The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

“Ah, me!” reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, “I see it all now. ’Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, ‘the hill above my uncle’s house’ – slightly described, but well understood – oft visited before.”

Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair. Her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor – like it, crushed and ruined.

For a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation. Wild emotions passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves. Among others she thought of her beloved Louisiana – of going back there to bury her secret sorrow in the cloisters of the Sacré Coeur. Had the Creole convent been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum within its sacred walls. In very truth was it the darkest day of her existence. After long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer, while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone. The letter was re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration.

There was still a hope – the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might not be in the Settlement.

It was at best but a faint ray. Surely she should know – she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it? Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour.

It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about – to one in the position of Louise Poindexter. But no other course appeared open to her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel – on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!

As the men of the place were all absent – some on the track of the assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. But he knew it not as such. It was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories addressed to him.

Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.

On hearing she was not the first of her sex who had that day made inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.

A night was spent in the agony of unrest – sleep only obtained in short snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.

Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.

It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo alone; and this was her determination.

There was no one to stay her – none to say nay. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. No report had come back to Casa del Corvo. She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions – sole possessor of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.

But it may be easily guessed. Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere suspicion. Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it to that state of helpless submission. Unsatisfied it could no longer exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.

She might find peace – she might chance upon ruin. Even the last appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.

How like to the reasoning of her rival!

It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do it. It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. Talk to the tigress when frenzied by a similar feeling. With a love unhallowed, the will of the Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American Creole, when stirred by its holiest passion. It acknowledges no right of contradiction – regards no obstruction save death.

It is a spirit rare upon earth. In its tranquil state, soft as the rays of the Aurora – pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by love, – or rather by its too constant concomitant – it becomes proud and perilous as the light of Lucifer!

Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type. Where love was the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain. Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or compatible with her existence. She must find proofs to destroy, or confirm it – proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.

Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be sought upon the Alamo.

The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie already known to her.

On passing many a spot, endeared to her – sacred by some of the sweetest souvenirs of her life – her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.

These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled her to the journey – when she thought only of reaching the man she loved, to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!

Ah! these moments – despite the apprehension for her lover’s safety – were happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful contemplation of his treachery.

From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty miles. It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling – that is in the saddle. To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce two hours – quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.

Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her prairie home, it was soon over – too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of her rider.

Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had scarce reached the point of despair. Through her sadness there still shone a scintillation of hope.

It was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the jacalé; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain.

There was a woman within the hut!

From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which her own might have appeared an echo – so closely did the one follow the other – so alike were they in anguish.

Like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from Isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been pronounced – the “Louise” so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain.

To the young Creole the case was clear – painfully clear. She saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment – which, after all, had been kept. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party – Maurice Gerald? That would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.

Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice Gerald “querido;” – who had praised his eyes – who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech.

Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora – equally agonising. She already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her!

Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse – both distraught with the same dire thought – the two stood eyeing each other.

Alike in love with the same man – alike jealous – they were alongside the object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!

Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort – those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!

It was an attitude of silent hostility – all the more terrible for its silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.

Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.

It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other’s dress. The same thought was in her heart – perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Both seemed equally intent on departure – alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.

The grey horse stood nearest – the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount – the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.

Glances were again interchanged – neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful “carajo!” – a fearful phrase from female lips – was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.

Chapter Sixty.

A Fair Informer

If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacalé. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.

In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.

With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!

She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress – fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.

It is not this that has caused her to pull up. There is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. It is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.

All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken – all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!

She has paused at the prompting of a demon – with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind. Her muttered speeches proclaim it. “I should have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly strife?”

“If I killed her, what would it avail? It could not win me back his heart – lost, lost, without hope! Yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place! Oh! there is no hope for me!

“’Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. If I kill him? Ah, then; what would life be to me? Prom that hour an endless anguish!

“Oh! it is anguish now! I cannot endure it. I can think of no solace – if not in revenge. Not only she, he also – both must die!

“But not yet – not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. Mother of God, strengthen me to take vengeance!”

She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine.

On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop – even for the animal to breathe itself – but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined. Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed – only the spur to urge him on.

Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?

His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things – even of the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.

She sees a caballada out upon the open prairie!

Indians? No. White men – less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the “stoor” of the parched plain.

“Los Tejanos!” is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality.

“A troop of their rangers scouring the country for Comanches, I suppose? The Indians are not here? If I’ve heard aright at the Settlement, they should be far on the other side.”

Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no desire to encounter “Los Tejanos.” They are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.

It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.

She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider.

It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken – especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her.

At first she is so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.

Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.

“Rangers – no! Too well dressed for those ragged vagabundos? Must be the party of ‘searchers,’ of which I’ve heard – led by the father of – Yes – yes it is they. Ay Dios! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!”

Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near.

She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.

In another minute she is in their midst – the mounted circle close drawn around her.

There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired – uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.

Though it is an entourage to cause trembling – especially in a woman – Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her.

But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man – of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!

“Can you speak French, mademoiselle?” asks Woodley Poindexter, addressing her in this tongue – in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. “Speak better Inglees – very little, sir.”

“Oh! English. So much the better for us. Tell me, miss; have you seen anybody out here – that is – have you met any one, riding about, or camped, or halted anywhere?”

Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.

The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the circumstances admit.

“May I ask where you live?”

“On the Rio Grande, señor?”

“Have you come direct from there?”

“No; from the Leona.”

“From the Leona!”

“It’s the niece of old Martinez,” interposes one of the party. “His plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter.”

“Si – yes – true that. Sobrina– niece of Don Silvio Martinez. Yo soy.”

“Then you’ve come from his place, direct? Pardon me for appearing rude. I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle curiosity, or impertinence. We have serious reasons – more than serious: they are solemn.”

“From the Hacienda Martinez direct,” answers Isidora, without appearing to notice the last remark. “Two hours ago —un pocito mas– my uncle’s house I leave.”

“Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a – murder – committed?”

“Si, señor. Yesterday at uncle Silvio’s it was told.”

“But to-day – when you left – was there any fresh news in the Settlement? We’ve had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. Have you heard anything, miss?”

“That people were gone after the asesinado. Your party, señor?”

“Yes – yes – it meant us, no doubt. You heard nothing more?”

“Oh, yes; something very strange, señores; so strange, you may think I am jesting.”

“What is it?” inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.

“There is a story of one being seen without a head – on horseback – out here too. Valga me Dios! we must now be near the place? It was by the Nueces – not far from the ford – where the road crosses for the Rio Grande. So the vaqueros said.”

“Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?”

“Si, señores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the spectacle.”

Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a strange story causes among the “Tejanos.” There is an exhibition of interest, but no astonishment. A voice explains:

“We’ve seen it too – that headless horseman – at a distance. Did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?”

“Santissima! no.”

“Can you tell us, miss?”

“I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I’ve said. What it may be, quien sabe?”

There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard.

The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory.

“Have you met, or seen, any one, miss – out here, I mean?”

“Si – yes – I have.”

“You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe – ”

“A lady.”

“Lady!” echo several voices.

“Si, señores.”

“What sort of a lady?”

“Una Americana.”

“An American lady! – out here? Alone?”

“Si, señores.”

“Who?”

“Quien sabe?”

“You don’t know her? What was she like?”

“Like? – like?”

“Yes; how was she dressed?”

“Vestido de caballo.”

“On horseback, then?”

“On horseback.”

“Where did you meet the lady you speak of?”

“Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal.”

“Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?”

“A jacalé. I only know of that.”

Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: “A jacalé?”

“They give that name to their shanties.”

“To whom does it belong – this jacalé?”

“Don Mauricio, el musteñero.”

“Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter.

A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching – fruitless, as earnest – they have struck a trail, – the trail of the murderer!

Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.

“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez – if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”

“It takes me a little out of my way – though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”

Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal – followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.

She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.

“Yonder!” says she, pointing over the plain; “you see that black spot on the horizon? It is the top of an alhuehuete. Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo. Go there! There is a cañon leading down the cliff. Descend. You will find, a little beyond, the jacalé of which I’ve told you.”

The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.

One of the party alone lingers – not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora. He is one who knows Isidora’s language, as well as his own native tongue.

“Tell me, niña,” says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude – almost of entreaty – “Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?”

“Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero! Who could help noticing it?”

“The colour?” gasps the inquirer.

“Un musteño pintojo.”

“A spotted mustang! Holy Heaven!” exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers – leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!

Chapter Sixty One.

Angels on Earth

The retreat of her rival – quick and unexpected – held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision – bewildered by what she saw.

But the moment before she had looked into the jacalé– had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.

What was she to think of that sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?

In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.

At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.

“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catré. “Maurice – wounded – dying! Who has done this?”

There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.

“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it – O say it again!”

“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so – to the eyes – to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are – there are. I know one – ah! more – but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! I mean in beauty – in goodness, that’s another thing. I’m not thinking of goodness – no; no.”

“Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus? You are not in heaven; you are here with me – with Louise.”