The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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 cortège; 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 jacalé. 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.