The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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 monté. He is desirous of having his revanche: for he well knows how his confrères will spend the time in his absence.

“Quick. Señor 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 monté. 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 jacalé, 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 serapé.

Cavallo and soto (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monté 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 jacalé.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetés. 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 cañada– 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 slope!

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 slope, 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.