The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows, – flashing out into the open sunlight.

“A woman! a beautiful woman!”

’Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.

Like a meteor she pauses through their midst – glides on without giving a glance on either side – without speech, without halt – till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”

They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues: —

“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel – condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My scorn upon you – not men, but murderers!”

“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad – Loo – mad! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away – this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”

“Father, it does concern me!”

“How? – how? – oh true – as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother.”

“I will not —cannot believe it. Never – never! There was no motive. O men! if you be men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then – then – ”

“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Ne’er a doubt about his being guilty. It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else. And it don’t look well, Miss Poindexter – excuse me for saying it; – but it don’t look just the thing, that you should be trying to screen him from his deserving.”

“No, that it don’t,” chime in several voices. “Justice must take its course!” shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.

“It must! – it must!” echoes the chorus. “We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”

“Come, Loo! ’Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!”

“No, father, I will not – I shall not – till you have promised – till these men promise – ”

“We can’t promise you anything, miss – however much we might like it. It ain’t a question for women, no how. There’s been a crime committed – a murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice. There’s no mercy for a murderer!”

“No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices. “Let him be hanged – hanged – hanged!”

The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Cassius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.

In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten, – that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.

The lady is led aside – dragged rather than led – by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her – wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

“Monsters! murderers!” are the phrases that fall from her lips.

Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd – beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear – heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold of her.

It scarce consoles him – that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!

Chapter Sixty Five.

Still another Interlude

For a third time is the tableau reconstructed – spectators and actors in the dread drama taking their places as before.

The lazo is once more passed over the limb; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end – this time drawing it towards them till it becomes taut.

For the third time arises the reflection:

“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”

Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end. Even love has proved powerless to save him! Wha power on earth can be appealed to after this? None likely to avail.

But there appears no chance of succour – no time for it. There is no mercy in the stern looks of the Regulators – only impatience. The hangmen, too, appear in a hurry – as if they were in dread of another interruption. They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners. The physiognomy of either would give colour to the assumption, that they had been accustomed to the calling.

In less than sixty seconds they shall have finished the “job.”

“Now then, Bill! Are ye ready?” shouts one to the other – by the question proclaiming, that they no longer intend to wait for the word.

“All right!” responds Bill. “Up with the son of a skunk! Up with him!”

There is a pull upon the rope, but not sufficient to raise the body into an erect position. It tightens around the neck; lifts the head a little from the ground, but nothing more!

Only one of the hangmen has given his strength to the pull. “Haul, damn you!” cries Bill, astonished at the inaction of his assistant. “Why the hell don’t you haul?”

Bill’s back is turned towards an intruder, that, seen by the other, has hindered him from lending a hand. He stands as if suddenly transformed into stone!

“Come!” continues the chief executioner. “Let’s go at it again – both together. Yee – up! Up with him!”

“No ye don’t!” calls out a voice in the tones of a stentor; while a man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into the thick of the crowd.

“No ye don’t!” he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope. “Not yet a bit, as this coon kalkerlates. You, Bill Griffin; pull that piece o’ pleeted hoss-hair but the eighth o’ an inch tighter, and ye’ll git a blue pill in yer stummuk as won’t agree wi’ ye. Drop the rope, durn ye! Drop it!”

The screaming of Zeb Stump’s mare scarce created a more sudden diversion than the appearance of Zeb himself – for it was he who had hurried upon the ground.

He was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by many.

Among the last were Bill Griffin, and his fellow rope-holder. No longer holding it: for at the command to drop it, yielding to a quick perception of danger, both had let go; and the lazo lay loose along the sward.

“What durned tom-foolery’s this, boys?” continues the colossus, addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise. “Ye don’t mean hangin’, do ye?”

“We do,” answers a stern voice. “And why not?” asks another.

“Why not! Ye’d hang a fellur-citizen ’ithout trial, wud ye?”

“Not much of a fellow-citizen – so far as that goes. Besides, he’s had a trial – a fair trial.”