Н. Самуэльян - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

“When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.

“The sight of them, as well as my thirst – that was beginning to grow painful – prompted me to move away from the place.

“On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.

“To stay on that spot was to perish – at least I so thought at the time.

“Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.

“I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling, – partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket – I succeeded in reaching it.

“Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.

“I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotés.

“There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear – knowing their cowardly nature – I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.

“They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.

“After a time they did so – clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.

“I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.

“With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.

“For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.

“I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God.”

On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.

Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.

“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade – one ofttimes more faithful than man himself – my staghound, Tara.

“The dog had been straying – perhaps in search of me – though I’ve since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.

“The coyotes scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate – I may say, out of the jaws of death.

“I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness – whichever it may have been.

“On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacalé; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.

“The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message – the staghound to be its bearer.

“I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.

“I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.

“There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.

“Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara’s neck.

“With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.

“It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.

“Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep – again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy – one more terrible than I had yet encountered.

“It was a jaguar.

“A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it – with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.

“All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams – painful phantasmagoria – mingled with pleasant visions – ah! some that were celestial – until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison – with a charge of murder hanging over my head!

“Gentlemen of the jury! I have done.”

“ Si non vero e ben trovato [389] ,” is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.

They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it – one and all of them.

And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple – too circumstantial – to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.

It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.

His confession – irregular as it may have been – has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.

Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.

Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?

Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter – with or without Cassius Calhoun – with or without the Headless Horse, man – now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.

It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability – much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west – denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.

They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks – or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance – unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!

But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate – that section of it close to the Sierra Madre [390] – and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.

Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.

Their impatience may be traced to a different cause – a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.

It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground – every woman as well – chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.