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 XCVI. 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 universaclass="underline" 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.