Томас Майн Рид - Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of Fort Inge. Looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entree at all times, and could go in without countersign. The adjutant announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment.

From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.

“Ah! Mr Stump! Glad to see you so soon. Have you made any discovery in this queer affair? From your quick return, I can almost say you have. Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still adhere to my old opinion – that he’s innocent. What have you learnt?”

“Well, Major,” answered Zeb, removing his hat; “what I’ve learnt isn’t much, though enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn’t intend to come, till I’d gone a bit of a journey across the prairies. I came back here to have a word with you.”

Zeb told the major that he was going to make “a short excursion across to the Nueces” and asked him to keep back the trial. The old hunter had his own ideas concerning the case and needed time to verify them.

“Can you promise me three days? Before the trial comes on?” asked Zeb.

“I think there will be no difficulty about that. I shall undertake to do that.”

The hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.

On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare against the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.

“It’s no use beginning near the Fort or the town. The ground about both on them is paddled with horse tracks. I’d better strike out into the prairie at once, and take a track crossways of the Rio Grande route. By doing that I may fluke on the footmark I’m in search of. Yes! that’s the most sensible idea.”

In the midst of the open prairie there is a coppice, or clump of trees – of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. About two hundred yards from its edge a horse is quietly pasturing. He is the same that carries the headless rider.

The weird equestrian seems indifferent to a score of large dark birds that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. Three times one of the birds has alighted upon him – first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between – upon the spot where the head should be!

This scene was seen by human eyes; and they belong to the only man in all Texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.

He gazed upon it from the “shore” of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.

His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter.

“If he’d only come twenty yards nearer, I could fetch him. My gun won’t carry that distance. I’d miss him for sure, and then it’ll be all up. I may never get the chance again.”

Leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, the speaker continued to scan the strange shape.

“It’s his horse – sure as shooting! His saddle, serape, and all. How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”

Another pause of reflection.

“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing got stuck there, I’ve got to get it back.”

Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.

“Proh-proh-proshow! Come kindly! come, old horse!”

The Texan steed did not seem to understand the invitation; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him. And the horse carried his rider straight off over the prairie.

A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.

Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman passing rapidly beyond reach – unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him.

Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history, Zeb Stump strode on, translating the “sign” of the prairie. Alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention directed.

A sound startled him from his all-engrossing occupation. It was the report of a rifle.

Instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes.

A horseman, just clearing himself from the cloud of smoke – now falling, dispersed over the prairie – came galloping on towards the spot where Zeb stood. It was the horseman without a head.

Going at full speed, he went past the trembling hunter, and the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump’s optics a form well known to him. The horse, the saddle, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers – even the hat upon the head – were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same – notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.

The episode – strange as unexpected – seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by?

While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie.

Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them.

Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw a man on horseback – a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders. He was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse.

There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider. He was soon within identifying distance. It was Captain Cassius Calhoun.

“I might have known it would be him”, muttered the backwoodsman; “and if I’m not mistaken about it, here’s going to be another chapter out of the same book – another link that’ll help me to complete the chain of evidence I’m in search for.”

Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun trotted past.

If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless Horseman, it was redoubled now. With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.

1) What was found in the hollow of a tree? What did it prove?

2) What did Zeb ask the major for? What did he need three days for?

3) Who was stalking the headless horseman? Why?

4) Who did Zeb see in the prairie? What did he decide to do?

On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. [55]There was no regular practitioner in the place. But a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!

It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.