The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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?”