The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

“Div yez think they waren’t Indyins, afther all?”

“Ne’er a matter what I think. Thur’s no time to talk o’ that now. Go on, an tell me o’ all ye seed an heern.”

When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon the grass.

His object was, as he said himself, to have “a good think;” which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while “hampered wi’ a house abeout him.”

It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.

Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut – when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before.

Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands! This last might be a trick. What else could it be?

Still was it a strange time for tricks – when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer – more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should be playing them!

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation – or rather conglomeration of circumstances – events without causes – causes without sequence – crimes committed without any probable motive – mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter – a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery – Maurice having departed for the prairies – Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness – in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.

That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief. Only by the evidence of his eyes could Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.

After spending a full half hour at his “think,” he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circumstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men – he did not believe them to be Indians – had been making free with the mustanger’s hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed. But the presence of these men at the jacalé, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!

A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind. He entertained for the young Irishman a peculiar affection – strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyoté, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart.

He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance.

So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature’s presence. And then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.

“What is it, Pheelum? What’s wrong? Hes a snake bit ye?”

“Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara! See! thare’s somethin’ tied about his neck. It wasn’t there when he lift. What do yez think it is?”

The hunter’s eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal’s neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides – a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!

Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in fear.

A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again.

The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a card!

There was a name upon the card, and writing – writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was blood!

The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. Even Zeb Stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.

As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!

“Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; “and thank my ole Katinuck schoolmaster for puttin’ me clar through my Webster’s spellin’-book. He lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can’t read. No matter. He lives! he lives!”

“Who? Masther Maurice? Thin the Lord be thanked – ”

“Wagh! thur’s no time to thank him now. Get a blanket an some pieces o’ horse-hide thong. Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar. Quick! Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!”

Chapter Fifty Three.

Just in Time

“Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!”

They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.

They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger – once more surrounded by the coyotés.

But it was not these he had need to fear. A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.

Maurice Gerald – by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat – after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.

With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.

He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.

The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. But to what end? The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger – perhaps of the wounds he had received?

He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position.

At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. Tara might take a message to the hut!

“If I could but get him to go,” said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. “Come hither, old fellow!” he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; “I want you to play postman for me – to carry a letter. You understand? Wait till I’ve got it written. I shall then explain myself more fully.”

“By good luck I’ve got a card,” he added, feeling for his case. “No pencil! That don’t matter. There’s plenty of ink around; and for a pen I can use the thorn of yonder maguey.”

He crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyoté that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it.

With a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the lining of the Panama hat.

It only remained to despatch the canine post upon his errand. This proved a somewhat difficult task. The dumb creature, despite a wondrous intelligence, could not comprehend why he should forsake the side of one he had so faithfully befriended; and for a long time resisted the coaxings and chidings, meant to warn him away.

It was only after being scolded in a tone of assumed anger, and beaten by the black-jack crutch – stricken by the man whose life he had so lately saved, that he had consented to leave the spot. Even canine affection could not endure this; and with repeated looks of reproach, cast backwards as he was chased off, he trotted reluctantly into the chapparal.

“Poor fellow!” soliloquised Maurice, as the dog disappeared from his view. “’Tis like boating one’s self, or one’s dearest friend! Well, I shall make up for it in extra kindness if I have the good fortune to see him again.