Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

This later edition of the news while tranquilising Don Silvio’s servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with “full particulars of the murder,” so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez; and by day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding along the banks of the Alamo!

All night long the invalid lay awake. All night long the hunter sat by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal howl, and come running scared-like into the hut.

Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be. But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that resembled the clinking of a horse’s shoe struck against a loose stone.

He soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct – a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back – both horse and man distinctly seen in dark silhouette against the clear sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.

That of the man could be traced – only from the saddle to the shoulders. Above, there was nothing – not even the semblance of a head!

Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. Even if he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same – a horseman without a head.

Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame.

“The Irish has been right after all. I thought he had dreamt of it in his drink. But no. He has seen something; and so have I myself. “

“Why can’t I get closer to it?” he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. “I must have a try! I reckon it won’t eat me – not if it is old Nick; and if it’s him, I’ll just satisfy myself whether a bullet can go through his infernal carcass without throwing him out of the saddle.”

The hunter stalked off through the trees – upon the path that led up to the bluff.

The horse stood at a halt. He was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into the gorge. His rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine; or, what was more likely, scented him.

Zeb Stump was firm enough to carry out the purpose that had prompted him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he had to deal with a human being, or the devil!

In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon the heart of the Headless Horseman.

In another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that just then flashed across the brain of the hunter.

Maybe he was about to commit murder? What if it was a human creature?

“Hello stranger! You’re out for a pretty late ride, aren’t you? Haven’t you forgotten to fetch your head with you?” said the hunter.

There was no reply. Only the horse snorted, on hearing the voice.

“Look here, stranger! Old Zeb Stump from the State of Kentucky, is the individual who’s now speaking to you. He isn’t one of that sort to be trifled with. I warn you to declare your game. If you’re playing possum, [47]you’d better throw up your hand; or you may lose both your stake and your cards! Speak out now, before you are shot!”

Less response than before.

“Six seconds more – I’ll give you six more; and if you don’t show speech by that time, I’ll let drive at your guts. If you’re but a dummy it won’t do you any harm. But if you’re a man playing possum, you deserve to be shot for being such a damned fool! One-two-three-four-five-six!”

Where “seven” should have come in, had the count been continued, was heard the sharp crack of a rifle; then the dull “thud” as the deadly missile buried itself in some solid body.

The only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of the horse. The rider still kept his seat in the saddle!

The animal went off at a furious gallop; leaving Zeb Stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.

He was not only surprised at the result, but terrified. He was certain that his bullet had passed through the man’s heart – or where it should be – as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs.

As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him.

It was time to awaken Phelim, so that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid.

Phelim, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, was ready to undertake the task.

However, his vigil was of short duration. Scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse’s hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.

He could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the jacale. But the hoofstroke told him there was only one; and this it was that excited his apprehension.

His fears were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.

It was a woman. It was Isidora.

It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden – the first that hers had ever rested upon him. They were equally unknown to one another.

Isidora, speaking in the best american she could command, asked Phelim if Maurice Gerald lived in that place. On hearing a positive answer, she asked if he was at home and said that she wished to see him. Phelim told her that she couldn’t see his master because he wasn’t in a condition to see anyone—”unless it was the priest or a doctor.”

“Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?”

“Don’t I tell you! What would be the use of concealing it? It would do no good; neither can it do him any harm to speak about it? You might say it before his face, and he won’t contradict you. He wouldn’t know you from his great grandmother.”

“All the more reason why I should see him. I may be of service. I am his friend – the friend of Don Mauricio.”

“How am I to know that? For all your pretty face, you might be his deadliest enemy.”

“I must see him – I must – I will – I shall!”

As Isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle, and advanced in the direction of the door.

At that moment Zeb Stump appeared at the door of the hut, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance.

“I beg your pardon, senorita. You can speak a bit of American, can you? So much the better. You’ll be able to tell me what you want out here. You haven’t lost your way, have you?”

“No, senor,” was the reply, after a pause.

Isidora told Zeb that she was a friend of Maurice and wanted to see him.

“Well; I reckon, there can be no objection to your seeing him,” answered Zeb. “He is wounded a bit; and just now a little delirious. But I don’t see any harm in it. Women make the best of nurses. If you want to take a spell by the side of the young fellow, you’re welcome – seeing you’re his friend. You can look after him, till we get back.”