Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act.

Besides, her own steed was in front – that spotted creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!

But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat.

He was in danger – from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?

“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father – friends – all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”

Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.

“Pull up, damn you! It’s no use trying to escape. Pull up, I say!”

“Sure, gentlemen, I had no such intentions. I was only going to—”

“Run off, if you’d got the chance. You’d made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton!”

“Ho! what’s this?” inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. “Why – it – it’s Looey’s mustang!”

“It is, uncle,” answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.

“I wonder who’s brought the beast here?”

“Loo herself, I reckon.”

“Nonsense! You’re jesting, Cash?”

“No, uncle; I’m in earnest.”

“You mean to say my daughter has been here?”

“Has been – still is, I take it. Look yonder!”

The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.

“Good God, Louise what means this? A wounded man! Is it he – Henry?”

Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat – Henry’s!

“It is; he’s alive! Thank heaven!” He runs towards the couch.

The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.

“Great God!” gasps the planter; “what is it? Can you explain, Louise?”

“I cannot, father. I’ve been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious.”

Louise tells her father that Mr Gerald was alone when she entered. She couldn’t stay at home alone and endure the uncertainty any longer. She came to the hut because she thought she might find Henry there.

“But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”

“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt – when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”

Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it.

“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent – indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come away! This is no place for a lady. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Someone will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.

The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front. They stand in groups – some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around Phelim who lies upon the grass, tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.

On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them.

Most of them know the young lady by sight – all by fame, or name. They feel surprise – almost wonder – at seeing her there – alone. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!

“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.”

“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?”

“It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”

The searchers were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling a circle.

Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous – among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief. Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun.

It was a trial for Murder – a trial before Justice Lynch [49]—with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground – all except the prisoners.

Of these there are two – Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.

They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.

Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.

The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.

In the minds of most – already predisposed to it – there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.

Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale – the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.

The explanations given by Phelim, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.

There are some who will scarce stay to hear them – some who impatiently cry out, “Let the murderer be hanged!”

As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose it’s a perfect piece of cord.

The vote is taken viva voce. [50]

Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die.

And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. No one seems willing to lay hold of the rope!

Why is the sentence of death not carried out?

For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action – for want of the proofs to produce it.

There is a minority not satisfied – that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered “No.”

Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself – Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the verdict. He was of the opinion that there was a doubt in the case, and they had to give the accused the benefit of it – till he was able to answer the questions. So he suggested postponing the trial.

“What’s the use of postponing it?” cries a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered – I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother – you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”

“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”

“Can you give them, Mister Cassius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.

“Perhaps I can.”

“Let’s have them, then!”

“God knows you’ve had evidence enough – and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it.

“Gentlemen!” says he, “what I’ve got to say now I could have told you long ago. But I didn’t think it was needed. You all know what’s happened between this man and myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful. I’m not; and if it wasn’t that I’m sure he has done the deed – I should still say nothing of what I’ve seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing.”