Томас Майн Рид: Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

Lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the corridor. Only after entering her chamber, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning —

“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, were the elite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant.

His lovely daughter Louise – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

To say that Louise Poindexter was beautiful would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point – strangers as well as acquaintances.

She was the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more.

But mingling in that splendid crowd was a man who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. It was Cassius Calhoun.

At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.

Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.

When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the light of the setting sun – when the spectators pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavalcade.

“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger. He appears to be coming direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”

“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell that horseman to be Maurice Gerald.”

The cavalcade came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo. The mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him.

“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house.

“Surely,” said Poindexter, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”

“Ye-es, Mister Poindexter; the identical creature – a mare,” answered Zeb Stump, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him.

“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”

“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale. You have given me such a generous price for my other captives that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a `luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur, not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this fashion into the settlements of Texas?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, “as you please about that.”

“This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me.”

“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested on the countenance of the mustanger—”a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”

“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”

“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole.

It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess [21]—and he proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.

It was the first time the wild mare had ever been mounted by man. With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Twice or three times the mustang tried to throw off her rider, but the endeavours were foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal sprang away from the spot and entered upon a gallop.

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Soon Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him.

“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will.”

Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of fear – Louise stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope and whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang.

1) What was Louise preparing for?

2) What news did Zeb Stump bring?

3) Read this extract again:

Conjectures that the mustanger might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return.

Who are these two?

4) Did Maurice sell the spotted mustang? What did he do with it?

The first rays of light, saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell upon a small waggon that stood in front of the “officers’ quarters”. A party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling on the parade-ground. They were preparing for a picnic. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.

The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang.