By order of the judge, the examination proceeds — under direction of the counsel for the accused.
Many formalities are dispensed with. The old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases — as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law!
After the following fashion does Zeb proceed: —
“Fust heerd o’ this ugly bizness on the second day arter young Peint war missin’. Heerd on it as I war reeturnin’ from a huntin’ spell down the river. Heerd thar wur a suspeeshun ’beout the mowstanger hevin’ kermitted the murder. Knowd he wan’t the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. He wan’t at home, though his man Pheelum war; so skeeart ’beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o’ anythin’.
“Wal, whiles we war palaverin’, in kim the dog, wi’ somethin’ tied roun’ his neck — the which, on bein’ ’zamined, proved to be the mowstanger’s curd. Thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which I seed to be blood.
“Them words tolt to whosomedever shed read ’em, whar the young fellur war to be foun’.
“I went thar, takin’ the other two — thet air Pheelum an the houn’ — along wi’ me.
“We got to the groun’ jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin’ his guts clawed out by one o’ them ere spotted painters — the Mexikins call tigers — tho’ I’ve heern the young fellur hisself gie ’em the name o’ Jug-wars.
“I put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o’ it.
“Wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. We hed to toat him thar on a sort o’ streetcher; seein’ as he wan’t able to make trades o’ hisself. Beside, he wur as much out o’ his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin’ time.
“We got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun’ him.”
The witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacalé. Would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? He resolves to be reticent.
This does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him.
It results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred — up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house.
“Now,” says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, “since ye’ve made me tell all I know ’beout thet part o’ the bizness, thur’s somethin’ ye haint thought o’ askin’, an the which this child’s boun’ to make a clean breast o’.”
“Proceed, Mr Stump!” says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.
“Wal, what I’m goin’ to say now haint so much to do wi’ the prisoner at the bar, as wi’ a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin’ in his place. I won’t say who thet man air. I’ll tell ye what I know, an hev foun’ out, an then you o’ the jury may reckon it up for yurselves.”
The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath — as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.
No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.
“Wal, fellur citizens!” continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, “arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under — struck down in his tracks — wiped out o’ the world.
“I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan’t, an kedn’t be, the mowstanger — Maurice Gerald.
“Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it’s done the rest o’ ye — them as haint made up thur minds ’ithout reflekshun.
“Wal; thinkin’ as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain’t goin’ to say thet appearances wan’t agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.
“For all thet, I wan’t goin’ to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.
“I knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin’ to the place, an hoss tracks goin’ from it; an damn ’em! thur wur too many o’ ’em, goin’ everywhur — else the thing mout a been eezy enough.
“But thar wur one partickler set I’d got a down upon; an them I detarmined to foller up to the eend o’ creashun.
“They war the footmarks o’ an Amerikin hoss, hevin’ three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi’ a bit broken off the eend o’ it. This hyur’s the eyedentikul piece o’ iron!”
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.