Томас Майн Рид - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

Coming in by a side path, he had arrived on the edge of the opening already described. He was just turning into it, when he saw, that he was not the only horseman, who at that late hour was traversing the chapparal.

Another, to all appearance as well mounted as himself, was approaching along the avenue – not slowly as he, but in a quick trot.

Long before the strange rider had come near, the moonlight, shining fall upon him, enabled Calhoun to see that he was headless !

There could be no mistake about the observation. Though quickly made, it was complete. The white moon beams, silvering his shoulders, were reflected from no face, above or between them! It could be no illusion of the moon’s light. Calhoun had seen that same shape under the glare of the sun.

He now saw more – the missing head, ghastly and gory, half shrouded behind the hairy holsters! More still – he recognised the horse – the striped serapé upon the shoulders of the rider – the water-guards upon his legs – the complete caparison – all the belongings of Maurice the mustanger!

He had ample time to take in these details. At a stand in the embouchure of the side path, terror held him transfixed to the spot. His horse appeared to share the feeling. Trembling in its tracks, the animal made no effort to escape; even when the headless rider pulled up in front, and, with a snorting, rearing steed, remained for a moment confronting the frightened party.

It was only after the blood bay had given utterance to a wild “whigher” – responded to by the howl of a hound close following at his heels – and turned into the avenue to continue his interrupted trot – only then that Calhoun became sufficiently released from the spell of horror to find speech.

“God of heaven!” he cried, in a quivering voice, “what can it mean? Is it man, or demon, that mocks me? Has the whole day been a dream? Or am I mad – mad – mad?”

The scarce coherent speech was succeeded by action, instantaneous but determined. Whatever the purpose of his exploration, it was evidently abandoned: for, turning his horse with a wrench upon the rein, he rode back by the way he had come – only at a far faster pace, – pausing not till he had re-entered the encampment.

Then stealing up to the edge of the fire, he lay down among the slumbering inebriates – not to sleep, but to stay trembling in their midst, till daylight disclosed a haggard pallor upon his cheeks, and ghastly glances sent forth from his sunken eyes.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of Casa del Corvo. The courtyard was crowded with men – armed, though not in the regular fashion. They carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of coloured blanket, and “Kentucky jeans,” trowsers of brown “homespun,” and blue “cottonade,” hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck – these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an assemblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of Texas.

Despite the bizarrerie of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. Others had now joined the assemblage – settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day – even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the assembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. Irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. These were the “ Regulators .”

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any other individual. They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder – of the murder of Henry Poindexter – coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not – of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony – and the serious manner in which it was given – could not long be resisted; and the existence of the headless horseman became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested. The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman – that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside – some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most “hitched” to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter – on this occasion their chief – to give the signal for setting forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo – who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.

There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service – old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.

There was a woman , in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track – to the very hearthstone of the supposed assassin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. Had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda without him. The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth.

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder” – as he was wont to term it – procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home. She was even eager for the interview – so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare – the latter laden with the spoils of the chase – slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.