Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

Though frightened by the strange phenomenon, they were none the less puzzled to explain it.

“What do you make of it, gentlemen?” said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: “I confess it mystifies me.”

“An Indian trick?” suggested one. “Some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?”

“I don’t think it’s Indian,” said the major; “I don’t know what to think. What’s your opinion of it, Spangler?”

“I know no more than yourself, major,” replied he. “It must either be a man, or a dummy! By all means. We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. Forward!”

They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider. But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail.

They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal. The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward. It was no longer a mere rumour.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations.

The civilians might have stayed. There was no intention to abandon the search. That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them – what he had hitherto kept back – the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker’s interpretation of it. As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, but duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger’s guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found – one or both, living or dead.

Zeb Stump has just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder.” The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house.

When he asked for Mr Poindexter, Pluto told him that master had been there a quarter of an hour ago. He’d gone to “the horse prairies with Master Calhoun, and lots of other white gentlemen”.

“And your young Master Henry – is he gone too?” asked Zeb.

“Oh Master Stump! That’s the trouble. That’s the whole of it. Master Henry has gone too. He’s never come back. The horse has been brought home all covered over with blood. Ho! ho! The folks say Master Henry is dead.”

“Dead! Are you in earnest?”

“Oh! I am, Master Stump. They all have gone to search after the body.”

“Here! Take these things to the kitchen. There’s a gobbler, and some chickens. Where can I find Miss Louise?”

“Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!” replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it. “Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you. My brother is missing. He has not been seen since the night before last. His horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. Oh Zeb! it’s fearful to think of it!”

“Sure enough that is ugly news. As they’re still searching I might be some help at that business; and maybe you won’t mind telling me the particulars?”

She told him everything she knew. The garden scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people – that Maurice was the murderer.

“It’s a lie!” cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: “the thing’s impossible. The mustanger isn’t the man to do such a deed as that. If there had been a quarrel and hot blood between them—”

“No – no!” cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. “It was all over. Henry was reconciled. He said so; and Maurice—”

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears.

“Hoh – oh!” muttered Zeb; “there has been something? Do you say, Miss Louise, there was a quarrel between your brother—”

“Dear, dear Zeb!” cried she, removing her hands, “promise me, you will keep my secret? Promise it, as a friend – as a brave true-hearted man! You will – you will?”

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man – except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence.

“It is for that I’ve been so anxious to see you. There are many rough men along with papa. As they went away I heard them use wild words. They talked of lynching and the like. Dear Zeb, for my sake – for his, whom you call friend-reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger!”

“There’s some truth in what you say,” interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. “There might be a smell of danger for the young fellow; and I’ll do what I can to avert it.”

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance and striding out of the verandah.

1) Who were the four Comanches? Why did they come to the mustanger’s hut?

2) Who was there in the jacale? What was he doing?

3) Who did the Mexicans take the headless horseman for?

4) Who became the party of searchers’ new suspect? Why? Who didn’t believe in his guilt?

5) What secret did Louise confide to Zeb? What did she ask him for?

It was nearly noon when Phelim awoke from his sleep; and only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.

It was Zeb Stump who administered the douche.

After parting from Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had taken the road, or rather trail, which he knew to be the most direct one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.

From what Louise Poindexter had told him – from a knowledge of the people who composed the party of searchers – he knew that Maurice Gerald was in danger.

Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them – coupled with caution to keep out of their way.

Phelim, however, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself.

As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.

It was the first time that Zeb Stump had heard of the Headless Horseman.

At first Zeb wasn’t disposed to believe Phelim. He was puzzled, however, by Phelim’s persistence in declaring it to be a fact.

“How could I be mistaken?” argued the Irishman. “Didn’t I see Master Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minute? All except the head. And haven’t I told you that Tara went away after him, and then I heard the dog growling, just before the Indians—”