The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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 catré– 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 div 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 métier 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.”