The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

There is silence even among the cicadas.

It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?

“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”

“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”

Not during all the day – despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises – have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.

“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter – shot him dead in the chapparal.”

The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.

Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it – proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man – once more in their midst.

Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.

“I know that I’ve got to die,” proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. “You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.

“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.”

A new “sensation” makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.

No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.

“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”

The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.

“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”

The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him – still solemnly austere.

“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t – that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I see standing before me.”

In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.

“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.

“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.

“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot – meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serapé still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”

The “sensation” again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts – the latter prolonged into cries of retribution – mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.

There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.

“Now!” cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”

There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech – the last of Calhoun’s life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.

While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.

The spectators have just time to see the pistol – as it glints under the slanting sunbeams – when two shots are heard in quick succession.

With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!

One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger, – the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!

Chapter One Hundred.

Joy

Joy!

There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.

Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the subdued happiness that succeeded? Not I. Not you, if you speak truly.

The passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly Puritan standard. Still is it according to the dictates of Nature – universal and irresistible – telling us that father, mother, sister, and brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only exceeded – sometimes scarce equalled – by the love of self.

Do not reproach the young Creole, because this passion was paramount in her soul. Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. Nor, that her happiness was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her lover’s life had been preserved – as it might seem miraculously.

The aim of the assassin had been true enough. He must have felt sure of it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the bullet that had lodged in his brain. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a gage d’amour– the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place – turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet!

Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing too close to the spot.

Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.

The stunning shock – with the mental and corporeal excitement – long sustained – did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.

But no longer lay his body in danger – in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures, – in a hut, where he was but ill attended – in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.

When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman – the loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like – by name Louise Poindexter.

There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own father. The spirit of the aristocratic planter – steeped in sorrow, and humiliated by misfortune – had become purged of its false pride; though it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance, which, instead of a “nobody,” gave him a nobleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald – erst known as Maurice the mustanger!

In Texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care to carry it. But, by a bit of good fortune – not always attendant on an Irish baronetcy – it carried along with it an endowment – ample enough to clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Cassius Calhoun, and claimed by his nearest of kin.

This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun’s death, it was discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict; and there was a young scion of his stock – living in New Orleans – who had the legal right to say he was his son!

It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement, became the husband of the fair Creole.

After a visit to his native land – including the European tour – which was also that of his honeymoon – Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations, once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.

The “blue-eyed colleen” of Castle Ballagh must have been a myth – having existence only in the erratic fancy of Phelim. Or it may have been the bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming – by absence, oft fatal to such tender plants of passion?