The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

“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.