The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

And for a whole week the guessing continued; during which the spectral rider was repeatedly seen; now going at a quick gallop, now moving in slow, tranquil pace, across the treeless prairie: his horse at one time halted and vaguely gazing around him; at another with teeth to the ground, industriously cropping the sweet gramma grass, that makes the pasturage of South-Western Texas (in my opinion) the finest in the world.

Rejecting many tales told of the Headless Horseman – most of them too grotesque to be recorded – one truthful episode must needs be given – since it forms an essential chapter of this strange history.

In the midst of the open, prairie there is a “motte” – a coppice, or clump of trees – of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. A prairie-man would call it an “island,” and with your eyes upon the vast verdant sea that surrounds it, you could not help being struck with the resemblance.

The aboriginal of America might not perceive it. It is a thought of the colonist transmitted to his descendants; who, although they may never have looked upon the great ocean, are nevertheless au fait to its phraseology.

By the timber island in question – about two hundred yards from its edge – a horse is quietly pasturing. He is the same that carries the headless rider; and this weird equestrian is still bestriding him, with but little appearance of change, either in apparel or attitude, since first seen by the searchers. The striped blanket still hangs over his shoulders, cloaking the upper half of his person; while the armas-de-agua, strapped over his limbs, cover them from thigh to spur, concealing all but their outlines.

His body is bent a little forward, as if to ease the horse in getting his snout to the sward; which the long bridle-rein, surrendered to its full length, enables him to do, though still retained in hand, or resting over the “horn” of the saddle.

Those who asserted that they saw a head, only told the truth. There is a head; and, as also stated, with a hat upon it – a black sombrero, with bullion band as described.

The head rests against the left thigh, the chin being nearly down on a level with the rider’s knee. Being on the near side it can only be seen, when the spectator is on the same; and not always then, as it is at times concealed by a corner of the serapé.

At times too can a glimpse be obtained of the face. Its features are well formed, but wearing a sad expression; the lips of livid colour, slightly parted, showing a double row of white teeth, set in a grim ghastly smile.

Though there is no perceptible change in the personnel of the Headless Horseman there is something new to be noted. Hitherto he has been seen going alone. Now he is in company.

It cannot be called agreeable; – consisting as it does of wolves – half a score of them squatting closely upon the plain, and at intervals loping around him.

By the horse they are certainly not liked; as is proved by the snorting and stamping of his hoof, when one of them ventures upon a too close proximity to his heels.

The rider seems more indifferent to a score of birds – large dark birds – that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. Even when one bolder than the rest has the audacity to alight upon him, he has made no attempt to disturb it, raising neither hand nor arm to drive it away!

Three times one of the birds has alighted thus – first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between – upon the spot where the head should be!

The bird does not stay upon its singular perch, or only for an instant. If the rider does not feel the indignity the steed does; and resists it by rearing upward, with a fierce neighing, that frights the vultures off – to return again only after a short interval of shyness.

His steed thus browsing, now in quiet, now disturbed by the too near approach of the wolves – anon by the bold behaviour of the birds – goes the Headless Horseman, step by step, and with long pauses of pasturing, around the prairie island.

Chapter Seventy Four.

A Solitary Stalker

The singular spectacle described – extraordinary it might be termed – was too grave to appear grotesque. There was some thing about it that savoured of the outre-monde. Human eyes could not have beholden it, without the shivering of a human frame, and the chilling of human blood.

Was it seen by human eyes in this fresh phase – with the wolves below, and the vultures above?

It was.

By one pair; and they belonging to the only man in all Texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.

It was not yet altogether clear to him. There were points that still puzzled him. He but know it was neither a dummy, nor the Devil.

His knowledge did not except him from the universal feeling of dread. Despite the understanding of what the thing was, he shuddered as he gazed upon it.

He gazed upon it from the “shore” of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.

And yet, with all his trembling and the desire to keep concealed, he was following it round and round, on the circumference of an inner circle, as if some magnetic power was constraining him to keep on the same radius, of which the point occupied by the Headless Horseman was a prolongation!

More than this. He had seen the latter before entering the island. He had seen him far off, and might easily have shunned him. But instead of doing so, he had immediately commenced making approach towards him!

He had continued it – using the timber as a screen, and acting as one who stalks the timid stag, with the difference of a heart-dread which no deer-stalker could ever know.

He had continued it; until the shelter of the motte gave him a momentary respite, not from fear, but the apprehension of a failure.

He had not ridden ten miles across the prairie without a design; and it was this that caused him to go so cautiously – guiding his horse over the softest turf, and through the selvedge of the chapparal – in such a way as neither to expose his person to view, nor cause a rustle among the branches, that might be heard to the distance of ten yards.

No one observing his manoeuvres as he moved amid the timber island, could have mistaken their meaning – at least so far as related to the object for which they were being made.

His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter – by which he appeared to regulate his own.

At first, fear seemed to be his prevailing thought. After a time, it was succeeded by an impatience that partially emboldened him. The latter plainly sprang from his perceiving, that the Headless Horseman, instead of approaching the timber, still kept at a regular distance of two hundred yards from its edge.

That this chafed him was evident from a string of soliloquies, muttered half aloud. They were not free from blasphemy; but that was characteristic of the man who pronounced them.

“Damn the infernal brute! If he’d only come twenty yards nearer, I could fetch him. My gun won’t carry that distance. I’d miss him for sure, and then it’ll be all up. I may never get the chance again. Confound him! He’s all of twenty yards too far off.” As if the last was an ambiguity rather than a conviction, the speaker appeared to measure with his eye the space that separated him from the headless rider – all the while holding in hand a short Yäger rifle, capped and cocked – ready for instant discharge.

“No use,” he continued, after a process of silent computation. “I might hit the beast with a spent ball, but only to scare without crippling him. I must have patience, and wait till he gets a little nearer. Damn them wolves! He might come in, if it wasn’t for them. So long as they’re about him, he’ll give the timber a wide berth. It’s the nature of these Texas howes – devil skin them!

“I wonder if coaxing would do any good?” he proceeded, after a pause. “Maybe the sound of a man’s voice would bring the animal to a stand? Doubtful. He’s not likely to ’ve heard much of that lately. I suppose it would only frighten him! The sight of my horse would be sure to do it, as it did before; though that was in the moonlight. Besides, he was chased by the howling staghound. No wonder his being wild, then, ridden as he is by hell knows what; for it can’t be – Bah! After all, there must be some trick in it; some damned infernal trick!”

For a while the speaker checked his horse with a tight rein. And, leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, continued to scan the strange shape that was slowly skirting the timber.

“It’s his horse – sure as shootin’! His saddle, serapé, and all. How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”

Another pause of reflection.

“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing lodged there, I’ve got to get it back. What a fool; to have bragged about it as I did! Curse the crooked luck!

“He won’t come nearer. He’s provokingly shy of the timber. Like all his breed, he knows he’s safest in the open ground.

“What’s to be done? See if I can call him up. May be he may like to hear a human voice. If it’ll only fetch him twenty yards nearer, I’ll be satisfied. Hanged if I don’t try.”

Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.

“Proh – proh – proshow! Come kindly! come, old horse!”

The invitation was extended to no purpose. The Texan steed did not seem to understand it; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him; for no sooner fell the “proh” upon his ear, than letting go the mouthful of grass already gathered, he tossed his head aloft with a snort that proclaimed far greater fear than that felt for either wolf or vulture!

A mustang, he knew that his greatest enemy was man – a man mounted upon a horse; and by this time his scent had disclosed to him the proximity of such a foe.

He stayed not to see what sort of man, or what kind of horse. His first instinct had told him that both were enemies.

As his rider by this time appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion, there was no tightening of the rein; and he was left free to follow his own course – which carried him straight off over the prairie.

A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.