“It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.
“Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep — again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy — one more terrible than I had yet encountered.
“It was a jaguar.
“A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it — with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.
“All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams — painful phantasmagoria — mingled with pleasant visions — ah! some that were celestial — until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison — with a charge of murder hanging over my head!
“Gentlemen of the jury! I have done.”
* * *
“Si non vero e ben trovato,” is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.
They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it — one and all of them.
And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple — too circumstantial — to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.
It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.
His confession — irregular as it may have been — has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.
Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.
Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?
Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter — with or without Cassius Calhoun — with or without the Headless Horse, man — now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.
It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability — much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west — denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.
They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks — or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance — unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!
But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate — that section of it close to the Sierra Madro — and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.
Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.
Their impatience may be traced to a different cause — a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.
It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground — every woman as well — chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.
Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line — where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.
Chapter XCV. The Last Witness
The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.
The latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation — when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. Then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view.
Thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. Its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone.
This time the tale is true. There are shadows upon the skyline — shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion.
A wild shout — the old Saxon “huzza,” swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree!
Two of them are easily recognised, as Zeb Stump and Cassius Calhoun. The third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken.
The first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant — when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings.
Though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe.
The shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence — unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud.
Many go forward to meet the approaching cortège; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground.
The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.
Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.
Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. In the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.
Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree — into the presence of the Court.
“Now, judge!” says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, “an’ you twelve o’ the jury! hyur’s a witness as air likely to let a glimp o’ daylight into yur dulliberashuns. What say ye to examinin’ him?”
An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, “O God, it is he!” A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. It is his father!
A cry proceeds from a more distant point — a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. It is his sister!
After a time, Woodley Poindexter is led away — unresisting, — apparently unconscious of what is going on around him.
He is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant — his daughter.
But the carriage keeps its place. She who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the Court has declared its sentence — ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end!
Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the “witness-box.”