"A Strange Tale of Texas" (continued 10)

“Ole fool!” echoes the hunter, with a screech; “Ole fool! Hell an herrikins! Ye call me an ole fool? By the eturnal God! ye’ll live to take back that speech, or my name aint Zeblun Stump, o’ Kaintucky. Ne’er a mind now; thur’s a time for everythin’, an yur time may come, Mister Cash Calhoun, sooner than ye surspecks it.”

“As for a quarrel atween Henry Peintdexter an the young fellur hyur,” continues Zeb, addressing himself to the Regulator Chief, “I don’t believe a word on’t; nor won’t, so long’s thur’s no better proof than his palaverin’. From what this chile knows, it don’t stan’ to reezun. Ye say ye’ve got new facks? So’ve I too. Facks I reck’n thet’ll go a good way torst explicatin o’ this mysteerus bizness, twisted up as it air.”

“What facts?” demands the Regulator Chief. “Let’s hear them, Stump.”

“Thur’s more than one. Fust place what do ye make o’ the young fellur bein’ wownded hisself? I don’t talk o’ them scratches ye see; I believe them’s done by coyoats that attackted him, arter they see’d he wur wownded. But look at his knee Somethin’ else than coyoats did that. What do you make o’ it, Sam Manly?”

“Well, that—some of the boys here think there’s been a struggle between him and—”

“Atween him an who?” sharply interrogates Zeb.

“Why, the man that’s missing.”

“Yes, that’s he who we mean,” speaks one of the “boys” referred to. “We all know that Harry Poindexter wouldn’t a stood to be shot down like a calf. They’ve had a tussle, and a fall among the rocks. That’s what’s given him the swellin’ in the knee. Besides, there’s the mark of a blow upon his head—looks like it had been the butt of a pistol. As for the scratches, we can’t tell what’s made them. Thorns may be; or wolves if you like. That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won’t do for us.”

“What fellur air ye talkin’ o’? Ye mean Irish Pheelum? Where air he?”

“Stole away to save his carcass. We’ll find him, as soon as we’ve settled this business; and I guess a little hanging will draw the truth out of him.”

“If ye mean abeout the tiger, ye’ll draw no other truth out o’ him than hat ye’ve got a’ready. I see’d thet varmint myself, an war jest in time to save the young fellur from its claws. But thet aint the peint. Ye’ve had holt o’ the Irish, I ’spose. Did he tell ye o’ nothin’ else he seed hyur?”

“He had a yarn about Indians. Who believes it?”

“Wal; he tolt me the same story, and that looks like some truth in’t. Besides, he declurs they wur playin’ curds, an hyur’s the things themselves. I found ’em lying scattered about the floor o’ the shanty. Spanish curds they air.”

Zeb draws the pack out of his pocket, and hands it over to the Regulator Chief.

The cards, on examination, prove to be of Mexican manufacture—such as are used in the universal game of monté—the queen upon horseback “cavallo”—the spade represented by a sword “espada”—and the club “baston” symbolised by the huge paviour-like implement, seen in picture-books in the grasp of hairy Orson.

“Who ever heard of Comanches playing cards?” demands he, who has scouted the evidence about the Indians. “Damned ridiculous!”

“Ridiklus ye say!” interposes an old trapper who had been twelve months a prisoner among the Comanches. “Ridiklus it may be; but it’s true f’r all that. Many’s the game this coon’s seed them play, on a dressed burner hide for their table. That same Mexikin montay too. I reckon they’ve larned it from thar Mexikin captives; of the which they’ve got as good as three thousand in thar different tribes. Yes, sirree!” concludes the trapper. “The Keymanchees do play cards—sure as shootin’.”

Zeb Stump is rejoiced at this bit of evidence, which is more than he could have given himself. It strengthens the case for the accused. The fact, of there having been Indians in the neighbourhood, tends to alter the aspect of the affair in the minds of the Regulators—hitherto under the belief that the Comanches were marauding only on the other side of the settlement.

“Sartin sure,” continues Zeb, pressing the point in favour of an adjournment of the trial, “thur’s been Injuns hyur, or some thin’ durned like—Geesus Geehosofat! Whar’s she comin’ from?”

The clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, salutes the ear of everybody at the same instant of time.

No one needs to inquire, what has caused Stump to give utterance to that abrupt interrogatory. Along the top of the cliff, and close to its edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop. There is a woman—a lady—upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her—the string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away!

So wild is the gallop—so perilous from its proximity to the precipice—you might suppose the horse to have run away with his rider.

But no. You may tell that he has not, by the actions of the equestrian herself. She seems not satisfied with the pace; but with whip, spur, and voice keeps urging him to increase it!

This is plain to the spectators below; though they are puzzled and confused by her riding so close to the cliff.

They stand in silent astonishment. Not that they are ignorant of who it is. It would be strange if they were. That woman equestrian—man-seated in the saddle—once seen was never more to be forgotten.

She is recognised at the first glance. One and all know the reckless galloper to be the guide—from whom, scarce half-an-hour ago, they had parted upon the prairie.

Chapter Sixty Six.

Chased by Comanches.

It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. What was bringing her back? And why was she riding at such a perilous pace?

To explain it, we must return to that dark reverie, from which she was startled by her encounter with the “Tejanos.”

While galloping away from the Alamo, she had not thought of looking back, to ascertain whether she was followed. Absorbed in schemes of vengeance, she had gone on—without even giving a glance behind.

It was but slight comfort to her to reflect: that Louise Poindexter had appeared equally determined upon parting from the jacalé. With a woman’s intuitive quickness, she suspected the cause; though she knew, too well, it was groundless.

Still, there was some pleasure in the thought: that her rival, ignorant of her happy fortune, was suffering like herself.

There was a hope, too, that the incident might produce estrangement in the heart of this proud Creole lady towards the man so condescendingly beloved; though it was faint, vague, scarce believed in by her who conceived it.

Taking her own heart as a standard, she was not one to lay much stress on the condescension of love: her own history was proof of its levelling power. Still was there the thought that her presence at the jacalé had given pain, and might result in disaster to the happiness of her hated rival.

Isidora had begun to dwell upon this with a sort of subdued pleasure; that continued unchecked, till the time of her rencontre with the Texans.

On turning back with these, her spirits underwent a change. The road to be taken by Louise, should have been the same as that, by which she had herself come. But no lady was upon it.

The Creole must have changed her mind, and stayed by the jacalé—was, perhaps, at that very moment performing the métier Isidora had so fondly traced out for herself?

The belief that she was about to bring shame upon the woman who had brought ruin upon her, was the thought that now consoled her.

The questions put by Poindexter, and his companions, sufficiently disclosed the situation. Still clearer was it made by the final interrogations of Calhoun; and, after her interrogators had passed away, she remained by the side of the thicket—half in doubt whether to ride on to the Leona, or go back and be the spectator of a scene, that, by her own contrivance, could scarce fail to be exciting.

She is upon the edge of the chapparal, just inside the shadow of the timber. She is astride her grey steed, that stands with spread nostril and dilated eye, gazing after the cavallada that has late parted from the spot—a single horseman in the rear of the rest. Her horse might wonder why he is being thus ridden about; but he is used to sudden changes in the will of his capricious rider.

She is looking in the same direction—towards the alhuehueté;—whose dark summit towers above the bluffs of the Alamo.

She sees the searchers descend; and, after them, the man who has so minutely questioned her. As his head sinks below the level of the plain, she fancies herself alone upon it.

In this fancy she is mistaken.

She remains irresolute for a time—ten—fifteen—twenty minutes.

Her thoughts are not to be envied. There is not much sweetness in the revenge, she believes herself instrumental in having accomplished. If she has caused humiliation to the woman she hates, along with it she may have brought ruin upon the man whom she loves? Despite all that has passed, she cannot help loving him!

“Santissima Virgen!” she mutters with a fervent earnestness. “What have I done? If these men—Los Reguladores—the dreaded judges I’ve heard of—if they should find him guilty, where may it end? In his death! Mother of God! I do not desire that. Not by their hands—no! no! How wild their looks and gestures—stern—determined! And when I pointed out the way, how quickly they rode off, without further thought of me! Oh, they have made up their minds. Don Mauricio is to die! And he a stranger among them—so have I heard. Not of their country, or kindred; only of the same race. Alone, friendless, with many enemies. Santissima! what am I thinking of? Is not he, who has just left me, that cousin of whom I’ve heard speak! Ay de mi! Now do I understand the cause of his questioning. His heart, like mine own—like mine own!”

She sits with her gaze bent over the open plain. The grey steed still frets under restraint, though the cavallada has long since passed out of sight. He but responds to the spirit of his rider; which he knows to be vacillating—chafing under some irresolution.

’Tis the horse that first discovers a danger, or something that scents of it. He proclaims it by a low tremulous neigh, as if to attract her attention; while his head, tossed back towards the chapparal, shows that the enemy is to be looked for in that direction.

Who, or what is it?

Warned by the behaviour of her steed, Isidora faces to the thicket, and scans the path by which she has lately passed through it. It is the road, or trail, leading to the Leona. ’Tis only open to the eye for a straight stretch of about two hundred yards. Beyond, it becomes screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously.

No one is seen upon it—nothing save two or three lean coyotés, that skulk under the shadow of the trees—scenting the shod tracks, in the hope of finding some scrap, that may have fallen from the hurrying horsemen.

It is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement. He sees them; but what of that? The prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither startling, nor rare. There is something else—something he has either scented, or heard.

Isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her. The howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in the joy of the daylight. She hears only this. Her thoughts again return to the “Tejanos”—especially to him who has last parted from her side. She is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation; when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse.

The animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air; snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than before!

This time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to be going along the road—though still hidden behind the trees. Their hoof-strokes are heard at the same time.

But not after. The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise!

Isidora conjectures the former. She believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own.

She quiets him, and listens.

A humming is heard through the trees. Though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men’s voices—holding a conversation in a low muttered tone.

Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent. The horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted—perhaps hesitating to advance.

Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed. Some travellers, perhaps, en route for the Rio Grande—or, it may be, some stragglers from the Texan troop—who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. It is only natural—at a time, when Indians are known to be on the war-path.

Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers—whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side—placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening.

Not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing towards her—not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket! And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround!

She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution—perhaps of evil intent?

They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it? They may be riding to get round her—in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?

How is she to know that their intent is not hostile? She has enemies—one well remembered—Don Miguel Diaz. Besides, there are the Comanches—to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer en paz.

She begins to feel alarm. It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious. Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!

She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near. The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. She must soon be discovered.

At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse’s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.

Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards—beyond range of arrow, or bullet—then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing—whether friends, or to be feared.

If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the “Tejanos.”

She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself!

They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!

A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies—with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.

“Los Indios!” mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the alhuehueté.

A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. The glance tells her more,—that the pursuit is close and earnest—so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, do not yell!

Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!

Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. For years have they been en paz—both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink—just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of “navigators,” who have been spending their day at the beer-house.

Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it—with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to.

But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!

On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse,—all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!

She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless—silent as spectres!

Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one—and that one a woman!

There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.

She presses on for the alhuehueté.

Chapter Sixty Seven.

Los Indios!

The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.

“Dios me amparé!” (God preserve me.)

God preserve her! She will be too late!

The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!

Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then—

And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind—thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.

The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacalé.

With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the alhuehueté, she rides directly towards the bluff.

The change puzzles her pursuers—at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the “lay” of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.

The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape.

“Chingaro!” mutters he to himself, “if she go much farther, she’ll be over the precipice!”

His reflection is false. She goes farther, but not over the precipice. With another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and rides along the edge of it—so close as to attract the attention of the “Tejanos” below, and elicit from Zeb Stump that quaint exclamation—only heard upon extraordinary occasions—

“Geesus Geehosofat!”

As if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter—or rather to the interrogatory with which he has followed it up—comes the cry of the strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff.

“Los Indios! Los Indios!”

No one who has spent three days in Southern Texas could mistake the meaning of that phrase—whatever his native tongue. It is the alarm cry which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand miles of frontier, in three different languages—“Les Indiens! Los Indios! the Indians!”

Dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger.

To those who hear it at the jacalé it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians—as certain as if the fact had been announced in their own Saxon vernacular.

They have scarce time to translate it into this—even in thought—when the same voice a second time salutes their ears:—“Tejanos! Cavalleros! save me! save me! Los Indios! I am chased by a troop. They are behind me—close—close—”

Her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly. It is no longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above.

She has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards, when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen, going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

Like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head. So eager is he to throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the fugitive has said—spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no stop, while calling out to the “Tejanos.” He may fancy it has been addressed to himself—a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he does not understand: for Isidora had spoken in English.

He is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen,—or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

He perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below.

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. In that glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun barrels!

His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff—quite as quickly as they have been approaching it.

“’Tur a pity too,” says Zeb Stump, proceeding to reload his rifle. “If ’t hedn’t a been for the savin’ o’ her, I’d a let ’em come on down the gully. Ef we ked a captered them, we mout a got somethin’ out o’ ’em consarnin’ this queer case o’ ourn. Thur aint the smell o’ a chance now. It’s clur they’ve goed off; an by the time we git up yander, they’ll be hellurd.”

The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger’s hut—a change squally sudden in the thoughts of those who compose it.

The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected.

Calhoun and his bullies are no longer masters of the situation; and on the motion of their chief the Regulator Jury is adjourned. The new programme is cast in double quick time. A score of words suffice to describe it. The accused is to be carried to the settlement—there to be tried according to the law of the land.

And now for the Indians—whose opportune appearance has caused this sudden change, both of sentiment and design. Are they to be pursued? That of course. But when? Upon the instant? Prudence says, no.

Only four have been seen. But these are not likely to be alone. They may be the rear-guard of four hundred?

“Let us wait till the woman comes down,” counsels one of the timid. “They have not followed her any farther. I think I can hear her riding this way through the gulley. Of course she knows it—as it was she who directed us.”

The suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground. They are not cowards. Still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild Indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in the way of trade.

The advice is adopted. They stand waiting for the approach of Isidora.

All are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the trees. There are those who have an apprehension: that along with the Mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of Comanches.

A few are otherwise occupied—Zeb Stump among the number. He takes the gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the thongs hitherto holding him too fast.

There is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part in the proceeding. Her part has been already played—perhaps too prominently. She shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous.

Where is the niece of Don Silvio Mortimez? She has not yet come upon the ground! The stroke of her horse’s hoof is no longer heard! There has been time—more than time—for her to have reached the jacalé!

Her non-appearance creates surprise—apprehension—alarm. There are men there who admire the Mexican maiden—it is not strange they should—some who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day.

Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? The interrogatory passes round. No one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer.

The Texans begin to feel something like shame. Their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, “Tejanos! Cavalleros!”

Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? Is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?

They listen with ears intent,—many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.

They listen in vain.

There is no sound of hoof—no voice of woman—nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side!

Can it be that she is taken?

Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel.

Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever—since it is directed against the hereditary foe.

The younger and more ardent—among whom are the admirers of the Mexican maiden—can bear the uncertainty no longer. They spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her—to save her, or perish in the attempt.

Who is to gainsay them? Her pursuers—her captors perhaps—may be the very men they have been in search of—the murderers of Henry Poindexter!

No one opposes their intent. They go off in search of Isidora—in pursuit of the prairie pirates.

Those who remain are but few in number; though Zeb Stump is among them.

The old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the Indians. He keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after the invalid prisoner—still unconscious—still guarded by the Regulators.

Zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour of distress. There are two others equally faithful. One a fair creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager interest that consumes her. The other, a rude, almost ludicrous individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his “masther.” The last is Phelim, who has just descended from his perch among the parasites of an umbrageous oak—where he has for some time stayed—a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring. The change of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that duty for which he came across the Atlantic.

No longer lies our scene upon the Alamo. In another hour the jacalé is deserted—perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over Maurice the mustanger.

Chapter Sixty Eight.

The Disappointed Campaigners.

The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest—lasting only three or four days. It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of the West did not mean war—at least, on a grand scale. Their descent upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to take out their degree as braves, desirous of signalising the event by “raising” a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.

Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians. They are made on private account—often without the knowledge of the chief, or elders of the tribe—just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out an enemy’s craft, or capture his picket guard. These marauds are usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the event. Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a general thing, are averse to such filibustering expeditions—deeming them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the community. Only when successful are they applauded.

On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white women and boys. The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks, had been recaptured.

The red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of Mounted Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat into the fastnesses of the “Llano Estacado.”

To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have required a commissariat less hastily established than that with which the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised them after due time and preparation.

On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their ordinary duties—each detachment to its own fort—to await further commands from the head-quarters of the “department.”

The troops belonging to Port Inge—entrusted with the guardianship of the country as far as the Rio Nueces—were surprised on getting back to their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong direction for an encounter with the Indians! Some of them were half mad with disappointment: for there were several—young Hancock among the number—who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though keenly desirous of doing so!

No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. But it must be remembered, that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes—rape, rapine, and murder.

To talk of their being the aborigines of the country—the real, but dispossessed, owners of the soil—is simple nonsense. This sophism, of the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of men. The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument—even with the narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.

Admit it—give the hunter his half-dozen square miles—for he will require that much to maintain him—leave him in undisputed possession to all eternity—and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to accommodate this whimsical theory of national right. Nay, I will go further, and risk reproach, by asserting:—that not only the savage, so called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed—whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the resources which Nature has placed within their limits.

The exploitation of Earth’s treasures is a question not confined to nations. It concerns the whole family of mankind.

In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine—not a thought of it. He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to communism.

It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on his preserves. No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.

But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. Our own story of Jamaica—by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages of history—has whitewashed these border filibusteros to the seeming purity of snow!

If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of red-skins. On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. They might yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without stain—without sharpening, too—from the military school of West Point.

It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same day—civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo—and reported: that no Indians had been there!

They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would have been received with incredulity—considering what had occurred.

The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles—an odd lot, as an auctioneer would describe it—wigs of horse-hair, cocks’ feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!

There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such incidents as the situation afforded.

Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. There were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the trite story of a party of white men “playing Indian”; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse—mad as a maniac!

There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners—of sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they had returned to dull quarters. The name of Isidora Covarubio do los Llanos—with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty—had become a theme of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.

The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo—the discovery of the mustanger upon his couch—the determination to hang him—the act delayed by the intervention of Louise Poindexter—the respite due to the courage of Zeb Stump—were all points of the most piquant interest—suggestive of the wildest conjectures.

Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.

“Murder,” said the philosophic Captain Sloman, “is a crime which, in my opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. I think, I know the fellow well enough to be sure about that.”

“You’ll admit,” rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, “that the circumstances are strong against him? Almost conclusive, I should say.”

Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman. He had an idea, that on one occasion the commissary’s niece—the belle of the Fort—had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.

“I consider it anything but conclusive,” replied Sloman.

“There’s no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been murdered. Every one believes that. Well; who else was likely to have done it? The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him and Gerald.”

“That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose,” interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons. “Besides, his own shindy with the same man is suggestive of suspicion—is it not?”

“And if there was a quarrel,” argued the officer of infantry, “what then? It don’t follow there was a murder.”

“Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?”

“Something of the sort is possible, and even probable. I will admit that much.”

“But what did they have a difficulty about?” asked Hancock. “I heard that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter—notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun. What could they have quarrelled about?”

“A singular interrogation on your part, Lieutenant Hancock!” answered the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. “As if men ever quarrelled about anything except—”

“Except women,” interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.

“But which woman, I wonder? It could not be anything relating to young Poindexter’s sister?”

“Quien sabe?” answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Crossman. “A horse-catcher daring to set his thoughts on Miss Poindexter! Preposterous!”

“What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman! Don’t you know that love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of distinction. I don’t say that in this case there’s been anything of the kind. Miss Poindexter’s not the only woman that might have caused a quarrel between the two individuals in question. There are other damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about—to say nothing of our own fair following in the Fort; and why not—”

“Captain Sloman,” petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles. “I must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately. The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the insinuation.”

“What insinuation, sir?”

“Do you suppose it likely that there’s one of them would condescend to speak to the person you’ve named?”

“Which? I’ve named two.”

“You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you. Our ladies will, no doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!”

“Maurice the mustanger may be the last—suspected, and that is all. He is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr Crossman. I’ve seen more of this young Irishman than you—enough to satisfy me that, so far as breeding goes, he may compare notes with the best of us. Our grand dames needn’t be scared at the thought of his acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don’t think they would shy from it—some of them at least—if it were offered them. It never has. So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. I have seen him in their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them as if fully sensible of his position. For that matter, I don’t think he cares a straw about one or other of them.”

“Indeed! How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his rivals!”

“Perhaps it is,” quietly remarked the captain of infantry.

“Who knows?” asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish conversation. “Who knows but the cause of quarrel—if there’s been one—might not be this splendid señorita so much talked about? I haven’t seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she’s just the sort to make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats.”

“It might be—who knows?” drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts turned in any other direction than towards the commissary’s quarters.

“They’ve got him in the guard-house,” remarked Hancock, stating a fact that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign. “His droll devil of a serving man is along with him. What’s more; the major has just issued an order to double the guard! What does it mean, Captain Sloman—you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs? Surely there’s no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his prison?”

“Not likely,” replied the infantry officer, “seeing that he hasn’t the slightest idea that he’s inside of one. I’ve just been to the guard-house to have a look at him. He’s mad as a March hare; and wouldn’t know his own face in a looking-glass.”

“Mad! In what way?” asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger’s capture.

“A brain fever upon him—delirious?”

“Is that why the guards have been doubled? Devilish queer if it is. The major himself must have gone mad!”

“Maybe it’s the suggestion—command I should rather say—of the majoress. Ha! ha! ha!”

“But what does it mean? Is the old maje really afraid of his getting out of the guard-house?”

“No—not that, I fancy. More likely an apprehension of somebody else getting into it.”

“Ah! you mean, that—”

“I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there’s more safety inside than out. Some queer characters are about; and there’s been talk of another Lynch trial. The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a respite; or there’s somebody hard at work in bringing about this state of public opinion. It’s lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his friend; and it’s but a continuation of his good luck that we’ve returned so opportunely. Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse empty—so far as its present occupants are concerned. Now, thank God! the poor fellow shall have a fair trial.”

“When is it to take place?”

“Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he’s being tried!”

“It may be weeks before that.”

“And it may be only days—hours. He don’t appear to be very bad—that is, bodily. It’s his mind that’s out of order—more, perhaps, from some strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has received. A day may make all the difference; and, from what I’ve just heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows a return to consciousness. They say, they won’t wait for him to recover from his wounds!”

“Maybe he’ll be able to tell a story that’ll clear him. I hope so.”

This was said by Hancock.

“I doubt it,” rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head. “Nous verrons!”

“I’m sure of it,” said Sloman. “Nos veremos!” he added, speaking in a tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was father to the thought.

Chapter Sixty Nine.

Mystery and Mourning.

There is mourning in the mansion of Casa del Corvo, and mystery among the members of Woodley Poindexter’s family.

Though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some deep-seated cause.

They meet only at the hour of meals—then conversing only on such topics as cannot well be shunned.

There is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity.

The death—no longer doubted—of an only son—an only brother—unexpected and still unexplained—should account for the melancholy mien both of father and daughter.

It might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the cousin.

But there is something beyond this. Each appears to act with an irksome restraint in the presence of the others—even during the rare occasions, on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune!

Beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle.

The once proud planter stays within doors—pacing from room to room, or around, the enclosed corridor—bending beneath a weight of woe, that has broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart. Even strong paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans, oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his lips!

Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.

For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.

Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. There are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea—alone and in silent meditation.

There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon Earth—the loss of a beloved brother—the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense—perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.

Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. The last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer.

But the second—the supreme pain of all—is but strengthened and intensified by time!

She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison—the strong walls of a military guard-house.

It is not their strength that dismays her. On the contrary, she has fears for their weakness!

She has reasons for her apprehension. She has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. She has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude coadjutors—not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement—especially when proximate to a military post.

The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way.

The facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case—at least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him.

If the four horsemen seen were not Indians—and this has been clearly shown by the discovery of the disguises—it is not the less likely that they have had to do with the death of young Poindexter. Besides, there is nothing to connect them with the mustanger, any more than if they had been real Comanches.

Why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second time surging up?

There is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many people.

There are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause. A very few: perhaps only three individuals.

Two of them are Zeb Stump and Louise Poindexter; the third Captain Cassius Calhoun.

The old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some underhanded action—the actors being Miguel Diaz and his men, associated with a half-score of like characters of a different race—the “rowdies” of the settlement. Zeb has traced the action to its instigator—the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

He has communicated his discovery to the young Creole, who is equal to the understanding of it. It is the too clear comprehension of its truth that now inspires her with a keen solicitude.

Anxiously she awaits every word of news—watches the road leading from the Fort to Casa del Corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that way!

She dares not show herself at the prison. There are soldiers on guard, and spectators around it—a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity of those who have committed great crimes.

There is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one. The criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses.

The guard-house doors are at all hours besieged—to the great discomfort of the sentries—by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the delirious man. A lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes turned inquiringly upon her. Louise Poindexter cannot run the gauntlet of those looks without risk to her reputation.

Left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it. Watched by a father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation, equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the world—she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence.

She can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the Alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet time spent among the mezquite trees, the spot itself almost discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is now humiliated—disgraced—shut up within the walls of a gaol—perchance to be delivered from it only unto death!

To her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day, Zeb Stump made his appearance at Casa del Corro, bringing the intelligence; that the “hoss-sogers hed kum back to the Fort.”

There was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted. There was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin!

“Ee needn’t be uneezy ’beout thet ere ewent,” said Zeb, speaking with a confidence he had not shown for some time. “Thur’s no longer a danger o’ it comin’ to pass, Miss Lewaze. I’ve tuk preecaushins agin it.”

“Precautions! How, Zeb?”

“Wal; fust place, I’ve seed the major clost arter his comin’ back, an gied him a bit o’ my mind. I tolt him the hul story, as fur’s I know it myself. By good luck he ain’t agin the young fellur, but the tother way I reck’n. Wal, I tolt him o’ the goin’s on o’ the hul crew—Amerikins, Mexikins, an all o’ them—not forgettin’ thet ugly Spanyard o’ the name o’ Dee-ez, thet’s been one o’ the sarciest o’ the lot. The ree-sult’s been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun’ the prison, an’s goin’ to keep ’em doubled.”

“I am so glad! You think there is no longer any fear from that quarter?”

“If you mean the quarter o’ Mister Migooel Dee-ez, I kin swar to it. Afore he thinks o’ gittin’ any b’dy else out o’ a prison, he’s got to git hisself out.”

“What; Diaz in prison! How? When? Where?”

“You’ve asked three seprit questyuns, Miss Lewaze, all o’ a heep. Wal; I reck’n the conveenientest way to answer ’em ’ll be to take ’em backurds. An’ fust as to the whar. As to thet, thur’s but one prison in these parts, as ’ud be likely to hold him. Thet is the guard-house at the Fort. He’s thur.”

“Along with—”

“I know who ye’re goin’ to name—the young fellur. Jest so. They’re in the same buildin’, tho’ not ’zackly in the same room. Thur’s a purtition atween ’em; tho’ for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they’re so inclined. Thur’s three others shet up along wi’ the Mexikin—his own cussed cummarades. The three ’ll have somethin’ to talk ’beout ’mong themselves, I reck’n.”

“This is good news, Zeb. You told me yesterday that Diaz was active in—”

“Gittin’ hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in effectuatin’. He’s got hisself into the jug, or someb’y else hev did thet bizness for him.”

“But how—when—you’ve not told me?”

“Geehosophat! Miss Lewaze. Gi’ me a leetle time. I hain’t drew breath yit, since I kim in. Yur second questyun war when. It air eezy answered. ’Beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked up. I war at the shettin’ o’ the door ahint him, an kum straight custrut hyur arter it war done.”

“But you have not yet said why he is arrested.”

“I hain’t hed a chance. It air a longish story, an ’ll take a leetle time in the tellin’. Will ye listen to it now, or arter—?”

“After what, Mr Stump?”

“Wal, Miss Lewaze, I only meened arter—arter—I git the ole mare put up. She air stannin’ thur, as if she’d like to chaw a yeer o’ corn, an somethin’ to wet it down. Both she ’nd me’s been on a longish tramp afore we got back to the Fort; which we did scace a hour ago.”

“Pardon me, dear Mr Stump, for not thinking of it. Pluto; take Mr Stump’s horse to the stable, and see that it is fed. Florinde! Florinde! What will you eat, Mr Stump?”

“Wal, as for thet, Miss Lewaze, thank ye all the same, but I ain’t so partikler sharp set. I war only thinkin’ o’ the maar. For myself, I ked go a kupple o’ hours longer ’ithout eetin’, but ef thur’s sech a thing as a smell o’ Monongaheely ’beout the place, it ’ud do this ole karkidge o’ mine a power o’ good.”

“Monongahela? plenty of it. Surely you will allow me to give you something better?”

“Better ’n Monongaheely!”

“Yes. Some sherry—champagne—brandy if you prefer it.”

“Let them drink brandy as like it, and kin’ git it drinkable. Thur may be some o’ it good enuf; an ef thur air, I’m shor it’ll be foun’ in the house o’ a Peintdexter. I only knows o’ the sort the sutler keeps up at the Fort. Ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet’s one. It ’ud rot the guts out o’ a alleygatur. No; darn thur French lickers; an specially thur brandy. Gi’ me the pure corn juice; an the best o’ all, thet as comes from Pittsburgh on the Monongaheely.”

“Florinde! Florinde!”

It was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted. The presence of Zeb Stump indicated the service for which she had been summoned. Without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what Zeb called the “pure corn juice,” but which was in reality the essence of rye—for from this grain is distilled the celebrated “Monongahela.”

Zeb was not slow to refresh himself. A full third of the contents of the decanter were soon put out of sight—the other two-thirds remaining for future potations that might be required in the course of the narration upon which he was about to enter.

Chapter Seventy.

Go, Zeb, and God Speed You!

The old hunter never did things in a hurry. Even his style of drinking was not an exception; and although there was no time wasted, he quaffed the Monongahela in a formal leisurely manner.

The Creole, impatient to hear what he had to relate, did not wait for him to resume speech.

“Tell me, dear Zeb,” said she, after directing her maid to withdraw, “why have they arrested this Mexican—Miguel Diaz I mean? I think I know something of the man. I have reasons.”

“An’ you ain’t the only purson may hev reezuns for knowin’ him, Miss Lewaze. Yur brother—but never mind ’beout that—leastwise not now. What Zeb Stump do know, or strongly surspect, air, thet this same-mentioned Migooel Dee-ez hev had somethin’ to do wi’—You know what I’m refarrin’ to?”

“Go on, Mr Stump!”

“Wal, the story air this. Arter we kim from the Alamo Crik, the fellurs that went in sarch o’ them Injuns, foun’ out they wan’t Injuns at all. Ye hev heern that yurself. From the fixins that war diskevered in the holler tree, it air clur that what we seed on the Bluff war a party o’ whites. I hed a surspishun o’t myself—soon as I seed them curds they’d left ahint ’em in the shanty.”

“It was the same, then, who visited the jacalé at night—the same Phalim saw?”

“Ne’er a doubt o’ it. Them same Mexikins.”

“What reason have you to think they were Mexicans?”

“The best o’ all reezuns. I foun’ ’em out to be; traced the hul kit o’ ’em to thur caché.”

The young Creole made no rejoinder. Zeb’s story promised a revelation that might be favourable to her hopes. She stood resignedly waiting for him to continue.

“Ye see, the curds, an also some words, the which the Irish war able to sort o’ pernounce, arter a fashun o’ his own, tolt me they must a been o’ the yeller-belly breed; an sartint ’bout that much, I war able to gie a tol’able guess as to whar they hed kim from. I know’d enuf o’ the Mexikins o’ these parts to think o’ four as answered thar descripshun to a T. As to the Injun duds, thar warn’t nuthin’ in them to bamboozle me. Arter this, I ked a gone straight to the hul four fellurs, an pinted ’em out for sartin. One o’ ’em, for sure sartin. On him I’d made my mark. I war confident o’ havin’ did thet.”

“Your mark! How, Zeb?”

“Ye remimber the shot I fired from the door o’ the shanty?”

“Oh, certainly! I did not see the Indians. I was under the trees at the time. I saw you discharge your rifle at something.”

“Wal, Miss Lewaze; this hyur coon don’t often dischurge thet thur weepun ’ithout drawin’ blood. I know’d I hut the skunk; but it war rayther fur for the carry o’ the piece, an I reckon’d the ball war a bit spent. F’r all that, I know’d it must a stung him. I seed him squirm to the shot, an I says to myself: Ef ther ain’t a hole through his hide somewhar, this coon won’t mind changin’ skins wi’ him. Wal, arter they kim home wi’ the story o’ whites instead o’ red-skins, I hed a tol’able clur idee o’ who the sham Injuns wur, an ked a laid my claws on ’em at any minnit. But I didn’t.”

“And why not, Mr Stump? Surely you haven’t allowed them to get away? They might be the very men who are guilty of my poor brother’s—”

“That’s jest what this coon thort, an it war for that reezun I let ’em slide. There war another reezun besides. I didn’t much like goin’ fur from the Port, leest somethin’ ugly mout turn up in my absince. You unnerstan’? There war another reezun still for not prospectin’ arter them jest then. I wanted to make shur o’ my game.”

“And you have?”

“Shur as shootin’. I guessed thur wan’t goin’ to be any rain, an thurfor thur war no immeedyit hurry as to what I intended doin’. So I waited till the sogers shed get back, an I ked safely leave him in the guard-house. Soon as they kim in, I tuk the ole maar and rud out to the place whar our fellurs had struck upon the fixing. I eezy foun’ it by thur descripshun. Wal; as they’d only got that greenhorn, Spangler, to guide ’em, I war putty sure the sign hedn’t been more’n helf read; an that I’d get somethin’ out o’ it, beside what they’d brought away.”

“I wan’t disappinted. The durndest fool as ever set fut upon a purayra, mout a follered the back track o’ them make-believe Kimanchees. A storekeeper ked a traced it acrost the purayra, though it appears neyther Mister Spangler nor any o’ the others did. I foun’ it eezy as fallin’ off o’ a log, not ’ithstandin’ thet the sarchers had rud all over it. I tracked every hoss o’ the four counterfits to his own stable.”

“After that?”

“Arter doin’ thet I hed a word wi’ the major; an in helf an hour at the most the four beauties wur safe shot up in the guardhouse—the chief o’ ’em bein’ jugged fust, leest he mout get wind o’ what wur goin’ forrard, an sneak out o’ the way. I wan’t fur astray ’beout Mister Migooel Dee-ez bearin’ my mark. We foun’ the tar o’ a bullet through the fleshy part o’ his dexter wing; an thet explained why he wur so quick at lettin’ go his laryette.”

“It was he, then!” mechanically remarked Louise, as she stood reflecting.

“Very strange!” she continued, still muttering the words to herself. “He it was I saw in the chapparal glade! Yes, it must have been! And the woman—this Mexican—Isidora? Ah! There is some deep mystery in all this—some dark design! Who can unravel it?”

“Tell me, dear Zeb,” she asked, stepping closer to the old hunter, and speaking with a cartain degree of hesitancy. “That woman—the Mexican lady I mean—who—who was out there. Do you know if she has often visited him?”

“Him! Which him, Miss Lewaze?”

“Mr Gerald, I mean.”

“She mout, an she moutn’t—’ithout my knowin’ eyther one or the tother. I ain’t often thur myself. The place air out o’ my usooal huntin’ ground, an I only go now an then for the sake o’ a change. The crik’s fust rate for both deer an gobbler. If ye ask my opeenyun, I’d say that thet ere gurl heven’t never been thur afore. Leestwise, I hain’t heern o’ it; an eft hed been so, I reckun Irish Pheelum ud a hed somethin’ to say abeout it. Besides, I hev other reezuns for thinkin’ so. I’ve only heern o’ one o’ the shemale sex bein’ on a visit to thet shanty.”

“Who?” quickly interrogated the Creole, the instant after regretting that she had asked the question—the colour coming to her cheeks, as she noticed the significant glance with which Zeb had accompanied his concluding remark.

“No matter,” she continued, without waiting for the answer.

“So, Zeb,” she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, “you think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to all of us,—these Mexicans?”

“To tell ye the truth, Miss Lewaze, I don’t know zackly what to think. It air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur purayras. Sometimes I hev the idea that the Mexikins must a did it; while at others, I’m in the opposite way o’ thinkin’, an thet some’dy else hev hed a han’ in the black bizness. I won’t say who.”

“Not him, Zeb; not him!”

“Not the mowstanger. No, neer a bit o’ thet. Spite o’ all that’s sayed agin him, I hain’t the leest surspishun o’ his innersense.”

“Oh! how is he to prove it? It is said, that the testimony is all against him! No one to speak a word in his behalf!”

“Wal, it ain’t so sartint as to thet. Keepin’ my eye upon the others, an his prison; I hain’t hed much chance o’ gettin’ abeout. Thur’s a opportunity now; an I mean to make use o’ it. The purayra’s a big book, Miss Peintdexter—a wonderful big book—for them as knows how to read the print o’t. If not much o’ a scholar otherways, Zeb’lon Stump hev larnt to do thet. Thur may be some testymoney that mout help him, scattered over the musquit grass—jest as I’ve heern a Methody preecher say, thur ‘war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin’ brutes.’ Eft air so, thur oughter be somethin’ o’ the kind scared up on the Alamo crik.”

“You think you might discover some traces?”

“Wal; I’m goin’ out to hev a look ’roun’ me—speecially at the place whur I foun’ the young fellur in the claws o’ the spotted painter. I oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun I’ve tolt ye. Thank the Awlmighty! thur’s been no wet—neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign’s been made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did yisterday—that is by them as knows how to read it. I must start straight away, Miss Lewaze. I jest runned down to tell ye what hed been done at the Fort. Thur’s no time to be throwed away. They let me in this mornin’ to see the young fellur; an I’m sartin his head air gettin’ clurrer. Soon as it air all right, the Reg’lators say, they’ll insist on the trial takin’ place. It may be in less’n three days; an I must git back afore it begins.”

“Go, Zeb, and God speed you on your generous errand! Come back with proofs of his innocence, and ever after I shall feel indebted to you for—for—more than life!”

Chapter Seventy One.

The Sorell Horse.

Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.

He found the “critter” sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto had placed liberally before her.

Pluto himself was standing by her side.

Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil. He looked rather triste than excited.

It might be easily explained. The loss of his young master—by Pluto much beloved—the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated—perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of Morinda—and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of Captain Cassius—for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion—amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance.

Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic. He was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.

Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.

It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare—to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws.

She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger.

“Ho! ho! Mass’ Tump!” interposed Pluto. “Why you be go ’way in dat big hurry? De poor ole ma’ she no half got u’m feed. Why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn? Ha! ha! It do her power o’ good.”

“Han’t got time, nigger. Goin’ off on a bit o’ a jurney. Got abeout a hunderd mile to make in less ’an a kupple o’ hours.”

“Ho! ho! Dat ere de fassest kind o’ trabbelin’. You ’m jokin’, Mass’ Tump?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Gorramity! Wa—dey do make won’full journey on dese hyur prairas. I reck’n dat ere hoss must a trabbled two hunner mile de odder night.”

“What hoss?”

“De ole sorrel dere—in dat furrest ’tand from de doos—Massa Cahoon hoss.”

“What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?”

“Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff. Beside, he wa so done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo’ gib um drink. Hee ’tagger like new-drop calf. Ho! ho! he wa broke down—he wa!”

“O’ what night air ye palaverin’, Plute?”

“Wha night? Le’ss see! Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed from de plantashun. Dat same night in de mornin’, ’bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings. I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight. Den I kum ’cross to de ’table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff—lookin’ like he’d swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin’ ’s if he jes finish a fo’ mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean.”

“Who had him out thet night?”

“Doan know, Mass’ Tump. Only dat nobody ’lowed to ride de sorrel ’cept Massa Cahoon hisself. Ho! ho! Ne’er a body ’lowed lay leg ober dat critter.”

“Why, wan’t it himself that tuk the anymal out?”

“Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor. Dis chile neider see de Cap’n take um out nor fotch um in.”

“If yur statement air true ’beout his bein’ in sech a sweat, someb’dy must a hed him out, an been ridin’ o’ him.”

“Ha! ha! Someb’dy muss, dat am certing.”

“Looke hyur, Plute! Ye ain’t a bad sort o’ a darkie, though your skin air o’ a sut colour. I reck’n you’re tellin’ the truth; an ye don’t know who rud out the sorrel that night. But who do ye think it war? I’m only axin’ because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o’ mine, an I don’t want his property to be abused—no more what belongs to Capen Calhoun. Some o’ the field niggers, I reck’n, hev stole the anymal out o’ the stable, an hev been ridin’ it all roun’ the country. That’s it, ain’t it?”

“Well, no, Mass’ Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it. De fiel’ hands not ’lowed inside hyur. Dey darn’t kum in to de ’table no how. ’Twan’t any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night.”

“Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out? Maybe the overseer? War it him d’ye think?”

“’Twan’t him needer.”

“Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o’ the hoss hisself? If so, thur’s an end o’ it. He hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him. It ain’t no bizness o’ myen.”

“Ho! ho! Nor myen, needer, Mass’ Tump. Wish I’d thought dat way dis mornin’.”

“Why do ye weesh that? What happened this mornin’ to change yur tune?”

“Ho! what happen dis mornin’? Dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin’. Ho!—ho! berry great misfortin’.”

“What war it?”

“Golly, Massa Tump, I’se got kicked—dis berry mornin’, jes ’bout an hour arter twelve o’clock in de day.”

“Kicked?”

“Dat I did shoo—all round de ’table.”

“Oh! by the hosses! Which o’ the brutes kicked ye?”

“Ho!—ho! you mistaken! Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all—’cept little Spotty da, de which he doan’t own. I wa kicked by Mass’ Cahoon.”

“The hell ye wur! For what reezun? Ye must hev been misbehavin’ yurself, nigger?”

“Dis nigga wan’t mis-b’avin’ ’t all; not as he knows on. I only ask de cap’n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make ’im be tired down. He say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if I ebber ’peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip. He swa; oh! how he swa! Dis chile nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad—nebba, in all ’im life!”

“But whar’s he now? I don’t see him nowhar’ beout the premises; an I reck’n he ain’t rud out, seein’ as the sorrel’s hyur?”

“Golly, yes, Mass Tump; he jess am rode out at dis time. He ob late go berry much away from de house an tay long time.”

“A hossback?”

“Jess so. He go on de steel grey. Ha!—ha! he doan’ ride de sorrel much now. He hain’t mount ’im once since de night de ole hoss wa out—dat night we been ’peakin’ ’bout. Maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin’ den, an need long ’pell ob ress.”

“Look’ee hyur, Plute,” said Zeb, after standing silent for a second or two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation. “Arter all, I reck’n I’d better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o’ the corn. She’s got a long spell o’ travellin’ afore her; an she mout break down on the jurney. The more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an thurfor, I kalkerlate, I’d better gie the critter her time. While she’s munchin’ a mouthful, I ked do the same myself. ’Spose, then, you skoot acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain’t some chawin’ stuff thur—a bit o’ cold meat an a pone o’ corn bread ’ll do. Yur young mistress wanted me to hev somethin’ to eet; but I war skeert abeout delayin’, an refused. Now, while I’m waitin’ on the maar, I reck’n I ked pick a bone,—jest to pass the time.”

“Sartin’ ye cud, Mass Tump. I go fotch ’im in de hundreth part ob an instant.”

So saying the black-skinned Jehu started off across the patio, leaving Zeb Stump sole “master of the stole.”

The air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with Pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door.

It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it.

Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.

The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall—perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.

“Stan’ still, ye brute!” chided Zeb. “I don’t mean no harm to you, tho’ by yur looks I reck’n ye’re as vicious as yur master. Stan’ still, I say, an let’s hev a look at yur fut-gear!”

So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs.

It was unsuccessful. The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting—as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him.

“Durn your ugly karkidge!” cried Zeb, angrily venting the words. “Why don’t ye stan’ still? Who’s goin’ to hurt ye? Come, ole critter!” he continued coaxingly, “I only want to see how youv’e been shod.”

Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse.

“Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn’t expeck,” muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. “What’s to be did? It’ll never do to hev the nigger help me—nor yet see what I’m abeout—the which he will ef I don’t get quick through wi’ it. Dog-gone the hoss! How am I to git his feet up?”

For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience.

“Cuss the critter!” he again exclaimed. “I feel like knockin’ him over whar he stan’s. Ha! now I hev it, if the nigger will only gie time. I hope the wench will keep him waitin’. Durn ye! I’ll make ye stan’ still, or choke ye dead ef ye don’t. Wi’ this roun’ yur jugewlar, I reck’n ye won’t be so skittish.”

While speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and, throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it encircled the animal’s neck.

Then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring.

The horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with rage.

But his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself into terror. The rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of the change.

Zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast, commenced lifting his feet one after the other—scrutinising each, in great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care. He appeared to take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of the nails—in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or assist in a future identification.

On coming to the off hind foot—which he did last of the four—an exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise. It was caused by the sight of a broken shoe—nearly a quarter of which was missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail from the canker.

“Ef I’d know’d o’ you,” he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect shoe, “I mout a’ saved myself the trouble o’ examinin’ the tothers. Thur ain’t much chance o’ mistakin’ the print you’d be likely to leave ahint ye. To make shur, I’ll jest take ye along wi me.”

In conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife—the blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick—and, inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof.

Taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious pocket of his coat.

Then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel.

Pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of refreshments—including a tumbler of the Monongahela; and to these Zeb instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude that had occurred during the darkey’s absence.

The latter, however, did not fail to perceive that the sorrel was out of sorts: for the animal, on finding itself released, stood shivering in the stall, gazing around in a sort of woe-begone wonder after the rough treatment, to which he had been submitted.

“Gorramity!” exclaimed the black, “what am de matter wif de ole hoss? Ho! ho! he look like he wa afeerd ob you, Mass Tump!”

“Oh, ye-es!” drawled Zeb, with seeming carelessness. “I reck’n he air a bit afeerd. He war makin’ to get at my ole maar, so I gied him a larrup or two wi’ the eend o’ my trail rope. Thet’s what has rousted him.”

Pluto was perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and the subject was permitted to drop.

“Look hyur, Plute!” said Zeb, starting another. “Who does the shoein’ o’ yur cattle? Thars some o’ the hands air a smith, I reck’n?”

“Ho! ho! Dat dere am. Yella Jake he do shoein’. Fo what you ask, Mass Tump?”

“Wal; I war thinkin’ o’ havin’ a kupple o’ shoes put on the hind feet o’ the maar. I reck’n Jake ud do it for me.”

“Ho! ho! he do it wif a thousan’ welkim—dat he will, I’se shoo.”

“Questyun is, kin I spare the time to wait. How long do it take him to put on a kupple?”

“Lor, Mass Tamp, berry short while. Jake fust-rate han’ lit de bizness. Ebberybody say so.”

“He moutn’t have the mateerils riddy? It depends on whether he’s been shoein’ lately. How long’s it since he shod any o’ yourn?”

“More’n a week I blieb, Mass’ Zeb. Ho—ho! Do last war Missa Looey hoss—de beautiful ’potty dar. But dat won’t make no differens. I know he hab de fixins all ready. I knows it, kase he go for shoe de sorrel. De ole hoss hab one ob de hind shoe broke. He hab it so de lass ten day; an Mass Cahoon, he gib orders for it be remove. Ho—ho! dis berry mornin’ I hear um tell Jake.”

“Arter all,” rejoined Zeb, as if suddenly changing his mind, “I moutn’t hev the time to spare. I reck’n I’ll let the ole critter do ’ithout till I kum back. The tramp I’m goin’ on—most part o’ it—lies over grass purayra; an won’t hurt her.”

“No, I hevn’t time,” he added, after stepping outside and glancing up towards the sky. “I must be off from hyur in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Now, ole gal! you’ve got to stop yur munchin’ an take this bit o’ iron atwixt yur teeth. Open yur corn trap for it. That’s the putty pet!”

And so continuing to talk—now to Pluto, now to the mare—he once more adjusted the headstall; led the animal out; and, clambering into the saddle, rode thoughtfully away.

Chapter Seventy Two.

Zeb Stump on the Trail.

After getting clear of the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, the hunter headed his animal up stream—in the direction of the Port and town.

It was the former he intended to reach—which he did in a ride of less than a quarter of an hour.

Commonly it took him three to accomplish this distance; but on this occasion he was in an unusual state of excitement, and he made speed to correspond. The old mare could go fast enough when required—that is when Zeb required her and he had a mode of quickening her speed—known only to himself, and only employed upon extraordinary occasions. It simply consisted in drawing the bowie knife from his belt, and inserting about in inch of its blade into the mare’s hip, close to the termination of the spine.

The effect was like magic; or, if you prefer the figure—electricity. So spurred, Zeb’s “critter” could accomplish a mile in three minutes; and more than once had she been called upon to show this capability, when her owner was chased by Comanches.

On the present occasion there was no necessity for such excessive speed; and the Fort was reached after fifteen minutes’ sharp trotting.

On reaching it, Zeb slipped out of the saddle, and made his way to the quarters of the commandant; while the mare was left panting upon the parade ground.

The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of Fort Inge. Looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entrée at all times, and could go in without countersign, or any of the other formalities usually demanded from a stranger. The sentry passed him, as a matter of course—the officer of the guard only exchanged with him a word of welcome; and the adjutant at once announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment.

From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.

“Ah! Mr Stump! Glad to see you so soon. Have you made any discovery in this queer affair? From your quick return, I can almost say you have. Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still adhere to my old opinion—that he’s innocent. What have you learnt?”

“Wal, Maje,” answered Zeb, without making other obeisance than the simple politeness of removing his hat; “what I’ve larnt aint much, tho’ enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn’t intend to come, till I’d gone a bit o’ a jurney acrosst the purayras. I kim back hyur to hev a word wi’ yurself.”

“In welcome. What is it you have to say?”

“That ye’ll keep back this trial as long’s ye kin raisonably do so. I know thur’s a pressyur from the outside; but I know, too, that ye’ve got the power to resist it, an what’s more, Maje—yo’ve got the will.”

“I have. You speak quite truly about that, Mr Stump. And as to the power, I have that, too, in a certain sense. But, as you are aware, in our great republic, the military power must always be subservient to the civil—unless under martial-law, which God forbid should ever be required among us—even here in Texas. I can go so far as to hinder any open violation of the law; but I cannot go against the law itself.”

“T’ant the law I want ye to go agin. Nothin’ o’ the sort, Maje. Only them as air like to take it into thur own hands, an twist it abeout to squar it wi’ thur own purpisses. Thur’s them in this Settlement as ’ud do thet, ef they ain’t rustrained. One in espeecial ’ud like to do it; an I knows who thet one air—leestwise I hev a tolable clur guess o’ him.”

“Who?”

“Yur good to keep a seecret, Maje? I know ye air.”

“Mr Stump, what passes here is in confidence. You may speak your mind freely.”

“Then my mind air: thet the man who hez dud this murder ain’t Maurice the Mowstanger.”

“That’s my own belief. You know it already. Have you nothing more to communicate?”

“Wal, Maje, preehaps I ked communerkate a leetle more ef you insist upon it. But the time ain’t ripe for tellin’ ye what I’ve larnt—the which, arter all, only mounts to surspishuns. I may be wrong; an I’d rayther you’d let me keep ’em to myself till I hev made a short exkurshun acrost to the Nooeces. Arter thet, ye’ll be welkum to what I know now, besides what I may be able to gather off o’ the parayras.”

“So far as I am concerned, I’m quite contented to wait for your return; the more willingly that I know you are acting on the side of justice. But what would you have me do?”

“Keep back the trial, Maje—only that. The rest will be all right.”

“How long? You know that it must come on according to the usual process in the Criminal Court. The judge of this circuit will not be ruled by me, though he may yield a little to my advice. But there is a party, who are crying out for vengeance; and he may be ruled by them.”

“I know the party ye speak o’. I know their leader; an maybe, afore the trial air over, he may be the kriminal afore the bar.”

“Ah! you do not believe, then, that these Mexicans are the men!”

“Can’t tell, Maje, whether they air or ain’t. I do b’lieve thet they’ve hed a hand in the bizness; but I don’t b’lieve thet they’ve been the prime movers in’t. It’s him I want to diskiver. Kin ye promise me three days?”

“Three days! For what?”

“Afore the trial kims on.”

“Oh! I think there will be no difficulty about that. He is now a prisoner under military law. Even if the judge of the Supreme Court should require him to be delivered up inside that time, I can make objections that will delay his being taken from the guard-house. I shall undertake to do that.”

“Maje! ye’d make a man a’most contented to live under marshul law. No doubt thur air times when it air the best, tho’ we independent citizens don’t much like it. All I’ve got to say air, thet ef ye stop this trial for three days, or tharahout, preehaps the prisoner to kim afore the bar may be someb’y else than him who’s now in the guard-house—someb’y who jest at this mom’t hain’t the smallest serspishun o’ bein’ hisself surspected. Don’t ask me who. Only say ye’ll streetch a pint, an gi’ me three days?”

“I promise it, Mr Stump. Though I may risk my commission as an officer in the American army, I give you an officer’s promise, that for three days Maurice the Mustanger shall not go out of my guard-house. Innocent or guilty, for that time he shall be protected.”

“Yur the true grit, Maje; an dog-gone me, ef I don’t do my beest to show ye some day, thet I’m sensible o’t. I’ve nuthin’ more to say now, ’ceptin’ to axe thet ye’ll not tell out o’ doors what I’ve been tellin’ you. Thur’s them outside who, ef they only knew what this coon air arter, ’ud move both heving an airth to circumwent his intenshuns.”

“They’ll have no help from me—whoever it is you are speaking of. Mr Stump, you may rely upon my pledged word.”

“I know’t, Maje, I know’t. God bless ye for a good ’un. Yer the right sort for Texas!”

With this complimentary leave-taking the hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.

Once more mounting her, he rode rapidly away. Having cleared the parade ground, and afterwards the outskirts of the village, he returned on the same path that had conducted him from Casa Del Corvo.

On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare ’gainst the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.

He reached it, at a point where the chapparal impinged upon the prairie, and there reined up under the shade of a mezquit tree. He did not alight, nor show any sign of an intention to do so; but sate in the saddle, stooped forward, his eyes turned upon the ground, in that vacant gaze which denotes reflection.

“Dog-gone my cats!” he drawled out in slow soliloquy. “Thet ere sarkimstance are full o’ signiferkince. Calhoun’s hoss out the same night, an fetched home a’ sweetin’ all over. What ked that mean? Durn me, ef I don’t surspect the foul play hev kum from that quarter. I’ve thort so all along; only it air so ridiklous to serpose thet he shed a killed his own cousin. He’d do that, or any other villinous thing, ef there war a reezun for it. There ain’t—none as I kin think o’. Ef the property hed been a goin’ to the young un, then the thing mout a been intellygible enuf. But it want. Ole Peintdexter don’t own a acre o’ this hyur groun’; nor a nigger thet’s upon it. Thet I’m sartin’ ’beout. They all belong to that cuss arready; an why shed he want to get shot o’ the cousin? Thet’s whar this coon gets flummixed in his kalkerlations. Thar want no ill will atween ’em, as ever I heerd o’. Thur’s a state o’ feelin’ twixt him an the gurl, thet he don’t like, I know. But why shed it temp him to the killin’ o’ her brother?

“An’ then thur’s the mowstanger mixed in wi’ it, an that shindy ’beout which she tolt me herself; an the sham Injuns, an the Mexikin shemale wi’ the har upon her lip; an the hossman ’ithout a head, an hell knows what beside! Geesus Geehosofat! it ’ud puzzle the brain pan o’ a Looeyville lawyer!

“Wal—there’s no time to stan’ speklatin’ hyur. Wi’ this bit o’ iron to assiss me, I may chance upon somethin’ thet’ll gie a clue to a part o’ the bloody bizness, ef not to the hul o’ it; an fust, as to the direcshun in which I shed steer?”

He looked round, as if in search of some one to answer the interrogatory.

“It air no use beginnin’ neer the Fort or the town. The groun’ abeout both on ’em air paddled wi’ hoss tracks like a cattle pen. I’d best strike out into the purayra at onst, an take a track crossways o’ the Rio Grande route. By doin’ thet I may fluke on the futmark I’m in search o’. Yes—ye-es! thet’s the most sensiblest idee.”

As if fully satisfied on this score, he took up his bridle-rein, muttered some words to his mare, and commenced moving off along the edge of the chapparal.

Having advanced about a mile in the direction of the Nueces river, he abruptly changed his course; but with a coolness that told of a predetermined purpose.

It was now nearly due west, and at right angles to the different trails going towards the Rio Grande.

There was a simultaneous change in his bearing—in the expression of his features—and his attitude in the saddle. No longer looking listlessly around, he sate stooping forward, his eye carefully scanning the sward, over a wide space on both sides of the path he was pursuing.

He had ridden about a mile in the new direction, when something seen upon the ground caused him to start, and simultaneously pull upon the bridle-rein.

Nothing loth, the “critter” came to a stand; Zeb, at the same time, flinging himself out of the saddle.

Leaving the old mare to ruminate upon this eccentric proceeding, he advanced a pace or two, and dropped down upon his knees.

Then drawing the piece of curved iron out of his capacious pocket, he applied it to a hoof-print conspicuously outlined in the turf. It fitted.

“Fits!” he exclaimed, with a triumphant gesticulation, “Dog-goned if it don’t!”

“Tight as the skin o’ a tick!” he continued, after adjusting the broken shoe to the imperfect hoof-print, and taking it up again. “By the eturnal! that ere’s the track o’ a creetur—mayhap a murderer!”

Chapter Seventy Three.

The Prairie Island.

A herd of a hundred horses—or three times the number—pasturing upon a prairie, although a spectacle of the grandest kind furnished by the animal kingdom, is not one that would strike a Texan frontiersman as either strange, or curious. He would think it stranger to see a single horse in the same situation.

The former would simply be followed by the reflection: “A drove of mustangs.” The latter conducts to a different train of thought, in which there is an ambiguity. The solitary steed might be one of two things: either an exiled stallion, kicked out of his own cavallada, or a roadster strayed from some encampment of travellers.

The practised eye of the prairie-man would soon decide which.

If the horse browsed with a bit in his mouth, and a saddle on his shoulders, there would be no ambiguity—only the conjecture, as to how he had escaped from his rider.

If the rider were upon his back, and the horse still browsing, there would be no room for conjecture—only the reflection, that the former must be a lazy thick-headed fellow, not to alight and let his animal graze in a more commodious fashion.

If, however, the rider, instead of being suspected of having a thick head, was seen to have no head at all, then would there be cue for a thousand conjectures, not one of which might come within a thousand miles of the truth.

Such a horse; and just such a rider, were seen upon the prairies of South-Western Texas in the year of our Lord 1850 something. I am not certain as to the exact year—the unit of it—though I can with unquestionable certainty record the decade.

I can speak more precisely as to the place; though in this I must be allowed latitude. A circumference of twenty miles will include the different points where the spectral apparition made itself manifest to the eyes of men—both on prairie and in chapparal—in a district of country traversed by several northern tributaries of the Rio de Nueces, and some southern branches of the Rio Leona.

It was seen not only by many people; but at many different times. First, by the searchers for Henry Poindexter and his supposed murderer; second, by the servant of Maurice the mustanger; thirdly, by Cassius Calhoun, on his midnight exploration of the chapparal; fourthly, by the sham Indians on that same night: and, fifthly, by Zeb Stump on the night following.

But there were others who saw it elsewhere and on different occasions—hunters, herdsmen, and travellers—all alike awed, alike perplexed, by the apparition.

It had become the talk not only of the Leona settlement, but of others more distant. Its fame already reached on one side to the Rio Grande, and on the other was rapidly extending to the Sabine. No one doubted that such a thing had been seen. To have done so would have been to ignore the evidence of two hundred pairs of eyes, all belonging to men willing to make affidavit of the fact—for it could not be pronounced a fancy. No one denied that it had been seen. The only question was, how to account for a spectacle so peculiar, as to give the lie to all the known laws of creation.

At least half a score of theories were started—more or less feasible—more or less absurd. Some called it an “Indian dodge;” others believed it a “lay figure;” others that it was not that, but a real rider, only so disguised as to have his head under the serapé that shrouded his shoulders, with perhaps a pair of eye-holes through which he could see to guide his horse; while not a few pertinaciously adhered to the conjecture, started at a very early period, that the Headless Horseman was Lucifer himself!