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Headless Horseman, The - A Strange Tale of Texas

<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Forty Four.</h3> <h4 class="event">A Quartette of Comanches.</h4> With his flame-coloured curls bristling upward—almost raising the hat from his head—the Galwegian continued his retreat—pausing not—scarce looking back, till he had re-entered the jacalé, closed the skin door behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near. Even then he did not feel secure. What protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly? And surely what he had seen was not of the earth—not of this world! Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle—a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? Who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? Certainly not “Phaylim Onale.” His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks. At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes—as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him. One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. He had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo, going on at a gallop. But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still more terrified—if that were possible—while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacalé. For a long time he was speechless—not knowing what to say—and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips. As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. They were all addressed to himself. Tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation. They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacalé. “Ochone! Ochone! it cyan’t av been him! Sant Pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin? “Thare was iverything av his—the horse—the sthriped blankyet—them spotted wather guards upon his legs—an the head itself—all except the faytures. Thim I saw too, but wasn’t shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood? “Ach! it cudn’t be Masther Maurice at all, at all! “It’s all a dhrame. I must have been aslape, an dhramin? Or, was it the whisky that did it? “Shure, I wasn’t dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan—not over a kupple av naggins in all! That wudn’t make me dhrunk. I’ve taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still? “Thare’s not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I’m as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates. “Sowl! a dhrap ’ud do me a power av good just now. If I don’t take wan, I’ll not get a wink av slape. I’ll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin’ about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An’ where cyan the masther be, if it wasn’t him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that’s lift all alone be himself, wid nothin’ but ghosts an goblins around him!” After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus. His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god—represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky—he was shrived of all his sufferings—if not of his sins—and lay stretched along the floor of the jacalé, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul’s existence. <hr /> There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger—not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth. There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest. Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them. Passing through these alternations of light and shadow—apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible—goes a group of mounted men. Though few in number—as there are only four of them—they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind. Whence come they? They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts—everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the maraud. They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west. Whither go they? This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt of their expedition. That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot. Their stealthy tread—taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves—the precaution to keep inside the shadow—the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening—the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader—all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it. In this they are successful—so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen. The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. There is nothing heard—not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket. And yet the hut is inhabited. But a man may get drunk beyond the power of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is the tenant of the jacalé. The four Comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking attitudes scrutinise it. It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears—all at the same time—and stand silently listening. No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind! “It is possible,” says their chief to the follower nearest him—speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Castilian, “just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this. He may have ridden out again? Now I remember: there’s a horse-shed at the back. If the man be inside the house, the beast should be found in the shed. Stay here, camarados, till I go round and see.” Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. No horse in it. As many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it. No horse has been there—at least not lately. These points determined, the chief returns to his followers—still standing by the doorway in front. “Maldito!” he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, “he’s not here, nor has he been this day.” “We had better go inside, and make sure?” suggests one of the common warriors, in Spanish fairly pronounced. “There can be no harm in our seeing how the Irlandes has housed himself out here?” “Certainly not!” answers a third, equally well versed in the language of Cervantes. “Let’s have a look at his larder too. I’m hungry enough to eat raw tasajo.” “Por Dios!” adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. “I’ve heard that he keeps a cellar. If so—” The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him—stimulating to immediate action. He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open. It resists the effort. “Carrambo! it’s barred inside! Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes—perhaps Indians. Ha! ha! ha!” Another kick is given with greater force. The door still keeps its place. “Barricaded with something—something heavy too. It won’t yield to kicking. No matter. I’ll soon see what’s inside.” The macheté is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood. Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction. The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open. The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior. A man lying in the middle of the floor! “Carajo!” “Is he asleep?” “He must be dead not to have heard us?” “Neither,” says the chief, after stooping to examine him, “only dead drunk—boracho—embriaguado! He’s the servitor of the Irlandes. I’ve seen this fellow before. From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. I hope the brute hasn’t used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition. Ah! a jar. And smelling like a rose! There’s a rattle among these rods. There’s stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!” A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn. There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. In a trice the jar is empty. What next? The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him—particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit. The chief is especially anxious to see him. What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger? Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there. They have come to murder him! Their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and assistants. The business is too important to permit of his trifling. He will gain a thousand dollars by the deed—besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. His three braves will earn a hundred each—a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a Comanche, and purchase him for any purpose. The travesty need not be carried any further. By this time the mask must have fallen off. Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger. “We must lie in wait for him.” This is the counsel of El Coyote. “He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. The rest remain here with me. He must come that way from the Leona. We can meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree. ’Tis the best place for our purpose.” “Had we not better silence him?” hints the bloodthirsty Barajo, pointing to the Galwegian—fortunately unconscious of what is transpiring around him. “Dead men tell no tales!” adds another of the conspirators, repeating the proverb in its original language. “It would tell a worse tale were we to kill him,” rejoins Diaz. “Besides, it’s of no use. He’s silent enough as it is, the droll devil. Let the dog have his day. I’ve only bargained for the life of his master. Come, Barajo! Vayate! vayate! Up to the cliff. We can’t tell the moment Don Mauricio may drop in upon us. A miscarriage must not be made. We may never have such a chance again. Take your stand at the top of the gorge. From that point you have a view of the whole plain. He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. As soon as you’ve set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know. Be sure you give us time to get under the cypress.” Barajo is proceeding to yield obedience to this chapter of instructions, but with evident reluctance. He has, the night before, been in ill luck, having lost to El Coyote a large sum at the game of monté. He is desirous of having his revanche: for he well knows how his confrères will spend the time in his absence. “Quick. Señor Vicente!” commands Diaz, observing his dislike to the duty imposed upon him; “if we fail in this business, you will lose more than you can gain at an albur of monté. Go, man!” continues El Coyote, in an encouraging way. “If he come not within the hour, some one will relieve you. Go!” Barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacalé, proceeds to his post upon the top of the cliff. The others seat themselves inside the hut—having already established a light. Men of their class and calling generally go provided with the means of killing time, or, at all events, hindering it from hanging on their hands. The slab table is between them, upon which is soon displayed, not their supper, but a pack of Spanish cards, which every Mexican vagabondo carries under his serapé. Cavallo and soto (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monté table is established; the cards are shuffled; and the play proceeds. Absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without note being taken of the time. El Coyote is banker, and also croupier. The cries “Cavallo en la puerta!” “Soto mozo!” “The queen in the gate!” “The knave winner!”—at intervals announced in set phrase—echo from the skin-covered walls. The silver dollars are raked along the rough table, their sharp chink contrasting with the soft shuffle of the cards. All at once a more stentorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game. It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacalé. The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetés. Phelim stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long Toledos. He is only saved by a contingency—another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent. Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath. It is scarce necessary for him to announce his errand, though he contrives to gasp out— “He is coming—on the bluff already—at the head of the cañada—quick, comrades, quick!” The Galwegian is saved. There is scarce time to kill him—even were it worth while. But it is not—at least so think the masqueraders; who leave him to resume his disturbed slumber, and rush forth to accomplish the more profitable assassination. In a score of seconds they are under the cliff, at the bottom of the sloping gorge by which it must be descended. They take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the approach of their victim. They listen for the hoofstrokes that should announce it. These are soon heard. There is the clinking of a shod hoof—not in regular strokes, but as if a horse was passing over an uneven surface. One is descending the slope! He is not yet visible to the eyes of the ambuscaders. Even the gorge is in gloom—like the valley below, shadowed by tall trees. There is but one spot where the moon throws light upon the turf—a narrow space outside the sombre shadow that conceals the assassins. Unfortunately this does not lie in the path of their intended victim. He must pass under the canopy of the cypress! “Don’t kill him!” mutters Miguel Diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest tone. “There’s no need for that just yet. I want to have him alive—for the matter of an hour or so. I have my reasons. Lay hold of him and his horse. There can be no danger, as he will be taken by surprise, and unprepared. If there be resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first.” The confederates promise compliance. They have soon an opportunity of proving the sincerity of their promise. He for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the slope, and is passing under the shadow of the cypress. “Abajo las armas! A tierra!” (“Down with your weapons. To the ground!”) cries El Coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the saddle. There is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no blade drawn; no shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest! They see a man standing upright in the stirrups; they lay their hands upon limbs that feel solid flesh and bone, and yet seem insensible to the touch! The horse alone shows resistance. He rears upon his hind legs, makes ground backward, and draws his captors after him. He carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the shadow. Merciful heaven! what does it mean? His captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout. It is a scream of wild terror! Not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have been left tied. Mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away. They have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more courageous than theirs—a horseman without a head! <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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