Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

“Indians!” exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. “Indians playing with Spanish cards! White Indians, I reckon.”

“Do you think they weren’t Indians, after all?”

“Never a matter what I think. There’s no time to talk of that now. Go on, and tell me of all you’ve seen and heard.”

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult conglomeration of circumstances – events without causes – causes without sequence – crimes committed without any probable motive – mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter – a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery – Maurice having departed for the prairies – Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness – in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men – he did not believe them to be Indians – had been making free with the mustanger’s hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed.

So absorbed was he with these thoughts, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature’s presence. A shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.

“Oh, Mister Stump, look at Tara! See! there’s something tied about his neck. It wasn’t there when he left. What do you think it is?”

The hunter’s eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal’s neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides – a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!

The packet was laid open; it contained a card!

There was a name upon the card, and writing – writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was blood!

Zeb Stump soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.

“Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; “and thank my old schoolmaster. He lives, Phelim! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can’t read. No matter. He lives!”

“Who? Master Maurice? Then the Lord be thanked—”

“Wagh! there’s no time to thank him now. Get a blanket and some pieces of horse-hide thong. You can do it while I catch up the old mare. Quick! Half an hour lost, and we may be too late!”

Guided by the instructions written upon the card, Zeb Stump had made all haste towards the rendezvous there given.

He had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the spot, at that critical moment when a jaguar was preparing to spring upon the mustanger who in despair steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal. But instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!

A man of colossal size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph.

“I can see no wound worth making a mess about,” said Zeb after stooping down and giving a short examination. “There’s a considerable swelling of the knee; but the leg isn’t fractured, else he couldn’t stand up on it.”

Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around the mustanger. He had already noticed the Panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through his mind.

He knew that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican sombrero – a very different kind of head-gear.

Zeb fancied he had seen that hat before, and on some other head.

On looking inside the hat he read the name well known to him —

“HENRY POINDEXTER.”

The cloak now came under his notice. It, too, carried marks, by which he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner.

“Hats, heads, and everything. Hats on the wrong head; heads in the wrong place! There’s something gone astray! It is no use looking to him,” he added, glancing towards Maurice, “for an explanation; at least till he’s slept off this delirium that’s on him.”

It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the jacale.

In strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose.

He was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces bending over him. He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with inconsequence.

Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sat up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer. Zeb had requested Phelim to lie down – telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake.

And alone he sat throughout the live-long night.

Maurice’s speeches were disjointed – incongruous, and almost unintelligible. Comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances already known to him, before the morning light had entered the jacale, Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no longer a living man!

1) Who woke Phelim up?

2) What did Phelim relate to Zeb?

3) Who brought the news about Maurice? How?

4) What was about to happen when Zeb and Phelim arrived?

5) Whose hat and cloak did Zeb find?

6) Why was there no use talking to Maurice?

As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of the Rio Grande – separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda Martinez. But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to her uncle and aunt upon the Leona.

Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.

Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives – fonder as they grew older? If not, what was her motive?

She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice Gerald.

With like frankness may it be told, that she loved him.

Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart. As already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.

Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people are hurrying to and fro, [46]from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified exclamations.

“What is causing the commotion?”

This is the question asked by Isidora.

The son of the American landowner, who have lately taken possession of Casa del Corvo, has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.

Indians are reported to have done the deed.

Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio’s servitors.

The name of the victim recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that his sister is said to be wonderfully beautiful, and that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother’s death – only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

Some hours later, and this feeling becomes changed to an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man – by Maurice the mustanger!