Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

Chapter Three

On the banks of the Alamo stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.

The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. It could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. Its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its inconspicuousness.

The house was a mere cabin – with only a single aperture, the door – if we except the flue of a chimney. The doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it.

In the rear was an open shed, around this was a small enclosure.

A still more extensive enclosure, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. Its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints told of its use: a “corral”^[15] for wild horses – mustangs.

The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. The sheeting of mustang-skins covered the walls. The furniture consisted of a bed, a couple of stools and a rude table. Something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner.

What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and also a newspaper lying upon the table.

Further proofs of civilization presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun, a drinking cup, a hunter’s horn, and a dog-call.

Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn,^[16] evidently containing something stronger than the water of the Alamo.

Such was the structure of the mustanger’s dwelling – such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants – two in number.

On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.

He was a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish.

Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire was a huge Irish staghound,^[17] that looked as if he understood the speech of the man.

Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.

“Oh, Tara, my jewel!” exclaimed the man fraternally interrogating the hound; “don’t you wish now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wouldn’t you like to be once more in the courtyard of the old castle! But there’s no knowing when the young master will go back, and take us along with him.

“I’d like a drop now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the jar. “No-no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out of the demijohn, and take a smell at it. Sure the master won’t know anything about that; and if he did, he wouldn’t mind it!”

During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.

He took up the demijohn and drew out the stopper. After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.

“Tara, you old thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that tempted me! No matter, man: the master will never miss it; besides, he’s going soon to the Fort, and can lay in a fresh supply.

“I wonder,” muttered he, “what makes Master Maurice so anxious to get back to the Settlements. He says he’ll go whenever he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. I suppose it must be something beyond the common. He says he won’t give it up, till he catches it. Hush! what’s that?”

Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.

“Phelim!” called a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”

“It’s the master,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.

Phelim was not mistaken. It was the voice of his master, Maurice Gerald. As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse.

The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo – drawn from the saddle tree – was a captive. It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen. The colour of the mustang was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black – with white spots distributed over it.

The creature was of perfect shape. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse.

Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back – as he often did – with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.

“Master Maurice, you have caught the spotty at last!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive. “It’s a mare! Where will you put her, master? Into the corral, with the others?”

“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim – I mean in the way of horseflesh?”

“Never, Master Maurice; never, in all my life!

The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree.

The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the spotted mustang had cost him a long and arduous chase – such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.

Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.

For several nights he had slept uneasily till not only his henchman^[18] Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.

At length Phelim determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude.

“Master Maurice, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Phelim – nothing! What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Why, that whenever you close your eyes and think you are sleeping, you begin palavering! You are always trying to pronounce a big name that appears to have no ending, though it begins with a point!”

“A name! What name?”

“I can’t tell you exactly. It’s too long for me to remember, seeing that my education was entirely neglected. But there’s another name that you put before it; and that I can tell you. It’s Louise that you say, Master Maurice; and then comes the point.”

“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard – somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!”

“In your dreams, master, you talk about a girl looking out of a carriage with curtains to it, and telling her to close them against some danger that you are going to save her from.”

“I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head? But come! You forget that I haven’t tasted food since morning. What have you got?”

“There’s only the cold venison and the corn-bread. If you like I’ll put the venison in the pot”.

“Yes, do so. I can wait.”

Phelim was about stepping outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution.

The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger’s cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other.

He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin. A deerskin undershirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a “blanket coat,” that had once been green. He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter. There was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing. Everything was plain almost to rudeness.

The individual was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect.

It was Zebulon Stump, or “Old Zeb Stump,” as he was better known to the very limited circle of his acquaintances.

“Kentuckian, by birth and raising,”—as he would have described himself, if asked the country of his nativity. The hunter had passed the early part of his life among the forests of the Lower Mississippi; and now, at a later period, he was living and hunting in the wilds of south-western Texas.

The behaviour of the staghound told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

“Evening!” laconically saluted Zeb.

“Good evening, Mr Stump!” rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. “Step inside, and take a seat! On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?”

“No: I got my old creature out there, tied to a tree.”

“Let Phelim take her round to the shed. You’ll have something to eat? Phelim was just getting supper ready. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything very dainty. I’ve been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me.”

“What sort of a mustang?” inquired the hunter.

“A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground – a splendid creature!”

“That’s the very business that’s brought me over to you. I’ve seen that mustang several times out on the prairie, and I just wanted you to go after her. I’ll tell you why. I’ve been to the Leona settlements since I saw you last, and since I saw her too. Well, there has come a man that I knew on the Mississippi. He is a rich planter, his name is Poindexter.”

“Poindexter?”

“That is the name – one of the best known on the Mississippi from Orleans to Saint Louis. He was rich then; and, I reckon, isn’t poor now – seeing as he’s brought about a hundred niggers along with him. Beside, there’s his nephew, by name Calhoun. He’s got the dollars, and nothing to do with them but lend them to his uncle – the which, for a certain reason, I think he will. Now, young fellow, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. That planter has got a daughter, she’s fond of horses. She heard me telling her father about the spotted mustang; and nothing would content her there and then, till he promised he’d offer a big price for catching the creature. He said he’d give a couple of hundred dollars for the animal. So, saying nothing to nobody, I came over here, fast as my old mare could fetch me.”

“Will you step this way, Mr Stump?” said the young Irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation.

Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired—

“Does that look anything like the mustang you’ve been speaking of?”

“Dog-gone my cats, if it’s not the same! Caught already! Two hundred dollars! Young fellow, you’re in luck: two hundred, – and the animal’s worth every cent of the money! Won’t Miss Poindexter be pleased!”

Answer the following questions:

1) How does Maurice’s dwelling characterize its owner? Describe it.

2) Who is Phelim?

3) Who is Maurice’s new captive?

4) Why was Maurice unable to obtain repose? What did he talk about in his dreams?

5) Who is Zeb Stump? What did he come for?

Chapter Four

The estate, or “hacienda,”^[19] known as Casa del Corvo, extends along the wooded bottom of the Leona River. A structure of superior size whose white walls show conspicuously against the green background of forest with which it is half encircled. It is the newly acquired estate of the Louisiana planter and his family.

Louise Poindexter flung herself into a chair in front of her dressing-glass, and directed her maid Florinda to prepare her for the reception of guests. It was the day fixed for the “house-warming,”^[20] and about an hour before the time appointed for dinner to be on the table.

Soon they loud voices were heard in the courtyard.

“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” continued the young lady, “you said you were going upon a long journey. Well – I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner.

Zeb told Louise that he had come to talk to her father about the spotted mustang that he’d promised to purchase for her. She asked who caught it, and the hunter told her it was a mustanger.

“His name?”

“Well, as to the name of his family, I’ve never heard it. He’s known up there about the Fort as Maurice the mustanger.”

The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer. Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

“Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “that’s the name of the brave young white gentleman – that saved us in the black prairie?”

“Yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “He told me of that circumstance this very morning, before we started. That’s the very fellow as has trapped the spotty; and he is trotting the creature along at this identical minute, in company with about a dozen others. He ought to be here before sundown. I pushed my old mare ahead, to tell your father the spotty was coming, and let him get the first chance of buying. I thought of you, Miss Louise!”

Lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the corridor. Only after entering her chamber, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning —

“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”

***

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, were the elite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant.

His lovely daughter Louise – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

To say that Louise Poindexter was beautiful would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point – strangers as well as acquaintances.

She was the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more.

But mingling in that splendid crowd was a man who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. It was Cassius Calhoun.

At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.

Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.

When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the light of the setting sun – when the spectators pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavalcade.

“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger. He appears to be coming direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”

“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell that horseman to be Maurice Gerald.”

The cavalcade came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo. The mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him.

“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house.

“Surely,” said Poindexter, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”

“Ye-es, Mister Poindexter; the identical creature – a mare,” answered Zeb Stump, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him.

“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”

“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale. You have given me such a generous price for my other captives that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a `luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur, not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this fashion into the settlements of Texas?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, “as you please about that.”

“This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me.”

“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested on the countenance of the mustanger—”a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”

“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”

“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole.

It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess^[21]—and he proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.

It was the first time the wild mare had ever been mounted by man. With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Twice or three times the mustang tried to throw off her rider, but the endeavours were foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal sprang away from the spot and entered upon a gallop.

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Soon Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him.

“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will.”

Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of fear – Louise stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope and whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang.

Answer the following questions:

1) What was Louise preparing for?

2) What news did Zeb Stump bring?

3) Read this extract again:

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Who are these two?

4) Did Maurice sell the spotted mustang? What did he do with it?