up for it in extra kindness if I have the good fortune to see
him again.

"And now, that he is gone, I must provide against the coming back of
these villainous coyotes.  They will be sure to come, once they discover
that I'm alone."

A scheme had been already considered.

A tree stood near--the pecan already alluded to--having two stout
branches that extended horizontally and together, at six or seven feet
from the ground.

Taking off his cloak, and spreading it out upon the grass, with his
knife he cut a row of holes along each edge.

Then unwinding from his waist the sash of china crape, he tore it up the
middle, so as to make two strips, each several yards long.

The cloak was now extended between the branches, and fast tied by the
strips of crape--thus forming a sort of hammock capable of containing
the body of a man laid out at full length.

The maker of it knew that the coyotes are not tree climbers; and,
reclining on his suspended couch, he could observe with indifference
their efforts to assail him.

He took all this trouble, feeling certain they would return.  If he had
any doubt, it was soon set at rest, by seeing them, one after the other,
come skulking out of the chapparal, lopping a pace or two, at intervals,
pausing to reconnoitre, and then advancing towards the scene of their
late conflict.

Emboldened by the absence of the enemy most dreaded by them, the pack
was soon reassembled, once more exhibiting the truculent ferocity for
which these cowardly creatures are celebrated.

It was first displayed in a very unnatural manner--by the devouring of
their own dead--which was done in less time than it would have taken the
spectator in the tree to have counted a score.

To him their attention was next directed.  In swinging his hammock, he
had taken no pains to conceal it.  He had suspended it high enough to be
out of their reach; and that he deemed sufficient for his purpose.

The cloak of dark cloth was conspicuous, as well as the figure outlined
within it.  The coyotes clustered underneath--their appetites whetted by
the taste of blood.  It was a sight to see them lick their red lips
after their unnatural repast--a fearful sight!

He who saw it scarce regarded them--not even when they were springing up
to lay hold of his limbs, or at times attempting to ascend by the trunk
of the tree!  He supposed there was no danger.

There _was_ danger, however, on which he had not reckoned; and not till
the coyotes have desisted from their idle attempts, and stretched
themselves, panting, under the tree, did he begin to perceive it.

Of all the wild denizens, either of prairie or chapparal, the coyote is
that possessed of the greatest cunning.  The trapper will tell you it is
the "cunningest varmint in creation."  It is a fox in astuteness--a wolf
in ferocity.  It may be tamed, but it will turn at any time to tear the
hand that caresses it.  A child can scare it with a stick, but a
disabled man may dread its attack.  Alone it has the habit of a hare;
but in packs--and it hunts only in packs--its poltroonery is less
observable; sometimes under the influence of extreme hunger giving place
to a savageness of disposition that assumes the semblance of courage.

It is the coyotes' cunning that is most to be feared; and it was this
that had begun to excite fresh apprehension in the mind of the
mustanger.

On discovering that they could not reach him--a discovery they were not
long in making--instead of scattering off from the spot, the wolves, one
and all, squatted down upon the grass; while others, stragglers from the
original troop, were still coming into the glade.  He saw that they
intended a siege.

This should not have troubled him, seeing that he was secure in his
suspended couch.

Nor would it, but for another source of trouble, every moment making
itself more manifest--that from which he had so lately had such a narrow
escape.  He was once more on the eve of being tortured by thirst.

He blamed himself for having been so simple, as not to think of this
before climbing up to the tree.  He might easily have carried up a
supply of water.  The stream was there; and for want of a better vessel,
the concave blades of the maguey would have served as a cistern.

His self-reproaches came too late.  The water was under his eyes, only
to tantalise him; and by so doing increase his eagerness to obtain it.
He could not return to the stream, without running the gauntlet of the
coyotes, and that would be certain death.  He had but faint hopes that
the hound would return and rescue him a second time--fainter still that
his message would reach the man for whom it was intended.  A hundred to
one against that.

Thirst is quick in coming to a man whose veins are half-emptied of their
blood.  The torture proclaimed itself apace.  How long was it to
continue?

This time it was accompanied by a straying of the senses.  The wolves,
from being a hundred, seemed suddenly to have increased their number
tenfold.  A thousand appeared to encompass the tree, filling the whole
ground of the glade!  They came nearer and nearer.  Their eyes gave out
a lurid light.  Their red tongues lapped the hanging cloth; they tore it
with their teeth.  He could feel their fetid breath, as they sprang up
among the branches!

A lucid interval told him that it was all fancy.  The wolves were still
there; but only a hundred of them--as before, reclining upon the grass,
pitiably awaiting a crisis!  It came before the period of lucidity had
departed; to the spectator unexpected as inexplicable.  He saw the
coyotes suddenly spring to their feet, and rush off into the thicket,
until not one remained within the glade.

Was this, too, a fancy?  He doubted the correctness of his vision.  He
had begun to believe that his brain was distempered.

But it was clear enough now.  There were no coyotes.  What could have
frightened them off?

A cry of joy was sent forth from his lips, as he conjectured a cause.
Tara had returned?  Perhaps Phelim along with him?  There had been time
enough for the delivery of the message.  For two hours he had been
besieged by the coyotes.

He turned upon his knee, and bending over the branch, scanned the circle
around him.  Neither hound nor henchman was in sight.  Nothing but
branches and bushes!

He listened.  No sound, save an occasional howl, sent back by the
coyotes that still seemed to continue their retreat!  More than ever was
it like an illusion.  What could have caused their scampering?

No matter.  The coast was clear.  The streamlet could now be approached
without danger.  Its water sparkled under his eyes--its rippling sounded
sweet to his ears.

Descending from the tree, he staggered towards its bank, and reached it.

Before stooping to drink, he once more looked around him.  Even the
agony of thirst could not stifle the surprise, still fresh in his
thoughts.  To what was he indebted for his strange deliverance?

Despite his hope that it might be the hound, he had an apprehension of
danger.

One glance, and he was certain of it.  The spotted yellow skin shining
among the leaves--the long, lithe form crawling like a snake out of the
underwood was not to be mistaken.  It was the tiger of the New World--
scarce less dreaded than his congener of the Old--the dangerous jaguar.

Its presence accounted for the retreat of the coyotes.

Neither could its intent be mistaken.  It, too, had scented blood, and
was hastening to the spot where blood had been sprinkled, with that
determined air that told it would not be satisfied till after partaking
of the banquet.

Its eyes were upon him, who had descended from the tree--its steps were
towards him--now in slow, crouching gait; but quicker and quicker, as if
preparing for a spring.

To retreat to the tree would have been sheer folly.  The jaguar can
climb like a cat.  The mustanger knew this.

But even had he been ignorant of it, it would have been all the same, as
the thing was no longer possible.  The animal had already passed that
tree, upon which he had found refuge, and there was t'other near that
could be reached in time.

He had no thought of climbing to a tree--no thought of any thing, so
confused were his senses--partly from present surprise, partly from the
bewilderment already within his brain.

It was a simple act of unreasoning impulse that led him to rush on into
the stream, until he stood up to his waist in the water.

Had he reasoned, he would have known that this would do nothing to
secure his safety.  If the jaguar climbs like a cat, it also swims with
the ease of an otter; and is as much to be dreaded in the water as upon
the land.

Maurice made no such reflection.  He suspected that the little pool,
towards the centre of which he had waded, would prove but poor
protection.  He was sure of it when the jaguar, arriving upon the bank
above him, set itself in that cowering attitude that told of its
intention to spring.

In despair he steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce
animal.

He had nought wherewith to repel it--no knife--no pistol--no weapon of
any kind--not even his crutch!  A struggle with his bare arms could but
end in his destruction.

A wild cry went forth from his lips, as the tawny form was about
launching itself for the leap.

There was a simultaneous scream from the jaguar.  Something appeared
suddenly to impede it; and instead of alighting on the body of its
victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!

Like an echo of his own, a cry came from the chapparal, close following
a sound that had preceded it--the sharp "spang" of a rifle.

A huge dog broke through the bushes, and sprang with a plunge into the
pool where the jaguar had sunk below the surface.  A man of colossal
size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature
treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph.

To the wounded man these sights and sounds were more like a vision than
the perception of real phenomena.  They were the last thoughts of that
day that remained in his memory.  His reason, kept too long upon the
rack, had given way.  He tried to strangle the faithful hound that swam
fawningly around him and struggled against the strong arms that, raising
him out of the water, bore him in friendly embrace to the bank!

His mind had passed from a horrid reality, to a still more horrid
dream--the dream of delirium.



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

A PRAIRIE PALANQUIN.

The friendly arms, flung around Maurice Gerald, were those of Zeb Stump.

Guided by the instructions written upon the card, the hunter had made
all haste towards the rendezvous there given.

He had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the
spot, at that critical moment when the jaguar was preparing to spring.

His bullet did not prevent the fierce brute from making the bound--the
last of its life--though it had passed right through the animal's heart.

This was a thing thought of afterwards--there was no opportunity then.

On rushing into the water, to make sure that his shot had proved fatal,
the hunter was himself attacked; not by the claws of the jaguar, but the
hands of the man just rescued from them.

Fortunate for Zeb, that the mustanger's knife had been left upon land.
As it was, he came near being throttled; and only after throwing aside
his rifle, and employing all his strength, was he able to protect
himself against the unlooked-for assault.

A struggle ensued, which ended in Zeb flinging his colossal arms around
the young Irishman, and bearing him bodily to the bank.

It was not all over.  As soon as the latter was relieved from the
embrace, he broke away and made for the pecan tree;--as rapidly as if
the injured limb no longer impeded him.

The hunter suspected his intent.  Standing over six feet, he saw the
bloody knife-blade lying along the cloak.  It was for that the mustanger
was making!

Zeb bounded after; and once more enfolding the madman in his bear-like
embrace, drew him back from the tree.

"Speel up thur, Pheelum!" shouted he.  "Git that thing out o' sight.
The young fellur hev tuck leeve o' his seven senses.  Thur's fever in
the feel o' him.  He air gone dullerious!"

Phelim instantly obeyed; and, scrambling up the tree-trunk took
possession of the knife.

Still the struggle was not over.  The delirious man wrestled with his
rescuer--not in silence, but with shouts and threatening speeches--his
eyes all the time rolling and glaring with a fierce, demoniac light.

For full ten minutes did he continue the mad wrestling match.

At length from sheer exhaustion he sank back upon the grass; and after a
few tremulous shiverings, accompanied by sighs heaved from the very
bottom of his breast, he lay still, as if the last spark of life had
departed from his body!

The Galwegian, believing it so, began uttering a series of lugubrious
cries--the "keen" of Connemara.

"Stop yur gowlin, ye durned cuss!" cried Zeb.  "It air enuf to scare the
breath out o' his karkidge.  He's no more dead than you air--only
fented.  By the way he hev fit me, I reck'n there ain't much the matter
wi' him.  No," he continued, after stooping down and giving a short
examination, "I kin see no wound worth makin' a muss about.  Thur's a
consid'able swellin' o' the knee; but the leg ain't fructered, else he
kudn't a stud up on it.  As for them scratches, they ain't much.  What
kin they be?  'Twarnt the jegwur that gin them.  They air more like the
claws o' a tom cat.  Ho, ho!  I sees now.  Thur's been a bit o' a
skrimmage afore the spotted beest kim up.  The young fellur's been
attakted by coyoats!  Who'd a surposed that the cowardly varmints would
a had the owdacity to attakt a human critter?  But they _will_, when
they gits the chance o' one krippled as he air--durn 'em!"

The hunter had all the talking to himself.  Phelim, now overjoyed to
know that his master still lived--and furthermore was in no danger of
dying--suddenly changed his melancholy whine to a jubilant hullaballoo,
and commenced dancing over the ground, all the while snapping his
fingers in the most approved Connemara fashion.

His frenzied action provoked the hound to a like pitch of excitement;
and the two became engaged in a sort of wild Irish jig.

Zeb took no notice of these grotesque demonstrations; but, once more
bending over the prostrate form, proceeded to complete the examination
already begun.

Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet,
and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around him.  He had
already noticed the Panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the
mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through
his mind.

Hats of Guayaquil grass--erroneously called Panama--were not uncommon.
Scores of Southerners wore them, in Texas as elsewhere.  But he knew
that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican _sombrero_--a
very different kind of head-gear.  It was possible he might have seen
fit to change the fashion.

Still, as Zeb continued to gaze upon it, he fancied he had seen _that_
hat before, and on some other head.

It was not from any suspicion of its being honestly in possession of him
now wearing it that the hunter stooped down, and took it off with the
design to examine it.  His object was simply to obtain some explanation
of the mystery, or series of mysteries, hitherto baffling his brain.

On looking inside the hat he read two names; first, that of a New
Orleans hatter, whose card was pasted in the crown; and then, in
writing, another well known to him:--

"HENRY POINDEXTER."

The cloak now came under his notice.  It, too, carried marks, by which
he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner.

"Dog-goned kewrious, all this!" muttered the backwoodsman, as he stood
with his eyes turned upon the ground, and apparently buried in a
profound reflection.

"Hats, heads, an everythin'.  Hats on the wrong head; heads i' the wrong
place!  By the 'tarnal thur's somethin' goed astray!  Ef 'twa'nt that I
feel a putty consid'able smartin' whar the young fellur gin me a lick
over the left eye, I mout be arter believin' my own skull-case wa'nt any
longer atween my shoulders!"

"It air no use lookin' to him," he added, glancing towards Maurice, "for
an explanation; leastwise till he's slep' off this dullerium thet's on
him.  When that'll be, ole Nick only knows.

"Wal," he continued after another interval spent in silent reflection,
"It won't do no good our stayin' hyur.  We must git him to the shanty,
an that kin only be did by toatin' him.  He sayed on the curd, he cudn't
make neer a track.  It war only the anger kep' him up a bit.  That leg
looks wusser and wusser.  He's boun to be toated."

The hunter seemed to cogitate on how he was to effect this purpose.

"'Taint no good expektin' _him_ to help think it out," he continued
looking at the Galwegian, who was busy talking to Tara.  "The dumb brute
hev more sense than he.  Neer a mind.  I'd make him take his full share
o' the carryin' when it kum to thet.  How air it to be done?  We must
git him on a streetcher.  That I reck'n we kin make out o' a kupple o'
poles an the cloak; or wi' the blanket Pheelum fetch'd from the shanty.
Ye-es! a streetcher.  That's the eydentikul eyedee."

The Connemara man was now summoned to lend assistance.  Two saplings of
at least ten feet in length were cut from the chapparal, and trimmed
clear of twigs.  Two shorter ones were also selected, and lashed
crosswise over the first; and upon these there spread, first the serape,
and afterwards the cloak, to give greater strength.

In this way a rude stretcher was constructed, capable of carrying either
an invalid or an inebriate.

In the mode of using it, it more resembled the latter than the former:
since he who was to be borne upon it, again deliriously raging, had to
be strapped to the trestles!

Unlike the ordinary stretcher, it was not carried between two men; but a
man and a mare--the mare at the head, the man bearing behind.

It was he of Connemara who completed the ill-matched team.  The old
hunter had kept his promise, that Phelim should "take his full share o'
the carryin', when it kum to thet."

He was taking it, or rather getting it--Zeb having appointed himself to
the easier post of conductor.

The idea was not altogether original.  It was a rude copy from the
Mexican _litera_, which in Southern Texas Zeb may have seen--differing
from the latter only in being without screen, and instead of two mules,
having for its _atelage_ a mare and a man!

In this improvised palanquin was Maurice Gerald transported to his
dwelling.

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

It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the _locale_.

In strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the
stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose.

He was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces
bending over him.  His thoughts were still astray, though no longer
exciting him to violent action.  He was experiencing an interval of
calm.

He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions
addressed to him, or only answered them with an inconsequence that might
have provoked mirth.  But there were wild words upon his lips that
forbade it--suggesting only serious thoughts.

His wounds received such rude dressing as his companions were capable of
administering to them; and nothing more could be done but await the
return of day.

Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sate up to
keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer.

It was not from any unfaithfulness on the part of the foster-brother,
that he seemed thus to disregard his duty; but simply because Zeb had
requested him to lie down--telling him there was no occasion for both to
remain awake.

The old hunter had his reasons.  He did not desire that those wild words
should be heard even by Phelim.  Better he should listen to them alone.

And alone he sate listening to them--throughout the live-long night.

He heard speeches that surprised him, and names that did not.  He was
not surprised to hear the name "Louise" often repeated, and coupled with
fervent protestations of love.

But there was another name also often pronounced--with speeches less
pleasant to his ear.

It was the name of Louise's brother.

The speeches were disjointed--incongruous, and almost unintelligible.

Comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances
already known to him, before the morning light had entered the _jacale_,
Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no
longer a living man!



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

UN DIA DE NOVEDADES.

Don Silvio Martinez was one of the few Mexican _ricos_, who had chosen
to remain in Texas, after the conquest of that country by the stalwart
colonisers from the North.

A man of more than mature age, of peaceful habits, and taking no part in
politics, he accepted the new situation without any great regret.  He
was the more easily reconciled to it, from a knowledge, that his loss of
nationality was better than counterbalanced by his gain of security
against Comanche incursions; which, previous to the coming of the new
colonists, had threatened the complete depopulation of the country.

The savage was not yet entirely subdued; but his maraud was now
intermittent, and occurred only at long intervals.  Even this was an
improvement on the old _regime_.

Don Silvio was a _ganadero_,--a grazier, on a grand scale.  So grand
that his _ganaderia_ was leagues in length and breadth, and contained
within its limits many thousands of horses and horned cattle.

He lived in a large rectangular one-storied house--more resembling a
jail than a dwelling--surrounded by extensive enclosures--_corrales_.

It was usually a quiet place; except during the time of the _herradero_,
or cattle-branding; when for days it became the scene of a festivity
almost Homeric.

These occasions were only of annual occurrence.

At all other times the old haciendado--who was a bachelor to boot--led a
tranquil and somewhat solitary life; a sister older than himself being
his only companion.  There were occasional exceptions to this rule: when
his charming _sobrina_ rode across from the Rio Grande to pay him and
his sister a visit.  Then the domicile of Don Silvio became a little
more lively.

Isidora was welcome whenever she came; welcome to come and go when she
pleased; and do as she pleased, while under her uncle's roof.  The
sprightliness of her character was anything but displeasing to the old
haciendado; who was himself far from being of a sombre disposition.
Those traits, that might have appeared masculine in many other lands,
were not so remarkable in one, where life is held by such precarious
tenure; where the country house is oft transformed into a fortress, and
the domestic hearth occasionally bedewed with the blood of its inmates!

Is it surprising that in such a land women should be found, endowed with
those qualities that have been ascribed to Isidora?  If so, it is not
the less true that they exist.

As a general thing the Mexican woman is a creature of the most amiable
disposition; _douce_--if we may be allowed to borrow from a language
that deals more frequently with feminine traits--to such an extent, as
to have become a national characteristic.  It is to the denizens of the
great cities, secure from Indian incursion, that this character more
especially applies.  On the frontiers, harried for the last half century
by the aboriginal freebooter, the case is somewhat different.  The
amiability still exists; but often combined with a _bravourie_ and
hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic.

Since Malinche, more than one fair heroine has figured in the history of
Anahuac.

Don Silvio Martinez had himself assisted at many a wild scene and
ceremony.  His youth had been passed amid perils; and the courage of
Isidora--at times degenerating into absolute recklessness--so far from
offending, rather gave him gratification.

The old gentleman loved his darling _sobrina_, as if she had been his
own child; and had she been so, she would not have been more certain of
succeeding to his possessions.

Every one knew, that, when Don Silvio Martinez should take leave of
life, Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos would be the owner of--not his
broad acres, but--his _leagues_ of land, as also his thousands of horses
and horned cattle.

With this understanding, it is needless to say, that the senorita
carried respect with her wherever she went, or that the vassals of the
Hacienda Martinez honoured her as their future mistress.

Independently of this was she regarded.  Hers were just the qualities to
win the esteem of the dashing _rancheros_; and there was not one upon
the estate, but would have drawn his _machete_ at her nod, and used it
to the shedding of blood.

Miguel Diaz spoke the truth, when he said he was in danger.  Well might
he believe it.  Had it pleased Isidora to call together her uncle's
_vaqueros_, and send them to chastise him, it would have been speedily
done--even to hanging him upon the nearest tree!

No wonder he had made such haste to get away from the glade.

As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of
the Rio Grande--separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda
Martinez.  But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to
her relations upon the Leona.

There was no selfishness in the motive.  The prospect of the rich
inheritance had nothing to do with it.  She was an expectant heiress
without that: for her own father was a _rico_.  But she liked the
company of her uncle and aunt.  She also enjoyed the ride from river to
river--oft made by her between morning and night, and not unfrequently
alone!

Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.

Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives--fonder as
they grew older?  If not, what was her motive?

Imitating her own frankness of character, it may at once be declared.

She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice
Gerald.

With like frankness may it be told, that she _loved_ him.

Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart.  As
already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have
been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing
it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.

Perhaps, too, she saw in him other captivating qualities, less easily
defined.  Whether these had been undesignedly exhibited, or with the
intention to effect a conquest, he alone can tell.  He has himself said,
No; and respect is due to his declaration.  But it is difficult to
believe, that mortal man could have gazed into the eyes of Isidora de
los Llanos without wishing them to look longingly upon him.

Maurice may have spoken the truth; but we could better believe him, had
he seen Louise Poindexter before becoming acquainted with Isidora.

The episode of the burnt prairie was several weeks subsequent to the
adventure with the intoxicated Indians.

Certainly something appears to have occurred between him and the Mexican
maiden, that leads her to believe she has a hope--if not a claim--upon
his affections.

It has come to that crisis, that she can no longer rest satisfied.  Her
impulsive spirit cannot brook ambiguity.  She knows that she loves
_him_.  She has determined to make frank confession of it; and to ask
with like frankness whether her passion be reciprocated.  Hence her
having made an appointment that could not be kept.

For that day Don Miguel Diaz had interfered between her and her purpose.

So thought she, as she galloped out of the glade, and hastened back to
the hacienda of her uncle.

Astride her grey steed she goes at a gallop.

Her head is bare; her coiffure disarranged; her rich black tresses
streaming back beyond her shoulders, no longer covered by scarf or
serape.  The last she has left behind her, and along with it her
_vicuna_ hat.

Her eyes are flashing with excitement; her cheeks flushed to the colour
of carmine.

The cause is known.

And also why she is riding in such hot haste.  She has herself declared
it.

On nearing the house, she is seen to tighten her rein.  The horse is
pulled in to a slower pace--a trot; slower still--a walk; and, soon
after, he is halted in the middle of the road.

His rider has changed her intention; or stops to reflect whether she
should.

She sits reflecting.

"On second thoughts--perhaps--better not have him taken?  It would
create a terrible scandal, everywhere.  So far, no one knows of --.
Besides, what can I say myself--the only witness?  Ah! were I to tell
these gallant Texans the story, my own testimony would be enough to have
him punished with a harsh hand.  No! let him live.  _Ladron_ as he is, I
do not fear him.  After what's happened he will not care to come near
me.  _Santa Virgen_! to think that I could have felt a fancy for this
man--short-lived as it was!

"I must send some one back to release him.  One who can keep my secret--
who?  Benito, the mayor-domo--faithful and brave.  _Gracias a Dios_!
Yonder's my man--as usual busied in counting his cattle.  Benito!
Benito!"

"At your orders, s'norita?"

"Good Benito, I want you to do me a kindness.  You consent?"

"At your orders, s'norita?" repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low.

"Not _orders_, good Benito.  I wish you to do me a _favour_."

"Command me, s'norita!"

"You know the spot of open ground at the top of the hill--where the
three roads meet?"

"As well as the corral of your uncle's hacienda."

"Good!  Go there.  You will find a man lying upon the ground, his arms
entangled in a lazo.  Release, and let him go free.  If he be hurt--by a
harsh fall he has had--do what you can to restore him; but don't tell
him who sent you.  You may know the man--I think you do.  No matter for
that.  Ask him no questions, nor answer his, if he should put any.  Once
you have seen him on his legs, let him make use of them after his own
fashion.  You understand?"

"_Perfectamente, s'norita_.  Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter."

"Thanks, good Benito.  Uncle Silvio will like you all the better for it;
though _you_ mustn't tell him of it.  Leave that to me.  If he
shouldn't--if he shouldn't--well! one of these days there may be an
estate on the Rio Grande that will stand in need of a brave, faithful
steward--such an one as I know you to be."

"Every one knows that the Dona Isidora is gracious as she is fair."

"Thanks--thanks!  One more request.  The service I ask you to do for me
must be known to only three individuals.  The third is he whom you are
sent to succour.  You know the other two?"

"S'norita, I comprehend.  It shall be as you wish it."

The mayor-domo is moving off on horseback, it need scarce be said.  Men
of his calling rarely set foot to the earth--never upon a journey of
half a league in length.

"Stay!  I had forgotten!" calls out the lady, arresting him.  "You will
find a hat and serape.  They are mine.  Bring them, and I shall wait for
you here, or meet you somewhere along the way."

Bowing, he again rides away.  Again is he summoned to stop.

"On second thoughts, Senor Benito, I've made up my mind to go along with
you.  _Vamos_!"

The steward of Don Silvio is not surprised at caprice, when exhibited by
the niece of his employer.  Without questioning, he obeys her command,
and once more heads his horse for the hill.

The lady follows.  She has told him to ride in the advance.  She has her
reason for departing from the aristocratic custom.

Benito is astray in his conjecture.  It is not to caprice that he is
indebted for the companionship of the senorita.  A serious motive takes
her back along the road.

She has forgotten something more than her wrapper and hat--that little
letter that has caused her so much annoyance.

The "good Benito" has not had _all_ her confidence; nor can he be
entrusted with this.  _It_ might prove a scandal, graver than the
quarrel with Don Miguel Diaz.

She rides back in hopes of repossessing herself of the epistle.  How
stupid not to have thought of it before!

How had El Coyote got hold of it?  He must have had it from Jose!

Was her servant a traitor?  Or had Diaz met him on the way, and forced
the letter from him?

To either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised.

On the part of Diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as
for Jose, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his
fidelity.

So run her thoughts as she re-ascends the <DW72>, leading up from the
river bottom.

The summit is gained, and the opening entered; Isidora now riding side
by side with the mayor-domo.

No Miguel Diaz there--no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater
chagrin, not a scrap of paper!

There is her hat of vicuna wool--her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop
end of her lazo--nothing more.

"You may go home again, Senor Benito!  The man thrown from his horse
must have recovered his senses--and, I suppose, his saddle too.  Blessed
be the virgin!  But remember, good Benito _Secrecy all the same.
Entiende, V_?"

"_Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora_."

The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of
the hill.

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

The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade.  She springs out
of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_
of a youthful hidalgo.

She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the
action.  Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse.  The pretty foot
is for a second or two poised in the air.

Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure
to have crazed Praxiteles.  As it descends on the opposite side of the
horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun.  Simon Stylites could scarce
have closed his eyes on the spectacle.

But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the
wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.

He is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the
strayed letter.

"What have you done with it, sirrah?"

"Delivered it, my lady."

"To whom?"

"I left it at--at--the _posada_," he replies, stammering and turning
pale.  "Don Mauricio had gone out."

"A lie, _lepero_!  You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz.  No denial, sir!
I've seen it since."

"O Senora, pardon! pardon!  I am not guilty--indeed I am not."

"Stupid, you should have told your story better.  You have committed
yourself.  How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?"

"As I live, lady, it was not treason.  He--he--forced it from me--by
threats--blows.  I--I--was not paid."

"You shall be, then!  I discharge you from my service; and for wages
take that, and that, and that--"

For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each
repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.

He essays to escape by running off.  In vain.  He is brought up again by
the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the
excited horse.

Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the
chastisement cease.

"Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more.  _Al monte! al
monte_!"

With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed.  Like a scared cat the
discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide
himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket.

But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger
giving place to a profound chagrin.  Not only has she been baffled from
carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of
traitors!

Once more she heads her horse homeward.  She arrives in time to be
present at a singular spectacle.  The people--peons, vaqueros, and
employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral,
from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified
ejaculations.  The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the
woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the
intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the
Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.

"What is causing the commotion?"

This is the question asked by Isidora.

The mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the
individual thus interrogated.

A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.

The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of
Caso del Corvo--the son of the American haciendado himself.

Indians are reported to have done the deed.

Indians!  In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio's
servitors.

It explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms.

The fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circumstance in that
land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more
especially when the man was a stranger, an "Americano."

But the report that Indians are abroad, is altogether a different
affair.  In it there is an idea of danger.

The effect produced on Isidora is different.  It is not fear of the
savages.  The name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already
given her pain.  She knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being
wonderfully beautiful.  She has herself looked upon this beauty, and
cannot help believing in it.

A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this
peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald.  There
is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother's death--only
the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the
fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.

Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful
interest; in short, an apprehension.  There are fresh reports about the
murder.  It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man--by
_Maurice the mustanger_!

There are no Indians near.

This later edition of "novedades," while tranquilising Don Silvio's
servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece.  She cannot rest under
the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her
horse in front of the village hotel.

For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to
the study of _La lengua Americana_.  Her vocabulary of English words,
still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire
information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious
politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with "full
particulars of the murder," so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez.  On reaching
the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed.  The new cause of
excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so
regarded by the superstitious _peons_.  A rare rumour has reached the
place.  A man without a head--_un hombre descabezado_--has been seen
riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!

Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness
of the report.  It is rife throughout the settlement.  But there is
still surer confirmation of it.  A party of Don Silvio's own people--
herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the _cavallero
descabezado_; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from
him, as they would have done from the devil!

The _vaqueros_--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the
account given.  But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy
evidence of its truthfulness.

The sun goes down upon a _congeries_ of frightful rumours.  Neither
these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent
their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly
to have formed--which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande.  It makes no
difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will
have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly
apparition of a headless horseman!  What to any other traveller should
cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.

She even proposes making the journey _alone_!  Don Silvio offers an
escort--half a score of his _vaqueros_, armed to the teeth.  The offer
is rejected.  Will she take Benito?  No.  She prefers journeying alone.
In short, she is determined upon it.

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

Next morning she carries out this determination.  By day-break she is in
the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the
direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!

Why has she thus deviated from her route?  Is she straying?

She looks not like one who has lost her way.  There is a sad expression
upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry.  Besides, her horse steps
confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by
the rein.

Isidora is not straying.  She has not lost her way.

Happier for her, if she had.



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

A SHOT AT THE DEVIL.

All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving
way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion.

All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his
incoherent utterances.

They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb's
mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been
murdered!

The last was a belief that, under any circumstances, would have been
painful to the backwoodsman.  Coupled with the facts already known, it
was agonising.

He thought of the quarrel--the hat--the cloak.  He writhed as he
contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to
his mind.  Never in his life had his analytical powers been so
completely baffled.  He groaned as he felt their impotence.

He kept no watch upon the door.  He knew that if _they_ came, it would
not be in the night.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the
moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound.  Tara, straying among the trees, had
given utterance to a long dismal "gowl," and come running scared-like
into the hut.

Extinguishing the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have
been caused by the howling of the hound?  What had caused _it_?

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its
edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be.

He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the
horizon of the sky--broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees
that rose above its crest.  There were about fifty paces of clear space,
which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow
of the precipice.

The line separating the _chiaro_ from the _oscuro_ could be traced
distinctly as in the day.  A brilliant moon was beyond it.  A snake
could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.

There was nothing to be seen there.

But there was something to be heard.  As Zeb stood listening there came
a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far
back from the summit of the cliff.  It resembled the clinking of a
horse's shoe struck against a loose stone.

So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its
repetition.

It was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was
correct--a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing
along the line of the bluff.  There was a man upon his back--both horse
and man distinctly seen in dark _silhouette_ against the clear sapphire
sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully
cast medallion.

That of the man could be traced--only from the saddle to the shoulders.
Below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the
sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there.  Above, there was
nothing--not even the semblance of a head!

Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again.
It did not change the character of the apparition.  If he had rubbed
them fourscore times, he would have seen the same--a horseman without a
head.

This very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving--saw the
horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace--without
footfall--without sound of any kind--as if gliding rather than walking--
like the shifting scene of a cosmorama!

Not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral
apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every
detail--long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the
eye, or in any way a deception of his senses.

Nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually:
first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the
shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the
hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering
tail!

"Geehosophat!"

It was not surprise at the disappearance of the headless horseman that
extorted this exclamation from the lips of Zeb Stump.  There was nothing
strange about this.  The spectacle had simply passed behind the
proscenium--represented by the tope of tree tops rising above the bluff.

"Geehosophat!"

Twice did the backwoodsman give utterance to this, his favourite
expression of surprise; both times with an emphasis that told of an
unlimited astonishment.

His looks betrayed it.  Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed
through his colossal frame; while the pallor upon his lips was
perceptible through their brown priming of tobacco juice.

For some time he stood speechless, as if unable to follow up his double
ejaculation.

His tongue at length returned to him.

"Dog-gone my cats!" he muttered, but in a very low tone, and with eyes
still fixed upon the point where the horse's tail had been last seen.
"If that ere don't whip the hul united creashun, my name ain't Zeb'lon
Stump!  The Irish hev been right arter all.  I tho't he hed dreemt o' it
in his drink.  But no.  He hev seed somethin'; and so hev I meself.  No
wonner the cuss war skeeart.  I feel jest a spell shaky in my own narves
beout this time.  Geehosophat! what kin the durned thing be?"

"What _kin_ it be?" he continued, after a period spent in silent
reflection.  "Dog-goned, ef I kin detarmine one way or the tother.  Ef
't hed been only i' the daylight, an I ked a got a good sight on't; or
eft hed been a leetle bit cloaster!  Ha!  Why moutn't I git cloaster to
_it_?  Dog-goned, ef I don't hev a try!  I reck'n it won't eet me--not
ef it air ole Nick; an ef it _air_ him, I'll jest satersfy meself
whether a bullet kin go custrut thro' his infernal karkidge 'ithout
throwin' him out o' the seddle.  Hyur go for a cloaster akwaintance wi'
the varmint, whatsomiver it be."

So saying, the hunter stalked off through the trees--upon the path that
led up to the bluff.

He had not needed to go inside for his rifle--having brought that weapon
out with him, on hearing the howl of the hound.

If the headless rider was real flesh and blood--earthly and not of the
other world--Zeb Stump might confidently count upon seeing him again.

When viewed from the door of the _jacale_, he was going direct towards
the ravine, that permitted passage from the higher level to the bottom
lands of the Alamo.  As Zeb had started to avail himself of the same
path, unless the other should meantime change direction, or his tranquil
pace to a trot or gallop, the backwoodsman would be at the head of the
pass as soon as he.

Before starting, Zeb had made a calculation of the distance to be done,
and the time to do it in.

His estimate proved correct--to a second, and an inch.  As his head was
brought nearly on a level with the upland plain, he saw the _shoulders_
of the horseman rising above it.

Another step upward, and the body was in view.  Another, and the horse
was outlined against the sky, from hoof to forelock.

He stood at a halt.  He was standing, as Zeb first came in sight of him.
He was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into
the gorge.  His rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of
precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine;
or, what was more likely, scented him.

For whatever reason, he was standing, front face to the spectator.

On seeing him thus, Zeb Stump also came to a stand.  Had it been many
another man, the same might have been said of his hair; and it is not to
be denied, that the old hunter was at that moment, as he acknowledged
himself, "a spell shaky 'beout the narves."

He was firm enough, however, to carry out the purpose that had prompted
him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he
had to deal with a human being, or the devil!

In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the
barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon
the heart of the Headless Horseman.

In another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that
just then flashed across the brain of the backwoodsman.

Maybe he was about to commit _murder_?

At the thought he lowered the muzzle of his piece, and remained for a
time undecided.

"It mout be a man?" muttered he, "though it don't look like it air.
Thur ain't room enuf for a head under that ere Mexikin blanket, no how.
Ef it be a human critter he hev got a tongue I reck'n, though he ain't
much o' a head to hold it in.  Hilloo stronger!  Ye're out for a putty
lateish ride, ain't ye?  Hain't yo forgot to fetch yur head wi ye?"

There was no reply.  The horse snorted, on hearing the voice.  That was
all.

"Lookee hyur, strenger!  Ole Zeb Stump from the State o' Kintucky, air
the individooal who's now speakin' to ye.  He ain't one o' thet sort ter
be trifled wi'.  Don't try to kum none o' yer damfoolery over this hyur
<DW53>.  I warn ye to declur yur game.  If ye're playin possum, ye'd
better throw up yur hand; or by the jumpin' Geehosophat, ye may lose
both yur stake an yur curds!  Speak out now, afore ye gits plugged wi' a
piece o' lead!"

Less response than before.  This time the horse, becoming accustomed to
the voice, only tossed up his head.

"Then dog-gone ye!" shouted the hunter, exasperated by what he deemed an
insulting silence.  "Six seconds more--I'll gie ye six more; an ef ye
don't show speech by that time, I'll let drive at yur guts.  Ef ye're
but a dummy it won't do ye any harm.  No more will it, I reckun, ef ye
_air_ the devil.  But ef ye're a man playin' possum, durn me ef ye don't
desarve to be shot for bein' sech a damned fool.  Sing out!" he
continued with increasing anger, "sing out, I tell ye!  Ye won't?  Then
hyur goes!  One--two--three--four--five--six!"

Where "seven" should have come in, had the count been continued, was
heard the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by the sibillation of a
spinning bullet; then the dull "thud" as the deadly missile buried
itself in some solid body.

The only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of
the horse.  The rider still kept his seat in the saddle!

It was not even certain the horse was scared.  The clear neigh that
responded to the detonation of the rifle, had something in it that
sounded derisive!

For all that, the animal went off at a tearing gallop; leaving Zeb Stump
a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.

After discharging his rifle, he remained upon his knees, for a period of
several seconds.

If his nerves were unsteady before the shot, they had become doubly so
now.  He was not only surprised at the result, but terrified.  He was
certain that his bullet had passed through the man's heart--or where it
should be--as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs.

It could not be a man?  He did not believe it to be one; and this
thought might have reassured him, but for the behaviour of the horse.
It was that wild unearthly neigh, that was now chilling his blood, and
causing his limbs to shake, as if under an ague.

He would have retreated; but, for a time, he felt absolutely unable to
rise to his feet; and he remained kneeling, in a sort of stupefied
terror--watching the weird form till it receded out of sight far off
over the moonlit plain.  Not till then did he recover sufficient
courage, to enable him to glide back down the gorge, and on towards the
_jacale_.

And not till he was under its roof, did he feel sufficiently himself, to
reflect with any calmness on the odd encounter that had occurred to him.

It was some time before his mind became disabused of the idea that he
had been dealing with the devil.  Reflection, however, convinced him of
the improbability of this; though it gave him no clue as to what the
thing really was.

"Shurly," muttered he, his conjectural form of speech showing that he
was still undecided, "Shurly arter all it can't be a thing o' the tother
world--else I kedn't a heern the _cothug_ o' my bullet?  Sartin the lead
struck agin somethin' solid; an I reck'n thur's nothin' solid in the
karkidge o' a ghost?"

"Wagh!" he concluded, apparently resigning the attempt to obtain a
solution of the strange physical phenomenon.  "Let the durned thing
slide!  One o' two things it air boun' to be: eyther a bunnel o' rags,
or ole Harry from hell?"

As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with
him.

It was time to awaken Phelim, that he might take his turn by the bedside
of the invalid.

The Connemara man, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, and under the
impression of having been a little derelict in his duty, was ready to
undertake the task.

The old hunter, before consigning his charge to the care of his
unskilled successor, made a fresh dressing of the scratches--availing
himself of the knowledge that a long experience had given him in the
pharmacopoeia of the forest.

The _nopal_ was near; and its juice inspissated into the fresh wounds
would not fail to effect their speedy cure.

Zeb knew that in twenty-four hours after its application, they would be
in process of healing; and in three days, entirely cicatrised.

With this confidence--common to every denizen of the cactus-covered land
of Mexico--he felt defiant as to doctors; and if a score of them could
have been procured upon the instant, he would not have summoned one.  He
was convinced that Maurice Gerald was in no danger--at least not from
his wounds.

There was a danger; but that was of a different kind.

"An' now, Mister Pheelum," said he, on making a finish of his surgical
operations; "we hev dud all thet kin be dud for the outard man, an it
air full time to look arter the innard.  Ye say thur ain't nuthin to
eet?"

"Not so much as a purtaty, Misther Stump.  An' what's worse thare's
nothin' to dhrink--not a dhrap lift in the whole cyabin."

"Durn ye, that's _yur_ fault," cried Stump, turning upon the Irishman
with a savage scowl that showed equal regret at the announcement.  "Eft
hadn't a been for you, thur war licker enough to a lasted till the young
fellur got roun' agin.  What's to be dud now?"

"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be wrongin' _me_ althegither intirely.  That
same yez are.  I hadn't a taste exciptin what came out av the little
flask.  It wus thim Indyins that imptied the dimmyjan.  Trath was it."

"Wagh! ye cudn't a got drunk on what wur contained i' the flask.  I know
yur durned guts too well for thet.  Ye must a had a good pull at the
tother, too."

"Be all the saints--"

"Durn yur stinkin' saints!  D'you s'pose any man o' sense believes in
sech varmint as them?

"Wal; 'tain't no use talkin' any more beout it.  Ye've sucked up the
corn juice, an thur's an end o't.  Thur ain't no more to be hed 'ithin
twenty mile, an we must go 'ithout."

"Be Jaysus, but it's bad!"

"Shet up yur head, durn ye, an hear what I've got to say.  We'll hev to
go 'ithout drinkin'; but thet air no reezun for sturvin' ourselves for
want o' somethin' to eet.  The young fellur, I don't misdoubt, air by
this time half starved hisself.  Thur's not much on his stummuk, I
reck'n, though thur may be on his mind.  As for meself, I'm jest hungry
enough to eat coyoat; an I ain't very sure I'd turn away from turkey
buzzart; which, as I reck'n, wud be a wusser victual than coyoat.  But
we ain't obleeged to eet turkey buzzart, whar thur's a chance o' gettin'
turkey; an thet ain't so dewbious along the Alamo.  You stay hyur, an
take care o' the young fellur, whiles I try up the crik, an see if I kin
kum acrosst a gobbler."

"I'll do that, Misther Stump, an no mistake.  Be me trath--"

"Keep yur palaver to yurself, till I've finished talkin' to ye."

"Sowl!  I won't say a word."

"Then don't, but lissen!  Thur's somethin 'bout which I don't wait ye to
make any mistake.  It air this.  Ef there shed anybody stray this way
dyurin my absince, ye'll let me know.  You musn't lose a minnit o' time,
but let me know."

"Shure I will--sowl, yis."

"Wal, I'll depend on ye."

"Trath, yez may;--but how Misther Stump?  How am I to lit yez know, if
you're beyant hearin' av me voice?  How thin?"

"Wal, I reck'n, I shan't need to go so fur as thet.  Thur ought to be
gobblers cloast by--at this time o' the mornin'.

"An yit there moutent," continued Zeb, after reflecting a while.  "Ye
ain't got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty?  A pistol 'ud do."

"Nayther wan nor the tother.  The masther tuk both away wid him, when he
went last time to the sittlements.  He must have lift them thare."

"It air awk'ard.  I mout _not_ heer yur shout."

Zeb, who had by this time passed through the doorway, again stopped to
reflect.

"Heigh!" he exclaimed, after a pause of six seconds.  "I've got it.
I've treed the eydee.  Ye see my ole maar, tethered out thur on the
grass?"

"Shure I do, Misther Stump.  Av coorse I do."

"Wal, ye see thet ere prickly cacktis plant growin' cloast to the edge
o' the openin'?"

"Faith, yis."

"Wal, that's sensible o' ye.  Now lissen to what I say.  Ye must keep a
look out at the door; an ef anybody kums up whiles I'm gone, run
straight custrut for the cacktis, cut off one o' its branches--the
thorniest ye kin see--an stick it unner the maar's tail."

"Mother av Moses!  For what <DW37> yez want me to do that?"

"Wal, I reck'n I'd better explain," said Zeb, reflectingly; "otherwise
ye'll be makin' a mess o' it."

"Ye see, Pheelum, ef anybody interlopes durin' my absince I hed better
be hyur.  I ain't a goin' fur off.  But howsomediver near, I moutn't
hear yur screech; thurfore the maar's 'll do better.  You clap the
cacktis under her tail, cloast up to the fundament; and ef she don't
squeal loud enuf to be heern by me, then ye may konklude that this <DW53>
air eyther rubbed out, or hev both his lugs plugged wi picket pins.  So,
Pheelum; do you adzactly as I've tolt ye."

"I'll do it, be Japers!"

"Be sure now.  Yur master's life may depend upon it."

After delivering this last caution, the hunter shouldered his long
rifle, and walked away from the hut.

"He's a cute owld chap that same," said Phelim as soon as Zeb was out of
hearing.  "I wonder what he manes by the master bein' in danger from any
wan comin' to the cyabin.  He sed, that his life moight depend upon it?
Yis--he sed that."

"He towlt me to kape a luk out.  I suppose he maned me to begin at
wance.  I must go to the inthrance thin."

So saying, he stepped outside the door; and proceeded to make an ocular
inspection of the paths by which the _jacale_ might be approached.

After completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took
stand, in the attitude of one upon the watch.



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

SOUNDING THE SIGNAL.

Phelim's vigil was of short duration.  Scarce ten minutes had he been
keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse's hoof, that
some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.

His heart commenced hammering against his ribs.

The trees, standing thickly, hindered him from having a view of the
approaching horseman; and he could not tell what sort of guest was about
to present himself at the _jacale_.  But the hoofstroke told him there
was only _one_; and this it was that excited his apprehension.  He would
have been less alarmed to hear the trampling of a troop.  Though well
assured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second
interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him--in everything
except the head.

His first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme
entrusted to him by Zeb.  But the indecision springing from his fears
kept him to his place--long enough to show him that they were
groundless.  The strange horseman had a head.

"Shure an that same he hez," said Phelim, as the latter rode out from
among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; "a raal hid, an
a purty face in front av it.  An' yit it don't show so plazed nayther.
He luks as if he'd jist buried his grandmother.  Sowl! what a quare
young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two
days' goslin'!  O Lard!  Luk at his little fut!  _Be Jaysus, he's a
woman_!"

While the Irishman was making these observations--partly in thought,
partly in muttered speech--the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and
again paused.

On a nearer view of his visitor, Phelim saw that he had correctly
guessed the sex; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat,
and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his
of Connemara.

It _was_ a woman.  It was Isidora.

It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden--
the first that hers had ever rested upon him.  They were equally unknown
to one another.

He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not
display pleasure.  On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad--
almost disconsolate.

It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees.
Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look
only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.

Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the
_jacale_.  She knew of its existence.  It was the goal of her journey.
It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway.  He
was not the man she expected to see there.

In doubt she advanced to address him:

"I may have made a mistake?" said she, speaking in the best "Americana"
she could command.  "Pardon me, but--I--I thought--that Don Mauricio
lived here."

"Dan Marryshow, yez say?  Trath, no.  Thare's nobody av that name lives
heeur.  Dan Marryshow?  Thare was a man they called Marrish had a
dwillin' not far out av Ballyballagh.  I remimber the chap will, bekase
he chated me wanst in a horse thrade.  But his name wasn't Dan.  No; it
was Pat.  Pat Marrish was the name--divil burn him for a desaver!"

"Don Mauricio--Mor-rees--Mor-ees."

"Oh!  Maurice!  Maybe ye'd be after spakin' av the masther--Misther
Gerrald!"

"Si--Si!  Senor Zyerral."

"Shure, thin, an if that's fwhat ye're afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill
in this very cyabin--that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by
chasin' the wild horses.  He only kapes it for a huntin' box, ye know.
Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin
he's at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that's now
cryin' her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won't go back thare.  Sowl, if
yez saw _her_!"

Despite its _patois_, Phelim's talk was too well understood by her to
whom it was addressed.  Jealousy is an apt translator.  Something like a
sigh escaped from Isidora, as he pronounced that little word "her."

"I don't wish to see _her_," was the quick rejoinder; "but him you
mention.  Is he at home?  Is he inside?"

"Is he at home?  Thare now, that's comin' to the point--straight as a
poike staff.  An' supposin' I wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther
wantin' wid him?"

"I wish to see him."

"<DW37> yez?  Maybe now ye'll wait till yez be asked.  Ye're a purty
crayther, notwithstandin' that black strake upon yer lip.  But the
masther isn't in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan--unless it
was the praste or a docthur.  Yez cyant see him."

"But I wish very much to see him, senor."

"Trath <DW37> yez.  Ye've sayed that alriddy.  But yez cyant, I till ye.
It isn't Phaylim Onale ud deny wan av the fair six--espacially a purty
black-eyed colleen loike yerself.  But for all that yez cyant see the
masther now."

"Why can I not?"

"Why cyant yez not?  Will--thare's more than wan rayzon why yez cyant.
In the first place, as I've towlt you, he's not in a condishun to resave
company--the liss so av its bein' a lady."

"But why, senor?  Why?"

"Bekase he's not dacently drissed.  He's got nothin' on him but his
shirt--exceptin' the rags that Misther Stump's jist tied all roun' him.
Be japers! thare's enough av them to make him a whole shoot--coat,
waiscoat, and throwsers--trath is thare."

"Senor, I don't understand you."

"Yez don't?  Shure an I've spoke plain enough!  Don't I till ye that the
masther's in bid?"

"In bed!  At this hour?  I hope there's nothing--"

"The matther wid him, yez wur goin' to say?  Alannah, that same is
there--a powerful dale the matther wid him--enough to kape him betwane
the blankets for weeks to come."

"Oh, senor!  Do not tell me that he is ill?"

"Don't I till ye!  Arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin'
it?  It ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about
it?  Yez moight say it afore his face, an he won't conthradict ye."

"He _is_ ill, then.  O, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his
illness--what has caused it?"

"Shure an I cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries--the first yez
hiv phut.  His disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he's been
resavin--the Lord only knows what, or who administhered it.  He's got a
bad lig; an his skin luks as if he'd been tied up in a sack along wid a
score av angry cats.  Sowl! thare's not the brenth av yer purty little
hand widout a scratch upon it.  Worse than all, he's besoide hisself."

"Beside himself?"

"Yis, that same.  He's ravin' loike wan that had a dhrap too much
overnight, an thinks thare's the man wid the poker afther him.  Be me
trath, I belave the very bist thing for him now ud be a thrifle av
potheen--if wan cud only lay hands upon that same.  But thare's not the
smell av it in the cyabin.  Both the dimmy-jan an flask.  Arrah, now;
_you_ wouldn't be afther havin' a little flask upon yer sweet silf?
Some av that agwardinty, as yer people call it.  Trath, I've tasted
worse stuff than it.  I'm shure a dhrink av it ud do the masther good.
Spake the truth, misthress!  Hiv yez any about ye?"

"No, senor.  I have nothing of the kind.  I am sorry I have not."

"Faugh!  The more's the pity for poor Masther Maurice.  It ud a done him
a dale av good.  Well; he must put up widout it."

"But, senor; surely I can see him?"

"Divil a bit.  Besides fwhat ud be the use?  He wudn't know ye from his
great grandmother.  I till yez agane, he's been badly thrated, an 's now
besoide hisself!"

"All the more reason why I should see him.  I may be of service.  I owe
him a debt--of--of--"

"Oh! yez be owin' him somethin?  Yez want to pay it?  Faith, that makes
it intirely different.  But yez needn't see _him_ for that.  I'm his
head man, an thransact all that sort av bizness for him.  I cyant write
myself, but I'll give ye a resate on the crass wid me mark--which is
jist as good, among the lawyers.  Yis, misthress; yez may pay the money
over to me, an I promise ye the masther 'll niver axe ye for it agane.
Trath! it'll come handy jist now, as we're upon the ave av a flittin, an
may want it.  So if yez have the pewther along wid ye, thare's pins,
ink, an paper insoide the cyabin.  Say the word, an I'll giv ye the
resate!"

"No--no--no!  I did not mean money.  A debt of--of--gratitude."

"Faugh! only that.  Sowl, it's eezy paid, an don't want a resate.  But
yez needn't return that sort av money now: for the masther woudn't be
sinsible av fwhat ye wur sayin.  Whin he comes to his sinses, I'll till
him yez hiv been heeur, and wiped out the score."

"Surely I can see him?"

"Shurely now yez cyant."

"But I must, senor!"

"Divil a must about it.  I've been lift on guard, wid sthrict ordhers to
lit no wan go inside."

"They couldn't have been meant for me.  I am his friend--the friend of
Don Mauricio."

"How is Phaylum Onale to know that?  For all yer purty face, yez moight
be his didliest innemy.  Be Japers! its loike enough, now that I take a
second luk at ye."

"I must see him--I must--I will--I shall!"

As Isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle,
and advanced in the direction of the door.

Her air of earnest determination combined with the fierce--scarce
feminine--expression upon her countenance, convinced the Galwegian, that
the contingency had arrived for carrying out the instructions left by
Zeb Stump, and that he had been too long neglecting his cue.

Turning hurriedly into the hut, he came out again, armed with a
tomahawk; and was about to rush past, when he was brought to a sudden
stand, by seeing a pistol in the hands of his lady visitor, pointed
straight at his head!

"_Abajo la hacha_!"  (Down with the hatchet), cried she.  "_Lepero_!
lift your arm to strike me, and it will be for the last time!"

"Stroike ye, misthress!  Stroike _you_!" blubbered the _ci-devant_
stable-boy, as soon as his terror permitted him to speak.  "Mother av
the Lard!  I didn't mane the waypon for you at all, at all!  I'll sware
it on the crass--or a whole stack av Bibles if yez say so.  In trath
misthress; I didn't mane the tammyhauk for you!"

"Why have you brought it forth?" inquired the lady, half suspecting that
she had made a mistake, and lowering her pistol as she became convinced
of it.  "Why have you thus armed yourself?"

"As I live, only to ixecute the ordhers, I've resaved--only to cut a
branch off av the cyacktus yez see over yander, an phut it undher the
tail av the owld mare.  Shure yez won't object to my doin' that?"

In her turn, the lady became silent--surprised at the singular
proposition.

The odd individual she saw before her, could not mean mischief.  His
looks, attitude, and gestures were grotesque, rather than threatening;
provocative of mirth--not fear, or indignation.

"Silince gives consint.  Thank ye," said Phelim, as, no longer in fear
of being shot down in his tracks, he ran straight across the lawn, and
carried out to the letter, the parting injunctions of Zeb Stump.

The Mexican maiden hitherto held silent by surprise, remained so, on
perceiving the absolute idleness of speech.

Further conversation was out of the question.  What with the screaming
of the mare--continuous from the moment the spinous crupper was inserted
under her tail--the loud trampling of her hoofs as she "cavorted" over
the turf--the dismal howling of the hound--and the responsive cries of
the wild forest denizens--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--only the
voice of a Stentor could have been heard!

What could be the purpose of the strange proceeding?  How was it to
terminate?

Isidora looked on in silent astonishment.  She could do nothing else.
So long as the infernal fracas continued, there was no chance to elicit
an explanation from the queer creature who had caused it.

He had returned to the door of the jacale; and once more taken his stand
upon the threshold; where he stood, with the tranquil satisfied air of
an actor who has completed the performance of his part in the play, and
feels free to range himself among the spectator.



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

RECOILING FROM A KISS.

For full ten minutes was the wild chorus kept up, the mare all the time
squealing like a stuck pig; while the dog responded in a series of
lugubrious howls, that reverberated along the cliffs on both sides of
the creek.

To the distance of a mile might the sounds have been heard; and as Zeb
Stump was not likely to be so far from the hut, he would be certain to
hear them.

Convinced of this, and that the hunter would soon respond to the signal
he had himself arranged, Phelim stood square upon the threshold, in
hopes that the lady visitor would stay outside--at least, until he
should be relieved of the responsibility of admitting her.

Notwithstanding her earnest protestations of amity, he was still
suspicious of some treasonable intention towards his master; else why
should Zeb have been so particular about being summoned back?

Of himself, he had abandoned the idea of offering resistance.  That
shining pistol, still before his eyes, had cured him of all inclination
for a quarrel with the strange equestrian; and so far as the Connemara
man was concerned, she might have gone unresisted inside.

But there was another from Connemara, who appeared more determined to
dispute her passage to the hut--one whom a whole battery of great guns
would not have deterred from protecting its owner.  This was Tara.

The staghound was not acting as if under the excitement of a mere
senseless alarm.  Mingling with his prolonged sonorous "gowl" could be
heard in repeated interruptions a quick sharp bark, that denoted anger.
He had witnessed the attitude of the intruder--its apparent hostility--
and drawing his deductions, had taken stand directly in front of Phelim
and the door, with the evident determination that neither should be
reached except over his own body, and after running the gauntlet of his
formidable incisors.

Isidora showed no intention of undertaking the risk.  She had none.
Astonishment was, for the time, the sole feeling that possessed her.

She remained transfixed to the spot, without attempting to say a word.

She stood expectingly.  To such an eccentric prelude there should be a
corresponding _finale_.  Perplexed, but patiently, she awaited it.

Of her late alarm there was nothing left.  What she saw was too
ludicrous to allow of apprehension; though it was also too
incomprehensible to elicit laughter.

In the mien of the man, who had so oddly comported himself, there was no
sign of mirth.  If anything, a show of seriousness, oddly contrasting
with the comical act he had committed; and which plainly proclaimed that
he had not been treating her to a joke.

The expression of helpless perplexity that had become fixed upon her
features, continued there; until a tall man, wearing a faded blanket
coat, and carrying a six-foot rifle, was seen striding among the
tree-trunks, at the rate of ten miles to the hour.  He was making direct
for the _jacale_.

At sight of the new-comer her countenance underwent a change.  There was
now perceptible upon it a shade of apprehension; and the little pistol
was clutched with renewed nerve by the delicate hand that still
continued to hold it.

The act was partly precautionary, partly mechanical.  Nor was it
unnatural, in view of the formidable-looking personage who was
approaching, and the earnest excited manner with which he was hurrying
forward to the hut.

All this became altered, as he advanced into the open ground, and
suddenly stopped on its edge; a look of surprise quite as great as that
upon the countenance of the lady, supplanting his earnest glances.

Some exclamatory phrases were sent through his teeth, unintelligible in
the tumult still continuing, though the gesture that accompanied them
seemed to proclaim them of a character anything but gentle.

On giving utterance to them, he turned to one side; strode rapidly
towards the screaming mare; and, laying hold of her tail--which no
living man save himself would have dared to do--he released her from the
torments she had been so long enduring.

Silence was instantly restored; since the mare, abandoned by her fellow
choristers, as they became accustomed to her wild neighs, had been, for
some time, keeping up the solo by herself.

The lady was not yet enlightened.  Her astonishment continued; though a
side glance given to the droll individual in the doorway told her, that
he had successfully accomplished some scheme with which he had been
entrusted.

Phelim's look of satisfaction was of short continuance.  It vanished, as
Zeb Stump, having effected the deliverance of the tortured quadruped,
faced round to the hut--as he did so, showing a cloud upon the
corrugations of his countenance, darkly ominous of an angry storm.

Even the presence of beauty did not hinder it from bursting.  "Durn, an
dog-gone ye, for a Irish eedyit!  Air this what ye've brought me back
for!  An' jest as I wur takin' sight on a turkey, not less 'n thirty
poun' weight, I reck'n; skeeart afore he ked touch trigger, wi' the
skreek o' thet cussed critter o' a maar.  Damned little chance for
breakfust now."

"But, Misther Stump, didn't yez till me to do it?  Ye sid if any wan
showld come to the cyabin--"

"Bah! ye fool!  Ye don't serpose I meened weemen, did ye?"

"Trath!  I didn't think it wus wan, whin she furst presented hersilf.
Yez showld a seen the way she rid up--sittin' astraddle on her horse."

"What matter it, how she wur sittin'!  Hain't ye seed thet afore, ye
greenhorn?  It's thur usooal way '<DW41> these hyur Mexikin sheemales.
Ye're more o' a woman than she air, I guess; an twenty times more o' a
fool.  Thet I'm sartint o'.  I know _her_ a leetle by sight, an
somethin' more by reeport.  What hev fetched the critter hyur ain't so
difeequilt to comprehend; tho' it may be to git it out o' her, seein' as
she kin only talk thet thur Mexikin lingo; the which this chile can't,
nor wudn't ef he kud."

"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be mistaken.  She spakes English too.  Don't
yez, misthress?"

"Little Inglees," returned the Mexican, who up to this time had remained
listening.  "Inglees _poco pocito_."

"O--ah!" exclaimed Zeb, slightly abashed at what he had been saying.  "I
beg your pardin, saynoritta.  Ye kin _habla_ a bit o' Amerikin, kin ye?
_Moocho bono_--so much the betterer.  Ye'll be able to tell me what ye
mout be a wantin' out hyur.  Ye hain't lost yur way, hev ye?"

"No, senor," was the reply, after a pause.  "In that case, ye know whar
ye air?"

"_Si, senor--si_--yes, of Don Mauricio Zyerral, this the--house?"

"Thet air the name, near as a Mexikin mouth kin make it, I reck'n.
'Tain't much o' a house; but it air his'n.  Preehaps ye want to see the
master o't?"

"O, senor--yees--that is for why I here am--_por esta yo soy aqui_."

"Wal; I reck'n, thur kin be no objecshun to yur seein' him.  Yur
intenshuns ain't noways hostile to the young fellur, I kalklate.  But
thur ain't much good in yur talkin' to him now.  He won't know yo from a
side o' sole-leather."

"He is ill?  Has met with some misfortune?  _El guero_ has said so."

"Yis.  I towlt her that," interposed Phelim, whose carroty hair had
earned for him the appellation "El guero."

"Sartin," answered Zeb.  "He air wounded a bit; an jest now a leetle
dulleerious.  I reck'n it ain't o' much consekwence.  He'll be hisself
agin soon's the ravin' fit's gone off o' him."

"O, sir! can I be his nurse till then?  _Por amor dios_!  Let me enter,
and watch over him?  I am his friend--_un amigo muy afficionado_."

"Wal; I don't see as thur's any harm in it.  Weemen makes the best o'
nusses I've heern say; tho', for meself, I hain't hed much chance o'
tryin' 'em, sincst I kivered up my ole gurl unner the sods o'
Massissipi.  Ef ye want to take a spell by the side o' the young fellur,
ye're wilkim--seein' ye're his friend.  Ye kin look arter him, till we
git back, an see thet he don't tummel out o' the bed, or claw off them
thur bandidges, I've tied roun him."

"Trust me, good sir, I shall take every care of him.  But tell me what
has caused it?  The Indians?  No, they are not near?  Has there been a
quarrel with any one?"

"In thet, saynoritta; ye're beout as wise as I air meself.  Thur's been
a quarrel wi' coyeats; but that ain't what's gin him the ugly knee.  I
foun' him yesterday, clost upon sun-down, in the chapparal beyont.  When
we kim upon him, he war up to his waist in the water o' a crik as runs
through thur, jest beout to be attakted by one o' them spotty critters
yur people call tigers.  Wal, I relieved him o' that bit o' danger; but
what happened afore air a mystery to me.  The young fellur had tuk leeve
o' his senses, an ked gie no account o' hisself.  He hain't rekivered
them yet; an', thurfore, we must wait till he do."

"But you are sure, sir, he is not badly injured?  His wounds--they are
not dangerous?"

"No danger whatsomediver.  Nuthin' beyont a bit o' a fever, or maybe a
touch o' the agey, when that goes off o' him.  As for the wounds,
they're only a wheen o' scratches.  When the wanderin' hev gone out o'
his senses, he'll soon kum roun, I reck'n.  In a week's time, ye'll see
him as strong as a buck."

"Oh!  I shall nurse him tenderly!"

"Wal, that's very kind o' you; but--but--"

Zeb hesitated, as a queer thought came before his mind.  It led to a
train of reflections kept to himself.  They were these:

"This air the same she, as sent them kickshaws to the tavern o' Rough an
Ready.  Thet she air in love wi' the young fellur is clur as Massissipi
mud--in love wi' him to the eends o' her toe nails.  So's the tother.
But it air equally clur that he's thinkin' o' the tother, an not o' her.
Now ef she hears him talk about tother, as he hev been a doin' all o'
the night, thur'll be a putty consid'able rumpus riz inside o' her
busom.  Poor thing!  I pity her.  She ain't a bad sort.  But the Irish--
Irish tho' he be--can't belong to both; an I _know_ he freezes to the
critter from the States.  It air durned awkurd--Better ef I ked pursuade
her not to go near him--leastwise till he gets over ravin' about Lewaze.

"But, miss," he continued, addressing himself to the Mexican, who during
his long string of reflections had stood impatiently silent, "don't ye
think ye'd better ride home agin; an kum back to see him arter he gits
well.  He won't know ye, as I've sayed; an it would be no use yur
stayin', since he ain't in any danger o' makin' a die of it."

"No matter, that he may not know me.  I should tend him all the same.
He may need some things--which I can send, and procure for him."

"Ef ye're boun' to stay then," rejoined Zeb, relentingly, as if some new
thought was causing him to consent, "I won't interfere to say, no.  But
don't you mind what he'll be palaverin' about.  Ye may hear some queer
talk out o' him, beout a man bein' murdered, an the like.  That's natral
for any one as is dulleerious.  Don't be skeeart at it.  Beside, ye may
hear him talkin' a deal about a woman, as he's got upon his mind."

"A woman!"

"Jest so.  Ye'll hear him make mention o' her name."

"Her name!  Senor, what name?"

"Wal, it air the name o' his sister, I reck'n.  Fact, I'm sure o' it
bein' his sister."

"Oh!  Misther Stump.  If yez be spakin' av Masther Maurice--"

"Shut up, ye durned fool!  What is't to you what I'm speakin' beout?
You can't unnerstan sech things.  Kum along!" he continued, moving off,
and motioning the Connemara man to follow him.  "I want ye a leetle way
wi' me.  I killed a rattle as I wur goin' up the crik, an left it thur.
Kum you, an toat it back to the shanty hyur, lest some varmint may make
away wi' it; an lest, arter all, I moutn't strike turkey agin."

"A rattle.  <DW37> yez mane a rattle-snake?"

"An' what shed I mean?"

"Shure, Misther Stump, yez wudn't ate a snake.  Lard! wudn't it poison
yez?"

"Pisen be durned!  Didn't I cut the pisen out, soon 's I killed the
critter, by cuttin' off o' its head?"

"Trath! an for all that, I wudn't ate a morsel av it, if I was
starvin'."

"Sturve, an be durned to ye!  Who axes ye to eet it.  I only want ye to
toat it home.  Kum then, an do as I tell ye; or dog-goned, ef I don't
make ye eet the head o' the reptile,--pisen, fangs an all!"

"Be japers, Misther Stump, I didn't mane to disobey you at all--at all.
Shure it's Phaylim O'Nale that's reddy to do your biddin' anyhow.  I'm
wid ye for fwhativer yez want; aven to swallowin the snake whole.  Saint
Pathrick forgive me!"

"Saint Patrick be durned!  Kum along!"

Phelim made no farther remonstrance; but, striking into the tracks of
the backwoodsman, followed him through the wood.

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

Isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his
couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer
kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had
been stung by a scorpion!

Worse than scorpion's sting was that which had caused her to spring
back.

And yet 'twas but a word--a little word--of only two syllables!

There was nothing strange in this.  Oft, on one word--that soft short
syllabic "Yes"--rests the happiness of a life; while oft, too oft, the
harsher negative is the prelude to a world of war!



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

ANOTHER WHO CANNOT REST.

A dark day for Louise Poindexter--perhaps the darkest in the calendar of
her life--was that in which she released Don Miguel Diaz from the lazo.

Sorrow for a brother's loss, with fears for a lover's safety, were
yesterday commingled in the cup.  To-day it was further embittered by
the blackest passion of all--jealousy.  Grief--fear--jealousy--what must
be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent?  A
tumult of terrible imaginings.

So was it in the bosom of Louise Poindexter after deciphering the
epistle which contained written evidence of her lover's disloyalty.

True, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive.

But in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young Creole did not
reason thus.  In the wording of the letter there was strong presumption,
that the relationship between Maurice Gerald and the Mexican was of a
more affectionate character than he had represented it to be--that he
had, in fact, been practising a deception.

Why should _that_ woman write to him in such free strain--giving bold,
almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: "_Essos ojos
tan lindos y tan espresivos_?"

These were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient
passion.  As such only could the Creole understand them: since they were
but a paraphrase of her own feelings.

And then there was the appointment itself--solicited, it is true, in the
shape of a request.  But this was mere courtesy--the coquetry of an
accomplished _maitresse_.  Moreover, the tone of solicitation was
abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a
positive command: "Come, sir! come!"

Something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this.  A
spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,--and the
stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it
had fallen.

"Ah, me!" reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, "I see it all now.
'Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the
first they have met on that same ground, `the hill above my uncle's
house'--slightly described, but well understood--oft visited before."

Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair.  Her
heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the
floor--like it, crushed and ruined.

For a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation.  Wild emotions
passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves.  Among others she
thought of her beloved Louisiana--of going back there to bury her secret
sorrow in the cloisters of the _Sacre Coeur_.  Had the Creole convent
been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all
probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum
within its sacred walls.  In very truth was it the darkest day of her
existence.  After long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer,
while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone.  The letter was
re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration.

There was still a hope--the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might
_not_ be in the Settlement.

It was at best but a faint ray.  Surely _she_ should know--she who had
penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it?
Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition
hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of
the hour.

It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the
position of Louise Poindexter.  But no other course appeared open to
her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of
the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently
through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel--on the same
spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!

As the men of the place were all absent--some on the track of the
assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only
witness of her indiscretion.  But he knew it not as such.  It was but
natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain
news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories
addressed to him.

Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers
at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards
caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which
abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.

On hearing she was not the first of her sex who had that day made
inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back
to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.

A night was spent in the agony of unrest--sleep only obtained in short
snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.

Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a
resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.

It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo
alone; and this was her determination.

There was no one to stay her--none to say nay.  The searchers out all
night had not yet returned.  No report had come back to Casa del Corvo.
She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor
of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.

But it may be easily guessed.  Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere
suspicion.  Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it
to that state of helpless submission.  Unsatisfied it could no longer
exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.

She might find peace--she might chance upon ruin.  Even the last
appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.

How like to the reasoning of her rival!

It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do
it.  It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have
prevented her from carrying out her purpose.  Talk to the tigress when
frenzied by a similar feeling.  With a love unhallowed, the will of the
Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American
Creole, when stirred by its holiest passion.  It acknowledges no right
of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death.

It is a spirit rare upon earth.  In its tranquil state, soft as the rays
of the Aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by
love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and
perilous as the light of Lucifer!

Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type.  Where love was
the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain.
Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or
compatible with her existence.  She must find proofs to destroy, or
confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents
of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.

Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be
sought upon the Alamo.

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

The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the
enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie
already known to her.

On passing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest
souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.

These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled
her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved,
to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!

Ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were
happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful
contemplation of his treachery.

From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty
miles.  It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling--
that is in the saddle.  To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce
two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.

Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that
lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her
prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of
her rider.

Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had
scarce reached the point of despair.  Through her sadness there still
shone a scintillation of hope.

It was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the _jacale_;
and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the
last utterance of a heart parting in twain.

_There was a woman within the hut_!

From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which
her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the
other--so alike were they in anguish.

Like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from Isidora; as
turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been
pronounced--the "Louise" so fervently praised, so fondly remembered,
amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain.

To the young Creole the case was clear--painfully clear.  She saw before
her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, _had
been kept_.  In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her,
there may have been a third party--Maurice Gerald?  That would account
for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough
inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.

Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice
Gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to
come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a
solicitude that proclaimed her his!  Ah! the thought was too painful to
be symbolised in speech.

Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora--equally agonising.  She
already knew that she was supplanted.  She had been listening too long
to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to
their sincerity.  On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded
her!

Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if
under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two
stood eyeing each other.

Alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the
object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!

Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words,
that would have given her comfort--those words yet ringing in the ears,
and torturing the soul, of Isidora!

It was an attitude of silent hostility--all the more terrible for its
silence.  Not a word was exchanged between them.  Neither deigned to ask
explanation of the other; neither needed it.  There are occasions when
speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one.  It
was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in
the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.

Only for an instant was the attitude kept up.  In fact, the whole scene,
inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.

It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and
gliding off to regain her saddle.  The hut of Maurice Gerald was no
place for her!

Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other's
dress.  The same thought was in her heart--perhaps more emphatically
felt.  The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the
spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.

The grey horse stood nearest--the mustang farther out.  Isidora was the
first to mount--the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had
also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.

Glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither
expressing forgiveness.  That of the Creole was a strange mixture of
sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that
accompanied a spiteful "_carajo_!"--a fearful phrase from female lips--
was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the
award of the apple.



CHAPTER SIXTY.

A FAIR INFORMER.

If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater
contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the
Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened
away from the _jacale_.  Her heart was a focus of fiery passions,
revenge predominating over all.

In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from
giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of
her woe.

With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees.  They are
not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky
smiling cheerfully above her.  Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock
her!

She pauses before making the ascent.  She has reined up under the
umbrageous cypress--fit canopy for a sorrowing heart.  Its sombre shade
appears more desirable than the sunlight above.

It is not this that has caused her to pull up.  There is a thought in
her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress.  It is evinced by her
clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing
eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her
white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.

All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken--all
that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!

She has paused at the prompting of a demon--with an infernal purpose
half formed in her mind.  Her muttered speeches proclaim it.  "I should
have killed her upon the spot!  Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly
strife?"

"If I killed her, what would it avail?  It could not win me back _his_
heart--lost, lost, without hope!  Yes; those words were from the secret
depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place!
Oh! there is no hope for me!

"'Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin.  If I kill him?  Ah,
then; what would life be to me?  Prom that hour an endless anguish!

"Oh! it is anguish now!  I cannot endure it.  I can think of no solace--
if not in revenge.  Not only she, he also--both must die!

"But not yet--not till he know, by whose hand it is done.  Oh! he shall
feel his punishment, and know whence it comes.  Mother of God,
strengthen me to take vengeance!"

She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the <DW72> of the
ravine.

On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop--even for the animal to
breathe itself--but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that
appears undetermined.  Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the
guidance of her steed--only the spur to urge him on.

Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came.  It leads to
the Leona.  Is it the way he is wanted to go?

His rider seems neither to know nor care.  She sits in the saddle, as
though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one
absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things--even of
the rude pace at which she is riding!  She does not observe that black
cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her
steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.

She sees a _caballada_ out upon the open prairie!

Indians?  No.  White men--less by their colour, than the caparison of
their horses, and their style of equitation.  Their beards, too, show
it; but not their skins, discoloured by the "stoor" of the parched
plain.

"_Los Tejanos_!" is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed
in regard to their nationality.

"A troop of their _rangers_ scouring the country for Comanches, I
suppose?  The Indians are not here?  If I've heard aright at the
Settlement, they should be far on the other side."

Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no
desire to encounter "Los Tejanos."  They are nothing to her, or her
purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way.
But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the
gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.

It is possible to avoid them.  She is yet among the bushes.  They do not
appear to have observed her.  By turning short round, and diving back
into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.

She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of
her horse.  A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with
his rider.

It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so
inclined.  She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of
being overtaken--especially among the winding ways of the chapparal,
well known to her.

At first she _is_ so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed.
Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx
of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.

Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.

"Rangers--no!  Too well dressed for those ragged _vagabundos_?  Must be
the party of `searchers,' of which I've heard--led by the father of--
Yes--yes it is they.  _Ay Dios_! here is a chance of revenge, and
without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!"

Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open
ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the
horsemen, now near.

She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.

In another minute she is in their midst--the mounted circle close drawn
around her.

There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired--uniform
only in the coating of clay- dust which adheres to their
habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all;
scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.

Though it is an _entourage_ to cause trembling--especially in a woman--
Isidora does not betray it.  She is not in the least alarmed.  She
anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded
her.  Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than
middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to
question her.

But she knows him otherwise.  Instinct tells her he is the father of the
murdered man--of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly,
shamed.  Oh! what an opportunity!

"Can you speak French, mademoiselle?" asks Woodley Poindexter,
addressing her in this tongue--in the belief that it may give him a
better chance of being understood.  "Speak better Inglees--very little,
sir."

"Oh!  English.  So much the better for us.  Tell me, miss; have you seen
anybody out here--that is--have you met any one, riding about, or
camped, or halted anywhere?"

Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.

The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the
circumstances admit.

"May I ask where you live?"

"On the Rio Grande, senor?"

"Have you come direct from there?"

"No; from the Leona."

"From the Leona!"

"It's the niece of old Martinez," interposes one of the party.  "His
plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter."

"Si--yes--true that.  _Sobrina_--niece of Don Silvio Martinez.  _Yo
soy_."

"Then you've come from his place, direct?  Pardon me for appearing rude.
I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle
curiosity, or impertinence.  We have serious reasons--more than serious:
they are solemn."

"From the Hacienda Martinez direct," answers Isidora, without appearing
to notice the last remark.  "Two hours ago--_un pocito mas_--my uncle's
house I leave."

"Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a--murder--
committed?"

"Si, senor.  Yesterday at uncle Silvio's it was told."

"But to-day--when you left--was there any fresh news in the Settlement?
We've had word from there; but not so late as you may bring.  Have you
heard anything, miss?"

"That people were gone after the _asesinado_.  Your party, senor?"

"Yes--yes--it meant us, no doubt.  You heard nothing more?"

"Oh, yes; something very strange, senores; so strange, you may think I
am jesting."

"What is it?" inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the
eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.

"There is a story of one being seen without a head--on horseback--out
here too.  _Valga me Dios_! we must now be near the place?  It was by
the Nueces--not far from the ford--where the road crosses for the Rio
Grande.  So the vaqueros said."

"Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?"

"Si, senores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the
spectacle."

Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a
strange story causes among the "Tejanos."  There is an exhibition of
interest, but no astonishment.  A voice explains:

"We've seen it too--that headless horseman--at a distance.  Did your
vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?"

"_Santissima_! no."

"Can _you_ tell us, miss?"

"I?  Not I.  I only heard of it, as I've said.  What it may be, _quien
sabe_?"

There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on
what they have heard.

The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original
interrogatory.

"Have you met, or seen, any one, miss--out here, I mean?"

"Si--yes--I have."

"You have!  What sort of person?  Be good enough to describe--"

"A lady."

"Lady!" echo several voices.

"Si, senores."

"What sort of a lady?"

"Una Americana."

"An American lady!--out here?  Alone?"

"Si, senores."

"Who?"

"_Quien sabe_?"

"You don't know her?  What was she like?"

"Like?--like?"

"Yes; how was she dressed?"

"_Vestido de caballo_."

"On horseback, then?"

"On horseback."

"Where did you meet the lady you speak of?"

"Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal."

"Which way was she going?  Is there any house on the other side?"

"A _jacale_.  I only know of that."

Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: "_A jacale_?"

"They give that name to their shanties."

"To whom does it belong--this _jacale_?"

"_Don Mauricio, el mustenero_."

"Maurice the mustanger!" translates the ready interpreter.

A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd.  After two
days of searching--fruitless, as earnest--they have struck a trail,--the
trail of the murderer!

Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles.  All take up
their reins, ready to ride on.

"We don't wish to be rude, Miss Martinez--if that be your name; but you
must guide us to this place you speak of."

"It takes me a little out of my way--though not far.  Come on,
cavalleros!  I shall show you, if you are determined on going there."

Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal--followed by the hundred
horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.

She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a
stretch of open prairie.

"Yonder!" says she, pointing over the plain; "you see that black spot on
the horizon?  It is the top of an _alhuehuete_.  Its roots are in the
bottom lands of the Alamo.  Go there!  There is a canon leading down the
cliff.  Descend.  You will find, a little beyond, the _jacale_ of which
I've told you."

The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions.
Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the
plain, riding straight for the cypress.

One of the party alone lingers--not the leader, but a man equally
interested in all that has transpired.  Perhaps more so, in what has
been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora.  He is one who knows
Isidora's language, as well as his own native tongue.

"Tell me, _nina_," says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and
speaking in a tone of solicitude--almost of entreaty--"Did you take
notice of the horse ridden by this lady?"

"_Carrambo_! yes.  What a question, cavallero!  Who could help noticing
it?"

"The colour?" gasps the inquirer.

"_Un musteno pintojo_."

"A spotted mustang!  Holy Heaven!" exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half
shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers--leaving Isidora
in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning
with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

ANGELS ON EARTH.

The retreat of her rival--quick and unexpected--held Louise Poindexter,
as if spell-bound.  She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated,
with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna.  But the stroke
was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision--bewildered by
what she saw.

But the moment before she had looked into the _jacale_--had seen her
rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its
owner.

What was she to think of that sudden desertion?  Why that took of
spiteful hatred?  Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring
from a knowledge of possession?

In place of giving displeasure, Isidora's looks and actions had caused
her a secret gratification.  Instead of galloping after, or going in any
direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and
re-entered the hut.

At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole
for the moment forgot her wrongs.

"_Mon dieu!  Mon dieu_!" she cried, gliding up to the _catre_.
"Maurice--wounded--dying!  Who has done this?"

There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.

"Maurice!  Maurice! speak to me!  Do you not know me?  Louise!  Your
Louise!  You have called me so?  Say it--O say it again!"

"Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven!  Very beautiful.
Yes, yes; you look so--to the eyes--to the eyes.  But don't say there
are none like you upon the Earth; for there are--there are.  I know
one--ah! more--but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven!  I
mean in beauty--in goodness, that's another thing.  I'm not thinking of
goodness--no; no."

"Maurice, dear Maurice!  Why do you talk thus?  You are not in heaven;
you are here with me--with Louise."

"I _am_ in heaven; yes, in heaven!  I don't wish it, for all they say;
that is, unless I can have _her_ with me.  It may be a pleasant place.
Not without her.  If she were here, I could be content.  Hear it, ye
angels, that come hovering around me!  Very beautiful, you are, I admit;
but none of you like her--her--my angel.  Oh! there's a devil, too; a
beautiful devil--I don't mean that.  I'm thinking only of the angel of
the prairies."

"Do you remember her name?"

Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner
showed so much interest in the answer.

She bent over him with ears upon the strain--with eyes that marked every
movement of his lips.

"Name? name?  Did some one say, name?  Have you any names here?  Oh!  I
remember--Michael, Gabriel, Azrael--men, all men.  Angels, not like my
angel--who is a woman.  Her name is--"

"Is?"

"Louise--Louise--Louise.  Why should I conceal it from you--you up here,
who know everything that's down there?  Surely you know her--Louise?
You should: you could not help loving her--ah! with all your hearts, as
I with all mine--all--all!"

Not when these last words were once before spoken--first spoken under
the shade of the acacia trees--the speaker in full consciousness of
intellect--in the full fervour of his soul--not then were they listened
to with such delight.  O, happy hour for her who heard them!

Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow--upon those wan
lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.

She only stood up erect--triumphant;--her hand pressing upon her heart,
to stay its wild pulsations.  It was pleasure too complete, too
ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for
ever--in the fear of its being too soon interrupted.

The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it
appeared--a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway.

The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen
standing upon the stoup.

There was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer.  On the
contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical,
heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place.
Still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his
hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail
terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species.

If anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was
the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as,
stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken
place in the occupancy of the hut.

"Mother av Moses!" he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and
opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; "Shure I must be
dhramin?  Trath must I!  It cyant be yersilf, Miss Pointdixther?  Shure
now it cyant?"

"But it is, Mr O'Neal.  How very ungallant in you to have forgotten me,
and so soon!"

"Forgotten yez!  Trath, miss, yez needn't accuse me of doin' chat which
is intirely impossible.  The Oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer
swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it.
Sowl! thare's wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!"

The speaker glanced significantly towards the couch.  A delicious thrill
passed through the bosom of the listener.

"But fwhat diz it all mane?" continued Phelim, returning to the
unexplained puzzle of the transformation.  "Fwhare's the tother--the
young chap, or lady, or wuman--whichsomiver she art?  Didn't yez see
nothin' av a wuman, Miss Pointdixther?"

"Yes--yes."

"Oh! yez did.  An fwhere is she now?"

"Gone away, I believe."

"Gone away!  Be japers, thin, she hasn't remained long in the wan mind.
I lift her heeur in the cyabin not tin minnits ago, takin' aff her
bonnit--that was only a man's hat--an sittlin' hersilf down for a stay.
Gone, yez say?  Sowl!  I'm not sorry to hear it.  That's a young lady
whose room's betther than her company, any day in the twilmonth.  She's
a dale too handy wid her shootin'-iron.  Wud yez belave it, Miss
Pointdixther; she prisinted a pistol widin six inches av me nose?"

"_Pardieu_!  For what reason?"

"Fwhat rayzun?  Only that I thried to hindher her from inthrudin' into
the cyabin.  She got in for all that; for whin owld Zeb come back, he
made no objecshun to it.  She sayed she was a frind av the masther, an
wanted to nurse him."

"Indeed!  Oh! it is strange--very strange!" muttered the Creole,
reflectingly.

"Trath, is it.  And so is iverything in these times, exciptin' yez own
swate silf; that I hope will niver be sthrange in a cyabin frequinted by
Phaylim Onale.  Shure, now, I'm glad to see yez, miss; an shure so wud
the masther, if--"

"Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened."

"Trath! thin miss, if I'm to till all, ye'll hiv to take off your
bonnet, and make up your moind for a long stay--seein' as it 'ut take
the big ind av a whole day to relate all the quare things that's
happened since the day afore yesthirday."

"Who has been here since then?"

"Who has been heeur?"

"Except the--the--"

"Exceptin' the man-wuman, ye mane?"

"Yes.  Has any one else been to this place?"

"Trath has thare--plinty besoides.  An av all sorts, an colours too.
First an foremost there was wan comin' this way, though he didn't git
all the way to the cyabin.  But I daren't tell you about him, for it
moight frighten ye, miss."

"Tell me.  I have no fear."

"Be dad! and I can't make it out meself quite intirely.  It was a man
upon horseback widout a hid."

"Without a head!"

"Divil a bit av that same on his body."

The statement caused Phelim to be suspected of having lost his.

"An' what's more, miss, he was for all the world like Masther Maurice
himself.  Wid his horse undher him, an his Mexikin blanket about his
showlders, an everything just as the young masther looks, when he's
mounted, Sowl! wasn't I scared, whin I sit my eyes on him."

"But where did you see this, Mr O'Neal?"

"Up thare on the top av the bluff.  I was out lookin' for the masther to
come back from the Sittlement, as he'd promised he wud that mornin', an
who showld I see but hisself, as I supposed it to be.  An' thin he comes
ridin' up, widout his hid, an' stops a bit, an thin goes off at a tarin'
gallop, wid Tara gowlin' at his horse's heels, away acrass the big
plain, till I saw no more av him.  Thin I made back for the cyabin
heeur, an shut meself up, and wint to slape; and just in the middle av
me dhrames, whin I was dhramin' of--but trath, miss, yez'll be toired
standin' on yer feet all this time.  Won't yez take aff yer purty little
ridin' hat, an sit down on the thrunk thare?--it's asier than the stool.
Do plaze take a sate; for if I'm to tell yez all--"

"Never mind me--go on.  Please tell me who else has been here besides
this strange cavalier; who must have been some one playing a trick upon
you, I suppose."

"A thrick, miss!  Trath that's just what owld Zeb sayed."

"He has been here, then?"

"Yis--yis--but not till long afther the others."

"The others?"

"Yis, miss.  Zeb only arroived yestherday marnin'.  The others paid
their visit the night afore, an at a very unsayzonable hour too, wakin'
me out av the middle av my slape."

"But who?--what others?"

"Why the Indyens, to be shure."

"There have been Indians, then?"

"Trath was there--a whole tribe av thim.  Well, as I've been tillin'
yez, miss, jest as I wus in a soun' slape, I heerd talkin' in the cyabin
heern, right over my hid, an the shufflin' av paper, as if somebody was
dalin' a pack av cards, an--Mother av Moses! fwhat's that?"

"What?"

"Didn't yez heear somethin'?  Wheesht!  Thare it is agane!  Trath, it's
the trampin' av horses!  They're jist outside."

Phelim rushed towards the door.

"Be Sant Pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback.
Thare's a thousand av them! an more comin' behind!  Be japers! them's
the chaps owld Zeb--Now for a frish spell av squeelin!  O Lard!  I'll be
too late!"

Seizing the cactus-branch--that for convenience he had brought inside
the hut--he dashed out through the doorway.

"_Mon Dieu_!" cried the Creole, "'tis they!  My father, and I here!  How
shall I explain it?  Holy Virgin, save me from shame!"

Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so.
But a moment's reflection showed her how idle was the act.  They who
were outside would make light of such obstruction.  Already she
recognised the voices of the Regulators!

The opening in the skin wall came under her eye.  Should she make a
retreat through that, undignified as it might be?

It was no longer possible.  The sound of hoofs also in the rear!  There
were horsemen behind the hut!

Besides, her own steed was in front--that ocellated creature not to be
mistaken.  By this time they must have identified it!

But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to
retreat--one more generous.

_He_ was in danger--from which even the unconsciousness of it might not
shield him!  Who but she could protect him?

"Let my good name go!" thought she.  "Father--friends--all--all but him,
if God so wills it!  Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!"

As these noble thoughts passed through her mind, she took her stand by
the bedside of the invalid, like a second Dido, resolved to risk all--
even death itself--for the hero of her heart.



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

WAITING FOR THE CUE.

Never, since its erection, was there such a trampling of hoofs around
the hut of the horse-catcher--not even when its corral was filled with
fresh-taken mustangs.

Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that
summon him to stop.

One is heard louder than the rest, and in tones of command that proclaim
the speaker to be chief of the party.

"Pull up, damn you!  It's no use--your trying to escape.  Another step,
and ye'll go tumbling in your tracks.  Pull up, I say!"

The command takes effect upon the Connemara man, who has been making
direct for Zeb Stump's mare, tethered on the other side of the opening.
He stops upon the instant.

"Shure, gintlemen, I don't want to escyape," asseverates he, shivering
at the sight of a score of angry faces, and the same number of
gun-barrels bearing upon his person; "I had no such intinshuns.  I was
only goin' to--"

"Run off, if ye'd got the chance.  Ye'd made a good beginning.  Here,
Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him.  Lend a
hand, Shelton!  Damned queer-looking curse he is!  Surely, gentlemen,
this can't be the man we're in search of?"

"No, no! it isn't.  Only his man John."

"Ho! hilloa, you round there at the back!  Keep your eyes skinned.  We
havn't got him yet.  Don't let as much as a cat creep past you.  Now,
sirree! who's inside?"

"Who's insoide?  The cyabin <DW37> yez mane?"

"Damn ye! answer the question that's put to ye!" says Tracey, giving his
prisoner a touch of the trail-rope.  "Who's inside the shanty?"

"O Lard!  Needs must whin the divvel dhrives.  Wil, then, thare's the
masther for wan--"

"Ho! what's this?" inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding
up, and seeing the spotted mare.  "Why--it--it's Looey's mustang!"

"It is, uncle," answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with
him.

"I wonder who's brought the beast here?"

"Loo herself, I reckon."

"Nonsense!  You're jesting, Cash?"

"No, uncle; I'm in earnest."

"You mean to say my daughter has been here?"

"Has been--still is, I take it."

"Impossible?"

"Look yonder, then!"

The door has just been opened.  A female form is seen inside.

"Good God, it is my daughter!"

Poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut--close
followed by Calhoun.  Both go inside.

"Louises what means this?  A wounded man!  Is it he--Henry?"

Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat--
Henry's!

"It is; he's alive!  Thank heaven!"  He strides towards the couch.

The joy of an instant is in an instant gone.  The pale face upon the
pillow is not that of his son.  The father staggers back with a groan.

Calhoun seems equally affected.  But the cry from him is an exclamation
of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin.

"Great God!" gasps the planter; "what is it?  Can you explain, Louise?"

"I cannot, father.  I've been here but a few minutes.  I found him as
you see.  He is delirious."

"And--and--Henry?"

"They have told me nothing.  Mr Gerald was alone when I entered.  The
man outside was absent, and has just returned.  I have not had time to
question him."

"But--but, how came _you_ to be here?"

"I could not stay at home.  I could not endure the uncertainty any
longer.  It was terrible--alone, with no one at the house; and the
thought that my poor brother--_Mon dieu_!  _Mon dieu_!"

Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring,
look.

"I thought I might find Henry here."

"Here!  But how did you know of this place?  Who guided you?  You are by
yourself!"

"Oh, father!  I knew the way.  You remember the day of the hunt--when
the mustang ran away with me.  It was beyond this place I was carried.
On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here.  I fancied I
could find the way back."

Poindexter's look of perplexity does not leave him, though another
expression becomes blended with it.  His brow contracts; the shadow
deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare
it.

"A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter.  Imprudent--indeed
dangerous.  You have acted like a silly girl.  Come--come away!  This is
no place for a lady--for you.  Get to your horse, and ride home again.
Some one will go with you.  There may be a scene here, you should not be
present at.  Come, come!"  The father strides forth from the hut, the
daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like
unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.

The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.

They are all there.  Calhoun has made known the condition of things
inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.

They stand in groups--some silent, some conversing.  A larger crowd is
around the Connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last tied in the
trail-rope.  His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but
without giving much credit to his answers.

On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them,
but stand silent.  For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have
an explanation of what is passing.  Their looks proclaim it.

Most of them know the young lady by sight--all by fame, or name.  They
feel surprise--almost wonder--at seeing her there.  The sister of the
murdered man under the roof of his murderer!

More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case.
Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among
them--facts that seem to confirm it.  He has told them of the hat, the
cloak--of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!

But why is Louise Poindexter there--alone--unaccompanied by white or
black, by relative or slave?  A guest, too: for in this character does
she appear!  Her cousin does not explain it--perhaps he cannot.  Her
father--can he?  Judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful.

Whispers pass from lip to ear--from group to group.  There are
surmises--many, but none spoken aloud.  Even the rude frontiersmen
respect the feelings--filial as parental--and patiently await the
_eclaircissement_.

"Mount, Louise!  Mr Yancey will ride home with you."  The young planter
thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself.  He is the one who
most envies the supposed happiness of Cassius Calhoun.  In his soul he
thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.

"But, father!" protests the young lady, "why should I no wait for you?
You are not going to stay here?"  Yancey experiences a shock of
apprehension.  "It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you.  Let
that be sufficient."

Yancey's confidence returns.  Not quite.  He knows enough of that proud
spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience--even to the
parental command.

It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the
presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.

The two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly
following--the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter
her chagrin.

Yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his
companion.  How could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart?
Of course he ascribes it to that.

He but half interprets the cause.  Were he to look steadfastly into the
eye of Louise Poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which
sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future.

They ride on through the trees--but not beyond ear-shot of the people
they have left behind them.

Suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the Creole--her features
lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered
her soul.

She stops reflectingly--her escort constrained to do the same.

"Mr Yancey," says she, after a short pause, "my saddle has got loose.
I cannot sit comfortably in it.  Have the goodness to look to the
girths!"

Yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon
him.

He examines the girths.  In his opinion they do not want tightening.  He
does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all
his strength.

"Stay!" says the fair equestrian, "let me alight.  You will get better
at it then."

Without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and
stands by the side of the mustang.

The young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power
of his arms.

After a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds
in shortening them by a single hole.

"Now, Miss Poindexter; I think it will do."

"Perhaps it will," rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of
her saddle, and giving it a slight shake.  "No doubt it will do now.
After all 'tis a pity to start back so soon.  I've just arrived here
after a fast gallop; and my poor Luna has scarce had time to breathe
herself.  What if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest?
'Tis cruel to take her back without it."

"But your father?  He seemed desirous you should--"

"That I should go home at once.  That's nothing.  'Twas only to get me
out of the way of these rough men--that was all.  He won't care; so long
as I'm out of sight.  'Tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade
of these fine trees--just now that the sun is blazing down upon the
prairie.  Let us stay a while, and give Luna a rest!  We can amuse
ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the
stream.  Look there, Mr Yancey!  What pretty creatures they are!"

The young planter begins to feel flattered.  Why should his fair
companion wish to linger there with him?  Why wish to watch the
_iodons_, engaged in their aquatic cotillon--amorous at that time of the
year?

He conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations.

His compliance is easily obtained.

"Miss Poindexter," says he, "it is for you to command me.  I am but too
happy to stay here, as long as you wish it."

"Only till Luna be rested.  To say the truth, sir, I had scarce got out
of the saddle, as the people came up.  See! the poor thing is still
panting after our long gallop."

Yancey does not take notice whether the spotted mustang is panting or
no.  He is but too pleased to comply with the wishes of its rider.

They stay by the side of the stream.

He is a little surprised to perceive that his companion gives but slight
heed, either to the silver fish, or the spotted mustang.  He would have
liked this all the better, had her attentions been transferred to
himself.

But they are not.  He can arrest neither her eye nor her ear.  The
former seems straying upon vacancy; the latter eagerly bent to catch
every sound that comes from the clearing.

Despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself.
He suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted--a trial before
Judge Lynch, with a jury of "Regulators."

Excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks.  There is an
earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination.

Both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a
theatre, waiting for her cue.

There are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men;
then one longer than the rest--a harangue.

Louise recognises the voice.  It is that of her cousin Cassius.  It is
urgent--at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his
audience to something they are not willing to do.

His speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick
sharp exclamations--cries of assent--one louder than the rest, of
fearful import.

While listening, Yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side.

He is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot,
and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the _jacale_!



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

A JURY OF REGULATORS.

The cry, that had called the young Creole so suddenly from the side of
her companion, was the verdict of a jury--in whose rude phrase was also
included the pronouncing of the sentence.

The word "hang" was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the
spot.

While pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her
thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in
front of the jacale.

Though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew
the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the
play was progressing.

About the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits
a minute description.

The men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but
drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the
circumference of a circle.

Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous--among them the tall
form of the Regulator Chief, with three or four of his "marshals."
Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun.  These no
longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or
witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted.

Such in reality was the nature of the scene.  It was a trial for
Murder--a trial before _Justice Lynch_--this grim dignitary being
typified in the person of the Regulator Chief--with a jury composed of
all the people upon the ground--all except the prisoners.

Of these there are two--Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.

They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound
in raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.

Even their tongues are not free.  Phelim has been cursed and scared into
silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of
stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth.  It has been done to prevent
interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his
lips.

Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place.  Two men, one at
each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the
ground.  His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their
sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to
encounter.

Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other
is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.

The servant alone has been examined--asked to confess all he knows, and
what he has to say for himself.  It is no use putting questions to his
master.

Phelim has told his tale--too strange to be credited; though the
strangest part of it--that relating to his having seen a horseman
without ahead--is looked upon as the least improbable!

He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion
already aroused--that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of
murder!

"All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!" say those to whom
he has been imparting them.  "A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us--
nothing else."

The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to
their conclusion.

In the minds of most--already predisposed to it--there is a full
conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald
is answerable for his death.

Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these
have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale--the ugliest of
which is the finding of the cloak and hat.

The explanations given by the Galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry
no credit.  Why should they?  They are the inventions of an accomplice.

There are some who will scarce stay to hear them--some who impatiently
cry out, "Let the murderer be hanged!"

As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the
ground, with a noose at its end.  It is only a lazo; but for the purpose
Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.

A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb--good enough for a
gallows.

The vote is taken _viva voce_.

Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice
Gerald must die.  His hour appears to have come.

And yet the sentence is not carried into execution.  The rope is
suffered to lie guileless on the grass.  No one seems willing to lay
hold of it!

Why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous
snake, that none dares to touch?

The majority--the _plurality_, to use a true Western word--has
pronounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even
blasphemous, speech.  Why is it not carried out?

Why?  For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action--
for want of the proofs to produce it.

There is a minority not satisfied--that with less noise, but equally
earnest emphasis, have answered "No."

It is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings.

Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself--Sam Manly, the Chief of the
Regulators.  He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his
acceptance of the acclamatory verdict.

"Fellow citizens!" cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making
himself heard, "I'm of the opinion, that there's a doubt in this case;
and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it--that is,
till he be able to say his own say about it.  It's no use questioning
him now, as ye all see.  We have him tight and fast; and there's not
much chance of his getting clear--_if_ guilty.  Therefore, I move we
postpone the trial, till--"

"What's the use of postponing it?" interrupts a voice already loud for
the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius
Calhoun.  "What's the use, Sam Manly?  It's all very well for you to
talk that way; but if _you_ had a friend foully murdered--I won't say
cousin, but a son, a brother--you might not be so soft about it.  What
more do you want to show that the skunk's guilty?  Further proofs?"

"That's just what we want, Captain Calhoun."

"Cyan _you_ give them, Misther Cashius Calhoun?" inquires a voice from
the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.

"Perhaps I can."

"Let's have them, then!"

"God knows you've had evidence enough.  A jury of his own stupid
countrymen--"

"Bar that appellashun!" shouts the man, who has demanded the additional
evidence.  "Just remember, Misther Calhoun, ye're in Texas, and not
Mississippi.  Bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble,
sharp as it is."

"I don't mean to offend any one," says Calhoun, backing out of the
dilemma into which his Irish antipathies had led him; "even an
Englishman, if there's one here."

"Thare ye're welcome--go on!" cries the mollified Milesian.

"Well, then, as I was saying, there's been evidence enough--and more
than enough, in my opinion.  But if you want more, I can give it."

"Give it--give it!" cry a score of responding voices; that keep up the
demand, while Calhoun seems to hesitate.

"Gentlemen!" says he, squaring himself to the crowd, as if for a speech,
"what I've got to say now I could have told you long ago.  But I didn't
think it was needed.  You all know what's happened between this man and
myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful.  I'm not; and if it
wasn't that I'm sure he has done the deed--sure as the head's on my
body--"

Calhoun speaks stammeringly, seeing that the phrase, involuntarily
escaping from his lips, has produced a strange effect upon his
auditory--as it has upon himself.

"If not sure--I--I should still say nothing of what I've seen, or rather
heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing."

"What did you hear, Mr Calhoun?" demands the Regulator Chief, resuming
his judicial demeanour, for a time forgotten in the confusion of voting
the verdict.  "Your quarrel with the prisoner, of which I believe
everybody has heard, can have nothing to do with your testimony here.
Nobody's going to accuse you of false swearing on that account.  Please
proceed, sir.  What did you hear?  And where, and when, did you hear
it?"

"To begin, then, with the time.  It was the night my cousin was missing;
though, of course, we didn't miss him till the morning.  Last Tuesday
night."

"Tuesday night.  Well?"

"I'd turned in myself; and thought Henry had done the same.  But what
with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn't get any sleep.

"I started up again; lit a cigar; and, after smoking it awhile in the
room, I thought of taking a turn upon the top of the house.

"You know the old hacienda has a flat roof, I suppose?  Well, I went up
there to get cool; and continued to pull away at the weed.

"It must have been then about midnight, or maybe a little earlier.  I
can't tell: for I'd been tossing about on my bed, and took no note of
the time.

"Just as I had smoked to the end of my cigar, and was about to take a
second out of my case, I heard voices.  There were two of them.

"They were up the river, as I thought on the other side.  They were a
good way off, in the direction of the town.

"I mightn't have been able to distinguish them, or tell one from
'tother, if they'd been talking in the ordinary way.  But they weren't.
There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were
quarrelling.

"I supposed it was some drunken rowdies, going home from Oberdoffer's
tavern, and I should have thought no more about it.  But as I listened,
I recognised one of the voices; and then the other.  The first was my
cousin Henry's--the second that of the man who is there--the man who has
murdered him."

"Please proceed, Mr Calhoun!  Let us hear the whole of the evidence you
have promised to produce.  It will be time enough then to state your
opinions."

"Well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, I was no little surprised at
hearing my cousin's voice--supposing him asleep in his bed.  So sure was
I of its being him, that I didn't think of going to his room, to see if
he was there.  I knew it was his voice; and I was quite as sure that the
other was that of the horse-catcher.

"I thought it uncommonly queer, in Henry being out at such a late hour:
as he was never much given to that sort of thing.  But out he was.  I
couldn't be mistaken about that.

"I listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but though I could
distinguish the voices, I couldn't make out anything that was said on
either side.  What I did hear was Henry calling _him_ by some strong
names, as if my cousin had been first insulted; and then I heard the
Irishman threatening to make him rue it.  Each loudly pronounced the
other's name; and that convinced me about its being them.

"I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but I was in my
slippers; and before I could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be
all over.

"I waited for half an hour, for Henry to come home.  He didn't come;
but, as I supposed he had gone back to Oberdoffer's and fallen in with
some of the fellows from the Fort, I concluded he might stay there a
spell, and I went back to my bed.

"Now, gentlemen, I've told you all I know.  My poor cousin never came
back to Casa del Corvo--never more laid his side on a bed,--for that we
found by going to his room next morning.  His bed that night must have
been somewhere upon the prairie, or in the chapparal; and there's the
only man who knows where."

With a wave of his hand the speaker triumphantly indicated the accused--
whose wild straining eyes told how unconscious he was of the terrible
accusation, or of the vengeful looks with which, from all sides, he was
now regarded.

Calhoun's story was told with a circumstantiality, that went far to
produce conviction of the prisoner's guilt.  The concluding speech
appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamourous demand for
the execution to proceed.

"Hang! hang!" is the cry from fourscore voices.

The judge himself seems to waver.  The minority has been diminished--no
longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry.  The more
moderate are overborne by the inundation of vengeful voices.

The crowd sways to and fro--resembling a storm fast increasing to a
tempest.

It soon comes to its height.  A ruffian rushes towards the rope.  Though
none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of Calhoun--
with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation.  One of those
"border ruffians" of Southern descent, ever ready by the stake of the
philanthropist, or the martyr--such as have been late typified in the
_military murderers_ of Jamaica, who have disgraced the English name to
the limits of all time.

He lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck
of the condemned man--alike unconscious of trial and condemnation.

No one steps forward to oppose the act.  The ruffian, bristling with
bowie-knife and pistols, has it all to himself or, rather, is he
assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney--one of the _ci-devant_
guards of the prisoner.

The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings.
Most express a mute approval--some encouraging the executioners with
earnest vociferations of "Up with him!  Hang him!"

A few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not
one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner.

The rope is around his neck--the end with the noose upon it.  The other
is being swung over the sycamore.

"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

A SERIES OF INTERLUDES.

"Soon the soul of Maurice Gerald must go back to its God!"

It was the thought of every actor in that tragedy among the trees.  No
one doubted that, in another moment, they would see his body hoisted
into the air, and swinging from the branch of the sycamore.

There was an interlude, not provided for in the programme.  A farce was
being performed simultaneously; and, it might be said, on the same
stage.  For once the tragedy was more attractive, and the comedy was
progressing without spectators.

Not the less earnest were the actors in it.  There were only two--a man
and a mare.  Phelim was once more re-enacting the scenes that had caused
surprise to Isidora.

Engrossed by the arguments of Calhoun--by the purposes of vengeance
which his story was producing--the Regulators only turned their
attention to the chief criminal.  No one thought of his companion--
whether he was, or was not, an accomplice.  His presence was scarce
perceived--all eyes being directed with angry intent upon the other.

Still less was it noticed, when the ruffians sprang forward, and
commenced adjusting the rope.  The Galwegian was then altogether
neglected.

There appeared an opportunity of escape, and Phelim was not slow to take
advantage of it.

Wriggling himself clear of his fastenings, he crawled off among the legs
of the surging crowd.

No one seemed to see, or care about, his movements.  Mad with
excitement, they were pressing upon each other--the eyes of all turned
upward to the gallows tree.

To have seen Phelim skulking off, it might have been supposed, that he
was profiting by the chance offered for escape--saving his own life,
without thinking of his master.

It is true he could have done nothing, and he knew it.  He had exhausted
his advocacy; and any further interference on his part would have been
an idle effort, or only to aggravate the accusers.  It was but slight
disloyalty that he should think of saving himself--a mere instinct of
self-preservation--to which he seemed yielding, as he stole off among
the trees.  So one would have conjectured.

But the conjecture would not have done justice to him of Connemara.  In
his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master--
much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to
effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him.  He
knew he could do nothing of himself.  His hope lay in summoning Zeb
Stump, and it was to sound that signal--which had proved so effective
before--that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and
execution.

On getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the
trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on
toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether.

The other horses standing "hitched" to the twigs, formed a tolerably
compact tier all round the edge of the timber.  This aided in screening
his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of
the mare, without being seen by any one.

Just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary
to carry out his design.  The cactus branch had been dropped where he
was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his
captors.  He could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a
fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end.

He had no knife--no weapon of any kind--wherewith he might procure
another _nopal_.

He paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do.  Only for an
instant.  There was no time to be lost.  His master's life was in
imminent peril, menaced at every moment.  No sacrifice would be too
great to save him; and with this thought the faithful Phelim rushed
towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in
his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem.

His fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that,
when weighed against the life of his beloved master?  With equal
recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked
back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument
of torture!

By this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger's neck,
carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure.  The other end, leading
over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded
bullies--whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it.  In their eyes
and attitudes was an air of deadly determination.  They only waited for
the word.

Not that any one had the right to pronounce it.  And just for this
reason was it delayed.  No one seemed willing to take the responsibility
of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long
account.  Criminal as they might regard him--murderer as they believed
him to be--all shied from doing the sheriff's duty.  Even Calhoun
instinctively held back.

It was not for the want of will.  There was no lack of that on the part
of the ex-officer, or among the Regulators.  They showed no sign of
retreating from the step they had taken.  The pause was simply owing to
the informality of the proceedings.  It was but the lull in the storm
that precedes the grand crash.

It was a moment of deep solemnity--every one silent as the tomb.  They
were in the presence of death, and knew it,--death in its most hideous
shape, and darkest guise.  Most of them felt that they were abetting it.
All believed it to be nigh.

With hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the
tree-trunks around them.  Surely the crisis had come?

It had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves
decreed.  Instead of seeing Maurice Gerald jerked into the air, far
different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness,--one so
ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and
cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings.

The old mare--that they knew to be Zeb Stump's--appeared to have gone
suddenly mad.  She had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her
heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might.  She had
given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and
all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly
responding to her screams!

Enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than
occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacale hut.  Not only was
the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the
condemned captive.

Nor was the change of a comical character.  On the contrary, it was
accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!

The Regulators rushed to their arms--some towards their horses.

"Indians!" was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through
the din.  Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a
commotion--threatening to result in a _stampede_ of the troop!

For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with
scared countenances.

Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them--using them by way
of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.

There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades;
and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the
extreme of terror.

It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild
whighering; and only one was heard--the wretched creature that had given
them the cue.

Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the
Connemara man had stolen off.

Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to
the bushes.  Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was
now worth scarce so much as that of his master.

A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,--their muzzles
brought to bear upon the old mare.

But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw
his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.

Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly
design.  The Regulators are still in the same temper.

The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth;
but the contrary.

Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a
false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn
ceremonial.

They return to it with increased vindictiveness--as proved by their
oaths, and angry exclamations.

Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned--the terrible
tableau is reconstructed.

Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time
every one is impressed with the solemn thought:

"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"

Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of
death.

How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,--
flashing out into the open sunlight.

"A woman! a beautiful woman!"

'Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak.  They stand
rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks.  Even the rudest of
them respect the presence of that fair intruder.  There is submission in
their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.

Like a meteor she pauses through their midst--glides on without giving a
glance on either side--without speech, without halt--till she stoops
over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen,
taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs.  "Texans!
cowards!" she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd.  "Shame!
shame!"

They cower under the stinging reproach.  She continues:--

"A trial indeed!  A fair trial!  The accused without counsel--condemned
without being heard!  And this you call justice?  Texan justice?  My
scorn upon you--not men, but murderers!"

"What means this?" shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his
daughter by the arm.  "You are mad--Loo--mad!  How come you to be here?
Did I not tell you to go home?  Away--this instant away; and do not
interfere with what does not concern you!"

"Father, it does concern me!"

"How?--how?--oh true--as a sister!  This man is the murderer of your
brother."

"I will not--_cannot_ believe it.  Never--never!  There was no motive.
O men! if you be men, do not act like savages.  Give him a fair trial,
and then--then--"

"He's had a fair trial," calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak
from instigation; "Ne'er a doubt about his being guilty.  It's him
that's killed your brother, and nobody else.  And it don't look well,
Miss Poindexter--excuse me for saying it;--but it don't look just the
thing, that _you_ should be trying to screen him from his deserving."

"No, that it don't," chime in several voices.  "Justice must take its
course!" shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.

"It must!--it must!" echoes the chorus.  "We are sorry to disoblige you,
miss; but we must request you to leave.  Mr Poindexter, you'd do well
to take your daughter away."

"Come, Loo!  'Tis not the place You must come away.  You refuse!  Good
God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me?  Here, Cash; take hold of
her arm, and conduct her from the spot.  If you refuse to go willingly,
we must use force, Loo.  A good girl now.  Do as I tell you.  Go!  Go!"

"No, father, I will not--I shall not--till you have promised--till these
men promise--"

"We can't promise you anything, miss--however much we might like it.  It
ain't a question for women, no how.  There's been a crime committed--a
murder, as ye yourself know.  There must be no cheating of justice.
There's no mercy for a murderer!"

"No mercy!" echo a score of angry voices.  "Let him be hanged--hanged--
hanged!"

The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence.  Perhaps
it has but hastened the fatal moment.  The soul of Cassius Calhoun is
not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy.  The horse
hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.

In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,--that
very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.

The lady is led aside--dragged rather than led--by her cousin, and at
the command of her father.  She struggles in the hated arms that hold
her--wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

"Monsters! murderers!" are the phrases that fall from her lips.

Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded.  She is borne back
beyond the confines of the crowd--beyond the hope of giving help to him,
for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear--heartbreaking
the words now showered upon him.  Better for him he had not taken hold
of her.

It scarce consoles him--that certainty of revenge.  His rival will soon
be no more; but what matters it?  The fair form writhing in his grasp
can never be consentingly embraced.  He may kill the hero of her heart,
but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

STILL ANOTHER INTERLUDE.

For a third time is the tableau reconstructed--spectators and actors in
the dread drama taking their places as before.

The lazo is once more passed over the limb; the same two scoundrels
taking hold of its loose end--this time drawing it towards them till it
becomes taut.

For the third time arises the reflection:

"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"

Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end.  Even
love has proved powerless to save him!  Wha power on earth can be
appealed to after this?  None likely to avail.

But there appears no chance of succour--no time for it.  There is no
mercy in the stern looks of the Regulators--only impatience.  The
hangmen, too, appear in a hurry--as if they were in dread of another
interruption.  They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced
executioners.  The physiognomy of either would give colour to the
assumption, that they had been accustomed to the calling.

In less than sixty seconds they shall have finished the "job."

"Now then, Bill!  Are ye ready?" shouts one to the other--by the
question proclaiming, that they no longer intend to wait for the word.

"All right!" responds Bill.  "Up with the son of a skunk!  Up with him!"

There is a pull upon the rope, but not sufficient to raise the body into
an erect position.  It tightens around the neck; lifts the head a little
from the ground, but nothing more!

Only one of the hangmen has given his strength to the pull.  "Haul, damn
you!" cries Bill, astonished at the inaction of his assistant.  "Why the
hell don't you haul?"

Bill's back is turned towards an intruder, that, seen by the other, has
hindered him from lending a hand.  He stands as if suddenly transformed
into stone!

"Come!" continues the chief executioner.  "Let's go at it again--both
together.  Yee--up!  Up with him!"

"_No ye don't_!" calls out a voice in the tones of a stentor; while a
man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out
from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into
the thick of the crowd.

"No ye don't!" he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and
bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope.  "Not yet
a bit, as this <DW53> kalkerlates.  You, Bill Griffin; pull that piece o'
pleeted hoss-hair but the eighth o' an inch tighter, and ye'll git a
blue pill in yer stummuk as won't agree wi' ye.  Drop the rope, durn ye!
Drop it!"

The screaming of Zeb Stump's mare scarce created a more sudden diversion
than the appearance of Zeb himself--for it was he who had hurried upon
the ground.

He was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by
many.

Among the last were Bill Griffin, and his fellow rope-holder.  No longer
holding it: for at the command to drop it, yielding to a quick
perception of danger, both had let go; and the lazo lay loose along the
sward.

"What durned tom-foolery's this, boys?" continues the colossus,
addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise.  "Ye
don't mean hangin', do ye?"

"We do," answers a stern voice.  "And why not?" asks another.

"Why not!  Ye'd hang a fellur-citizen 'ithout trial, wud ye?"

"Not much of a fellow-citizen--so far as that goes.  Besides, he's had a
trial--a fair trial."

"I'deed.  A human critter to be condemned wi' his brain in a state o'
dulleerium!  Sent out o' the world 'ithout knowin' that he's in it!  Ye
call that a fair trial, do ye?"

"What matters it, if we know he's guilty?  We're all satisfied about
that."

"The hell ye air!  Wagh!  I aint goin' to waste words wi' sech as you,
Jim Stoddars.  But for _you_, Sam Manly, an yerself, Mister
Peintdexter--shurly ye aint agreed to this hyur proceeding which, in my
opeenyun, 'ud be neyther more nor less 'n murder?"

"You haven't heard all, Zeb Stump," interposes the Regulator Chief, with
the design to justify his acquiescence in the act.  "There are facts--!"

"Facts be durned!  An' fancies, too!  I don't want to hear 'em.  It'll
be time enuf for thet, when the thing kum to a reg'lar trial; the which
shurly nob'dy hyur'll objeck to--seein' as thur aint the ghost o' a
chance for _him_ to git off.  Who air the individooal that objecks?"

"You take too much upon you, Zeb Stump.  What is it your business, we'd
like to know?  The man that's been murdered wasn't _your_ son; nor your
brother, nor your cousin neither!  If he had been, you'd be of a
different way of thinking, I take it."

It is Calhoun who has made this interpolation--spoken before with so
much success to his scheme.

"I don't see that it concerns you," he continues, "what course we take
in this matter."

"But _I do_.  It consarns me--fust, because this young fellur's a friend
o' mine, though he air Irish, an a strenger; an secondly, because Zeb
Stump aint a goin' to stan' by, an see foul play--even tho' it be on the
purayras o' Texas."

"Foul play be damned!  There's nothing of the sort.  And as for standing
by, we'll see about that.  Boys! you're not going to be scared from your
duty by such swagger as this?  Let's make a finish of what we've begun.
The blood of a murdered man cries out to us.  Lay hold of the rope!"

"Do; an by the eturnal! the fust that do 'll drop it a leetle quicker
than he grups it.  Lay a claw on it--one o' ye--if ye darr.  Ye may hang
this poor critter as high's ye like; but _not_ till ye've laid Zeb'lon
Stump streetched dead upon the grass, wi' some o' ye alongside o' him.
Now then!  Let me see the skunk thet's goin' to tech thet rope!"

Zeb's speech is followed by a profound silence.  The people keep their
places--partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly
from the respect due to his courage and generosity.  Also, because there
is still some doubt in the minds of the Regulators, both as to the
expediency, and fairness, of the course which Calhoun is inciting them
to take.

With a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has
gained, and presses it.

"Gie the young fellur a fair trial," urges he.  "Let's take him to the
settlement, an hev' him tried thur.  Ye've got no clur proof, that he's
had any hand in the black bizness; and durn me! if I'd believe it unless
I seed it wi' my own eyes.  I know how he feeled torst young
Peintdexter.  Instead o' bein' his enemy, thur aint a man on this ground
hed more o' a likin' for him--tho' he did hev a bit o' shindy wi' his
precious cousin thur."

"You are perhaps not aware, Mr Stump," rejoins the Regulator Chief, in
a calm voice, "of what we've just been hearing?"

"What hev ye been hearin'?"

"Evidence to the contrary of what you assert.  We have proof, not only
that there was bad blood between Gerald and young Poindexter, but that a
quarrel took place on the very night--"

"Who sez thet, Sam Manly?"

"I say it," answers Calhoun, stepping a little forward, so as to be seen
by Stump.

"O, you it air, Mister Cash Calhoun!  You know thur war bad blood atween
'em?  You seed the quarrel ye speak o'?"

"I haven't said that I saw it, Zeb Stump.  And what's more I'm not going
to stand any cross-questioning by you.  I have given my evidence, to
those who have the right to hear it; and that's enough.  I think,
gentlemen, you're satisfied as to the verdict.  I don't see why this old
fool should interrupt--"

"Ole fool!" echoes the hunter, with a screech; "Ole fool!  Hell an
herrikins!  Ye call me an ole fool?  By the eturnal God! ye'll live to
take back that speech, or my name aint Zeblun Stump, o' Kaintucky.
Ne'er a mind now; thur's a time for everythin', an yur time may come,
Mister Cash Calhoun, sooner than ye surspecks it."

"As for a quarrel atween Henry Peintdexter an the young fellur hyur,"
continues Zeb, addressing himself to the Regulator Chief, "I don't
believe a word on't; nor won't, so long's thur's no better proof than
_his_ palaverin'.  From what this chile knows, it don't stan' to reezun.
Ye say ye've got new facks?  So've I too.  Facks I reck'n thet'll go a
good way torst explicatin o' this mysteerus bizness, twisted up as it
air."

"What facts?" demands the Regulator Chief.  "Let's hear them, Stump."

"Thur's more than one.  Fust place what do ye make o' the young fellur
bein' wownded hisself?  I don't talk o' them scratches ye see; I believe
them's done by coyoats that attackted him, arter they see'd he wur
wownded.  But look at his knee Somethin' else than coyoats did _that_.
What do _you_ make o' it, Sam Manly?"

"Well, that--some of the boys here think there's been a struggle between
him and--"

"Atween him an who?" sharply interrogates Zeb.

"Why, the man that's missing."

"Yes, that's he who we mean," speaks one of the "boys" referred to.  "We
all know that Harry Poindexter wouldn't a stood to be shot down like a
calf.  They've had a tussle, and a fall among the rocks.  That's what's
given him the swellin' in the knee.  Besides, there's the mark of a blow
upon his head--looks like it had been the butt of a pistol.  As for the
scratches, we can't tell what's made them.  Thorns may be; or wolves if
you like.  That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it
won't do for us."

"What fellur air ye talkin' o'?  Ye mean Irish Pheelum?  Where air
_he_?"

"Stole away to save his carcass.  We'll find him, as soon as we've
settled this business; and I guess a little hanging will draw the truth
out of him."

"If ye mean abeout the tiger, ye'll draw no other truth out o' him than
hat ye've got a'ready.  I see'd thet varmint myself, an war jest in time
to save the young fellur from its claws.  But thet aint the peint.
Ye've had holt o' the Irish, I 'spose.  Did he tell ye o' nothin' else
he seed hyur?"

"He had a yarn about Indians.  Who believes it?"

"Wal; he tolt me the same story, and that looks like some truth in't.
Besides, he declurs they wur playin' curds, an hyur's the things
themselves.  I found 'em lying scattered about the floor o' the shanty.
Spanish curds they air."

Zeb draws the pack out of his pocket, and hands it over to the Regulator
Chief.

The cards, on examination, prove to be of Mexican manufacture--such as
are used in the universal game of _monte_--the queen upon horseback
"cavallo"--the spade represented by a sword "espada"--and the club
"baston" symbolised by the huge paviour-like implement, seen in
picture-books in the grasp of hairy Orson.

"Who ever heard of Comanches playing cards?" demands he, who has scouted
the evidence about the Indians.  "Damned ridiculous!"

"Ridiklus ye say!" interposes an old trapper who had been twelve months
a prisoner among the Comanches.  "Ridiklus it may be; but it's true f'r
all that.  Many's the game this <DW53>'s seed them play, on a dressed
burner hide for their table.  That same Mexikin _montay_ too.  I reckon
they've larned it from thar Mexikin captives; of the which they've got
as good as three thousand in thar different tribes.  Yes, sirree!"
concludes the trapper.  "The Keymanchees _do_ play cards--sure as
shootin'."

Zeb Stump is rejoiced at this bit of evidence, which is more than he
could have given himself.  It strengthens the case for the accused.  The
fact, of there having been Indians in the neighbourhood, tends to alter
the aspect of the affair in the minds of the Regulators--hitherto under
the belief that the Comanches were marauding only on the other side of
the settlement.

"Sartin sure," continues Zeb, pressing the point in favour of an
adjournment of the trial, "thur's been Injuns hyur, or some thin' durned
like--Geesus Geehosofat!  Whar's _she_ comin' from?"

The clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, salutes the ear of
everybody at the same instant of time.

No one needs to inquire, what has caused Stump to give utterance to that
abrupt interrogatory.  Along the top of the cliff, and close to its
edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop.  There is a woman--a lady--
upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her--the
string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away!

So wild is the gallop--so perilous from its proximity to the precipice--
you might suppose the horse to have run away with his rider.

But no.  You may tell that he has not, by the actions of the equestrian
herself.  She seems not satisfied with the pace; but with whip, spur,
and voice keeps urging him to increase it!

This is plain to the spectators below; though they are puzzled and
confused by her riding so close to the cliff.

They stand in silent astonishment.  Not that they are ignorant of who it
is.  It would be strange if they were.  That woman equestrian--
man-seated in the saddle--once seen was never more to be forgotten.

She is recognised at the first glance.  One and all know the reckless
galloper to be the guide--from whom, scarce half-an-hour ago, they had
parted upon the prairie.



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

CHASED BY COMANCHES.

It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself.  What
was bringing her back?  And why was she riding at such a perilous pace?

To explain it, we must return to that dark reverie, from which she was
startled by her encounter with the "Tejanos."

While galloping away from the Alamo, she had not thought of looking
back, to ascertain whether she was followed.  Absorbed in schemes of
vengeance, she had gone on--without even giving a glance behind.

It was but slight comfort to her to reflect: that Louise Poindexter had
appeared equally determined upon parting from the jacale.  With a
woman's intuitive quickness, she suspected the cause; though she knew,
too well, it was groundless.

Still, there was some pleasure in the thought: that her rival, ignorant
of her happy fortune, was suffering like herself.

There was a hope, too, that the incident might produce estrangement in
the heart of this proud Creole lady towards the man so condescendingly
beloved; though it was faint, vague, scarce believed in by her who
conceived it.

Taking her own heart as a standard, she was not one to lay much stress
on the condescension of love: her own history was proof of its levelling
power.  Still was there the thought that her presence at the jacale had
given pain, and might result in disaster to the happiness of her hated
rival.

Isidora had begun to dwell upon this with a sort of subdued pleasure;
that continued unchecked, till the time of her rencontre with the
Texans.

On turning back with these, her spirits underwent a change.  The road to
be taken by Louise, should have been the same as that, by which she had
herself come.  But no lady was upon it.

The Creole must have changed her mind, and stayed by the jacale--was,
perhaps, at that very moment performing the _metier_ Isidora had so
fondly traced out for herself?

The belief that she was about to bring shame upon the woman who had
brought ruin upon her, was the thought that now consoled her.

The questions put by Poindexter, and his companions, sufficiently
disclosed the situation.  Still clearer was it made by the final
interrogations of Calhoun; and, after her interrogators had passed away,
she remained by the side of the thicket--half in doubt whether to ride
on to the Leona, or go back and be the spectator of a scene, that, by
her own contrivance, could scarce fail to be exciting.

She is upon the edge of the chapparal, just inside the shadow of the
timber.  She is astride her grey steed, that stands with spread nostril
and dilated eye, gazing after the _cavallada_ that has late parted from
the spot--a single horseman in the rear of the rest.  Her horse might
wonder why he is being thus ridden about; but he is used to sudden
changes in the will of his capricious rider.

She is looking in the same direction--towards the _alhuehuete_;--whose
dark summit towers above the bluffs of the Alamo.

She sees the searchers descend; and, after them, the man who has so
minutely questioned her.  As his head sinks below the level of the
plain, she fancies herself alone upon it.

In this fancy she is mistaken.

She remains irresolute for a time--ten--fifteen--twenty minutes.

Her thoughts are not to be envied.  There is not much sweetness in the
revenge, she believes herself instrumental in having accomplished.  If
she has caused humiliation to the woman she hates, along with it she may
have brought ruin upon the man whom she loves?  Despite all that has
passed, she cannot help loving him!

"_Santissima Virgen_!" she mutters with a fervent earnestness.  "What
have I done?  If these _men_--_Los Reguladores_--the dreaded judges I've
heard of--if they should find him guilty, where may it end?  In his
death!  Mother of God!  I do not desire that.  Not by their hands--no!
no!  How wild their looks and gestures--stern--determined!  And when I
pointed out the way, how quickly they rode off, without further thought
of me!  Oh, they have made up their minds.  Don Mauricio is to die!  And
he a stranger among them--so have I heard.  Not of their country, or
kindred; only of the same race.  Alone, friendless, with many enemies.
_Santissima_! what am I thinking of?  Is not he, who has just left me,
that cousin of whom I've heard speak!  _Ay de mi_!  Now do I understand
the cause of his questioning.  His heart, like mine own--like mine own!"

She sits with her gaze bent over the open plain.  The grey steed still
frets under restraint, though the _cavallada_ has long since passed out
of sight.  He but responds to the spirit of his rider; which he knows to
be vacillating--chafing under some irresolution.

'Tis the horse that first discovers a danger, or something that scents
of it.  He proclaims it by a low tremulous neigh, as if to attract her
attention; while his head, tossed back towards the chapparal, shows that
the enemy is to be looked for in that direction.

Who, or what is it?

Warned by the behaviour of her steed, Isidora faces to the thicket, and
scans the path by which she has lately passed through it.  It is the
road, or trail, leading to the Leona.  'Tis only open to the eye for a
straight stretch of about two hundred yards.  Beyond, it becomes
screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously.

No one is seen upon it--nothing save two or three lean coyotes, that
skulk under the shadow of the trees--scenting the shod tracks, in the
hope of finding some scrap, that may have fallen from the hurrying
horsemen.

It is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement.  He
sees them; but what of that?  The prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither
startling, nor rare.  There is something else--something he has either
scented, or heard.

Isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her.  The
howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in
the joy of the daylight.  She hears only this.  Her thoughts again
return to the "Tejanos"--especially to him who has last parted from her
side.  She is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation;
when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse.

The animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air;
snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than
before!

This time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to
be going along the road--though still hidden behind the trees.  Their
hoof-strokes are heard at the same time.

But not after.  The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone
off at a gentle pace, making no noise!

Isidora conjectures the former.  She believes the horses to be ridden;
and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her
own.

She quiets him, and listens.

A humming is heard through the trees.  Though indistinct, it can be told
to be the sound of men's voices--holding a conversation in a low
muttered tone.

Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent.  The
horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted--perhaps hesitating to
advance.

Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed.  Some
travellers, perhaps, _en route_ for the Rio Grande--or, it may be, some
stragglers from the Texan troop--who, on hearing a horse neigh, have
stopped from an instinct of precaution.  It is only natural--at a time,
when Indians are known to be on the war-path.

Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the
strangers--whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly
to one side--placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit
tree; where she again sits listening.

Not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing
towards her--not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket!
And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were
endeavouring to accomplish a surround!

She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions:
all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the
riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or
caution--perhaps of evil intent?

They may have discovered her position?  The neighing of her steed has
betrayed it?  They may be riding to get round her--in order to advance
from different sides, and make sure of her capture?

How is she to know that their intent is not hostile?  She has enemies--
one well remembered--Don Miguel Diaz.  Besides, there are the
Comanches--to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer _en paz_.

She begins to feel alarm.  It has been long in arising; but the
behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious.  Ordinary
travellers would have continued along the trail.  These are sneaking
through the chapparal!

She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment.  She examines,
only to distrust it.  The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will
not screen her from an eye passing near.  The hoof-strokes tell, that
more than one cavalier is coming that way.  She must soon be discovered.

At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse's side, and rides
out from the thicket.  Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into
the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.

Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards--beyond range of
arrow, or bullet--then halt, until she can discover the character of
those who are advancing--whether friends, or to be feared.

If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry
her on to the protection of the "Tejanos."

She does not make the intended halt.  She is hindered by the horsemen,
at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously
with each other, and almost as soon as herself!

They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride
rapidly towards her!

A glance shows them to be men of bronze-<DW52> skins, and half naked
bodies--with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up
out of their hair.

"_Los Indios_!" mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels
against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the
_alhuehuete_.

A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it
without that.  The glance tells her more,--that the pursuit is close and
earnest--so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom,
_do not yell_!

Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a
plan already preconcerted!

Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers
of the prairie.  For years have they been _en paz_--both with Texans and
Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little
rudeness when under the influence of drink--just as a lady, in civilised
life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of "navigators,"
who have been spending their day at the beer-house.

Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it--with
less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led
to.

But her danger is different now.  The peace is past.  There is war upon
the wind.  Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of
their foes.  They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not
only dishonour, but it may be death!

On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her
horse,--all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!

She alone speaks.  Her pursuers are voiceless--silent as spectres!

Only once does she glance behind.  There are still but four of them; but
four is too many against one--and that one a woman!

There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.

She presses on for the _alhuehuete_.



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

LOS INDIOS!

The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over
which the tree towers.  She once more glances behind her.

"_Dios me ampare_!"  (God preserve me.)

God preserve her!  She will be too late!

The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn:
he is winding it over his head!

Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her
neck, and then--

And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind--thought that promises
escape from the threatened strangulation.

The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which
the creek bottom must be reached.  She remembers that its crest is
visible from the jacale.

With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and,
instead of going on for the _alhuehuete_, she rides directly towards the
bluff.

The change puzzles her pursuers--at the same time giving them
gratification.  They well know the "lay" of the land.  They understand
the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.

The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the
throw.  He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she
cannot escape.

"_Chingaro_!" mutters he to himself, "if she go much farther, she'll be
over the precipice!"

His reflection is false.  She goes farther, but not over the precipice.
With another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and
rides along the edge of it--so close as to attract the attention of the
"Tejanos" below, and elicit from Zeb Stump that quaint exclamation--only
heard upon extraordinary occasions--

"Geesus Geehosofat!"

As if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter--or rather to the
interrogatory with which he has followed it up--comes the cry of the
strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff.

"_Los Indios!  Los Indios_!"

No one who has spent three days in Southern Texas could mistake the
meaning of that phrase--whatever his native tongue.  It is the alarm cry
which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand
miles of frontier, in three different languages--"Les Indiens!  Los
Indios! the Indians!"

Dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once
comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger.

To those who hear it at the jacale it needs no translation.  They know
that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians--as
certain as if the fact had been announced in their own Saxon vernacular.

They have scarce time to translate it into this--even in thought--when
the same voice a second time salutes their ears:--"Tejanos!  Cavalleros!
save me! save me!  Los Indios!  I am chased by a troop.  They are behind
me--close--close--"

Her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly.  It is no
longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above.

She has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards,
when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen,
going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

Like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head.  So eager is he to
throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the
fugitive has said--spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no
stop, while calling out to the "Tejanos."  He may fancy it has been
addressed to himself--a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he
does not understand: for Isidora had spoken in English.

He is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out
of the glen,--or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his
wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

He perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below.

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics.  In that
glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun
barrels!

His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the
same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the
cliff--quite as quickly as they have been approaching it.

"'Tur a pity too," says Zeb Stump, proceeding to reload his rifle.  "If
't hedn't a been for the savin' o' her, I'd a let 'em come on down the
gully.  Ef we ked a captered them, we mout a got somethin' out o' 'em
consarnin' this queer case o' ourn.  Thur aint the smell o' a chance
now.  It's clur they've goed off; an by the time we git up yander,
they'll be hellurd."

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

The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the
tableau formed in front of the mustanger's hut--a change squally sudden
in the thoughts of those who compose it.

The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed
into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men
whose opinions are respected.

Calhoun and his bullies are no longer masters of the situation; and on
the motion of their chief the Regulator Jury is adjourned.  The new
programme is cast in double quick time.  A score of words suffice to
describe it.  The accused is to be carried to the settlement--there to
be tried according to the law of the land.

And now for the Indians--whose opportune appearance has caused this
sudden change, both of sentiment and design.  Are they to be pursued?
That of course.  But when?  Upon the instant?  Prudence says, no.

Only four have been seen.  But these are not likely to be alone.  They
may be the rear-guard of four hundred?

"Let us wait till the woman comes down," counsels one of the timid.
"They have not followed her any farther.  I think I can hear her riding
this way through the gulley.  Of course she knows it--as it was she who
directed us."

The suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground.  They are not
cowards.  Still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild
Indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in
the way of trade.

The advice is adopted.  They stand waiting for the approach of Isidora.

All are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the
trees.  There are those who have an apprehension: that along with the
Mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of Comanches.

A few are otherwise occupied--Zeb Stump among the number.  He takes the
gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the
thongs hitherto holding him too fast.

There is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part
in the proceeding.  Her part has been already played--perhaps too
prominently.  She shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous.

Where is the niece of Don Silvio Mortimez?  She has not yet come upon
the ground!  The stroke of her horse's hoof is no longer heard!  There
has been time--more than time--for her to have reached the jacale!

Her non-appearance creates surprise--apprehension--alarm.  There are men
there who admire the Mexican maiden--it is not strange they should--some
who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day.

Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured?  The interrogatory
passes round.  No one can answer it; though all are interested in the
answer.

The Texans begin to feel something like shame.  Their gallantry was
appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, "Tejanos!
Cavalleros!"

Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer?  Is that beauteous
form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?

They listen with ears intent,--many with pulses that beat high, and
hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.

They listen in vain.

There is no sound of hoof--no voice of woman--nothing, except the
champing of bitts heard close by their side!

Can it be that she is taken?

Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the
hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more
congenial channel.

Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever--since it is
directed against the hereditary foe.

The younger and more ardent--among whom are the admirers of the Mexican
maiden--can bear the uncertainty no longer.  They spring into their
saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her--to save her,
or perish in the attempt.

Who is to gainsay them?  Her pursuers--her captors perhaps--may be the
very men they have been in search of--the murderers of Henry Poindexter!

No one opposes their intent.  They go off in search of Isidora--in
pursuit of the prairie pirates.

Those who remain are but few in number; though Zeb Stump is among them.

The old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the Indians.
He keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after
the invalid prisoner--still unconscious--still guarded by the
Regulators.

Zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour
of distress.  There are two others equally faithful.  One a fair
creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager
interest that consumes her.  The other, a rude, almost ludicrous
individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his
"masther."  The last is Phelim, who has just descended from his perch
among the parasites of an umbrageous oak--where he has for some time
stayed--a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring.  The change
of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that
duty for which he came across the Atlantic.

No longer lies our scene upon the Alamo.  In another hour the jacale is
deserted--perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over Maurice
the mustanger.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE DISAPPOINTED CAMPAIGNERS.

The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest--lasting
only three or four days.  It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of
the West did not mean war--at least, on a grand scale.  Their descent
upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to
take out their degree as _braves_, desirous of signalising the event by
"raising" a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.

Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians.  They
are made on private account--often without the knowledge of the chief,
or elders of the tribe--just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may
steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out
an enemy's craft, or capture his picket guard.  These _marauds_ are
usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return
home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the
majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the
event.  Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a
general thing, are averse to such _filibustering_ expeditions--deeming
them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the
community.  Only when successful are they applauded.

On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their
war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white
women and boys.  The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but
these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks,
had been recaptured.

The red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of Mounted
Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their
four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat
into the fastnesses of the "Llano Estacado."

To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have
required a _commissariat_ less hastily established than that with which
the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped
settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised
them after due time and preparation.

On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral
ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their
ordinary duties--each detachment to its own fort--to await further
commands from the head-quarters of the "department."

The troops belonging to Port Inge--entrusted with the guardianship of
the country as far as the Rio Nueces--were surprised on getting back to
their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong
direction for an encounter with the Indians!  Some of them were half mad
with disappointment: for there were several--young Hancock among the
number--who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though
keenly desirous of doing so!

No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea.  But it must be remembered,
that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar
provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes--rape,
rapine, and murder.

To talk of their being the aborigines of the country--the real, but
dispossessed, owners of the soil--is simple nonsense.  This sophism, of
the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of
men.  The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of
the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance
finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their
exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument--even with the
narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.

Admit it--give the _hunter_ his half-dozen square miles--for he will
require that much to maintain him--leave him in undisputed possession to
all eternity--and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to
accommodate this whimsical theory of _national_ right.  Nay, I will go
further, and risk reproach, by asserting:--that not only the savage, so
called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed--
whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the
resources which Nature has placed within their limits.

The _exploitation_ of Earth's treasures is a question not confined to
nations.  It concerns the whole family of mankind.

In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine--not a thought of
it.  He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to
_communism_.

It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who
held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English
gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on
his preserves.  No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years
cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.

But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names.  Our
own story of Jamaica--by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages
of history--has whitewashed these border _filibusteros_ to the seeming
purity of snow!

If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need
appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little
chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of
red-skins.  On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been
seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope.  They might
yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without
stain--without sharpening, too--from the military school of West Point.

It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same
day--civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the
Alamo--and reported: that no Indians had been there!

They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would
have been received with incredulity--considering what had occurred.

The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles--an odd
lot, as an auctioneer would describe it--wigs of horse-hair, cocks'
feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin,
mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which
they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!

There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits
of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such
incidents as the situation afforded.

Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these
were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting.  There were several
subjects worth thinking and talking about.  There was the arrival, still
of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo;
the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother;
the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the
trite story of a party of white men "playing Indian"; and last, though
not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been
caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse--mad as a
maniac!

There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners--of
sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they
had returned to dull quarters.  The name of Isidora Covarubio do los
Llanos--with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty--had become a theme
of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her
connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.

The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo--the discovery of the
mustanger upon his couch--the determination to hang him--the act delayed
by the intervention of Louise Poindexter--the respite due to the courage
of Zeb Stump--were all points of the most piquant interest--suggestive
of the wildest conjectures.

Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was
discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the
innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.

"Murder," said the philosophic Captain Sloman, "is a crime which, in my
opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing.  I think, I
know the fellow well enough to be sure about that."

"You'll admit," rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, "that the
circumstances are strong against him?  Almost conclusive, I should say."

Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman.  He had an
idea, that on one occasion the commissary's niece--the belle of the
Fort--had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.

"I consider it anything but conclusive," replied Sloman.

"There's no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been
murdered.  Every one believes that.  Well; who else was likely to have
done it?  The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him
and Gerald."

"That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose,"
interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons.  "Besides, his own shindy with the
same man is suggestive of suspicion--is it not?"

"And if there _was_ a quarrel," argued the officer of infantry, "what
then?  It don't follow there was a murder."

"Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?"

"Something of the sort is possible, and even probable.  I will admit
that much."

"But what did they have a difficulty about?" asked Hancock.  "I heard
that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter--
notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun.  What could
they have quarrelled about?"

"A singular interrogation on _your_ part, Lieutenant Hancock!" answered
the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun.  "As
if men ever quarrelled about anything except--"

"Except women," interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.

"But which woman, I wonder?  It could not be anything relating to young
Poindexter's sister?"

"_Quien sabe_?" answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an
ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.

"Preposterous!" exclaimed Crossman.  "A horse-catcher daring to set his
thoughts on Miss Poindexter!  Preposterous!"

"What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman!  Don't you know that
love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of
distinction.  I don't say that in this case there's been anything of the
kind.  Miss Poindexter's not the only woman that might have caused a
quarrel between the two individuals in question.  There are other
damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about--to say nothing of
our own fair following in the Fort; and why not--"

"Captain Sloman," petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles.  "I
must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately.
The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the
insinuation."

"What insinuation, sir?"

"Do you suppose it likely that there's one of them would condescend to
speak to the person you've named?"

"Which?  I've named two."

"You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you.  Our ladies will, no
doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with
that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!"

"Maurice the mustanger may be the last--suspected, and that is all.  He
is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech
with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr
Crossman.  I've seen more of this young Irishman than you--enough to
satisfy me that, so far as _breeding_ goes, he may compare notes with
the best of us.  Our grand dames needn't be scared at the thought of his
acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don't think
they would shy from it--some of them at least--if it were offered them.
It never has.  So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved
with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman.  I have seen him in
their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them
as if fully sensible of his position.  For that matter, I don't think he
cares a straw about one or other of them."

"Indeed!  How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his
rivals!"

"Perhaps it is," quietly remarked the captain of infantry.

"Who knows?" asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish
conversation.  "Who knows but the cause of quarrel--if there's been
one--might not be this splendid senorita so much talked about?  I
haven't seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she's just the sort to
make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats."

"It might be--who knows?" drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the
thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts
turned in any other direction than towards the commissary's quarters.

"They've got him in the guard-house," remarked Hancock, stating a fact
that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above
detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign.
"His droll devil of a serving man is along with him.  What's more; the
major has just issued an order to double the guard!  What does it mean,
Captain Sloman--you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs?
Surely there's no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his
prison?"

"Not likely," replied the infantry officer, "seeing that he hasn't the
slightest idea that he's inside of one.  I've just been to the
guard-house to have a look at him.  He's mad as a March hare; and
wouldn't know his own face in a looking-glass."

"Mad!  In what way?" asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half
enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger's capture.

"A brain fever upon him--delirious?"

"Is that why the guards have been doubled?  Devilish queer if it is.
The major himself must have gone mad!"

"Maybe it's the suggestion--command I should rather say--of the
majoress.  Ha! ha! ha!"

"But what _does_ it mean?  Is the old maje really afraid of his getting
out of the guard-house?"

"No--not that, I fancy.  More likely an apprehension of somebody else
getting into it."

"Ah! you mean, that--"

"I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there's more safety inside than
out.  Some queer characters are about; and there's been talk of another
Lynch trial.  The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a
respite; or there's somebody hard at work in bringing about this state
of public opinion.  It's lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his
friend; and it's but a continuation of his good luck that we've returned
so opportunely.  Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse
empty--so far as its present occupants are concerned.  Now, thank God!
the poor fellow shall have a fair trial."

"When is it to take place?"

"Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he's
being tried!"

"It may be weeks before that."

"And it may be only days--hours.  He don't appear to be very bad--that
is, bodily.  It's his mind that's out of order--more, perhaps, from some
strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has
received.  A day may make all the difference; and, from what I've just
heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows
a return to consciousness.  They say, they won't wait for him to recover
from his wounds!"

"Maybe he'll be able to tell a story that'll clear him.  I hope so."

This was said by Hancock.

"I doubt it," rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head.
"_Nous verrons_!"

"I'm sure of it," said Sloman.  "_Nos veremos_!" he added, speaking in a
tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was
father to the thought.



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

MYSTERY AND MOURNING.

There is mourning in the mansion of Casa del Corvo, and mystery among
the members of Woodley Poindexter's family.

Though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than
before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some
deep-seated cause.

They meet only at the hour of meals--then conversing only on such topics
as cannot well be shunned.

There is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity.

The death--no longer doubted--of an only son--an only brother--
unexpected and still unexplained--should account for the melancholy mien
both of father and daughter.

It might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the
cousin.

But there is something beyond this.  Each appears to act with an irksome
restraint in the presence of the others--even during the rare occasions,
on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune!

Beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate
griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle.

The once proud planter stays within doors--pacing from room to room, or
around, the enclosed corridor--bending beneath a weight of woe, that has
broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart.  Even strong
paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans,
oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his
lips!

Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours
of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.

For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place.
No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.

Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously.  There
are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea--alone and in
silent meditation.

There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have
assailed her upon Earth--the loss of a beloved brother--the fear of
losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense--perhaps, a
little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.

Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest.  The last but little
troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually
growing calmer.

But the second--the supreme pain of all--is but strengthened and
intensified by time!

She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison--
the strong walls of a military guard-house.

It is not their strength that dismays her.  On the contrary, she has
fears for their weakness!

She has reasons for her apprehension.  She has heard of the rumours that
are abroad; rumours of sinister significance.  She has heard talk of a
second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude
coadjutors--not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor
all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the
Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be
collected within the bounds of a border settlement--especially when
proximate to a military post.

The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of
surprise.  Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be
again brought to trial in that irregular way.

The facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case--at
least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him.

If the four horsemen seen were not Indians--and this has been clearly
shown by the discovery of the disguises--it is not the less likely that
they have had to do with the death of young Poindexter.  Besides, there
is nothing to connect _them_ with the mustanger, any more than if they
had been real Comanches.

Why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second
time surging up?

There is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many
people.

There are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause.  A very few:
perhaps only three individuals.

Two of them are Zeb Stump and Louise Poindexter; the third Captain
Cassius Calhoun.

The old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some
underhanded action--the actors being Miguel Diaz and his men, associated
with a half-score of like characters of a different race--the "rowdies"
of the settlement.  Zeb has traced the action to its instigator--the
ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

He has communicated his discovery to the young Creole, who is equal to
the understanding of it.  It is the too clear comprehension of its truth
that now inspires her with a keen solicitude.

Anxiously she awaits every word of news--watches the road leading from
the Fort to Casa del Corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the
security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that
way!

She dares not show herself at the prison.  There are soldiers on guard,
and spectators around it--a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all
countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity
of those who have committed great crimes.

There is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one.  The
criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses.

The guard-house doors are at all hours besieged--to the great discomfort
of the sentries--by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the
delirious man.  A lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes
turned inquiringly upon her.  Louise Poindexter cannot run the gauntlet
of those looks without risk to her reputation.

Left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it.  Watched by a
father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation,
equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the
world--she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence.

She can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced
by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the
Alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet
time spent among the _mezquite_ trees, the spot itself almost
discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her
heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is
now humiliated--disgraced--shut up within the walls of a gaol--perchance
to be delivered from it only unto death!

To her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day,
Zeb Stump made his appearance at Casa del Corro, bringing the
intelligence; that the "hoss-sogers hed kum back to the Fort."

There was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted.  There
was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto
apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin!

"Ee needn't be uneezy 'beout thet ere ewent," said Zeb, speaking with a
confidence he had not shown for some time.  "Thur's no longer a danger
o' it comin' to pass, Miss Lewaze.  I've tuk preecaushins agin it."

"Precautions!  How, Zeb?"

"Wal; fust place, I've seed the major clost arter his comin' back, an
gied him a bit o' my mind.  I tolt him the hul story, as fur's I know it
myself.  By good luck he ain't agin the young fellur, but the tother way
I reck'n.  Wal, I tolt him o' the goin's on o' the hul crew--Amerikins,
Mexikins, an all o' them--not forgettin' thet ugly Spanyard o' the name
o' Dee-ez, thet's been one o' the sarciest o' the lot.  The ree-sult's
been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun' the prison, an's
goin' to keep 'em doubled."

"I am so glad!  You think there is no longer any fear from that
quarter?"

"If you mean the quarter o' Mister Migooel Dee-ez, I kin swar to it.
Afore he thinks o' gittin' any b'dy else out o' a prison, he's got to
git hisself out."

"What; Diaz in prison!  How?  When?  Where?"

"You've asked three seprit questyuns, Miss Lewaze, all o' a heep.  Wal;
I reck'n the conveenientest way to answer 'em 'll be to take 'em
backurds.  An' fust as to the _whar_.  As to thet, thur's but one prison
in these parts, as 'ud be likely to hold him.  Thet is the guard-house
at the Fort.  He's thur."

"Along with--"

"I know who ye're goin' to name--the young fellur.  Jest so.  They're in
the same buildin', tho' not 'zackly in the same room.  Thur's a
purtition atween 'em; tho' for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they're
so inclined.  Thur's three others shet up along wi' the Mexikin--his own
cussed cummarades.  The three 'll have somethin' to talk 'beout '<DW41>
themselves, I reck'n."

"This is good news, Zeb.  You told me yesterday that Diaz was active
in--"

"Gittin' hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in
effectuatin'.  He's got hisself into the jug, or someb'y else hev did
thet bizness for him."

"But how--when--you've not told me?"

"Geehosophat!  Miss Lewaze.  Gi' me a leetle time.  I hain't drew breath
yit, since I kim in.  Yur second questyun war _when_.  It air eezy
answered.  'Beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked
up.  I war at the shettin' o' the door ahint him, an kum straight
custrut hyur arter it war done."

"But you have not yet said why he is arrested."

"I hain't hed a chance.  It air a longish story, an 'll take a leetle
time in the tellin'.  Will ye listen to it now, or arter--?"

"After what, Mr Stump?"

"Wal, Miss Lewaze, I only meened arter--arter--I git the ole mare put
up.  She air stannin' thur, as if she'd like to chaw a yeer o' corn, an
somethin' to wet it down.  Both she 'nd me's been on a longish tramp
afore we got back to the Fort; which we did scace a hour ago."

"Pardon me, dear Mr Stump, for not thinking of it.  Pluto; take Mr
Stump's horse to the stable, and see that it is fed.  Florinde!
Florinde!  What will you eat, Mr Stump?"

"Wal, as for thet, Miss Lewaze, thank ye all the same, but I ain't so
partikler sharp set.  I war only thinkin' o' the maar.  For myself, I
ked go a kupple o' hours longer 'ithout eetin', but ef thur's sech a
thing as a smell o' Monongaheely 'beout the place, it 'ud do this ole
karkidge o' mine a power o' good."

"Monongahela? plenty of it.  Surely you will allow me to give you
something better?"

"Better 'n Monongaheely!"

"Yes.  Some sherry--champagne--brandy if you prefer it."

"Let them drink brandy as like it, and kin' git it drinkable.  Thur may
be some o' it good enuf; an ef thur air, I'm shor it'll be foun' in the
house o' a Peintdexter.  I only knows o' the sort the sutler keeps up at
the Fort.  Ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet's one.  It 'ud rot the guts
out o' a alleygatur.  No; darn thur French lickers; an specially thur
brandy.  Gi' me the pure corn juice; an the best o' all, thet as comes
from Pittsburgh on the Monongaheely."

"Florinde!  Florinde!"

It was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted.
The presence of Zeb Stump indicated the service for which she had been
summoned.  Without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the
moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what Zeb
called the "pure corn juice," but which was in reality the essence of
rye--for from this grain is distilled the celebrated "Monongahela."

Zeb was not slow to refresh himself.  A full third of the contents of
the decanter were soon put out of sight--the other two-thirds remaining
for future potations that might be required in the course of the
narration upon which he was about to enter.



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

GO, ZEB, AND GOD SPEED YOU!

The old hunter never did things in a hurry.  Even his style of drinking
was not an exception; and although there was no time wasted, he quaffed
the Monongahela in a formal leisurely manner.

The Creole, impatient to hear what he had to relate, did not wait for
him to resume speech.

"Tell me, dear Zeb," said she, after directing her maid to withdraw,
"why have they arrested this Mexican--Miguel Diaz I mean?  I think I
know something of the man.  I have reasons."

"An' you ain't the only purson may hev reezuns for knowin' him, Miss
Lewaze.  Yur brother--but never mind 'beout that--leastwise not now.
What Zeb Stump _do_ know, or strongly surspect, air, thet this
same-mentioned Migooel Dee-ez hev had somethin' to do wi'--You know what
I'm refarrin' to?"

"Go on, Mr Stump!"

"Wal, the story air this.  Arter we kim from the Alamo Crik, the fellurs
that went in sarch o' them Injuns, foun' out they wan't Injuns at all.
Ye hev heern that yurself.  From the fixins that war diskevered in the
holler tree, it air clur that what we seed on the Bluff war a party o'
whites.  I hed a surspishun o't myself--soon as I seed them curds they'd
left ahint 'em in the shanty."

"It was the same, then, who visited the jacale at night--the same Phalim
saw?"

"Ne'er a doubt o' it.  Them same Mexikins."

"What reason have you to think they were Mexicans?"

"The best o' all reezuns.  I foun' 'em out to be; traced the hul kit o'
'em to thur _cache_."

The young Creole made no rejoinder.  Zeb's story promised a revelation
that might be favourable to her hopes.  She stood resignedly waiting for
him to continue.

"Ye see, the curds, an also some words, the which the Irish war able to
sort o' pernounce, arter a fashun o' his own, tolt me they must a been
o' the yeller-belly breed; an sartint 'bout that much, I war able to gie
a tol'able guess as to whar they hed kim from.  I know'd enuf o' the
Mexikins o' these parts to think o' four as answered thar descripshun to
a T.  As to the Injun duds, thar warn't nuthin' in them to bamboozle me.
Arter this, I ked a gone straight to the hul four fellurs, an pinted
'em out for sartin.  One o' 'em, for sure sartin.  On him I'd made my
mark.  I war confident o' havin' did thet."

"Your mark!  How, Zeb?"

"Ye remimber the shot I fired from the door o' the shanty?"

"Oh, certainly!  I did not see the Indians.  I was under the trees at
the time.  I saw you discharge your rifle at something."

"Wal, Miss Lewaze; this hyur <DW53> don't often dischurge thet thur weepun
'ithout drawin' blood.  I know'd I hut the skunk; but it war rayther fur
for the carry o' the piece, an I reckon'd the ball war a bit spent.  F'r
all that, I know'd it must a stung him.  I seed him squirm to the shot,
an I says to myself: Ef ther ain't a hole through his hide somewhar,
this <DW53> won't mind changin' skins wi' him.  Wal, arter they kim home
wi' the story o' whites instead o' red-skins, I hed a tol'able clur idee
o' who the sham Injuns wur, an ked a laid my claws on 'em at any minnit.
But I didn't."

"And why not, Mr Stump?  Surely you haven't allowed them to get away?
They might be the very men who are guilty of my poor brother's--"

"That's jest what this <DW53> thort, an it war for that reezun I let 'em
slide.  There war another reezun besides.  I didn't much like goin' fur
from the Port, leest somethin' ugly mout turn up in my absince.  You
unnerstan'?  There war another reezun still for not prospectin' arter
them jest then.  I wanted to make shur o' my game."

"And you have?"

"Shur as shootin'.  I guessed thur wan't goin' to be any rain, an
thurfor thur war no immeedyit hurry as to what I intended doin'.  So I
waited till the sogers shed get back, an I ked safely leave him in the
guard-house.  Soon as they kim in, I tuk the ole maar and rud out to the
place whar our fellurs had struck upon the fixing.  I eezy foun' it by
thur descripshun.  Wal; as they'd only got that greenhorn, Spangler, to
guide 'em, I war putty sure the sign hedn't been more'n helf read; an
that _I'd_ get somethin' out o' it, beside what they'd brought away."

"I wan't disappinted.  The durndest fool as ever set fut upon a purayra,
mout a follered the back track o' them make-believe Kimanchees.  A
storekeeper ked a traced it acrost the purayra, though it appears
neyther Mister Spangler nor any o' the others did.  I foun' it eezy as
fallin' off o' a log, not 'ithstandin' thet the sarchers had rud all
over it.  I tracked every hoss o' the four counterfits to his own
stable."

"After that?"

"Arter doin' thet I hed a word wi' the major; an in helf an hour at the
most the four beauties wur safe shot up in the guardhouse--the chief o'
'em bein' jugged fust, leest he mout get wind o' what wur goin' forrard,
an sneak out o' the way.  I wan't fur astray 'beout Mister Migooel
Dee-ez bearin' my mark.  We foun' the tar o' a bullet through the fleshy
part o' his dexter wing; an thet explained why he wur so quick at
lettin' go his laryette."

"It was he, then!" mechanically remarked Louise, as she stood
reflecting.

"Very strange!" she continued, still muttering the words to herself.
"He it was I saw in the chapparal glade!  Yes, it must have been!  And
the woman--this Mexican--Isidora?  Ah!  There is some deep mystery in
all this--some dark design!  Who can unravel it?"

"Tell me, dear Zeb," she asked, stepping closer to the old hunter, and
speaking with a cartain degree of hesitancy.  "That woman--the Mexican
lady I mean--who--who was out there.  Do you know if she has often
visited him?"

"Him!  Which him, Miss Lewaze?"

"Mr Gerald, I mean."

"She mout, an she moutn't--'ithout my knowin' eyther one or the tother.
I ain't often thur myself.  The place air out o' my usooal huntin'
ground, an I only go now an then for the sake o' a change.  The crik's
fust rate for both deer an gobbler.  If ye ask my opeenyun, I'd say that
thet ere gurl heven't never been thur afore.  Leestwise, I hain't heern
o' it; an eft hed been so, I reckun Irish Pheelum ud a hed somethin' to
say abeout it.  Besides, I hev other reezuns for thinkin' so.  I've only
heern o' one o' the shemale sex bein' on a visit to thet shanty."

"Who?" quickly interrogated the Creole, the instant after regretting
that she had asked the question--the colour coming to her cheeks, as she
noticed the significant glance with which Zeb had accompanied his
concluding remark.

"No matter," she continued, without waiting for the answer.

"So, Zeb," she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, "you
think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to
all of us,--these Mexicans?"

"To tell ye the truth, Miss Lewaze, I don't know zackly what to think.
It air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur
purayras.  Sometimes I hev the idea that the Mexikins must a did it;
while at others, I'm in the opposite way o' thinkin', an thet some'dy
else hev hed a han' in the black bizness.  I won't say who."

"Not _him_, Zeb; not _him_!"

"Not the mowstanger.  No, neer a bit o' thet.  Spite o' all that's sayed
agin him, I hain't the leest surspishun o' his innersense."

"Oh! how is he to prove it?  It is said, that the testimony is all
against him!  No one to speak a word in his behalf!"

"Wal, it ain't so sartint as to thet.  Keepin' my eye upon the others,
an his prison; I hain't hed much chance o' gettin' abeout.  Thur's a
opportunity now; an I mean to make use o' it.  The purayra's a big book,
Miss Peintdexter--a wonderful big book--for them as knows how to read
the print o't.  If not much o' a scholar otherways, Zeb'lon Stump hev
larnt to do thet.  Thur may be some testymoney that mout help him,
scattered over the musquit grass--jest as I've heern a Methody preecher
say, thur `war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin' brutes.'  Eft air
so, thur oughter be somethin' o' the kind scared up on the Alamo crik."

"You think you might discover some traces?"

"Wal; I'm goin' out to hev a look 'roun' me--speecially at the place
whur I foun' the young fellur in the claws o' the spotted painter.  I
oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun I've tolt ye.  Thank the
Awlmighty! thur's been no wet--neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign's been
made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did
yisterday--that is by them as knows how to read it.  I must start
straight away, Miss Lewaze.  I jest runned down to tell ye what hed been
done at the Fort.  Thur's no time to be throwed away.  They let me in
this mornin' to see the young fellur; an I'm sartin his head air gettin'
clurrer.  Soon as it air all right, the Reg'lators say, they'll insist
on the trial takin' place.  It may be in less'n three days; an I must
git back afore it begins."

"Go, Zeb, and God speed you on your generous errand!  Come back with
proofs of _his_ innocence, and ever after I shall feel indebted to you
for--for--more than life!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

THE SORELL HORSE.

Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the
stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.

He found the "critter" sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto
had placed liberally before her.

Pluto himself was standing by her side.

Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an
air anything but tranquil.  He looked rather _triste_ than excited.

It might be easily explained.  The loss of his young master--by Pluto
much beloved--the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated--
perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from
the lips of Morinda--and still more likely a kick he had received from
the boot-toe of Captain Cassius--for several days assuming sole mastery
over the mansion--amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable
on his countenance.

Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful
mien of the domestic.  He was even in too great a hurry to let the old
mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.

Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth;
pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and,
turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.

It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare--to be dragged away
from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws.

She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull
vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the
manger.

"Ho! ho!  Mass' Tump!" interposed Pluto.  "Why you be go 'way in dat big
hurry?  De poor ole ma' she no half got u'm feed.  Why you no let her
fill her belly wif de corn?  Ha! ha!  It do her power o' good."

"Han't got time, <DW65>.  Goin' off on a bit o' a jurney.  Got abeout a
hunderd mile to make in less 'an a kupple o' hours."

"Ho! ho!  Dat ere de fassest kind o' trabbelin'.  You 'm jokin', Mass'
Tump?"

"No, I ain't."

"Gorramity!  Wa--dey do make won'full journey on dese hyur prairas.  I
reck'n dat ere hoss must a trabbled _two_ hunner mile de odder night."

"What hoss?"

"De ole sorrel dere--in dat furrest 'tand from de doos--Massa Cahoon
hoss."

"What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?"

"Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff.  Beside, he wa _so_
done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo'
gib um drink.  Hee 'tagger like new-drop calf.  Ho! ho! he wa broke
down--he wa!"

"O' what night air ye palaverin', Plute?"

"Wha night?  Le'ss see!  Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed
from de plantashun.  Dat same night in de mornin', 'bout an hour atter
de sun git up into de hebbings.  I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase
I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight.  Den I kum 'cross to de
'table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an
froff--lookin' like he'd swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin' 's if
he jes finish a fo' mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean."

"Who had him out thet night?"

"Doan know, Mass' Tump.  Only dat nobody 'lowed to ride de sorrel 'cept
Massa Cahoon hisself.  Ho! ho!  Ne'er a body 'lowed lay leg ober dat
critter."

"Why, wan't it himself that tuk the anymal out?"

"Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor.  Dis chile
neider see de Cap'n take um out nor fotch um in."

"If yur statement air true 'beout his bein' in sech a sweat, someb'dy
must a hed him out, an been ridin' o' him."

"Ha! ha!  Someb'dy muss, dat am certing."

"Looke hyur, Plute!  Ye ain't a bad sort o' a darkie, though your skin
air o' a sut colour.  I reck'n you're tellin' the truth; an ye don't
know who rud out the sorrel that night.  But who do ye _think_ it war?
I'm only axin' because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o'
mine, an I don't want his property to be abused--no more what belongs to
Capen Calhoun.  Some o' the field <DW65>s, I reck'n, hev stole the
anymal out o' the stable, an hev been ridin' it all roun' the country.
That's it, ain't it?"

"Well, no, Mass' Tump.  Dis chile doan believe dat am it.  De fiel'
hands not 'lowed inside hyur.  _Dey_ darn't kum in to de 'table no how.
'Twan't any <DW65> upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat
night."

"Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out?  Maybe the overseer?  War it him
d'ye think?"

"'Twan't him needer."

"Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o' the hoss hisself?  If
so, thur's an end o' it.  He hed the right to ride his critter wharever
he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him.  It ain't
no bizness o' myen."

"Ho! ho!  Nor myen, needer, Mass' Tump.  Wish I'd thought dat way dis
mornin'."

"Why do ye weesh that?  What happened this mornin' to change yur tune?"

"Ho! what happen dis mornin'?  Dar happen to dis nigga a great
misfortin'.  Ho!--ho! berry great misfortin'."

"What war it?"

"Golly, Massa Tump, I'se got kicked--dis berry mornin', jes 'bout an
hour arter twelve o'clock in de day."

"Kicked?"

"Dat I did shoo--all round de 'table."

"Oh! by the hosses!  Which o' the brutes kicked ye?"

"Ho!--ho! you mistaken!  Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem
all--'cept little Spotty da, de which he doan't own.  I wa kicked by
Mass' Cahoon."

"The hell ye wur!  For what reezun?  Ye must hev _been_ misbehavin'
yurself, <DW65>?"

"Dis nigga wan't mis-b'avin' 't all; not as he knows on.  I only ask de
cap'n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night,
an what make 'im be tired down.  He say it not my bizness; an den he
kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den
he tell me, if I ebber 'peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me
hunder lashes ob de wagon whip.  He swa; oh! how he swa!  Dis chile
nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad--nebba, in all 'im life!"

"But whar's he now?  I don't see him nowhar' beout the premises; an I
reck'n he ain't rud out, seein' as the sorrel's hyur?"

"Golly, yes, Mass Tump; he jess am rode out at dis time.  He ob late go
berry much away from de house an tay long time."

"A hossback?"

"Jess so.  He go on de steel grey.  Ha!--ha! he doan' ride de sorrel
much now.  He hain't mount 'im once since de night de ole hoss wa out--
dat night we been 'peakin' 'bout.  Maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin'
den, an need long 'pell ob ress."

"Look'ee hyur, Plute," said Zeb, after standing silent for a second or
two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation.  "Arter all, I
reck'n I'd better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o' the corn.
She's got a long spell o' travellin' afore her; an she mout break down
on the jurney.  The more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an
thurfor, I kalkerlate, I'd better gie the critter her time.  While she's
munchin' a mouthful, I ked do the same myself.  'Spose, then, you skoot
acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain't some chawin' stuff thur--a
bit o' cold meat an a pone o' corn bread 'll do.  Yur young mistress
wanted me to hev somethin' to eet; but I war skeert abeout delayin', an
refused.  Now, while I'm waitin' on the maar, I reck'n I ked pick a
bone,--jest to pass the time."

"Sartin' ye cud, Mass Tump.  I go fotch 'im in de hundreth part ob an
instant."

So saying the black-skinned Jehu started off across the _patio_, leaving
Zeb Stump sole "master of the stole."

The air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with
Pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door.

It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude
that instantly replaced it.

Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of
stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.

The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall--perhaps awed
by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.

"Stan' still, ye brute!" chided Zeb.  "I don't mean no harm to _you_,
tho' by yur looks I reck'n ye're as vicious as yur master.  Stan' still,
I say, an let's hev a look at yur fut-gear!"

So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of
the fore-legs.

It was unsuccessful.  The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced
hammering the flags with it, snorting--as if in fear that some trick was
about to be played upon him.

"Durn your ugly karkidge!" cried Zeb, angrily venting the words.  "Why
don't ye stan' still?  Who's goin' to hurt ye?  Come, ole critter!" he
continued coaxingly, "I only want to see how youv'e been shod."

Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive
behaviour of the horse.

"Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn't expeck," muttered he, glancing
round to see how it might be overcome.  "What's to be did?  It'll never
do to hev the <DW65> help me--nor yet see what I'm abeout--the which he
will ef I don't get quick through wi' it.  Dog-gone the hoss!  How am I
to git his feet up?"

For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a
peevish impatience.

"Cuss the critter!" he again exclaimed.  "I feel like knockin' him over
whar he stan's.  Ha! now I hev it, if the <DW65> will only gie time.  I
hope the wench will keep him waitin'.  Durn ye!  I'll make ye stan'
still, or choke ye dead ef ye don't.  Wi' this roun' yur jugewlar, I
reck'n ye won't be so skittish."

While speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and,
throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it
encircled the animal's neck.

Then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring.

The horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with
rage.

But his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with
difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself
into terror.  The rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of
the change.

Zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast,
commenced lifting his feet one after the other--scrutinising each, in
great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care.  He appeared to
take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of
the nails--in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or
assist in a future identification.

On coming to the off hind foot--which he did last of the four--an
exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise.  It
was caused by the sight of a broken shoe--nearly a quarter of which was
missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail
from the canker.

"Ef I'd know'd o' _you_," he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect
shoe, "I mout a' saved myself the trouble o' examinin' the tothers.
Thur ain't much chance o' mistakin' the print you'd be likely to leave
ahint ye.  To make shur, I'll jest take ye along wi me."

In conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife--the
blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick--and,
inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof.

Taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious
pocket of his coat.

Then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and
restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel.

Pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of
refreshments--including a tumbler of the Monongahela; and to these Zeb
instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude
that had occurred during the darkey's absence.

The latter, however, did not fail to perceive that the sorrel was out of
sorts: for the animal, on finding itself released, stood shivering in
the stall, gazing around in a sort of woe-begone wonder after the rough
treatment, to which he had been submitted.

"Gorramity!" exclaimed the black, "what am de matter wif de ole hoss?
Ho! ho! he look like he wa afeerd ob you, Mass Tump!"

"Oh, ye-es!" drawled Zeb, with seeming carelessness.  "I reck'n he air a
bit afeerd.  He war makin' to get at my ole maar, so I gied him a larrup
or two wi' the eend o' my trail rope.  Thet's what has rousted him."

Pluto was perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and the subject was
permitted to drop.

"Look hyur, Plute!" said Zeb, starting another.  "Who does the shoein'
o' yur cattle?  Thars some o' the hands air a smith, I reck'n?"

"Ho! ho!  Dat dere am.  Yella Jake he do shoein'.  Fo what you ask, Mass
Tump?"

"Wal; I war thinkin' o' havin' a kupple o' shoes put on the hind feet o'
the maar.  I reck'n Jake ud do it for me."

"Ho! ho! he do it wif a thousan' welkim--dat he will, I'se shoo."

"Questyun is, kin I spare the time to wait.  How long do it take him to
put on a kupple?"

"Lor, Mass Tamp, berry short while.  Jake fust-rate han' lit de bizness.
Ebberybody say so."

"He moutn't have the mateerils riddy?  It depends on whether he's been
shoein' lately.  How long's it since he shod any o' yourn?"

"More'n a week I blieb, Mass' Zeb.  Ho--ho!  Do last war Missa Looey
hoss--de beautiful 'potty dar.  But dat won't make no differens.  I know
he hab de fixins all ready.  I knows it, kase he go for shoe de sorrel.
De ole hoss hab one ob de hind shoe broke.  He hab it so de lass ten
day; an Mass Cahoon, he gib orders for it be remove.  Ho--ho! dis berry
mornin' I hear um tell Jake."

"Arter all," rejoined Zeb, as if suddenly changing his mind, "I moutn't
hev the time to spare.  I reck'n I'll let the ole critter do 'ithout
till I kum back.  The tramp I'm goin' on--most part o' it--lies over
grass purayra; an won't hurt her."

"No, I hevn't time," he added, after stepping outside and glancing up
towards the sky.  "I must be off from hyur in the shakin' o' a goat's
tail.  Now, ole gal! you've got to stop yur munchin' an take this bit o'
iron atwixt yur teeth.  Open yur corn trap for it.  That's the putty
pet!"

And so continuing to talk--now to Pluto, now to the mare--he once more
adjusted the headstall; led the animal out; and, clambering into the
saddle, rode thoughtfully away.



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

ZEB STUMP ON THE TRAIL.

After getting clear of the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, the hunter
headed his animal up stream--in the direction of the Port and town.

It was the former he intended to reach--which he did in a ride of less
than a quarter of an hour.

Commonly it took him three to accomplish this distance; but on this
occasion he was in an unusual state of excitement, and he made speed to
correspond.  The old mare could go fast enough when required--that is
when Zeb required her and he had a mode of quickening her speed--known
only to himself, and only employed upon extraordinary occasions.  It
simply consisted in drawing the bowie knife from his belt, and inserting
about in inch of its blade into the mare's hip, close to the termination
of the spine.

The effect was like magic; or, if you prefer the figure--electricity.
So spurred, Zeb's "critter" could accomplish a mile in three minutes;
and more than once had she been called upon to show this capability,
when her owner was chased by Comanches.

On the present occasion there was no necessity for such excessive speed;
and the Fort was reached after fifteen minutes' sharp trotting.

On reaching it, Zeb slipped out of the saddle, and made his way to the
quarters of the commandant; while the mare was left panting upon the
parade ground.

The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the
military chief of Fort Inge.  Looked upon by the officers as a sort of
privileged character, he had the entree at all times, and could go in
without countersign, or any of the other formalities usually demanded
from a stranger.  The sentry passed him, as a matter of course--the
officer of the guard only exchanged with him a word of welcome; and the
adjutant at once announced his name to the major commanding the
cantonment.

From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.

"Ah!  Mr Stump!  Glad to see you so soon.  Have you made any discovery
in this queer affair?  From your quick return, I can almost say you
have.  Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow.
Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still
adhere to my old opinion--that he's innocent.  What have you learnt?"

"Wal, Maje," answered Zeb, without making other obeisance than the
simple politeness of removing his hat; "what I've larnt aint much, tho'
enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn't intend to come, till
I'd gone a bit o' a jurney acrosst the purayras.  I kim back hyur to hev
a word wi' yurself."

"In welcome.  What is it you have to say?"

"That ye'll keep back this trial as long's ye kin raisonably do so.  I
know thur's a pressyur from the outside; but I know, too, that ye've got
the power to resist it, an what's more, Maje--yo've got the will."

"I have.  You speak quite truly about that, Mr Stump.  And as to the
power, I have that, too, in a certain sense.  But, as you are aware, in
our great republic, the military power must always be subservient to the
civil--unless under martial-law, which God forbid should ever be
required among us--even here in Texas.  I can go so far as to hinder any
open violation of the law; but I cannot go against the law itself."

"T'ant the law I want ye to go agin.  Nothin' o' the sort, Maje.  Only
them as air like to take it into thur own hands, an twist it abeout to
squar it wi' thur own purpisses.  Thur's them in this Settlement as 'ud
do thet, ef they ain't rustrained.  One in espeecial 'ud like to do it;
an I knows who thet one air--leestwise I hev a tolable clur guess o'
him."

"Who?"

"Yur good to keep a seecret, Maje?  I know ye air."

"Mr Stump, what passes here is in confidence.  You may speak your mind
freely."

"Then my mind air: thet the man who hez dud this murder ain't Maurice
the Mowstanger."

"That's my own belief.  You know it already.  Have you nothing more to
communicate?"

"Wal, Maje, preehaps I ked communerkate a leetle more ef you insist upon
it.  But the time ain't ripe for tellin' ye what I've larnt--the which,
arter all, only mounts to surspishuns.  I may be wrong; an I'd rayther
you'd let me keep 'em to myself till I hev made a short exkurshun acrost
to the Nooeces.  Arter thet, ye'll be welkum to what I know now, besides
what I may be able to gather off o' the parayras."

"So far as I am concerned, I'm quite contented to wait for your return;
the more willingly that I know you are acting on the side of justice.
But what would you have me do?"

"Keep back the trial, Maje--only that.  The rest will be all right."

"How long?  You know that it must come on according to the usual process
in the Criminal Court.  The judge of this circuit will not be ruled by
me, though he may yield a little to my advice.  But there is a party,
who are crying out for vengeance; and he may be ruled by them."

"I know the party ye speak o'.  I know their leader; an maybe, afore the
trial air over, _he_ may be the kriminal afore the bar."

"Ah! you do not believe, then, that these Mexicans are the _men_!"

"Can't tell, Maje, whether they air or ain't.  I do b'lieve thet they've
hed a hand in the bizness; but I don't b'lieve thet they've been the
prime movers in't.  It's _him_ I want to diskiver.  Kin ye promise me
three days?"

"Three days!  For what?"

"Afore the trial kims on."

"Oh!  I think there will be no difficulty about that.  He is now a
prisoner under military law.  Even if the judge of the Supreme Court
should require him to be delivered up inside that time, I can make
objections that will delay his being taken from the guard-house.  I
shall undertake to do that."

"Maje! ye'd make a man a'most contented to live under marshul law.  No
doubt thur air times when it air the best, tho' we independent citizens
don't much like it.  All I've got to say air, thet ef ye stop this trial
for three days, or tharahout, preehaps the prisoner to kim afore the bar
may be someb'y else than him who's now in the guard-house--someb'y who
jest at this mom't hain't the smallest serspishun o' bein' hisself
surspected.  Don't ask me who.  Only say ye'll streetch a pint, an gi'
me three days?"

"I promise it, Mr Stump.  Though I may risk my commission as an officer
in the American army, I give you an officer's promise, that for three
days Maurice the Mustanger shall not go out of my guard-house.  Innocent
or guilty, for that time he shall be protected."

"Yur the true grit, Maje; an dog-gone me, ef I don't do my beest to show
ye some day, thet I'm sensible o't.  I've nuthin' more to say now,
'ceptin' to axe thet ye'll not tell out o' doors what I've been tellin'
you.  Thur's them outside who, ef they only knew what this <DW53> air
arter, 'ud move both heving an airth to circumwent his intenshuns."

"They'll have no help from me--whoever it is you are speaking of.  Mr
Stump, you may rely upon my pledged word."

"I know't, Maje, I know't.  God bless ye for a good 'un.  _Yer_ the
right sort for Texas!"

With this complimentary leave-taking the hunter strode out of
head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his
old mare.

Once more mounting her, he rode rapidly away.  Having cleared the parade
ground, and afterwards the outskirts of the village, he returned on the
same path that had conducted him from Casa Del Corvo.

On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter's plantation, he left the low
lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare 'gainst the steep
<DW72> ascending to the upper plain.

He reached it, at a point where the chapparal impinged upon the prairie,
and there reined up under the shade of a mezquit tree.  He did not
alight, nor show any sign of an intention to do so; but sate in the
saddle, stooped forward, his eyes turned upon the ground, in that vacant
gaze which denotes reflection.

"Dog-gone my cats!" he drawled out in slow soliloquy.  "Thet ere
sarkimstance are full o' signiferkince.  Calhoun's hoss out the same
night, an fetched home a' sweetin' all over.  What ked that mean?  Durn
me, ef I don't surspect the foul play hev kum from that quarter.  I've
thort so all along; only it air so ridiklous to serpose thet he shed a
killed his own cousin.  He'd do that, or any other villinous thing, ef
there war a reezun for it.  There ain't--none as I kin think o'.  Ef the
property hed been a goin' to the young un, then the thing mout a been
intellygible enuf.  But it want.  Ole Peintdexter don't own a acre o'
this hyur groun'; nor a <DW65> thet's upon it.  Thet I'm sartin' 'beout.
They all belong to that cuss arready; an why shed he want to get shot
o' the cousin?  Thet's whar this <DW53> gets flummixed in his
kalkerlations.  Thar want no ill will atween 'em, as ever I heerd o'.
Thur's a state o' feelin' twixt him an the gurl, thet _he_ don't like, I
know.  But why shed it temp him to the killin' o' her brother?

"An' then thur's the mowstanger mixed in wi' it, an that shindy 'beout
which she tolt me herself; an the sham Injuns, an the Mexikin shemale
wi' the har upon her lip; an the hossman 'ithout a head, an hell knows
what beside!  Geesus Geehosofat! it 'ud puzzle the brain pan o' a
Looeyville lawyer!

"Wal--there's no time to stan' speklatin' hyur.  Wi' this bit o' iron to
assiss me, I may chance upon somethin' thet'll gie a clue to a part o'
the bloody bizness, ef not to the hul o' it; an fust, as to the
direcshun in which I shed steer?"

He looked round, as if in search of some one to answer the
interrogatory.

"It air no use beginnin' neer the Fort or the town.  The groun' abeout
both on 'em air paddled wi' hoss tracks like a cattle pen.  I'd best
strike out into the purayra at onst, an take a track crossways o' the
Rio Grande route.  By doin' thet I may fluke on the futmark I'm in
search o'.  Yes--ye-es! thet's the most sensiblest idee."

As if fully satisfied on this score, he took up his bridle-rein,
muttered some words to his mare, and commenced moving off along the edge
of the chapparal.

Having advanced about a mile in the direction of the Nueces river, he
abruptly changed his course; but with a coolness that told of a
predetermined purpose.

It was now nearly due west, and at right angles to the different trails
going towards the Rio Grande.

There was a simultaneous change in his bearing--in the expression of his
features--and his attitude in the saddle.  No longer looking listlessly
around, he sate stooping forward, his eye carefully scanning the sward,
over a wide space on both sides of the path he was pursuing.

He had ridden about a mile in the new direction, when something seen
upon the ground caused him to start, and simultaneously pull upon the
bridle-rein.

Nothing loth, the "critter" came to a stand; Zeb, at the same time,
flinging himself out of the saddle.

Leaving the old mare to ruminate upon this eccentric proceeding, he
advanced a pace or two, and dropped down upon his knees.

Then drawing the piece of curved iron out of his capacious pocket, he
applied it to a hoof-print conspicuously outlined in the turf.  It
fitted.

"Fits!" he exclaimed, with a triumphant gesticulation, "Dog-goned if it
don't!"

"Tight as the skin o' a tick!" he continued, after adjusting the broken
shoe to the imperfect hoof-print, and taking it up again.  "By the
eturnal! that ere's _the track o' a creetur--mayhap a murderer_!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

THE PRAIRIE ISLAND.

A herd of a hundred horses--or three times the number--pasturing upon a
prairie, although a spectacle of the grandest kind furnished by the
animal kingdom, is not one that would strike a Texan frontiersman as
either strange, or curious.  He would think it stranger to see a
_single_ horse in the same situation.

The former would simply be followed by the reflection: "A drove of
mustangs."  The latter conducts to a different train of thought, in
which there is an ambiguity.  The solitary steed might be one of two
things: either an exiled stallion, kicked out of his own _cavallada_, or
a roadster strayed from some encampment of travellers.

The practised eye of the prairie-man would soon decide which.

If the horse browsed with a bit in his mouth, and a saddle on his
shoulders, there would be no ambiguity--only the conjecture, as to how
he had escaped from his rider.

If the rider were upon his back, and the horse still browsing, there
would be no room for conjecture--only the reflection, that the former
must be a lazy thick-headed fellow, not to alight and let his animal
graze in a more commodious fashion.

If, however, the rider, instead of being suspected of having a thick
head, was seen to have _no head at all_, then would there be cue for a
thousand conjectures, not one of which might come within a thousand
miles of the truth.

Such a horse; and just such a rider, were seen upon the prairies of
South-Western Texas in the year of our Lord 1850 something.  I am not
certain as to the exact year--the unit of it--though I can with
unquestionable certainty record the decade.

I can speak more precisely as to the place; though in this I must be
allowed latitude.  A circumference of twenty miles will include the
different points where the spectral apparition made itself manifest to
the eyes of men--both on prairie and in chapparal--in a district of
country traversed by several northern tributaries of the Rio de Nueces,
and some southern branches of the Rio Leona.

It was seen not only by many people; but at many different times.
First, by the searchers for Henry Poindexter and his supposed murderer;
second, by the servant of Maurice the mustanger; thirdly, by Cassius
Calhoun, on his midnight exploration of the chapparal; fourthly, by the
sham Indians on that same night: and, fifthly, by Zeb Stump on the night
following.

But there were others who saw it elsewhere and on different occasions--
hunters, herdsmen, and travellers--all alike awed, alike perplexed, by
the apparition.

It had become the talk not only of the Leona settlement, but of others
more distant.  Its fame already reached on one side to the Rio Grande,
and on the other was rapidly extending to the Sabine.  No one doubted
that such a thing had been seen.  To have done so would have been to
ignore the evidence of two hundred pairs of eyes, all belonging to men
willing to make affidavit of the fact--for it could not be pronounced a
fancy.  No one denied that it had been seen.  The only question was, how
to account for a spectacle so peculiar, as to give the lie to all the
known laws of creation.

At least half a score of theories were started--more or less feasible--
more or less absurd.  Some called it an "Indian dodge;" others believed
it a "lay figure;" others that it was not that, but a real rider, only
so disguised as to have his head under the serape that shrouded his
shoulders, with perhaps a pair of eye-holes through which he could see
to guide his horse; while not a few pertinaciously adhered to the
conjecture, started at a very early period, that the Headless Horseman
was Lucifer himself!

In addition to the direct attempts at interpreting the abnormal
phenomenon, there was a crowd of indirect conjectures relating to it.
Some fancied that they could see the head, or the shape of it, down upon
the breast, and under the blanket; others affirmed to having actually
seen it carried in the rider's hand; while others went still further,
and alleged: that upon the head thus seen there was a hat--a black-glaze
sombrero of the Mexican sort, with a band of gold bullion above the
brim!

There were still further speculations, that related less to the
apparition itself than to its connection with the other grand topic of
the time--the murder of young Poindexter.

Most people believed there was some connection between the two
mysteries; though no one could explain it.  He, whom everybody believed,
could have thrown some light upon the subject, was still ridden by the
night-mare of delirium.

And for a whole week the guessing continued; during which the spectral
rider was repeatedly seen; now going at a quick gallop, now moving in
slow, tranquil pace, across the treeless prairie: his horse at one time
halted and vaguely gazing around him; at another with teeth to the
ground, industriously cropping the sweet _gramma_ grass, that makes the
pasturage of South-Western Texas (in my opinion) the finest in the
world.

Rejecting many tales told of the Headless Horseman--most of them too
grotesque to be recorded--one truthful episode must needs be given--
since it forms an essential chapter of this strange history.

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

In the midst of the open, prairie there is a "motte"--a coppice, or
clump of trees--of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent.  A
prairie-man would call it an "island," and with your eyes upon the vast
verdant sea that surrounds it, you could not help being struck with the
resemblance.

The aboriginal of America might not perceive it.  It is a thought of the
colonist transmitted to his descendants; who, although they may never
have looked upon the great ocean, are nevertheless _au fait_ to its
phraseology.

By the timber island in question--about two hundred yards from its
edge--a horse is quietly pasturing.  He is the same that carries the
headless rider; and this weird equestrian is still bestriding him, with
but little appearance of change, either in apparel or attitude, since
first seen by the searchers.  The striped blanket still hangs over his
shoulders, cloaking the upper half of his person; while the
_armas-de-agua_, strapped over his limbs, cover them from thigh to spur,
concealing all but their outlines.

His body is bent a little forward, as if to ease the horse in getting
his snout to the sward; which the long bridle-rein, surrendered to its
full length, enables him to do, though still retained in hand, or
resting over the "horn" of the saddle.

Those who asserted that they saw a head, only told the truth.  There is
a head; and, as also stated, with a hat upon it--a black sombrero, with
bullion band as described.

The head rests against the left thigh, the chin being nearly down on a
level with the rider's knee.  Being on the near side it _can_ only be
seen, when the spectator is on the same; and not always then, as it is
at times concealed by a corner of the serape.

At times too can a glimpse be obtained of the face.  Its features are
well formed, but wearing a sad expression; the lips of livid colour,
slightly parted, showing a double row of white teeth, set in a grim
ghastly smile.

Though there is no perceptible change in the _personnel_ of the Headless
Horseman there is something new to be noted.  Hitherto he has been seen
going alone.  Now he is in company.

It cannot be called agreeable;--consisting as it does of wolves--half a
score of them squatting closely upon the plain, and at intervals loping
around him.

By the horse they are certainly not liked; as is proved by the snorting
and stamping of his hoof, when one of them ventures upon a too close
proximity to his heels.

The rider seems more indifferent to a score of birds--large dark birds--
that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders.  Even when one
bolder than the rest has the audacity to alight upon him, he has made no
attempt to disturb it, raising neither hand nor arm to drive it away!

Three times one of the birds has alighted thus--first upon the right
shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between--upon the spot
where the head should be!

The bird does not stay upon its singular perch, or only for an instant.
If the rider does not feel the indignity the steed does; and resists it
by rearing upward, with a fierce neighing, that frights the vultures
off--to return again only after a short interval of shyness.

His steed thus browsing, now in quiet, now disturbed by the too near
approach of the wolves--anon by the bold behaviour of the birds--goes
the Headless Horseman, step by step, and with long pauses of pasturing,
around the prairie island.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

A SOLITARY STALKER.

The singular spectacle described--extraordinary it might be termed--was
too grave to appear grotesque.  There was some thing about it that
savoured of the _outre-monde_.  Human eyes could not have beholden it,
without the shivering of a human frame, and the chilling of human blood.

Was it seen by human eyes in this fresh phase--with the wolves below,
and the vultures above?

It was.

By one pair; and they belonging to the only man in all Texas who had
arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.

It was not yet altogether clear to him.  There were points that still
puzzled him.  He but know it was neither a dummy, nor the Devil.

His knowledge did not except him from the universal feeling of dread.
Despite the understanding of what the thing was, he shuddered as he
gazed upon it.

He gazed upon it from the "shore" of the prairie-island; himself unseen
under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.

And yet, with all his trembling and the desire to keep concealed, he was
following it round and round, on the circumference of an inner circle,
as if some magnetic power was constraining him to keep on the same
radius, of which the point occupied by the Headless Horseman was a
prolongation!

More than this.  He had seen the latter before entering the island.  He
had seen him far off, and might easily have shunned him.  But instead of
doing so, he had immediately commenced making approach towards him!

He had continued it--using the timber as a screen, and acting as one who
stalks the timid stag, with the difference of a heart-dread which no
deer-stalker could ever know.

He had continued it; until the shelter of the _motte_ gave him a
momentary respite, not from fear, but the apprehension of a failure.

He had not ridden ten miles across the prairie without a design; and it
was this that caused him to go so cautiously--guiding his horse over the
softest turf, and through the selvedge of the chapparal--in such a way
as neither to expose his person to view, nor cause a rustle among the
branches, that might be heard to the distance of ten yards.

No one observing his manoeuvres as he moved amid the timber island,
could have mistaken their meaning--at least so far as related to the
object for which they were being made.

His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in
watching the movements of the latter--by which he appeared to regulate
his own.

At first, fear seemed to be his prevailing thought.  After a time, it
was succeeded by an impatience that partially emboldened him.  The
latter plainly sprang from his perceiving, that the Headless Horseman,
instead of approaching the timber, still kept at a regular distance of
two hundred yards from its edge.

That this chafed him was evident from a string of soliloquies, muttered
half aloud.  They were not free from blasphemy; but that was
characteristic of the man who pronounced them.

"Damn the infernal brute!  If he'd only come twenty yards nearer, I
could fetch him.  My gun won't carry that distance.  I'd miss him for
sure, and then it'll be all up.  I may never get the chance again.
Confound him!  He's all of twenty yards too far off."  As if the last
was an ambiguity rather than a conviction, the speaker appeared to
measure with his eye the space that separated him from the headless
rider--all the while holding in hand a short Yager rifle, capped and
cocked--ready for instant discharge.

"No use," he continued, after a process of silent computation.  "I might
hit the beast with a spent ball, but only to scare without crippling
him.  I must have patience, and wait till he gets a little nearer.  Damn
them wolves!  He might come in, if it wasn't for them.  So long as
they're about him, he'll give the timber a wide berth.  It's the nature
of these Texas howes--devil skin them!

"I wonder if coaxing would do any good?" he proceeded, after a pause.
"Maybe the sound of a man's voice would bring the animal to a stand?
Doubtful.  He's not likely to 've heard much of that lately.  I suppose
it would only frighten him!  The sight of my horse would be sure to do
it, as it did before; though that was in the moonlight.  Besides, he was
chased by the howling staghound.  No wonder his being wild, then, ridden
as he is by hell knows what; for it can't be--Bah!  After all, there
must be some trick in it; some damned infernal trick!"

For a while the speaker checked his horse with a tight rein.  And,
leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, continued
to scan the strange shape that was slowly skirting the timber.

"It's _his_ horse--sure as shootin'!  His saddle, serape, and all.  How
the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?"

Another pause of reflection.

"Trick, or no trick, it's an ugly business.  Whoever's planned it, must
know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing lodged
there, I've got to get it back.  What a fool; to have bragged about it
as I did!  Curse the crooked luck!

"He _won't_ come nearer.  He's provokingly shy of the timber.  Like all
his breed, he knows he's safest in the open ground.

"What's to be done?  See if I can call him up.  May be he may like to
hear a human voice.  If it'll only fetch him twenty yards nearer, I'll
be satisfied.  Hanged if I don't try."

Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker
pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying
horse.

"Proh--proh--proshow!  Come kindly! come, old horse!"

The invitation was extended to no purpose.  The Texan steed did not seem
to understand it; at all events, as an invitation to friendly
companionship.  On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him;
for no sooner fell the "proh" upon his ear, than letting go the mouthful
of grass already gathered, he tossed his head aloft with a snort that
proclaimed far greater fear than that felt for either wolf or vulture!

A mustang, he knew that his greatest enemy was man--a man mounted upon a
horse; and by this time his scent had disclosed to him the proximity of
such a foe.

He stayed not to see what sort of man, or what kind of horse.  His first
instinct had told him that both were enemies.

As his rider by this time appeared to have arrived at the same
conclusion, there was no tightening of the rein; and he was left free to
follow his own course--which carried him straight off over the prairie.

A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he
spurred out into the open ground.

Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman
passing rapidly beyond reach--unscathed by the bullet he had sent to
earnestly after him.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

ON THE TRAIL.

Zeb Stump stayed but a short while on the spot, where he had discovered
the hoof-print with the broken shoe.

Six seconds sufficed for its identification; after which he rose to his
feet, and continued along the trail of the horse that had made it.

He did not re-mount, but strode forward on foot; the old mare, obedient
to a signal he had given her, keeping at a respectful distance behind
him.

For more than a mile he moved on in this original fashion--now slowly,
as the trail became indistinct--quickening his pace where the print of
the imperfect shoe could be seen without difficulty.

Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history,
long entombed beneath the ruins of a lost metropolis--whose characters
appear grotesque to all except himself--so was it with Zeb Stump, as he
strode on, translating the "sign" of the prairie.

Absorbed in the act, and the conjectures that accompanied it, he had no
eyes for aught else.  He glanced neither to the green savannah that
stretched inimitably around, nor to the blue sky that spread specklessly
above him.  Alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention
directed.

A sound--not a sight--startled him from his all-engrossing occupation.
It was the report of a rifle; but so distant, as to appear but the
detonation of a percussion-cap that had missed fire.

Instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes, but without
unbending his body.

With a quick glance the horizon was swept, along the half dozen points
whence the sound should have proceeded.

A spot of bluish smoke--still preserving its balloon shape--was slowly
rolling up against the sky.  A dark blotch beneath indicated the
outlines of an "island" of timber.

So distant was the "motte," the smoke, and the sound, that only the eye
of an experienced prairie-man would have seen the first, or his ear
heard the last, from the spot where Zeb Stump was standing.

But Zeb saw the one, and heard the other.

"Durned queery!" he muttered, still stooped in the attitude of a
gardener dibbing in his young cabbage-plants.

"Dog-goned queery, to say the leest on't.  Who in ole Nick's name kin be
huntin' out thur--whar theer ain't game enuf to pay for the powder an
shet?  I've been to thet ere purayra island; an I know there ain't
nothin' thur 'ceptin' coyoats.  What _they_ get to live on, only the
Eturnal kin tell!"

"Wagh!" he went on, after a short silence.  "Some storekeeper from the
town, out on a exkurshun, as he'd call it, who's proud o' poppin' away
at them stinkin' varmints, an 'll go hum wi' a story he's been a huntin'
_wolves_!  Wal.  'Tain't no bizness o' myen.  Let yurd-stick hev his
belly-ful o' sport.  Heigh! thur's somethin' comin' this way.  A hoss an
somebody on his back--streakin' it as if hell war arter him, wi' a
pitchfork o' red-het lightnin'!  What!  As I live, it air the Headless!
It is, by the jumpin' Geehosophat!"

The observation of the old hunter was quite correct.  There could be no
mistake about the character of the cavalier, who, just clearing himself
from the cloud of sulphureous smoke--now falling, dispersed over the
prairie--came galloping on towards the spot where Zeb stood.  It was the
horseman without a head.

Nor could there be any doubt as to the direction he was taking--as
straight towards Zeb as if he already saw, and was determined on coming
up with him!

A braver man than the backwoodsman could not have been found within the
confines of Texas.  Cougar, or jaguar--bear, buffalo, or Red Indian--he
could have encountered without quailing.  Even a troop of Comanches
might have come charging on, without causing him half the apprehension
felt at sight of that solitary equestrian.

With all his experience of Nature in her most secret haunts--despite the
stoicism derived from that experience--Zeb Stump was not altogether free
from superstitious fancies.  Who is?

With the courage to scorn a human foe--any enemy that might show itself
in a natural shape, either of biped or quadruped--still was he not stern
enough to defy the _abnormal_; and Bayard himself would have quailed at
sight of the cavalier who was advancing to the encounter--apparently
determined upon its being deadly!

Zeb Stump not only quailed; but, trembling in his tall boots of
alligator leather, sought concealment.

He did so, long before the Headless Horseman had got within hailing
distance; or, as he supposed, within _sight_ of him.

Some bushes growing close by gave him the chance of a hiding place; of
which, with instinctive quickness, he availed himself.

The mare, standing saddled by his side, might still have betrayed him?

But, no.  He had not gone to his knees, without thinking of that.

"Hunker down!" he cried, addressing himself to his dumb companion, who,
if wanting speech, proved herself perfect in understanding.  "Squat, ye
ole critter; or by the Eturnal ye'll be switched off into hell!"

As if dreading some such terrible catastrophe, the scraggy quadruped
dropped down upon her fore knees; and then, lowering her hind quarters,
laid herself along the grass, as though thinking her day's work done--
she was free to indulge in a fiesta.

Scarce had Zeb and his roadster composed themselves their new position,
when the Headless Horseman came charging up.

He was going at full speed; and Zeb was but too well pleased to perceive
that he was likely to continue it.

It was sheer chance that had conducted him that way; and not from having
seen either the hunter or his sorry steed.

The former--if not the latter--was satisfied at being treated in that
cavalier style; but, long before the Headless Horseman had passed out of
sight, Zeb had taken his dimensions, and made himself acquainted with
his character.

Though he might be a mystery to all the world beside, he was no longer
so to Zebulon Stump.

As the horse shot past in fleet career, the skirt of the serape, flouted
up by the wind, displayed to Stump's optics a form well known to him--in
a dress he had seen before.  It was a blouse of blue cottonade,
box-plaited over the breast; and though its vivid colour was dashed with
spots of garish red, the hunter was able to recognise it.

He was not so sure about the face seen low down upon the saddle, and
resting against the rider's leg.

There was nothing strange in his inability to recognise it.

The mother, who had oft looked fondly on that once fair countenance,
would not have recognised it now.

Zeb Stump only did so by deduction.  The horse, the saddle, the
holsters, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers--even the
hat upon the head--were all known to him.  So, too, was the figure that
stood almost upright in the stirrups.  The head and face must belong to
the same--notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.

Zeb saw it by no uncertain glance.  He was permitted a full, fair view
of the ghastly spectacle.

The steed, though going at a gallop, passed within ten paces of him.

He made no attempt to interrupt the retreating rider--either by word or
gesture.  Only, as the form became unmasked before his eyes, and its
real meaning flashed across his mind, he muttered, in a slow, sad tone:

"Gee-hos-o-phat!  It air true, then!  _Poor young fellur--dead--dead_!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

LOST IN THE CHALK.

Still continuing his fleet career, the Headless Horseman galloped on
over the prairie--Zeb Stump following only with his eyes; and not until
he had passed out of sight, behind some straggling groves of mezquite,
did the backwoodsman abandon his kneeling position.

Then only for a second or two did he stand erect--taking council with
himself as to what course he should pursue.

The episode--strange as unexpected--had caused some disarrangement in
his ideas, and seemed to call for a change in his plans.  Should he
continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for
that of the steed that had just swept by?

By keeping to the former, he might find out much; but by changing to the
latter he might learn more?

He might capture the Headless Horseman, and ascertain from _him_ the why
and wherefore of his wild wanderings?

While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had
forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the
prairie.

Only for a moment, however.  They were things to be remembered; and he
soon remembered them.

Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw
that which caused him to squat down again; and place himself, with more
_impressement_ than ever, under cover of the mezquites.  The old mare,
relishing the recumbent attitude, had still kept to it; and there was no
necessity for re-disposing of her.

What Zeb now saw was a man on horseback--a real horseman, with a head
upon his shoulders.

He was still a long way off; and it was not likely he had seen the tall
form of the hunter, standing shored up among the bushes--much less the
mare, lying beneath them.  He showed no signs of having done so.

On the contrary, he was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent
down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground,
over which he was guiding his horse.

There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation.  Zeb Stump
guessed it at a glance.  He was tracking the headless rider.

"Ho, ho!" muttered Zeb, on making this discovery; "I ain't the only one
who's got a reezun for solvin' this hyur myst'ry!  Who the hell kin _he_
be?  I shed jest like to know that."

Zeb had not long to wait for the gratification of his wish.  As the
trail was fresh, the strange horseman could take it up at a trot--in
which pace he was approaching.

He was soon within identifying distance.

"Gee--hosophat!" muttered the backwoodsman; "I mout a know'd it wud be
him; an ef I'm not mistook about it, hyurs goin' to be a other chapter
out o' the same book--a other link as 'll help me to kumplete the chain
o' evydince I'm in sarch for.  Lay clost, ye critter!  Ef ye make ere a
stir--even to the shakin' o' them long lugs o' yourn--I'll cut yur
darned throat."

The last speech was an apostrophe to the "maar"--after which Zeb waxed
silent, with his head among the spray of the acacias, and his eyes
peering through the branches in acute scrutiny of him who was coming
along.

This was a man, who, once seen, was not likely to be soon forgotten.
Scarce thirty years old, he showed a countenance, scathed, less with
care than the play of evil passions.

But there was care upon it now--a care that seemed to speak of
apprehension--keen, prolonged, yet looking forward with a hope of being
relieved from it.

Withal it was a handsome face: such as a gentleman need not have been
ashamed of, but for that sinister expression that told of its belonging
to a blackguard.

The dress--but why need we describe it?  The blue cloth frock of
semi-military cut--the forage cap--the belt sustaining a bowie-knife,
with a brace of revolving pistols--all have been mentioned before as
enveloping and equipping the person of Captain Cassius Calhoun.

It was he.

It was not the _batterie_ of small arms that kept Zeb Stump from showing
himself.  He had no dread of an encounter with the ex-officer of
Volunteers.  Though he instinctively felt hostility, he had as yet given
no reason to the latter for regarding him as an enemy.  He remained in
shadow, to have a better view of what was passing under the sunlight.

Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun
trotted past.

Still closely keeping among the acacias, Zeb Stump looked after, till
the same grove, that had concealed the former, interposed its verdant
veil between him and the ex-captain of cavalry.

The backwoodsman's brain having become the recipient of new thoughts,
required a fresh exercise of its ingenuity.

If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless
Horseman, it was redoubled now.

With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and
commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.

These consisted in taking hold of the bridle, and giving the old mare a
kick; that caused her to start instantaneously to her feet.

Zeb stood by her side, intending to climb into the saddle and ride out
into the open plain--as soon as Calhoun should be out of sight.

He had no thoughts of keeping the latter in view.  He needed no such
guidance.  The two fresh trails would be sufficient for him; and he felt
as sure of finding the direction in which both would lead, as if he had
ridden alongside the horseman without a head, or him without a heart.

With this confidence he cleared out from among the acacias, and took the
path just trodden by Calhoun.

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

For once in his life, Zeb Stump had made a mistake.  On rounding the
mezquite grove, behind which both had made disappearance, he discovered
he had done so.

Beyond, extended a tract of chalk prairie; over which one of the
horsemen appeared to have passed--him without the head.

Zeb guessed so, by seeing the other, at some distance before him, riding
to and fro, in transverse stretches, like a pointer quartering the
stubble in search of a partridge.

He too had lost the trail, and was endeavouring to recover it.

Crouching under cover of the mezquites, the hunter remained a silent
spectator of his movements.

The attempt terminated in a failure.  The chalk surface defied
interpretation--at least by skill such as that of Cassius Calhoun.

After repeated quarterings he appeared to surrender his design; and,
angrily plying the spur, galloped off in the direction of the Leona.

As soon as he was out of sight, Zeb also made an effort to take up the
lost trail.  But despite his superior attainments in the tracking craft,
he was compelled to relinquish it.

A fervid sun was glaring down upon the chalk; and only the eye of a
salamander could have withstood the reflection of its rays.

Dazed almost to blindness, the backwoodsman determined upon turning late
back; and once more devoting his attention to the trail from which he
had been for a time seduced.

He had learnt enough to know that this last promised a rich reward for
its exploration.

It took him but a short time to regain it.

Nor did he lose any in following it up.  He was too keenly impressed
with its value; and with this idea urging him, he strode rapidly on, the
mare following as before.

Once only did he make pause; at a point where the tracks of two horses
converged with that he was following.

From this point the three coincided--at times parting and running
parallel, for a score of yards or so, but again coming together and
overlapping one another.

The horses were all shod--like that which carried the broken shoe--and
the hunter only stopped to see what he could make out of the hoof marks.
One was a "States horse;" the other a mustang--though a stallion of
great size, and with a hoof almost as large as that of the American.

Zeb had his conjectures about both.

He did not stay to inquire which had gone first over the ground.  That
was as clear to him, as if he had been a spectator at their passing.
The stallion had been in the lead,--how far Zeb could not exactly tell;
but certainly some distance beyond that of companionship.  The States
horse had followed; and behind him, the roadster with the broken shoe--
also an American.

All three had gone over the same ground, at separate times, and each by
himself.  This Zeb Stump could tell with as much ease and certainty, as
one might read the index of a dial, or thermometer.

Whatever may have been in his thoughts, he said nothing, beyond giving
utterance to the simple exclamation "Good!" and, with satisfaction
stamped upon his features, he moved on, the old mare appearing to mock
him by an imitative stride!

"Hyur they've seppurated," he said, once again coming to a stop, and
regarding the ground at his feet.  "The stellyun an States hoss hev goed
thegither--thet air they've tuk the same way.  Broken-shoe hev strayed
in a diffrent direkshun."

"Wonder now what thet's for?" he continued, after standing awhile to
consider.  "Durn me ef I iver seed sech perplexin' sign!  It ud puzzle
ole Dan'l Boone hisself."

"Which on 'em shed I foller fust?  Ef I go arter the two I know whar
they'll lead.  They're boun' to kim up in thet puddle o' blood.  Let's
track up tother, and see whether he hev rud into the same procksimmuty!
To the right abeout, ole gal, and keep clost ahint me--else ye may get
lost in the chapparal, an the coyoats may make thur supper on yur
tallow.  Ho! ho! ho!"

With this apostrophe to his "critter," ending in a laugh at the conceit
of her "tallow," the hunter turned off on the track of the third horse.

It led him along the edge of an extended tract of chapparal; which,
following all three, he had approached at a point well known to him, as
to the reader,--where it was parted by the open space already described.

The new trail skirted the timber only for a short distance.  Two hundred
yards from the embouchure of the avenue, it ran into it; and fifty paces
further on Zeb came to a spot where the horse had stood tied to a tree.

Zeb saw that the animal had proceeded no further: for there was another
set of tracks showing where it had returned to the prairie--though not
by the same path.

The rider had gone beyond.  The foot-marks of a man could be seen
beyond--in the mud of a half-dry _arroyo_--beside which the horse had
been "hitched."

Leaving his critter to occupy the "stall" where broken-shoe had for some
time fretted himself, the old hunter glided off upon the footmarks of
the dismounted rider.

He soon discovered two sets of them--one going--another coming back.

He followed the former.

He was not surprised at their bringing him out into the avenue--close to
the pool of blood--by the coyotes long since licked dry.

He might have traced them right up to it, but for the hundreds of horse
tracks that had trodden the ground like a sheep-pen.

But before going so far, he was stayed by the discovery of some fresh
"sign"--too interesting to be carelessly examined.  In a place where the
underwood grew thick, he came upon a spot where a man had remained for
some time.  There was no turf, and the loose mould was baked hard and
smooth, evidently by the sole of a boot or shoe.

There were prints of the same sole leading out towards the place of
blood, and similar ones coming back again.  But upon the branches of a
tree between, Zeb Stump saw something that had escaped the eyes not only
of the searchers, but of their guide Spangler--a scrap of paper,
blackened and half-burnt--evidently the wadding of a discharged gun!

It was clinging to the twig of a locust-tree, impaled upon one of its
spines!

The old hunter took it from the thorn to which, through rain and wind,
it had adhered; spread it carefully across the palm of his horny hand;
and read upon its smouched surface a name well known to him; which, with
its concomitant title, bore the initials, "C.C.C."



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

ANOTHER LINK.

It was less surprise, than gratification, that showed itself on the
countenance of Zeb Stump, as he deciphered the writing on the paper.

"That ere's the backin' o' a letter," muttered he.  "Tells a goodish
grist o' story; more'n war wrote inside, I reck'n.  Been used for the
wad' o' a gun!  Wal; sarves the cuss right, for rammin' down a rifle
ball wi' a patchin' o' scurvy paper, i'stead o' the proper an bessest
thing, which air a bit o' greased buckskin."

"The writin' air in a sheemale hand," he continued, looking anew at the
piece of paper.  "Don't signerfy for thet.  It's been sent to _him_ all
the same; an he's hed it in purzeshun.  It air somethin' to be tuk care
o'."

So saying, he drew out a small skin wallet, which contained his tinder
of "punk," along with his flint and steel; and, after carefully stowing
away the scrap of paper, he returned the sack to his pocket.

"Wal!" he went on in soliloquy, as he stood silently considering, "I
kalkerlate as how this ole <DW53> 'll be able to unwind a good grist o'
this clue o' mystery, tho' thur be a bit o' the thread broken hyur an
thur, an a bit o' a puzzle I can't clurly understan'.  The man who hev
been murdered, whosomdiver _he_ may be, war out thur by thet puddle o'
blood, an the man as did the deed, whosomdiver _he_ be, war a stannin'
behint this locust-tree.  But for them greenhorns, I mout a got more out
o' the sign.  Now thur ain't the ghost o' a chance.  They've tramped the
hul place into a durnationed mess, cuvortin' and caperin' abeout.

"Wal, 'tair no use goin' furrer thet way.  The bessest thing now air to
take the back track, if it air possable, an diskiver whar the hoss wi'
the broke shoe toted his rider arter he went back from this leetle bit
o' still-huntin'.  Thurfor, ole Zeb'lon Stump, back ye go on the boot
tracks!"

With this grotesque apostrophe to himself, he commenced retracing the
footmarks that had guided him to the edge of the opening.  Only in one
or two places were the footprints at all distinct.  But Zeb scarce cared
for their guidance.

Having already noted that the man who made them had returned to the
place where the horse had been left, he knew the back track would lead
him there.

There was one place, however, where the two trails did not go over the
same ground.  There was a forking in the open list, through which the
supposed murderer had made his way.  It was caused by an obstruction,--a
patch of impenetrable thicket.  They met again, but not till that on
which the hunter was returning straggled off into an open glade of
considerable size.

Having become satisfied of this, Zeb looked around into the glade--for a
time forsaking the footsteps of the pedestrian.

After a short examination, he observed a trail altogether distinct, and
of a different character.  It was a well-marked path entering the
opening on one side, and going out on the other: in short, a
cattle-track.

Zeb saw that several shod horses had passed along it, some days before:
and it was this that caused him to come back and examine it.

He could tell to a day--to an hour--_when_ the horses had passed; and
from the sign itself.  But the exercise of his ingenuity was not needed
on this occasion.  He knew that the hoof-prints were those of the horses
ridden by Spangler and his party--after being detached from the main
body of searchers who had gone home with the major.

He had heard the whole story of that collateral investigation--how
Spangler and his comrades had traced Henry Poindexter's horse to the
place where the <DW64> had caught it--on the outskirts of the plantation.

To an ordinary intellect this might have appeared satisfactory.  Nothing
more could be learnt by any one going over the ground again.

Zeb Stump did not seem to think so.  As he stood looking along it, his
attitude showed indecision.

"If I ked make shur o' havin' time," he muttered, "I'd foller it fust.
Jest as like as not I'll find a _fluke_ thur too.  But thur's no
sartinty 'beout the time, an I'd better purceed to settle wi' the anymal
as cast the quarter shoe."

He had turned to go out of the glade, when a thought once more stayed
him.

"Arter all, it kin be eezy foun' at any time.  I kin guess whar it'll
lead, as sartint, as if I'd rud 'longside the skunk thet made it--
straight custrut to the stable o' Caser Corver.

"It's a durned pity to drop this un,--now whiles I'm hyur upon the spot.
It'll gie me the makin' o' another ten-mile jurney, an thur moutn't be
time.  Dog-goned ef I don't try a leetle way along it.  The ole maar kin
wait till I kum back."

Bracing himself for a new investigation, he started off upon the
cattle-track, trodden by the horses of Spangler and his party.

To the hoof-marks of these he paid but slight attention; at times, none
whatever.  His eye only sought those of Henry Poindexter's horse.
Though the others were of an after time, and often destroyed the traces
he was most anxious to examine, he had no difficulty in identifying the
latter.  As he would have himself said, any greenhorn could do that.
The young planter's horse had gone over the ground at a gallop.  The
trackers had ridden slowly.

As far as Zeb Stump could perceive, the latter had made neither halt nor
deviation.  The former had.

It was about three-quarters of a mile from the edge of the venue.

It was not a halt the galloping horse had made, but only a slight
departure from his direct course; as if something he had seen--wolf,
jaguar, cougar, or other beast of prey--had caused him to shy.

Beyond he had continued his career; rapid and reckless as ever.

Beyond the party along with Spangler had proceeded--without staying to
inquire why the horse had shied from his track.

Zeb Stump was more inquisitive, and paused upon this spot.

It was a sterile tract, without herbage, and covered with shingle and
sand.  A huge tree overshadowed it, with limbs extending horizontally.
One of these ran transversely to the path over which the horses had
passed--so low that a horseman, to shun contact with it, would have to
lower his head.  At this branch Zeb Stump stood gazing.  He observed an
abrasion upon the bark; that, though very slight, must have been caused
by contact with some substance, as hard, if not sounder, than itself.

"Thet's been done by the skull o' a human critter," reasoned he--"a
human critter, that must a been on the back o' a hoss--this side the
branch, an off on the t'other.  No livin' man ked a stud sech a
cullizyun as thet, an kep his seat i' the seddle.

"Hooraw!" he triumphantly exclaimed, after a cursory examination of the
ground underneath the tree.  "I thort so.  Thur's the impreshun o' the
throwed rider.  An' thur's whar he hez creeped away.  Now I've got a
explication o' thet big bump as hez been puzzlin' me.  I know'd it wan't
did by the claws o' any varmint; an it didn't look like the blow eyther
o' a stone or a stick.  Thet ere's the stick that hez gi'n it."

With an elastic step--his countenance radiant of triumph--the old hunter
strode away from the tree, no longer upon the cattle path, but that
taken by the man who had been so violently dismounted.

To one unaccustomed to the chapparal, he might have appeared going
without a guide, and upon a path never before pressed by human foot.

A portion of it perhaps had not.  But Zeb was conducted by signs which,
although obscure to the ordinary eye, were to him intelligible as the
painted lettering upon a finger-post.  The branch contorted to afford
passage for a human form--the displaced tendrils of a creeping plant--
the scratched surface of the earth--all told that a man had passed that
way.  The sign signified more--that the man was disabled--had been
crawling--a <DW36>!

Zeb Stump continued on, till he had traced this <DW36> to the banks of
a running stream.

It was not necessary for him to go further.  He had made one more splice
of the broken thread.  Another, and his clue would be complete!



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

A HORSE-SWOP.

With an oath, a sullen look, and a brow black as disappointment could
make it, Calhoun turned away from the edge of the chalk prairie, where
he had lost the traces of the Headless Horseman.

"No use following further!  No knowing where he's gone now!  No hope of
finding him except by a _fluke_!  If I go back to the creek I might see
him again; but unless I get within range, it'll end as it's done before.
The mustang stallion won't let me come near him--as if the brute knows
what I'm wanting!

"He's even cunninger than the wild sort--trained to it, I suppose, by
the mustanger himself.  One fair shot--if I could only get that, I'd
settle his courses.

"There appears no chance of stealing upon him; and as to riding him
down, it can't be done with a slow mule like this.

"The sorrel's not much better as to speed, though he beats this brute in
bottom.  I'll try him to-morrow, with the new shoe.

"If I could only get hold of something that's fast enough to overtake
the mustang!  I'd put down handsomely for a horse that could do it.

"There must be one of the sort in the settlement.  I'll see when I get
back.  If there be, a couple of hundred, ay or three, won't hinder me
from having him."

After he had made these mutterings Calhoun rode away from the chalk
prairie, his dark countenance strangely contrasting with its snowy
sheen.  He went at a rapid rate; not sparing his horse, already jaded
with a protracted journey--as could be told by his sweating coat, and
the clots of half-coagulated blood, where the spur had been freely plied
upon his flanks.  Fresh drops soon appeared as he cantered somewhat
heavily on--his head set for the hacienda of Casa del Corvo.

In less than an hour after, his rider was guiding him among the
mezquites that skirted the plantation.

It was a path known to Calhoun.  He had ridden over it before, though
not upon the same horse.  On crossing the bed of an arroyo--dry from a
long continuance of drought--he was startled at beholding in the mud the
tracks of another horse.  One of them showed a broken shoe, an old
hoof-print, nearly eight days old.  He made no examination to ascertain
the time.  He knew it to an hour.

He bent over it, with a different thought--a feeling of surprise
commingled with a touch of superstition.  The track looked recent, as if
made on the day before.  There had been wind, rain, thunder, and
lightning.  Not one of these had wasted it.  Even the angry elements
appeared to have passed over without destroying it--as if to spare it
for a testimony against the outraged laws of Nature--their God.

Calhoun dismounted, with the design to obliterate the track of the
three-quarter shoe.  Better for him to have spared himself the pains.
The crease of his boot-heel crushing in the stiff mud was only an
additional evidence as to who had ridden the broken-shoed horse.  There
was one coming close behind capable of collecting it.

Once more in his saddle, the ex-officer rode on--reflecting on his own
astuteness.

His reflections had scarce reached the point of reverie, when the
hoof-stroke of a horse--not his own--came suddenly within hearing.  Not
within sight: for the animal making them was still screened by the
chapparal.

Plainly was it approaching; and, although at a slow pace, the measured
tread told of its being guided, and not straying.  It was a horse with a
rider upon his back.

In another instant both were in view; and Calhoun saw before him Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos; she at the same instant catching sight of him!

It was a strange circumstance that these two should thus encounter one
another--apparently by chance, though perhaps controlled by destiny.
Stranger still the thought summoned up in the bosoms of both.

In Calhoun, Isidora saw the man who loved the woman she herself hated.
In Isidora, Calhoun saw the woman who loved him he both hated and had
determined to destroy.

This mutual knowledge they had derived partly from report, partly from
observation, and partly from the suspicious circumstances under which
more than once they had met.  They were equally convinced of its truth.
Each felt certain of the sinister entanglement of the other; while both
believed their own to be unsuspected.

The situation was not calculated to create a friendly feeling between
them.  It is not natural that man, or woman, should like the admirer of
a rival.  They can only be friends at that point where jealousy prompts
to the deadliest vengeance; and then it is but a sinister sympathy.

As yet no such had arisen between Cassius Calhoun and Isidora Covarubio
de los Llanos.

If it had been possible, both might have been willing to avoid the
encounter.  Isidora certainly was.

She had no predilection for the ex-officer of dragoons; and besides the
knowledge that he was the lover of her rival, there was another thought
that now rendered his presence, if not disagreeable, at least not
desirable.

She remembered the chase of the sham Indians, and its ending.  She knew
that among the Texans there had been much conjecture as to her abrupt
disappearance, after appealing to them for protection.

She had her own motive for that, which she did not intend to declare;
and the man about meeting her might be inclined to ask questions on the
subject.

She would have passed with a simple salutation--she could not give less
than that.  And perhaps he might have done the same; but for a thought
which at that moment came into his mind, entirely unconnected with the
reflections already there engendered.

It was not the lady herself who suggested the thought.  Despite her
splendid beauty, he had no admiration for her.  In his breast, ruthless
as it might have been, there was no space left for a second passion--not
even a sensual one--for her thus encountered in the solitude of the
chapparal, with Nature whispering wild, wicked suggestions.

It was no idea of this that caused him to rein up in the middle of the
path; remove the cap from his crown; and, by a courtly salutation,
invite a dialogue with Isidora.

So challenged, she could not avoid the conversation; that commenced upon
the instant--Calhoun taking the initiative.

"Excuse me, senorita," said he, his glance directed more upon her steed
than herself; "I know it's very rude thus to interrupt your ride;
especially on the part of a stranger, as with sorrow I am compelled to
call myself."

"It needs no apology, senor.  If I'm not mistaken, we have met before--
upon the prairie, out near the Nueces."

"True--true!" stammered Calhoun, not caring to dwell upon the
remembrance.  "It was not of that encounter I wished to speak; but what
I saw afterwards, as you came galloping along the cliff.  We all
wondered what became of you."

"There was not much cause for wonder, cavallero.  The shot which some of
your people fired from below, disembarrassed me of my pursuers.  I saw
that they had turned back, and simply continued my journey."

Calhoun exhibited no chagrin at being thus baffled.  The theme upon
which he designed to direct his discourse had not yet turned up; and in
it he might be more successful.

What it was might have been divined from his glance--half _connoisseur_,
half horse-jockey--still directed toward the steed of Isidora.

"I do not say, senorita, that I was one of those who wondered at your
sudden disappearance.  I presumed you had your own reasons for not
coming on to us; and, seeing you ride as you did, I felt no fear for
your safety.  It was your riding that astonished me, as it did all of my
companions.  Such a horse you had!  He appeared to glide, rather than
gallop!  If I mistake not, it's the same you are now _astride of_.  Am I
right, senora?  Pardon me for asking such an insignificant question."

"The same?  Let me see?  I make use of so many.  I think I was riding
this horse upon that day.  Yes, yes; I am sure of it.  I remember how
the brute betrayed me."

"Betrayed you!  How?"

"Twice he did it.  Once as you and your people were approaching.  The
second time, when the Indians--_ay Dios_! not Indians, as I've since
heard--were coming through the chapparal."

"But how?"

"By neighing.  He should not have done it.  He's had training enough to
know better than that.  No matter.  Once I get him back to the Rio
Grande he shall stay there.  I shan't ride _him_ again.  He shall return
to his Pastures."

"Pardon me, senorita, for speaking to you on such a subject; but I can't
help thinking that it's a pity."

"What's a pity?"

"That a steed so splendid as that should be so lightly discarded.  I
would give much to possess him."

"You are jesting, cavallero.  He is nothing beyond the common; perhaps a
little pretty, and quick in his paces.  My father has five thousand of
his sort--many of them prettier, and, no doubt, some faster than he.
He's a good roadster; and that's why I'm riding him now.  If it weren't
that I'm on my way home to the Rio Grande, and the journey is still
before me, you'd be welcome to have him, or anybody else who cared for
him, as you seem to do.  Be still, _musteno mio_!  You see there's
somebody likes you better than I do."

The last speech was addressed to the mustang, who, like its rider,
appeared impatient for the conversation to come to a close.

Calhoun, however, seemed equally desirous of prolonging, or, at all
events, bringing it to a different termination.

"Excuse me, senorita," said he, assuming an air of businesslike
earnestness, at the same time speaking apologetically; "if that be all
the value you set upon the grey mustang, I should be only too glad to
make an exchange with you.  My horse, if not handsome, is estimated by
our Texan dealers as a valuable animal.  Though somewhat slow in his
paces, I can promise that he will carry you safely to your home, and
will serve you well afterwards."

"What, senor!" exclaimed the lady, in evident astonishment, "exchange
your grand American _frison_ for a Mexican mustang!  The offer is too
generous to appear other than a jest.  You know that on the Rio Grande
one of your horses equals in value at least three, sometimes six, of
ours?"

Calhoun knew this well enough; but he knew also that the mustang ridden
by Isidora would be to him worth a whole stableful of such brutes as
that he was bestriding.  He had been an eye-witness to its speed,
besides having heard of it from others.  It was the thing he stood in
need of--the very thing.  He would have given, not only his "grand
_frison_" in exchange, but the full price of the mustang by way of
"boot."

Fortunately for him, there was no attempt at extortion.  In the
composition of the Mexican maiden, however much she might be given to
equestrian tastes, there was not much of the "coper."  With five
thousand horses in the paternal stables, or rather straying over the
patrimonial plains, there was but slight motive for sharp practice; and
why should she deny such trifling gratification, even though the man
seeking it was a stranger--perhaps an enemy?

She did not.

"If you are in earnest, senor," was her response, "you are welcome to
what you want."

"I am in earnest, senorita."

"Take him, then!" said she, leaping out of her saddle, and commencing to
undo the girths, "We cannot exchange saddles: yours would be a mile too
big for me!"

Calhoun was too happy to find words for a rejoinder.  He hastened to
assist her in removing the saddle; after which he took off his own.

In less than five minutes the horses were exchanged--the saddles and
bridles being retained by their respective owners.

To Isidora there was something ludicrous in the transference.  She
almost laughed while it was being carried on.

Calhoun looked upon it in a different light.  There was a purpose
present before his mind--one of the utmost importance.

They parted without much further speech--only the usual greetings of
adieu--Isidora going off on the _frison_; while the ex-officer, mounted
on the grey mustang, continued his course in the direction of Casa del
Corvo.



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

AN UNTIRING TRACKER.

Zeb was not long in arriving at the spot where he had "hitched" his
mare.  The topography of the chapparal was familiar to him; and he
crossed it by a less circuitous route than that taken by the <DW36>.

He once more threw himself upon the trail of the broken shoe, in full
belief that it would fetch out not a hundred miles from Casa del Corvo.

It led him along a road running almost direct from one of the crossings
of the Rio Grande to Fort Inge.  The road was a half-mile in width--a
thing not uncommon in Texas, where every traveller selects his own path,
alone looking to the general direction.

Along one edge of it had gone the horse with the damaged shoe.

Not all the way to Fort Inge.  When within four or five miles of the
post, the trail struck off from the road, at an angle of just such
degree as followed in a straight line would bring out by Poindexter's
plantation.  So confident was Zeb of this, that he scarce deigned to
keep his eye upon the ground; but rode forwards, as if a finger-post was
constantly by his side.

He had long before given up following the trail afoot.  Despite his
professed contempt for "horse-fixings"--as he called riding--he had no
objection to finish his journey in the saddle--fashed as he now was with
the fatigue of protracted trailing over prairie and through chapparal.
Now and then only did he cast a glance upon the ground--less to assure
himself he was on the track of the broken shoe, than to notice whether
something else might not be learnt from the sign, besides its mere
direction.

There were stretches of the prairie where the turf, hard and dry, had
taken no impression.  An ordinary traveller might have supposed himself
the first to pass over the ground.  But Zeb Stump was not of this class;
and although he could not always distinguish the hoof marks, he knew
within an inch where they would again become visible--on the more moist
and softer patches of the prairie.

If at any place conjecture misled him, it was only for a short distance,
and he soon corrected himself by a traverse.

In this half-careless, half-cautious way, he had approached within a
mile of Poindexter's plantation.  Over the tops of the mezquite trees
the crenelled parapet was in sight; when something he saw upon the
ground caused a sudden change in his demeanour.  A change, too, in his
attitude; for instead of remaining on the back of his mare, he flung
himself out of the saddle; threw the bridle upon her neck; and, rapidly
passing in front of her, commenced taking up the trail afoot.

The mare made no stop, but continued on after him--with an air of
resignation, as though she was used to such eccentricities.

To an inexperienced eye there was nothing to account for this sudden
dismounting.  It occurred at a place where the turf appeared untrodden
by man, or beast.  Alone might it be inferred from Zeb's speech, as he
flung himself out of the saddle:

"His track! goin' to hum!" were the words muttered in a slow, measured
tone; after which, at a slower pace, the dismounted hunter kept on along
the trail.

In a little time after it conducted him into the chapparal; and in less
to a stop--sudden, as if the thorny thicket had been transformed into a
_chevaux-de-frise_, impenetrable both to him and his "critter."

It was not this.  The path was still open before him--more open than
ever.  It was its openness that had furnished him with a cause for
discontinuing his advance.

The path sloped down into a valley below--a depression in the prairie,
along the concavity of which, at times, ran a tiny stream--ran arroyo.
It was now dry, or only occupied by stagnant pools, at long distances
apart.  In the mud-covered channel was a man, with a horse close behind
him--the latter led by the bridle.

There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of the horse; he was
simply following the lead of his dismounted rider.

But the man--what was he doing?  In his movements there was something
peculiar--something that would have puzzled an uninitiated spectator.

It did not puzzle Zeb Stump; or but for a second of time.

Almost the instant his eye fell upon it, he read the meaning of the
manoeuvre, and mutteringly pronounced it to himself.

"Oblitturatin' the print o' the broken shoe, or tryin' to do thet same!
'Taint no use, Mister Cash Calhoun--no manner o' use.  Ye've made yur
fut marks too deep to deceive _me_; an by the Eturnal I'll foller them,
though they shed conduck me into the fires o' hell?"

As the backwoodsman terminated his blasphemous apostrophe, the man to
whom it pointed, having finished his task of obscuration, once more
leaped into his saddle, and hurried on.

On foot the tracker followed; though without showing any anxiety about
keeping him in sight.

There was no need for that.  The sleuth hound on a fresh slot could not
be more sure of again viewing his victim, than was Zeb Stump of coming
up with his.  No chicanery of the chapparal--no twistings or doublings--
could save Calhoun now.

The tracker advanced freely; not expecting to make halt again, till he
should come within sight of Casa del Corvo.

Little blame to him that his reckoning proved wrong.  Who could have
foretold such an interruption as that occasioned by the encounter
between Cassius Calhoun and Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Though at sight of it, taken by surprise--perhaps something more--Zeb
did not allow his feelings to betray his presence near the spot.

On the contrary, it seemed to stimulate him to increased caution.

Turning noiselessly round, he whispered some cabalistic words into the
care of his "critter;" and then stole silently forward under cover of
the acacias.

Without remonstrance, or remark, the mare followed.  He soon came to a
fall stop--his animal doing the same, in imitation so exact as to appear
its counterpart.

A thick growth of mezquite trees separated him from the two individuals,
by this time engaged in a lively interchange of speech.

He could not see them, without exposing himself to the danger of being
detected in his eaves-dropping; but he heard what they said all the
same.

He kept his place--listening till the _horse trade_ was concluded, and
for some time after.

Only when they had separated, and both taken departure did he venture to
come forth from his cover.

Standing upon the spot lately occupied by the "swoppers," and looking
"both ways at once," he exclaimed--

"Geehosophat! thur's a compack atween a _he_ an' _she_-devil; an' durn'd
ef I kin tell, which hez got the bessest o' the bargin!"



CHAPTER EIGHTY.

A DOORWAY WELL WATCHED.

It was some time before Zeb Stump sallied forth from the covert where he
had been witness to the "horse swop."  Not till both the bargainers had
ridden entirely out of sight.  Then he went not after either; but stayed
upon the spot, as if undecided which he should follow.

It was not exactly this that kept him to the place; but the necessity of
taking what he was in the habit of calling a "good think."

His thoughts were about the exchange of the horses: for he had heard the
whole dialogue relating thereto, and the proposal coming from Calhoun.
It was this that puzzled, or rather gave him reason for reflection.
What could be the motive?

Zeb knew to be true what the Mexican had said: that the States horse
was, in market value, worth far more than the mustang.  He knew,
moreover, that Cassius Calhoun was the last man to be "coped" in a horse
trade.  Why, then, had he done the "deal?"

The old hunter pulled off his felt hat; gave his hand a twist or two
through his unkempt hair; transferred the caress to the grizzled beard
upon his chin--all the while gazing upon the ground, as if the answer to
his mental interrogatory was to spring out of the grass.

"Thur air but one explication o't," he at length muttered: "the grey's
the faster critter o' the two--ne'er a doubt 'beout thet; an Mister Cash
wants him for his fastness: else why the durnation shed he a gin a hoss
thet 'ud sell for four o' his sort in any part o' Texas, an twicet thet
number in Mexiko?  I reck'n he's bargained for the heels.  Why?  Durn
me, ef I don't suspect why.  He wants--he--heigh--I hev it--somethin' as
kin kum up wi' the Headless!

"Thet's the very thing he's arter--sure as my name's Zeb'lon Stump.
He's tried the States hoss an foun' him slow.  Thet much I knowd myself.
Now he thinks, wi' the mowstang, he may hev a chance to overhaul the
tother, ef he kin only find him agin; an for sartin he'll go in sarch o'
him.

"He's rad on now to Casser Corver--maybe to git a pick o' somethin' to
eat.  He won't stay thur long.  'Fore many hours hev passed, somebody
'll see him out hyur on the purayra; an thet somebody air boun' to be
Zeb'lon Stump.

"Come, ye critter!" he continued, turning to the mare, "ye thort ye wur
a goin' hum, did ye?  Yur mistaken 'beout that.  Ye've got to squat hyur
for another hour or two--if not the hul o' the night.  Never mind, ole
gurl!  The grass don't look so had; an ye shell hev a chance to git yur
snout to it.  Thur now--eet your durned gut-full!"

While pronouncing this apostrophe, he drew the head-stall over the ears
of his mare; and, chucking the bridle across the projecting tree of the
saddle, permitted her to graze at will.

Having secured her in the chapparal where he had halted, he walked on--
along the track taken by Calhoun.

Two hundred yards farther on, and the jungle terminated.  Beyond
stretched an open plain; and on its opposite side could be seen the
hacienda of Casa del Corvo.

The figure of a horseman could be distinguished against its whitewashed
facade--in another moment lost within the dark outline of the entrance.

Zeb knew who went in.

"From this place," he muttered, "I kin see him kum out; an durn me, ef I
don't watch till he do kum out--ef it shed be till this time o' the
morrow.  So hyur goes for a spell o' patience."

He first lowered himself to his knees.  Then, "squirming" round till his
back came in contact with the trunk of a honey-locust, he arranged
himself into a sitting posture.  This done, he drew from his capacious
pocket a wallet, containing a "pone" of corn-bread, a large "hunk" of
fried "hog-meat," and a flask of liquor, whose perfume proclaimed it
"Monongahela."

Having eaten about half the bread, and a like quantity of the meat, he
returned the remaining moieties to the wallet; which he suspended over
head upon a branch.  Then taking a satisfactory swig from the
whiskey-flask, and igniting his pipe, he leant back against the locust--
with arms folded over his breast, and eyes bent upon the gateway of Casa
del Corvo.

In this way he kept watch for a period of full two hours; never changing
the direction of his glance; or not long enough for any one to pass out
unseen by him.

Forms came out, and went in--several of them--men and women.  But even
in the distance their scant light- garments, and dusky
complexions, told them to be only the domestics of the mansion.
Besides, they were all on foot; and he, for whom Zeb was watching,
should come on horseback--if at all.

His vigil was only interrupted by the going down of the sun; and then
only to cause a change in his post of observation.  When twilight began
to fling its purple shadows over the plain, he rose to his feet; and,
leisurely unfolding his tall figure, stood upright by the stem of the
tree--as if this attitude was more favourable for "considering."

"Thur's jest a posserbillity the skunk mout sneak out i' the night?" was
his reflection.  "Leastways afore the light o' the mornin'; an I must
make sure which way he takes purayra.

"'Taint no use my toatin' the maar after me," he continued, glancing in
the direction where the animal had been left.  "She'd only bother me.
Beside, thur's goin' to be a clurrish sort o' moonlight; an she mout be
seen from the <DW65> quarter.  She'll be better hyur--both for grass and
kiver."

He went back to the mare; took off the saddle; fastened the trail-rope
round her neck, tying the other end to a tree; and then, unstrapping his
old blanket from the cantle, he threw it across his left arm, and walked
off in the direction of Casa del Corvo.

He did not proceed _pari passu_; but now quicker, and now more
hesitatingly--timing himself, by the twilight--so that his approach
might not be observed from the hacienda.

He had need of this caution: for the ground which he had to pass was
like a level lawn, without copse or cover of any kind.  Here and there
stood a solitary tree--dwarf-oak or _algarobia_, but not close enough to
shelter him from being seen through the windows--much less from the
azotea.

Now and then he stopped altogether--to wait for the deepening of the
twilight.

Working his way in this stealthy manner, he arrived within less than two
hundred yards of the walls--just as the last trace of sunlight
disappeared from the sky.

He had reached the goal of his journey--for that day--and the spot on
which he was likely to pass the night.

A low stemless bush grew near; and, laying himself down behind it, he
resumed the espionage, that could scarce be said to have been
interrupted.

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

Throughout the live-long night Zeb Stump never closed both eyes at the
same time.  One was always on the watch; and the unflagging earnestness,
with which he maintained it, proclaimed him to be acting under the
influence of some motive beyond the common.

During the earlier hours he was not without sounds to cheer, or at least
relieve, the monotony of his lonely vigil.  There was the hum of voices
from the slave cabins; with now and then a peal of laughter.  But this
was more suppressed than customary; nor was it accompanied by the clear
strain of the violin, or the lively tink-a-tink of the banjo--sounds
almost characteristic of the "<DW64>-quarter," at night.

The sombre silence that hung over the "big house" extended to the
hearths of its sable retainers.

Before midnight the voices became hushed, and stillness reigned
everywhere; broken only at intervals by the howl of a straying hound--
uttered in response to the howl-bark of a coyote taking care to keep far
out upon the plain.

The watcher had spent a wearisome day, and could have slept--but for his
thoughts.  Once when these threatened to forsake him, and he was in
danger of dozing, he started suddenly to his feet; took a turn or two
over the sward; and, then lying down again, re-lit his pipe; stuck his
head into the heart of the bush; and smoked away till the bowl was burnt
empty.

During all this time, he kept his eyes upon the great gateway of the
mansion; whose massive door--he could tell by the moonlight shining upon
it--remained shut.

Again did he change his post of observation; the sun's rising--as its
setting had done--seeming to give him the cue.

As the first tint of dawn displayed itself on the horizon, he rose
gently to his feet; clutched the blanket so as to bring its edges in
contact across his breast; and, turning his back upon Casa del Corvo,
walked slowly away--taking the same track by which he had approached it
on the preceding night.

And again with unequal steps: at short intervals stopping and looking
back--under his arm, or over his shoulder.

Nowhere did he make a prolonged pause; until reaching the locust-tree,
under whose shade he had made his evening meal; and there, in the same
identical attitude, he proceeded to break his fast.

The second half of the "pone" and the remaining moiety of the pork, soon
disappeared between his teeth; after which followed the liquor that had
been left in his flask.

He had refilled his pipe, and was about relighting it, when an object
came before his eyes, that caused him hastily to return his flint and
steel to the pouch from which he had taken them.

Through the blue mist of the morning the entrance of Casa del Corvo
showed a darker disc.  The door had been drawn open.

Almost at the same instant a horseman was seen to sally forth, mounted
upon a small grey horse; and the door was at once closed behind him.

Zeb Stump made no note of this.  He only looked to see what direction
the early traveller would take.

Less than a score of seconds sufficed to satisfy him.  The horse's head
and the face of the rider were turned towards himself.

He lost no time in trying to identify either.  He did not doubt of its
being the same man and horse, that had passed that spot on the evening
before; and he was equally confident they were going to pass it again.

What he did was to shamble up to his mare; in some haste get her saddled
and bridled; and then, having taken up his trail rope, lead her off into
a cover--from which he could command a view of the chapparal path,
without danger of being himself seen.

This done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed--
whom he knew to be Captain Cassius Calhoun.

He waited still longer--until the latter had trotted past; until he had
gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the
morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond.

Not till then did Zeb Stump clamber into his saddle; and, "prodding" his
solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move
on.

He went after Cassius Calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern
about keeping the latter in sight!

He needed not this to guide him.  The dew upon the grass was to him a
spotless page--the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the
lines of a printed book.

He could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop!



CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

HEADS DOWN--HEELS UP!

Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house--except by
Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang--Calhoun rode on across the
prairie.

Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood
crouching in concealment.

In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye;
and he recked not of any other.

After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the
Nueces; riding at a brisk trot--now and then increasing to a canter.

Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that
was around.  An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy
him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before
his face.  He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once
behind--after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.

Before him was the object--still unseen--upon which his thoughts were
straying.

What that object was he and only one other knew--that other Zeb Stump--
though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion
of the nature of his early errand.

The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the
truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his
confidant.  He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the
Headless Horseman--in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a
better chance of effecting a capture.

Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means
sanguine of success.  There were many chances against his getting sight
of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was
that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.

The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon
some late experiences.

There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he
was in search of.  It might be there again?

This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by
the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening--where it was
supposed the murder had been committed!

"Odd he should always make back there?" reflected Calhoun, as he
pondered upon the circumstance.  "Damned ugly odd it is!  Looks as if he
knew--.  Bah!  It's only because the grass is better, and that pond by
the side of it.  Well!  I hope he's been thinking that way this morning.
If so, there'll be a chance of finding him.  If not, I must go on
through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it--though it be in the
daylight.  Ugh!

"Pish! what's there to fear--now that he's safe in limbo?  Nothing but
the _bit of lead_; and _it_ I must have, if I should ride this thing
till it drops dead in its tracks.  Holy Heaven! what's that out yonder?"

These last six words were spoken aloud.  All the rest had been a
soliloquy in thought.

The speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang
on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their
sockets, sate gazing across the plain.

There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance--there
was horror.

And no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify
the stoutest heart.

The sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind
the rider's back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing.
Before him, along the heaven's edge, extended a belt of bluish mist--
the exhalation arising out of the chapparal--now not far distant.  The
trees themselves were unseen--concealed under the film floating over
them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height
above their tops--gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky.

On this veil, or moving behind it--as in the transparencies of a stage
scene--appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator
incredulous, had he not beheld it before.  It was that of the Headless
Horseman.

But not as seen before--either by Calhoun himself, or any of the others.
No.  It was now altogether different.  In shape the same; but in size
it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions!

No longer a man, but a Colossus--a giant.  No longer a horse, but an
animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk
of a mastodon!

Nor was this all of the new to be noted about the Headless Horseman.  A
still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more
inexplicable, if that could possibly be.  He was no longer walking upon
the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an
inverted position!  The hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible
upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders--I had almost said
_head_--of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon!  The
serape shrouding them hung in the right direction--not as regarded the
laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer.  So, too, the bridle
reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse.  All draped _upwards_!

When first seen, the spectral form--now more spectre-like than ever--was
going at a slow, leisurely walk.  In this pace it for some time
continued--Calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror.

All of a sudden it assumed a change.  Its regular outlines became
confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone
off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels
against the sky!

The spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating!

Calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and
permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying
suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation.

As he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished
him that a real horseman was near--if that could be called real, which
had thrown such a frightful shadow.

"It's the _mirage_!" he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give
vent to his chagrin.  "What a fool I've been to let it humbug me!
There's the damned thing that did it: the very thing I'm in search of.
And so close too!  If I'd known, I might have got hold of him before he
saw me.  Now for a chase; and, by God, I'll _grup_ him, if I have to
gallop to the other end of Texas!"

Voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker's
earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full
stretch across the prairie--their horses both to the prairie born--one
closely pursuing the other--the pursued without a head; the pursuer with
a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination.

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

The chase was not a long one--at least, so far as it led over the open
prairie; and Calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect
of a capture.

His horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being
more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to
care for escaping.  Certainly the grey steed gained ground--at length
getting so close, that Calhoun made ready his rifle.

His intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the
pursuit.

He would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss.  But
having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling
trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot.

While thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless
plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber.

This movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and
in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was
left behind him.

He was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him--the place where
blood had been spilt.

On any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his
heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the
past--steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the
future.  The capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this
fear--by removing the danger he dreaded.

Once more he had gained ground in the chase.  The spread nostrils of his
steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued.  His
rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the
fingers of his right.  He was searching for a spot to take aim at.

In another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent
between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if
becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and
then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a
different direction!

The suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful "squeal"
that accompanied it--appearing almost to speak of an unearthly
intelligence--for the moment disconcerted Calhoun; as it did the horse
he was riding.

The latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur,
plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop.

And now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the
pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the
thicket.  The chase might there terminate, without the chased animal
being either killed or captured.

Hitherto Calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed.  He had not
anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and
with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the
shot.

By this time both were close in to the bushes--the Headless Horseman
already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along
his sides.  Only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these
was the gun levelled.

The sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard
simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came
whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull "thud" upon the turf.

With a bound and a roll--that brought it among the feet of Calhoun's
horse--it became stationary.

Stationary, but not still.  It continued to oscillate from side to side,
like a top before ceasing to spin.

The grey steed snorted, and reared back.  His rider uttered a cry of
intensified alarm.

And no wonder.  If read in Shakespearean lore, he might have
appropriately repeated the words "Shake not those gory locks": for, on
the ground beneath, was the head of a man--still sticking in its hat--
whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still.

The face was toward Calhoun--upturned at just such an angle as to bring
it full before him.  The features were bloodstained, wan, and
shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass;
the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an
expression of careless contentment.

All this saw Cassius Calhoun.

He saw it with fear and trembling.  Not for the supernatural or unknown,
but for the real and truly comprehended.

Short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head.  Ere it had
ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around;
struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground!

No farther went he in pursuit of the Headless Horseman--still heard
breaking through the bushes--but back--back to the prairie; and on, on,
to Casa del Corvo!



CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO.

A QUEER PARCEL.

The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as
leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no
particular motive for making haste.

And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have
observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his
nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time
cast before him.

He scarce deigned to look upon the "sign" left by Calhoun.  It he could
read out of the corner of his eye.  As to following it, the old mare
could have done that without him!

It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would
have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight.  But by doing this, the latter
might see _him_; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.

This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between;
and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to
the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.

Advancing slowly and with caution--but with that constancy that ensures
good speed--he arrived at length on the spot where the _mirage_ had made
itself manifest to Calhoun.

Zeb saw nothing of this.  It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the
prairie--the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.

He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would
have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together--those that went
after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun's new horse--of which Zeb had
already taken the measure.

About the tracks _underneath_ he had no conjecture--at least as regarded
their identification.  These he knew, as well as if his own mare had
made them.

"The skunk's hed a find!" were the words that escaped him, as he sate
gazing upon the double trail.  "It don't foller from thet," he
continued, in the same careless drawl, "thet he hez made a catch.  An'
yit, who knows?  Durn me, ef he moutn't!  Thur's lots o' chances for his
doin' it.  The mowstang may a let him come clost up--seein' as he's
ridin' one o' its own sort; an ef it dud--ay, ef it dud--

"What the durnation am I stannin' hyur for?  Thur ain't no time to be
wasted in shiller-shallerin'.  Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what
he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, 'ithout the ghost
o' a chance for gettin' it.

"I must make a better rate o' speed.  Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye
can't overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone.
Now for a spell o' yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi' any
o' them, I reckon--thet air when ye're pressed.  Gee-up!"

Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare
to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and
started her into a trot.  He had no desire to travel more rapidly than
was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply
ranging along the skyline in front of him.

"From the way his track runs," was his reflection, "I kin tell pretty
nigh whar it's goin' to fetch out.  Everything seems to go that way; an
so did he, poor young fellur--never more to come back.  Ah, wal! ef
t'aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards
wi' the skunk as destroyed him.  The Scripter sez, `a eye for a eye, an
a tooth for a tooth,' an I reckin I'll shet up somebody's daylights, an
spoil the use o' thur ivories afore I hev done wi' him.  Somebody as
don't suspeeshun it neyther, an that same--.  Heigh!  Yonner he goes!
An' yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat!  Full gallup both; an durn
me, if the grey aint a overtakin' him!

"They aint comin' this way, so 'tain't no use in our squattin', ole
gurl.  Stan' steady for all that.  He _mout_ see us movin'.

"No fear.  He's too full o' his frolic to look anywhar else, than
straight custrut afore him.  Ha! jest as I expected--into the openin'!
Right down it, fast as heels kin carry 'em!

"Now, my maar, on we go agin!"

Another stage of trotting--with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the
chapparal gap--brought Zeb to the timber.

Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and
was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the
bushes that bordered it.

He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance
ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare,
might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Geehosophat!" mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the
passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised.  "If
hell ain't _arter_, it's _inside_ o' him!  Durn me, ef thet face ain't
the ugliest picter this <DW53> ever clapped eyes on.  I shed pity the wife
as gets him.  Poor Miss Peintdexter!  I hope she'll be able to steer
clur o' havin' sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

LIMBS OF THE LAW.

On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military
prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently.
On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength.  The
fifth was appointed for his trial!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser.  There was no
regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the
gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and
the Court had not yet arrived.  For all that, a lawyer had appeared: a
"counsellor" of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio,
to conduct the case.  As a volunteer he had presented himself!

It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to
Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had
induced him to make the journey.

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

The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second
presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the
side of the prisoner.

This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a
voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from
the metropolis of the Emerald Isle.  He had come for no other purpose
than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a
murder!

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

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

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

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

If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his
madness.  Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he
was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison--as often as it
seemed good to him.

Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had
procured him this privilege; at the same time placing him _en rapport_,
in a friendly way, with the Texan "counsellor."

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

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

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

There was not much time for him to use his tongue.  On the day after his
arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he
was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with
the San Antonio counsel.

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

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

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

Zeb himself did not appear in their company.  Only once had he been seen
conferring with them.  After that he was gone--both from the guard-house
and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business--
in search of deer, "baar," or "gobbler."

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

It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds
or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be
classed with creatures either of the earth or the air--a horseman
without a head!



CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.

AN AFFECTIONATE NEPHEW.

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

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

"Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger!

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

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

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

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

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

"It's no use crying over spilt milk.  She's met the man, and there's an
end of it.  She'll never meet him again, and that's another end of it--
except she meet him in heaven.  Well; that will depend upon herself.

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

"She shall speak it, if she don't say that other word, I've twice asked
her for.  The third time will be the last.  One more refusal, and I show
my hand.  Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she
shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, <DW65>s,
everything--.  Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you."

The soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by
Cassius Calhoun.

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

"Want me!  For what, nephew?"

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

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

But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.

"I want to talk to you about Loo," was the rejoinder of Calhoun.

It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned.  It was
something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of
discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.

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

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

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

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

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

This was said almost supplicatingly.

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

"You know my reasons, nephew?"

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

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

"You have a daughter; and she--"

"Has disgraced me!"

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

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

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

Calhoun did _not_ think so.

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

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

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

The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration.  He expected
it.  For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow.  It was evident
he did not relish the proposed alliance.

This may seem strange.  Up to a late period, he had been its advocate--
in his own mind--and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his
daughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival
at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.

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

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

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

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

"If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean _marriage_!  Surely it is
not the time to talk of it now--while death is in our house!  To think
of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement."

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

"I do not understand you, Cash."

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

"Go on."

"Well; what I want to say is this.  I've made up my mind to get married.
I'm now close upon thirty--as you know; and at that time a man begins
to get tired of running about the world.  I'm damnably tired of it; and
don't intend to keep single any longer.  _I'm willing to have Loo for my
wife_.  There need be no hurry about it.  All I want now is her promise;
signed and sealed, that there may be no _fluke_, or uncertainty.  I want
the thing settled.  When these _bothers_ blow past, it will be time
enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing."

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

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

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

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

"Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough.  But I know not
my daughter's disposition towards you.  You say you are willing to have
her for your wife.  Is she willing to have you?  I suppose there is a
question about that?"

"I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself.  You are her
father.  Surely you can _convince_ her?"

"I'm not so sure of that.  She's not of the kind to be convinced--
against her will.  You, Cash, know that as well as I."

"Well, I only know that I intend getting `spliced,' as the sailors say;
and I'd like Loo for the _mistress of Casa del Corvo_, better than any
other woman in the Settlement--in all Texas, for that matter."

Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech.  It was the first
time he had been told, that he was not the _master_ of Casa del Corvo!
Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.

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

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

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

"Loo!"

"Father!"

"I come to ask a favour from you."

"What is it, father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

A KIND COUSIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What he did say was:--

"You're not in earnest, Loo?"

"I am, sir.  Have I spoken like one who jests?"

"You've spoken like one, who hasn't taken pains to reflect."

"Upon what?"

"Many things."

"Name them!"

"Well, for one--the way I love you."

She made no rejoinder.

"A love," he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; "a
love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it.  It can end
only with my life.  It could not end with _yours_."

There was a pause, but still no reply.

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

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

"You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in
beauty--as beautiful as you are at this moment.

"No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me
along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the
touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty
prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor
distance, nor yet _dissipation_, has been able to efface."

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

Still did she keep silence.

Calhoun continued:--

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

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

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

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

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

"I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken.  I'll
say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.'  Those were the words
upon your lips.

"I don't say you did," he continued, with deepening despair: "I don't
accuse you of tempting me.  Something did.  God, who gave you such
beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it."

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

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

"I repeat it.  It is not idle.  Far more so is your affection for me:
for I must be candid with you, Cassius.  I do not--I _cannot_, love
you."

"You will not marry me then?"

"That, at least, is an idle question.  I've said I do not love you.
Surely that is sufficient."

"And I've said I love _you_.  I gave it as one reason why I wish you for
my wife: but there are _others_.  Are you desirous of hearing them?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed!" he retorted, sneeringly.  "Well; if I'm not master of your
heart, I am of your happiness--or shall be.  I know the worthless wretch
that's driven you to this denial--"

"Who?"

"How innocent you are!"

"Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself.
In that sense I can understand you, sir.  The description is too true to
be mistaken."

"Be it so!" he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping
himself under a certain restraint.  "Well; since you think me so
worthless, it won't, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell
you what I'm going to do with you?"

"Do with me!  You are presumptuous, cousin Cash!  You talk as if I were
your _protegee_, or slave!  I'm neither one, nor the other!"

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

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

"You shall."

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

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

"Go on, sir!  What is to be my destiny?  I'm impatient to have it
declared."

"Don't be in a hurry.  The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow."

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

"In a court of justice."

"How, sir?"

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

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

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

"'Tis false!  Maurice Gerald never--"

"Did the deed, you are going to say?  Well, that remains to be proved.
It _will_ be; and from your own lips will come the words that'll prove
it--to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury."

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

It was some seconds before she essayed to speak.  Thoughts, conjectures,
fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.

"I know not what you mean," she at length rejoined.  "You talk of my
being called into court.  For what purpose?  Though I am the sister of
him, who--I know nothing--can tell no more than is in the mouth of
everybody."

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

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

"Two--who were they?"

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

It was answered with equal _sang froid_.

"One was Cassius Calhoun--the other Louise Poindexter."  She did not
start.  She did not even show sign of being surprised.  What was spoken
already had prepared her for the revelation.  Her rejoinder was a single
word, pronounced in a tone of defiance.  "Well!"

"Well!" echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had
produced; "I suppose you understand me?"

"Not any more than ever."

"You wish me to speak further?"

"As you please, sir."

"I shall then.  I say to you, Loo, there's but one way to save your
father from ruin--yourself from shame.  You know what I mean?"

"Yes; I know that much."

"You will not refuse me now?"

"_Now_ more than _ever_!"

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

A TEXAN COURT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series
of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in
some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole
talk of the Settlement.

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

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

Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of
interest in the fate of the prisoner.  There are others inspired with a
still sadder interest--friends and relatives of the man _supposed to
have been_ murdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no
evidence of the actuality of the crime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Court is in session.

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

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

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

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

There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used
for this and other purposes.  But the day promises to be hot, and the
Court has decided to _sit under a tree_!

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

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

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

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

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

There are lawyers among them--attorneys, and _counsellors_, there
called--with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff
and his "deputy"; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the
doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.

A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of
them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half "squatted" or
reclining along the grass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN.

A FALSE WITNESS.

There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the
accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his
name.  Perhaps not any.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such is the sentiment of this far free land.

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

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

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

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

Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with
interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.

There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression
altogether unlike the rest--a gaze soft, but steadfast--in which fear
and fondness seem strangely commingled.

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

There are few who can interpret it.

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

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

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

The trial begins.

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

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

"Gentlemen of the jury!  We are here assembled to try a case, the
particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you.  A man has
been murdered,--the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the
prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime.  It is my
duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial.  It is
yours to decide--after hearing the evidence to be laid before you--
whether or not the accusation be sustained."

The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,--"_Guilty, or
not guilty_?"

"Not guilty," is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.

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

The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.

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

First called is Franz Oberdoffer.

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

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.

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

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?

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.

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

"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."

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

"_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!"

Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange
congratulations.  A single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in
response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on
the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.

He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed
to the bystanders.

After a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off.

The spectators stand gazing after.  There is no longer a doubt as to the
result.  The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief.  God
has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be
overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where
he so late stood a too willing witness!

And the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is
the instrument chosen to carry out the Divine decree!

Even the rude Regulators--with their practical habitudes of life, but
little regarding the idea of Divine interference--cannot help having the
impression of this poetical justice.

One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the
prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.

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

After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak.
It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every
one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast
receding from view.

There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others.  A lady strains
her eyes through the curtains of a _caleche_--her glance telling of a
thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.

It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell
in quick spasmodic breathing.  In her eye, still showing sadness, there
is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer--tempered with mercy, as
it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes
the prayer: "_God have mercy on the guilty man_!"

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

Delayed a little at mounting--and more in procuring the lazo--Maurice
Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground.  On clearing the skirt of
the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead--
a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.

He thinks nothing of this.  Confident in the qualities of his steed, he
knows he will not long ride in the rear.

And the blood-bay answers his expectations.  As if joyed at being
relieved from his inert load--to him an incubus inexplicable--and
inspired by the pressure of his master's knees, the noble horse springs
off over the prairie turf--in long sinewy strides, showing that his body
still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.

He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and
another, till he has surged far ahead of the "field."

Still on, over the rolling ridges--across the stream-beds between--on,
over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose
sight of him--as they have already done of the grey mustang and its
rider.

There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in
view--a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of
steeds--an old mustang mare.

Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest
of spurs--the keen blade of a bowie-knife.

It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of
persuasion.

Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the
mustanger.  Nor does Zeb expect it.  He but aims at holding the latter
in sight; and in this he is so far successful.

There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous
bounds.  He beholds him with "beard upon the shoulder."  It is he who is
pursued.

Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back,
catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape
upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more
terrible.  He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger--the man he
would have devoted--was so near devoting--to the most disgraceful of
deaths!

He sees this man coming after--his own conscience tells him--as an
avenger!

Is it the hand of God that directs this enemy on his track?  He trembles
as he asks himself the question.  From any other pursuer there might
have been a chance of escaping.  There is none from Maurice Gerald!

A cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive.  He feels as if he
were fighting against Fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest!

He sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no
longer believing that speed can avail him!

His flight is now merely mechanical--his mind taking no part in the
performance.

His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death--not less dread,
from his knowing that he deserves it.

The sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh
hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he
struggles on towards it.

An opening presents itself.  He enters it; and continues his gallop for
a half mile further.

He arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy
timber.  Beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight
of his pursuer.

He knows the place, but too well.  It has been fatal to him before.  Is
it to prove so again?

It is.  He feels that it is, and rides irresolutely.  He hears the
hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along
with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!

He is too late for turning the corner,--too late to seek concealment in
the thicket,--and with a cry he reins up.

It is a cry partly of despair, partly of fierce defiance--like the
scream of a chased jaguar under bay of the bloodhounds.

It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of
white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a
revolver.

But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the
opposite direction is heard a hishing sound--as from the winding of a
sling--and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!

Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke.  It is darting straight
towards him!

He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot--no time even to avoid
the lazo's loop.  Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his
shoulders; he hears the dread summons, "_Surrender, you assassin_!" he
sees the red stallion turn tail towards him; and, in the next instant,
experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!

Beyond this he feels, hears, and sees nothing more.

He has been jerked out of his saddle; and the shock received in his
collision with the hard turf has knocked the breath out of his body, as
well as the sense out of his soul!



CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT.

NOT DEAD YET.

The assassin lies stretched along the earth--his arms embraced by the
raw-hide rope--to all appearance dead.

But his captor does not trust to this.  He believes it to be only a
faint--it may be a feint--and to make sure it is not the latter, he
remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain.

The blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a
tree--ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest
sign.

It is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region
of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of
Tamaulipas and Texas.

Oft--too oft--has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene--
with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak!

Even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report
of the pistol, are hovering in the air--their naked necks elongated in
eager anticipation of a feast!

One touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would
give them what they want.

"It would serve the scoundrel right," mutters the mustanger to himself.
"Great God, to think of the crime he has committed!  Killed his own
cousin, and then cut off his head!  There can be no doubt that he has
done both; though from what motive, God only can tell,--or himself, if
he be still alive.

"I have my own thoughts about it.  I know that he loves _her_; and it
may be that the brother stood in his way.

"But how, and why?  That is the question that requires an answer.
Perhaps it can only be answered by God and himself?"

"Yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur," interposes a voice breaking in
on the soliloquy.  "Thur's one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as
well as eyther o' them ye've made mention o'; and thet individooal air
ole Zeb Stump, at your sarvice.  But 'taint the time to talk o' sech
things now; not hyur ain't the place neythur.  We must take _him_ back
unner the live oak, whar he'll git treated accordin' to his desarvins.
Durn his ugly picter!  It would sarve him right to make it uglier by
draggin' him a spell at the eend o' yur trail-rope.

"Never mind beout that.  We needn't volunteer to be Henry Peintdexter's
'vengers.  From what they know now, I reck'n that kin be trusted to the
Regulators."

"How are we to get him back?  His horse has galloped away!"

"No difeequilty beout that, Mister Gerald.  He's only fainted a bit; or
maybe, playin' possum.  In eyther case, I'll soon roust him.  If he
ain't able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur's
the critter as 'll carry him.  I'm sick o' the seddle myself, an I
reck'n the ole gal's a leetle bit sick o' me--leestwise o' the spur I've
been a prickin' into her.  I've made up my mind to go back on Shanks's
maar, an as for Mister Cash Calhoun, he's welkim to hev my seat for the
reeturn jerney.  Ef he don't stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack
him acrost the crupper, like a side o' dead buck-meat.  Yo-ho! he begins
to show sign!  He'll soon rekiver his senses--all seven o' 'em, I
reck'n--an then he kin mount the maar o' hisself.

"Yee-up, ole hoss!" continues Zeb, grasping Calhoun by the collar of his
coat, and giving him a vigorous shake.  "Yee-up, I say; an kum along wi'
us!  Ye're wanted.  Thar's somebody desirin' to have a talk wi' you!"

"Who? where?" inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and
staring unsteadily around him.  "Who wants me?"

"Wal; I do for one; an--"

"Ah! you it is, Zeb Stump! and--and--?"

"An' that air's Mister Maurice Gerald the mowstanger.  You've seed him
afore, I reck'n?  He wants ye for two.  Beside, thar's a good grist o'
others as ud like to see ye agin--back thar by the Port.  So ye'd best
get upon yur legs, an' go along wi' us."

The wretched man rises to his feet.  In so doing, he discovers that his
arms are encircled by a lazo.

"My horse?" he exclaims, looking inquiringly around.  "Where is my
horse?"

"Ole Nick only knows whar _he_ air by this time.  Like enuf gone back to
the Grand, whar he kim from.  Arter the gallupin ye've gi'n him, I
reck'n he air sick o' the swop; an's goed off to take a spell o' rest on
his native pasters."

Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment.
The swop!  Even this, too, is known to him!

"Now, then," pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience.  "'Twon't do to
keep the Court a-waitin'.  Are ye riddy?"

"Ready for what?"

"Fust an foremost, to go back along wi' me an Mister Gerald.  Second an
second-most, to stan' yur trial."

"Trial!  I stand trial!"

"You, Mister Cash Calhoun."

"On what charge?"

"The churge o' killin' Henry Peintdexter--yur own cousin."

"It's a lie!  A damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it--!"

"Shet up yur head!" cries Zeb, with an authoritative gesture.  "Ye're
only wastin' breath.  Ef this chile ain't mistook about it, ye'll need
all ye've got afore long.  Kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi' us!  The
judge air awaitin'; the jury air awaitin'; an _justice_ air waitin',
too--in the shape o' three score Reg'lators."

"I'm not going back," doggedly responds Calhoun.  "By what authority do
you command me?  You have no warrant?"

"Hain't I, though?" interrupts Zeb.  "What d'ye call this?" he adds,
pointing to his rifle.  "Thur's my warrant, by the grace o' God; an by
thet same, this chile air a goin' to execute it.  So no more o' yur
durned palaver: for I ain't the sort to stan' it.  Take yur choice,
Mister Cash Calhoun.  Mount thet old maar o' mine, an kum along quickly;
or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o' merchandice:
for back yur boun' to go--I swar it by the Eturnal!"

Calhoun makes no reply.  He glances at Stump--at Gerald--despairingly
around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the
breast-pocket of his coat--the counterpart of that shaken out of his
hand, as the rope settled around him.

He makes an effort to reach the pistol--feeble, because only half
resolved.

He is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of
Zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level.

"Quick!" exclaims the hunter.  "Mount, Mister Calhoun!  Thur's the maar
awaitin' for ye.  Inter the seddle, I say!"

Like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of
cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman.  He
does so, from a consciousness that there is death--certain death--in
disobeying them.

Mechanically he mounts the mare; and, without resistance, suffers her to
be led away from the spot.

Zeb, afoot, strides on in advance.

The mare, at bridle-length, follows upon his tracks.

The mustanger rides reflectingly behind; thinking less of him held at
the end of his lazo, than of her, who by a generous self-sacrifice, has
that day riveted around his heart a golden chain--only by death to be
undone!



CHAPTER NINETY NINE.

ATTEMPTED MURDER AND SUICIDE.

After its second involuntary recess--less prolonged than the first--the
Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.

It is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the
space canopied by the tree.

From the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed
to a lurid red--as if there was anger in the sky!

It is but an accident of the atmosphere--the portent of an approaching
storm.

For all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming
at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who
look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances.

It would seem as if Heaven's wrath was acting in concert with the
passions of Earth!

Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes.  He has
been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses.

In the place late occupied by him another stands.  Cassius Calhoun is
now the prisoner at the bar!

This is the only change observable.

The judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before;
though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the
accused.

His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered.

It has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt.  The evidence is
already before them; and though entirely circumstantial--as in most
cases of murder--the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive
and complete.

There is but one missing link--if link it may be called--the _motive_.

The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of
Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body.
The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that
Henry Poindexter's death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after
his receiving the shot.

Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin?  _Why_ cut off
his head?

No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself.  No one
expects him to do so--save to his Maker.

Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not
deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.

The trial has come to a close; the verdict _Guilty_ has been given; and
the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black
cap--that dread emblem of death--preparatory to pronouncing the
sentence.

In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his
final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for
sentence.

He starts at the invitation--falling, as it does, like a death-knell
upon his ear.

He looks wildly around.  Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle
him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.

There is not even pity.  All appear to frown upon him.

His confederates--those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him--
are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence.  They have
shrunk out of sight--before the majesty of the law, and the damning
evidence of his guilt.

Despite his social standing--and the wealth to sustain it--he sees
himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin
in Texas!

His demeanour is completely changed.  In place of that high haughty
air--oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism--he looks cowed and craven.

And not strange that he should.

He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the
side of his coffin--on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to
contemplate.

To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.

All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes--sunken as they are
in the midst of two livid circles.  He has the air of one on the eve of
making confession.

Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt?  Is he about to unburden his
conscience of the weight that must be on it?

The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing
him.

There is silence even among the cicadas.

It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?

"_Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be
pronounced upon you_?"

"No!" he replies, "I have not.  The jury has given a just verdict.  I
acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it."

Not during all the day--despite its many strange incidents and startling
surprises--have the spectators been so astonished.  They are confounded
beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to
proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.

"It is quite true," continues he, "that I killed Henry Poindexter--shot
him dead in the chapparal."

The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd.  It is altogether
involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.

Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it--proceeding from a
single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man--
once more in their midst.

Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the
confession from being continued.

"I know that I've got to die," proceeds the prisoner, with an air of
seeming recklessness.  "You have decreed it; and I can tell by your
looks you have no intention to change your minds.

"After what I've confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon;
and I don't.  I've been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to
deserve my fate.  But, bad as I may have been, I'm not vile enough to be
sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of
having _murdered_ my own cousin.  I did take his life, as I've told you.
You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive.  There was
none."

A new "sensation" makes itself manifest among the spectators.  It
partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.

No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.

"You wonder at that.  It's easily explained.  _I killed him by
mistake_!"

The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.

"Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that
I had made it.  I didn't know myself till long after."

The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord
of mercy.  There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him--still
solemnly austere.

"I don't deny," continues he; "I needn't--that I intended to kill some
one.  I did.  Nor am I going to deny who it was.  It was the cur I _see_
standing before me."

In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon
Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray
indifference.

"Yes.  I intended to kill _him_.  I had my reasons.  I'm not going to
say what they were.  It's no use now.

"I thought I _had_ killed him; but, as hell's luck would have it, the
Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.

"You know the rest.  By mistake I fired the shot--meant for an enemy,
and fatal to a friend.  It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from
his horse.  But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed
serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head."

The "sensation" again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts--the
latter prolonged into cries of retribution--mingled with that murmuring
which proclaims a story told.

There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the
prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left
the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.

"Now!" cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand
glaring upon him, "you know all that's passed; but not what's to come.
There's another scene yet.  You see me standing on my grave; but I don't
go into it, till I've sent _him_ to _his_.  I don't, by God!"

There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech--the
last of Calhoun's life.  Its meaning is made clear by the act that
accompanies it.

While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his
coat.  Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.

The spectators have just time to see the pistol--as it glints under the
slanting sunbeams--when two shots are heard in quick succession.

With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and
lie with their heads closely contiguous!

One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger,--the other Cassius Calhoun,
ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the
stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive
tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.

JOY.

Joy!

There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only
the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure.
There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her
lover still lived.

Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she
was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the
subdued happiness that succeeded?  Not I.  Not you, if you speak truly.

The passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly
Puritan standard.  Still is it according to the dictates of Nature--
universal and irresistible--telling us that father, mother, sister, and
brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only
exceeded--sometimes scarce equalled--by the love of self.

Do not reproach the young Creole, because this passion was paramount in
her soul.  Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that
should otherwise have been devoted to sadness.  Nor, that her happiness
was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her
lover's life had been preserved--as it might seem miraculously.

The aim of the assassin had been true enough.  He must have felt sure of
it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the
bullet that had lodged in his brain.  Right over the heart he had hit
his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have
made its way, but that a _gage d'amour_--the gift of her who alone could
have secured it such a place--turned aside the shot, causing it to
_ricochet_!

Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing
too close to the spot.

Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.

The stunning shock--with the mental and corporeal excitement--long
sustained--did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice
Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.

But no longer lay his body in danger--in the chapparal, surrounded by
wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures,--in a hut, where he was but
ill attended--in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.

When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair
vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman--the
loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like--by name Louise
Poindexter.

There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own
father.  The spirit of the aristocratic planter--steeped in sorrow, and
humiliated by misfortune--had become purged of its false pride; though
it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance,
which, instead of a "nobody," gave him a nobleman for his son.  Such, in
reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald--erst known as Maurice the mustanger!

In Texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care
to carry it.  But, by a bit of good fortune--not always attendant on an
Irish baronetcy--it carried along with it an endowment--ample enough to
clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Cassius Calhoun,
and claimed by his nearest of kin.

This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun's death, it was
discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict; and there was a
young scion of his stock--living in New Orleans--who had the legal right
to say he was his son!

It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement,
became the husband of the fair Creole.

After a visit to his native land--including the European tour--which was
also that of his honeymoon--Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations,
once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.

The "blue-eyed colleen" of Castle Ballagh must have been a myth--having
existence only in the erratic fancy of Phelim.  Or it may have been the
bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming--by absence, oft
fatal to such tender plants of passion?

Whether or no, Louise Poindexter--Lady Gerald she must now be called--
during her sojourn in the Emerald Isle saw nothing to excite her to
jealousy.

Only once again did this fell passion take possession of her spirit; and
then only in the shape of a shadow soon to pass away.

It was one day when her husband came home to the hacienda--bearing in
his arms the body of a beautiful woman!

Not yet dead; though the blood streaming from a wound in her bared bosom
showed she had not long to live.

To the question, "Who has done this?" she was only able to answer,
"Diaz--Diaz!"

It was the last utterance of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos!

As the spirit of the unhappy _senorita_ passed into eternity, along with
it went all rancour from that of her more fortunate rival.  There can be
no jealousy of the dead.  That of Lady Gerald was at rest, and for ever.

It was succeeded by a strong sympathy for the ill-fated Isidora; whose
story she now better comprehended.  She even assisted her lord in the
saddling of his red-bay steed, and encouraged him in the pursuit of the
assassin.

She joyed to see the latter led back at the end of a lazo--held in the
hand of her husband; and refused to interfere, when a band of
Regulators, called hastily together, dealt out summary chastisement--by
hanging him to a tree!

It was not cruelty--only a crude kind of justice:--"an eye for an eye,
and a tooth for a tooth."

And what a poor compensation it seemed, to those who had taken part in
exacting it!

As they stood gazing upon the remains of the villain, and his victim--
the swarth ruffian dangling from the branch above, and the fair form
lying underneath--the hearts of the Texans were touched--as perhaps they
had never been before.

There was a strange thought passing through their minds; a sadness
independent of that caused by the spectacle of a murder.  It was regret
at having so hastily despatched the assassin!

Beautiful, even in death, was Isidora.  Such features as she possessed,
owe not everything to the light of life.  That voluptuous shape--the
true form divine--may be admired in the cold statue.

Men stood gazing upon her dead body--long gazing--loth to go away--at
length going with thoughts not altogether sacred!

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

In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the
moral, it is oft the restorer.  Nowhere has it effected greater changes
than in Texas--during the last decade--and especially in the settlements
of the Nueces and Leona.

Plantations have sprung up, where late the _chapparal_ thickly covered
the earth; and cities stand, where the wild steed once roamed over a
pathless prairie.

There are new names for men, places, and things.

For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient
hacienda--still known as Casa del Corvo.

Once there, you would become the recipient of a hospitality, unequalled
in European lands.

You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for
your hostess one of its most beautiful women--both still this side of
middle life.

Residing under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of
aristocratic air and venerable aspect--withal chatty and cheerful--who
would conduct you around the _corrales_, show you the stock, and never
tire of talking about the hundreds--ay thousands--of horses and horned
cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.

You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more
especially of his beautiful daughter--the mistress of the mansion--and
the half-dozen pretty prattlers who cling to his skirts, and call him
their "dear grandpa."

Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other
individuals attached to the establishment.

One is the _groom_ of the "stole,"--by name Phelim O'Neal--who has full
charge of the horses.  The other a coachman of sable skin, yclept Pluto
Poindexter; who would scorn to look at a horse except when perched upon
the "box," and after having the "ribbons" deftly delivered into his
hands.

Since we last saw him, the gay Pluto has become tamed down to a staid
and sober Benedict--black though he be.

Florinda--now the better half of his life--has effected the
transformation.

There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot
fail to become acquainted.  You will hear it mentioned, almost every
time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the
head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of
a rifle that rarely misses its aim.

During the course of the meal--but much more over the wine--you will
hear talk of "Zeb Stump the hunter."

You may not often see him.  He will be gone from the hacienda, before
you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired.  But the
huge gobbler seen in the "smoke-house," and the haunch of venison
hanging by its side, are evidence he has been there.

While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story
connected with the place--now almost reduced to a legend.

The domestics will tell it you, but only in whispers: since they know
that it is a theme _tabooed_ by the master and mistress of the mansion,
in whom it excites sad souvenirs.

It is the story of the Headless Horseman.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Headless Horseman, by Mayne Reid

*** 