The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; “I suppose you understand me?”

“Not any more than ever.”

“You wish me to speak further?”

“As you please, sir.”

“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin – yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”

“Yes; I know that much.”

“You will not refuse me now?”

“Now more than ever!”

“Be it so! Before this time to-morrow – and, by Heaven! I mean it – before this time to-morrow, you shall stand in the witness-box?”

“Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!”

“You needn’t put yourself to the trouble. I’m not going to embarrass you any longer with my company – so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you’ll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you’ll give notice of it – in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I’ll sleep thinking of you.”

With these words of mockery upon his lips – almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them – Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.

Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.

Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.

Chapter Eighty Six.

A Texan Court

It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.

Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf, does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.

The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning.

Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.

Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.

This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.

The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the “Bloody Ground;” built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.

Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds – not a few of them traffickers in human flesh!

There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling – adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up – whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.

Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo – the same with an augmentation of numbers.

The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women – the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle – their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle – seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of “carrioles” and “Jerseys.”

There is a spectacle – at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.

Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald – known as Maurice the mustanger.

Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim – neither much known in the neighbourhood.

The same Court – it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde – has been in session there before – has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men – thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers – with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!

It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.

It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.

All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.

Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest – friends and relatives of the man supposed to have been murdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.

But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances – independent of each other – have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done – as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.

They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.

Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.

There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side – soldiers and citizens – dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the “Oyez!” of the Court crier – grotesquely pronounced “O yes!” – determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: “May God have mercy on your soul!”

There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.

There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!

The Court is in session.

You have before your mind’s eye a large hall, with a raised daïs at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.

You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.

You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators – not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.

You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas – as unlike its homonym in England as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of Guardsmen.

There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided to sit under a tree!

And under a tree has it established itself – a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss – standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.

A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches.