But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind — with which his compagnon du voyage is compelled to put up.
The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.
It approaches the open prairie.
At length the sky line comes in sight.
Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.
Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?
He would give all he owns in the world — all that he ever hopes to own — even Louise Poindexter herself — to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump — to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!
It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards him as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!
After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?
And after all, there may be nothing to be known?
It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?
Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie — close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter — the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!
Chapter XCIII. A Body Beheaded
Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators — abandoned, by one-half of the jury — the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.
There is no adjournment of the Court — only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.
The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.
There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired — strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.
The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.
They are in hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.
There is one among them who could explain the first — though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.
Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.
After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads — as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.
All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!
It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.
No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?
All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back — with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.
An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them — either with or without the wished-for captive.
Is the trial to be further postponed?
The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.
There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.
There are paid claquers in the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!
The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial — as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.
So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.
The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.
* * *
“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?”
“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”
“Asleep?”
“Yes; in the sleep of death.”
“Dead?”
“More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”
“What! His head cut off?”
“Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face — with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!
“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.
“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour — the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.
“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.
“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”
A sensation of horror runs through the auditory — accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.
“Did you know the man?”
“Alas! yes.”
“Without seeing his face?”
“It did not need that. The dress told who it was — too truly.”
“What dress?”
“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”
A groan is again heard — rising above the hum of the excited hearers.
“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”
“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.