The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.

He holds it on high – enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is.

“Now, Mr Judge,” he continues, “an’ you o’ the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. He went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o’ it. He went right upon the track o’ both, an stopped short o’ the place whur the crime wur committed.

“But the man that rud him didn’t stop short. He kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. It war the third hoss – him wi’ the broken shoe – thet carried the murderer!”

“Go on, Mr Stump!” directs the judge. “Explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement.”

“What I mean, judge, air jest this. The man I’m speakin’ o’ tuk stan’ in the thicket, from which stan’ he fired the shet thet killed poor young Peintdexter.”

“What man? Who was it? His name! Give his name!” simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.

“I reckon yu’ll find it thar.”

“Where?”

“Whar! In thet thur body as sits ’ithout a head, lookin’ dumbly down on ye!

“Ye kin all see,” continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, “ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o’ the striped blanket. Thur’s a hole in the centre o’ it. Ahint that hole I reck’n thur’ll be another, in the young fellur’s karkidge. Thar don’t appear any to match it at the back. Thurfor I konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o’ him. S’posin’ we strip off his duds, an see!”

There is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. Two or three of the spectators – Sam Manly one of them – step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serapé.

As at the inauguration of a statue – whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration – the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the Texan tree, while the serapé is being raised from the shoulders of the Headless Horseman.

It is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. These are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage.

It is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue cottonade– box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat.

The limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. But only the thighs can be seen – the lower extremities being concealed by the “water-guards” of spotted skin tightly stretched over them.

Around the waist – twice twined around it – is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse’s hair. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. It is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing – surcingle fashion – under the belly of the horse.

Everything as the accused has stated – all except the head.

Where is this?

The spectators do not stay to inquire. Guided by the speech of Zeb Stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it.

Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.

It is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. These have saturated the soft cottonade– now seemingly desiccated.

The other shot-hole shows no similar signs. It is a clear round cut in the cloth – about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. There is no blood stain around it.

“It,” says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, “it signifies nothin’. It’s the bullet I fired myself out o’ the gully; the same I’ve ben tellin’ ye o’. Ye obsarve thar’s no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. The other air different. It wur the shot as settled him; an ef I ain’t dog-gonedly mistaken, ye’ll find the bit o’ lead still inside o’ the corp. Suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!”

The proposal meets with no opposition. On the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as Zeb has suggested.

The stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle.

It feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking, – the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. The lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy!

With respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it – Sam Manly acting as the chief.

Directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound – that with the circle of extravasated blood.

The dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath.

In the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. Something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe – the point of a bowie-knife. It has the feel of a leaden bullet. It is one!

It is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury.

Despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel – despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib – there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.

Oh! those tell-tale initials! There are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. Some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet – when the killing of the jaguar was contested!

He who made that boast has now reason to regret it!

“But where is he?”

The question is beginning to be asked.

“What’s your explanation, Mr Stump?” is another question put by the counsel for the accused.

“Don’t need much, I reck’n,” is the reply. “He’d be a durnationed greenhorn as can’t see, clur as the light o’ day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet.”

“By whom fired, do you think?”

“Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar’s no chance o’ mistakin’ who it kums from. Thar’s only the ineeshuls thur; but they’re plain enuf, I reck’n, an speak for theirselves.”

“I see nothing in all this,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “There’s a marked bullet, it is true – with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his – as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn’t be the first time that a murder has been committed – by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning – a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?”

“Besides,” continues the specious pleader, “where is the motive for a murder such as this would be – supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don’t suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime.”

“Ain’t thar though?” asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer’s speech. “What do ye call this?”

Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper – crumpled – scorched along the edges – and blackened as with gunpowder.

“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.

What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?

Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?

Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.

There is a still farther beyond – a border. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.

There are, indeed, two borders. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice – often does – by an adroit migration from one to the other – a mere change of residence and nationality.

But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.

Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the other border– that beyond which roams the savage Comanche – the Ishmaelite of the prairies – whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man’s blood!

In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality – perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!

It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the Llano Estacado.

He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.

He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him – the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation – more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved – perhaps never to be seen again!

But he has no time to think even of her. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind – fast travelling upon his tracks!

The murderer makes haste – all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang – swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.

Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles – most of them going at a gallop.

But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race – tough as terriers – it will go fifty – if need be a hundred – without staggering in its tracks.

What a stroke of good fortune – that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.

He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.

He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.

Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.

Who, then, can come up with him?

He congratulates himself on the chance that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!

And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

Chapter Ninety Seven.

The Chase of the Assassin

Will God permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.

They are answered by an instinct of justice – the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.

The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen – soldiers and civilians – spring forward in the pursuit.

The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.

The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.

The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider – as all know – his own.

At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad “whigher!”

Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. A single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.

He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders.

After a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off.

The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where he so late stood a too willing witness!

And the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is the instrument chosen to carry out the Divine decree!

Even the rude Regulators – with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of Divine interference – cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice.

One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.

After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view.

There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a calèche– her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.

It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer – tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: “God have mercy on the guilty man!”

Delayed a little at mounting – and more in procuring the lazo – Maurice Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. On clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead – a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.

He thinks nothing of this. Confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear.

And the blood-bay answers his expectations. As if joyed at being relieved from his inert load – to him an incubus inexplicable – and inspired by the pressure of his master’s knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf – in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.

He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the “field.”

Still on, over the rolling ridges – across the stream-beds between – on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him – as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider.

There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view – a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds – an old mustang mare.

Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs – the keen blade of a bowie-knife.

It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion.

Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. Nor does Zeb expect it. He but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful.

There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. He beholds him with “beard upon the shoulder.” It is he who is pursued.