The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

“This I foun’,” says he, surrendering it to the jury, “stuck fast on the thorn o’ a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o’ the barrel o’ a gun. It kim out o’ the same gun as discharged thet bullet – to which it hed served for waddin’. As this chile takes it, it’s bin the backin’ o’ a letter. Thur’s a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi’ the ineeshuls on the bit o’ lead. The jury kin read the name for tharselves.”

The foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud: —

Captain Cassius Calhoun!

Chapter Ninety Six.

Stole Away!

The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.

It is accompanied by a cry – sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.

It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.

Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.

After a short time spent in examining the envelope – passed from hand to hand among the jurymen – the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.

He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions – those that originally prompted him to seek for “sign” upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught – giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.

This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.

But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.

They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped – themselves along with it; and – swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit – revenge, proceeding from self-reproach – they call loudly for a change in the programme.

The Court is assailed with the cries: —

“Let the Irishman go – he is innocent! We don’t want any farther evidence. We’re convinced of it. Let him go free!”

Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.

It is followed by other speeches equally earnest: —

“Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It’s he that’s done the deed! That’s why he’s shown so bitter against the other! If he’s innocent, he’ll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we’re waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man’s been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!”

The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.

The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.

The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.

There is only one pair that looks in the right direction – those of Zeb Stump.

The ci-devant witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare – still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.

With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare’s back, and spurs her from under the tree.

At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.

Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate – making for a particular quarter of the cavallada.

“’Tis he! ’Tis Calhoun!” cries the voice of one who has recognised him.

“Trying to steal off!” proclaims another.

“Follow him!” shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. “Follow, and bring him back!”

There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed – by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.

Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his – a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.

It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.

From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal – the “hue and cry.”

Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal’s back.

Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie – going off at a gallop.

Fifty horses are soon laid along his track – their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.

“Bring him back – dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase, – supposed to have been spoken by the major.

No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this – coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.

Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative – a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!

Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer’s bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger’s pistol pointed at his head!

He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace – at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.

It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following – within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries – one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.

He has.

He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.

True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?

Is this the thought that sustains him?

It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket – with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit – Zeb Stump at their head!

No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.