CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

EL COYOTE AT HOME.

Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly as his cousin; but, on leaving the _sala_ instead of returning to his own chamber, he sallied forth from the house.

Still suffering from wounds but half healed, he was nevertheless sufficiently convalescent to go abroad--into the garden, to the stables, the corrals--anywhere around the house.

On the present occasion, his excursion was intended to conduct him to a more distant point. As if under the stimulus of what had turned up in the conversation--or perhaps by the contents of the letter that had been read--his feebleness seemed for the time to have forsaken him; and, vigorously plying his crutch, he proceeded up the river in the direction of Fort Inge.

In a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda and the Fort--and that did not appear to belong to any one--he arrived at the terminus of his limping expedition. There was a grove of _mezquit_, with, some larger trees shading it; and in the midst of this, a rude hovel of "wattle and dab," known in South-Western Texas as a _jacale_.

It was the domicile of Miguel Diaz, the Mexican mustanger--a lair appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the distinctive appellation of _El Coyote_ ("Prairie Wolf.")

It was not always that the wolf could be found in his den--for his _jacale_ deserved no better description. It was but his occasional sleeping-place; during those intervals of inactivity when, by the disposal of a drove of captured mustangs, he could afford to stay for a time within the limits of the settlement, indulging in such gross pleasures as its proximity afforded.

Calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety. He was not exactly intoxicated--having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence.

"_H'la nor_!" he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the _jacale_. "_P'r Dios_! Who'd have expected to see you? _Sientese_! Be seated. Take a chair. There's one. A chair! Ha! ha! ha!"

The laugh was called up at contemplation of that which he had facetiously termed a chair. It was the skull of a mustang, intended to serve as such; and which, with another similar piece, a rude table of cleft yucca-tree, and a couch of cane reeds, upon which the owner of the _jacale_ was reclining, constituted the sole furniture of Miguel Diaz's dwelling.

Calhoun, fatigued with his halting promenade, accepted the invitation of his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull.

He did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of his errand.

"Senor Diaz!" said he, "I have come for--"

"Senor Americano!" exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting short the explanation, "why waste words upon that? _Carrambo_! I know well enough for what you've come. You want me to _wipe out_ that devilish _Irlandes_!"

"Well!"

"Well; I promised you I would do it, for five hundred _pesos_--at the proper time and opportunity. I will. Miguel Diaz never played false to his promise. But the time's not come, _nor capitan_; nor yet the opportunity, _Carajo_! To kill a man outright requires skill. It can't be done--even on the prairies--without danger of detection; and if detected, ha! what chance for me? You forget, _nor capitan_, that I'm a Mexican. If I were of your people, I might slay Don Mauricio; and get clear on the score of its being a quarrel. _Maldita_! With us Mexicans it is different. If we stick our machete into a man so as to let out his life's blood, it is called murder; and you Americanos, with your stupid juries of twelve _honest_ men, would pronounce it so: ay, and hang a poor fellow for it. _Chingaro_! I can't risk that. I hate the Irlandes as much as you; but I'm not going to chop off my nose to spite my own face. I must wait for the time, and the chance--_carrai_, the time and the chance."

"Both are come!" exclaimed the tempter, bending earnestly towards the bravo. "You said you could easily do it, if there was any Indian trouble going on?"

"Of course I said so. If there was that--"

"You have not heard the news, then?"

"What news?"

"That the Comanches are starting on the war trail."

"_Carajo_!" exclaimed El Coyote, springing up from his couch of reeds, and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the scent of prey. "_Santissima Virgen_! Do you speak the truth, _nor capitan_?"

"Neither more nor less. The news has just reached the Fort. I have it on the best authority--the officer in command."

"In that case," answered the Mexican reflecting!--"in that case, Don Mauricio may die. The Comanches can kill him. Ha! ha! ha!"

"You are sure of it?"

"I should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead of five hundred."

"It _is_ worth that sum."

"What sum?"

"A thousand dollars."

"You promise it?"

"I do."

"Then the Comanches _shall_ scalp him, _nor capitan_. You may return to Casa del Corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair. You understand?"

"I do."

"Get ready your thousand _pesos_."

"They wait your acceptance."

"_Carajo_! I shall earn them in a trice. Adios! Adios!"

"_Santissima Virgen_!" exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. "What a magnificent fluke of fortune! A perfect _chiripe_. A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on my own account, without charging anybody a single _claco_ for the deed!

"The Comanches upon the war trail! _Chingaro_! can it be true? If so, I must look up my old disguise--gone to neglect through these three long years of accursed peace. _Viva la guerra de los Indios_! Success to the pantomime of the prairies!"

CHAPTER THIRTY.

A SAGITTARY CORRESPONDENCE.

Louise Poindexter, passionately addicted to the sports termed "manly," could scarce have overlooked archery.

She had not. The how, and its adjunct the arrow, were in her hands as toys which she could control to her will.

She had been instructed in their _manege_ by the Houma Indians; a remnant of whom--the last descendants of a once powerful tribe--may still be encountered upon the "coast" of the Mississippi, in the proximity of Point Coupe and the _bayou_ Atchafalaya.

For a long time her bow had lain unbent--unpacked, indeed, ever since it had formed part of the paraphernalia brought overland in the waggon train. Since her arrival at Casa del Corvo she had found no occasion to use the weapon of Diana; and her beautiful bow of Osage-orange wood, and quiver of plumed arrows, had lain neglected in the lumber-room.

There came a time when they were taken forth, and honoured with some attention. It was shortly after that scene at the breakfast table; when she had received the paternal command to discontinue her equestrian excursions.

To this she had yielded implicit obedience, even beyond what was intended: since not only had she given up riding out alone, but declined to do so in company.

The spotted mustang stood listless in its stall, or pranced frantically around the corral; wondering why its spine was no longer crossed, or its ribs compressed, by that strange caparison, that more than aught else reminded it of its captivity.

It was not neglected, however. Though no more mounted by its fair mistress, it was the object of her daily--almost hourly--solicitude. The best corn in the _granaderias_ of Casa del Corvo was selected, the most nutritions grass that grows upon the lavanna--the _gramma_-- furnished for its manger; while for drink it had the cool crystal water from the current of the Leona.

Pluto took delight in grooming it; and, under his currycomb and brushes, its coat had attained a gloss which rivalled that upon Pluto's own sable skin.

While not engaged attending upon her pet, Miss Poindexter divided the residue of her time between indoor duties and archery. The latter she appeared to have selected as the substitute for that pastime of which she was so passionately fond, and in which she was now denied indulgence.

The scene of her sagittary performances was the garden, with its adjacent shrubbery--an extensive enclosure, three sides of which were fenced in by the river itself, curving round it like the shoe of a racehorse, the fourth being a straight line traced by the rearward wall of the hacienda.

Within this circumference a garden, with ornamental grounds, had been laid out, in times long gone by--as might have been told by many ancient exotics seen standing over it. Even the statues spoke of a past age-- not only in their decay, but in the personages they were intended to represent. Equally did they betray the chisel of the Spanish sculptor. Among them you might see commemorated the figure and features of the great Conde; of the Campeador; of Ferdinand and his energetic queen; of the discoverer of the American world; of its two chief _conquistadores_--Cortez and Pizarro; and of her, alike famous for her beauty and devotion, the Mexican Malinche.

It was not amidst these sculptured stones that Louise Poindexter practised her feats of archery; though more than once might she have been seen standing before the statue of Malinche, and scanning the voluptuous outline of the Indian maiden's form; not with any severe thought of scorn, that this dark-skinned daughter of Eve had succumbed to such a conqueror as Cortez.

The young creole felt, in her secret heart, that she had no right to throw a stone at that statue. To one less famed than Cortez--though in her estimation equally deserving of fame--she had surrendered what the great conquistador had won from Marina--her heart of hearts.

In her excursions with the bow, which were of diurnal occurrence, she strayed not among the statues. Her game was not there to be found; but under the shadow of tall trees that, keeping the curve of the river, formed a semicircular grove between it and the garden. Most of these trees were of indigenous growth--wild Chinas, mulberries, and pecans-- that in the laying out of the grounds had been permitted to remain where Nature, perhaps some centuries ago, had scattered their seed.

It was under the leafy canopy of these fair forest trees the young Creole delighted to sit--or stray along the edge of the pellucid river, that rolled dreamily by.

Here she was free to be alone; which of late appeared to be her preference. Her father, in his sternest mood, could not have denied her so slight a privilege. If there was danger upon the outside prairie, there could be none within the garden--enclosed, as it was, by a river broad and deep, and a wall that could not have been scaled without the aid of a thirty-round ladder. So far from objecting to this solitary strolling, the planter appeared something more than satisfied that his daughter had taken to these tranquil habits; and the suspicions which he had conceived--not altogether without a cause--were becoming gradually dismissed from his mind.

After all he might have been misinformed? The tongue of scandal takes delight in torturing; and he may have been chosen as one of its victims? Or, perhaps, it was but a casual thing--the encounter of which he had been told, between his daughter and Maurice the mustanger? They may have met by accident in the chapparal? She could not well pass, without speaking to, the man who had twice rescued her from a dread danger. There might have been nothing in it, beyond the simple acknowledgment of her gratitude?

It looked well that she had, with such willingness, consented to relinquish her rides. It was but little in keeping with her usual custom, when crossed. Obedience to that particular command could not have been irksome; and argued innocence uncontaminated, virtue still intact.

So reasoned the fond father; who, beyond conjecture, was not permitted to scrutinise too closely the character of his child. In other lands, or in a different class of society, he might possibly have asked direct questions, and required direct answers to them. This is not the method upon the Mississippi; where a son of ten years old--a daughter of less than fifteen--would rebel against such scrutiny, and call it inquisition.

Still less might Woodley Poindexter strain the statutes of parental authority--the father of a Creole belle--for years used to that proud homage whose incense often stills, or altogether destroys, the simpler affections of the heart.

Though her father, and by law her controller, he knew to what a short length his power might extend, if exerted in opposition to her will. He was, therefore, satisfied with her late act of obedience--rejoiced to find that instead of continuing her reckless rides upon the prairie, she now contented herself within the range of the garden--with bow and arrow slaying the small birds that were so unlucky as to come under her aim.

Father of fifty years old, why reason in this foolish fashion? Have you forgotten your own youth--the thoughts that then inspired you--the deceits you practised under such inspiration--the counterfeits you assumed--the "stories" you told to cloak what, after all, may have been the noblest impulse of your nature?

The father of the fair Louise appeared to have become oblivious to recollections of this kind: for his early life was not without facts to have furnished them. They must have been forgotten, else he would have taken occasion to follow his daughter into the garden, and observe her-- himself unobserved--while disporting herself in the shrubbery that bordered the river bank.

By doing so, he would have discovered that her disposition was not so cruel as may have been supposed. Instead of transfixing the innocent birds that fluttered in such foolish confidence around her, her greatest feat in archery appeared to be the impaling of a piece of paper upon the point of her arrow, and sending the shaft thus charged across the river, to fall harmlessly into a thicket on the opposite side.

He would have witnessed an exhibition still more singular. He would have seen the arrow thus spent--after a short interval, as if dissatisfied with the place into which it had been shot, and desirous of returning to the fair hand whence it had taken its departure--come back into the garden with the same, or a similar piece of paper, transfixed upon its shaft!

The thing might have appeared mysterious--even supernatural--to an observer unacquainted with the spirit and mechanism of that abnormal phenomenon. There was no observer of it save the two individuals who alternately bent the bow, shooting with a single arrow; and by them it was understood.

"Love laughs at locksmiths." The old adage is scarce suited to Texas, where lock-making is an unknown trade.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," expresses pretty much the same sentiment, appropriate to all time and every place. Never was it more correctly illustrated than in that exchange of bow-shots across the channel of the Leona.

Louise Poindexter had the will; Maurice Gerald had suggested the way.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A STREAM CLEVERLY CROSSED.

The sagittary correspondence could not last for long. They are but lukewarm lovers who can content themselves with a dialogue carried on at bowshot distance. Hearts brimful of passion must beat and burn together--in close proximity--each feeling the pulsation of the other. "If there be an Elysium on earth, it is this!"

Maurice Gerald was not the man--nor Louise Poindexter the woman--to shun such a consummation.

It came to pass: not under the tell-tale light of the sun, but in the lone hour of midnight, when but the stars could have been witnesses of their social dereliction.

Twice had they stood together in that garden grove--twice had they exchanged love vows--under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a third interview had been arranged between them.

Little suspected the proud planter--perhaps prouder of his daughter than anything else he possessed--that she was daily engaged in an act of rebellion--the wildest against which parental authority may pronounce itself.

His own daughter--his only daughter--of the best blood of Southern aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a splendid alliance--holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter!

Could he have but dreamt it when slumbering upon his soft couch, the dream would have startled him from his sleep like the call of the eternal trumpet!

He had no suspicion--not the slightest. The thing was too improbable-- too monstrous, to have given cause for one. Its very monstrosity would have disarmed him, had the thought been suggested.

He had been pleased at his daughter's compliance with his late injunctions; though he would have preferred her obeying them to the letter, and riding out in company with her brother or cousin--which she still declined to do. This, however, he did not insist upon. He could well concede so much to her caprice: since her staying at home could be no disadvantage to the cause that had prompted him to the stern counsel.

Her ready obedience had almost influenced him to regret the prohibition. Walking in confidence by day, and sleeping in security by night, he fancied, it might be recalled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was one of those nights known only to a southern sky, when the full round moon rolls clear across a canopy of sapphire; when the mountains have no mist, and look as though you could lay your hand upon them; when the wind is hushed, and the broad leaves of the tropical trees droop motionless from their boughs; themselves silent as if listening to the concert of singular sounds carried on in their midst, and in which mingle the voices of living creatures belonging to every department of animated nature--beast, bird, reptile, and insect.

Such a night was it, as you would select for a stroll in company with the being--the one and only being--who, by the mysterious dictation of Nature, has entwined herself around your heart--a night upon which you feel a wayward longing to have white arms entwined around your neck, and bright eyes before your face, with that voluptuous gleaming that can only be felt to perfection under the mystic light of the moon.

It was long after the infantry drum had beaten tattoo, and the cavalry bugle sounded the signal for the garrison of Fort Inge to go to bed--in fact it was much nearer the hour of midnight--when a horseman rode away from the door of Oberdoffer's hotel; and, taking the down-river road, was soon lost to the sight of the latest loiterer who might have been strolling through the streets of the village.

It is already known, that this road passed the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, at some distance from the house, and on the opposite side of the river. It is also known that at the same place it traversed a stretch of open prairie, with only a piece of copsewood midway between two extensive tracts of chapparal.

This clump of isolated timber, known in prairie parlance as a "motte" or "island" of timber, stood by the side of the road, along which the horseman had continued, after taking his departure from the village.

On reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the underwood; "hitched" him, by looping his bridle rein around the topmost twigs of an elastic bough; then detaching a long rope of twisted horsehair from the "horn" of his saddle, and inserting his arm into its coil, he glided out to the edge of the "island," on that side that lay towards the hacienda.

Before forsaking the shadow of the copse, he cast a glance towards the sky, and at the moon sailing supremely over it. It was a glance of inquiry, ending in a look of chagrin, with some muttered phrases that rendered it more emphatic.

"No use waiting for that beauty to go to bed? She's made up her mind, she won't go home till morning--ha! ha!"

The droll conceit, which has so oft amused the nocturnal inebriate of great cities, appeared to produce a like affect upon the night patroller of the prairie; and for a moment the shadow, late darkening his brow, disappeared. It returned anon; as he stood gazing across the open space that separated him from the river bottom--beyond which lay the hacienda of Casa del Corvo, clearly outlined upon the opposite bluff, "If there _should_ be any one stirring about the place? It's not likely at this hour; unless it be the owner of a bad conscience who can't sleep. Troth! there's one such within those walls. If he be abroad there's a good chance of his seeing me on the open ground; not that I should care a straw, if it were only myself to be compromised. By Saint Patrick, I see no alternative but risk it! It's no use waiting upon the moon, deuce take her! She don't go down for hours; and there's not the sign of a cloud. It won't do to keep _her_ waiting. No; I must chance it in the clear light. Here goes?"

Saying this, with a swift but stealthy step, the dismounted horseman glided across the treeless tract, and soon readied the escarpment of the cliff, that formed the second height of land rising above the channel of the Leona.

He did not stay ten seconds in this conspicuous situation; but by a path that zigzagged down the bluff--and with which he appeared familiar--he descended to the river "bottom."

In an instant after he stood upon the bank; at the convexity of the river's bend, and directly opposite the spot where a skiff was moored, under the sombre shadow of a gigantic cotton-tree.

For a short while he stood gazing across the stream, with a glance that told of scrutiny. He was scanning the shrubbery on the other side; in the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its shadow.

Becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his lazo--for it was this he carried over his arm--and giving it half a dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream.

The noose settled over the cutwater of the skiff; and closing around the stem, enabled him to tow the tiny craft to the side on which he stood.

Stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars that lay along the planking at the bottom; and, placing them between the thole-pins, pulled the boat back to its moorings.

Leaping out, he secured it as it had been before, against the drift of the current; and then, taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree, he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one, expected by appointment.

His manoeuvres up to this moment, had they been observed, might have rendered him amenable to the suspicion that he was a housebreaker, about to "crack the crib" of Casa del Corvo.

The phrases that fell from his lips, however, could they have been heard, would have absolved him of any such vile or vulgar intention. It is true he had designs upon the hacienda; but these did not contemplate either its cash, plate, or jewellery--if we except the most precious jewel it contained--the mistress of the mansion herself.

It is scarce necessary to say, that the man who had hidden his horse in the "motte," and so cleverly effected the crossing of the stream, was Maurice the mustanger.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

LIGHT AND SHADE.

He had not long to chafe under the trysting-tree, if such it were. At the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a casement window that looked to the rear of the hacienda commenced turning upon its hinges, and was then for a time held slightly ajar; as if some one inside was intending to issue forth, and only hesitated in order to be assured that the "coast was clear."

A small white hand--decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon--grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure--soon after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the garden--could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.

It was she.

For a second or two the lady stood listening. She heard, or fancied she heard, the dip of an oar. She might be mistaken; for the stridulation of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. No matter. The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand upon punctilios as to time--especially after spending two hours of solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many. With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided sylph-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her.

Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace--strange to say, sweeter from being stolen? Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at such a moment--too sacred to be touched by the pen?

It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes proper, or even possible to report them.

Thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative:--

"To-morrow night you will meet me again--to-morrow night, dearest Maurice?"

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,--if I were free to say the word."

"And why not? Why are you not free to say it?"

"To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo."

"Indeed! Is it imperative you should go?"

The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. A vision of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.

And why? It had afforded her hospitality. One would suppose that her visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections of her life. And yet it was not!

"I have excellent reasons for going," was the reply she received.

"Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?"

"My follower Phelim--no one else. I hope the poor fellow is still above the grass. I sent him out about ten days ago--before there was any tidings of these Indian troubles."

"Only Phelim you expect to meet? Is it true, Gerald? Dearest! do not deceive me! Only him?"

"Why do you ask the question, Louise?"

"I cannot tell you why. I should die of shame to speak my secret thoughts."

"Do not fear to speak them! I could keep no secret from you--in truth I could not. So tell me what it is, love!"

"Do you wish me, Maurice?"

"I do--of course I do. I feel sure that whatever it may be, I shall be able to explain it. I know that my relations with you are of a questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of them. It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo."

"And to stay there?"

"Only for a single day, or two at most. Only to gather up my household gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life."

"Indeed!"

"You appear surprised."

"No! only mystified. I cannot comprehend you. Perhaps I never shall!"

"'Tis very simple--the resolve I have taken. I know you will forgive me, when I make it known to you."

"Forgive you, Maurice! For what do you ask forgiveness?"

"For keeping it a secret from you, that--that I am not what I seem."

"God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me--noble, grand, beautiful, rare among men! Oh, Maurice! you know not how I esteem--how I love you!"

"Not more than I esteem and love you. It is that very esteem that now counsels me to a separation."

"A separation?"

"Yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time."

"How long?"

"While a steamer can cross the Atlantic, and return."

"An age! And why this?"

"I am called to my native country--Ireland, so much despised, as you already know. 'Tis only within the last twenty hours I received the summons. I obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me I shall be able soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor horse-hunter who won his daughter's heart--have I won it, Louise?"

"Idle questioner! Won it? You know you have more than won it-- conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape. Mock me not, Maurice, nor my stricken heart--henceforth, and for evermore, your slave!"

During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered herself--heart, soul, and body--to the man who had made conquest of her affections, there was silence perfect and profound.

The grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred ceremony transpiring in their presence!

But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. A footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden--and yet touching it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact-- was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.

The lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection, heard it not. They saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot where they were kissing each other!

Little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time, betraying their excited actions.

That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a witness to both. Within easy earshot, he could hear every word--even the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect their slightest gestures.

It is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper. That of Cassius Calhoun will have suggested itself.

It was he.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A TORTURING DISCOVERY.

How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning? Had he been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of the garden?

In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon information previously communicated to him?

The former was the fact. Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell.

Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight--what had taken him up there cannot be guessed--breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming _cereus_; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any

## particular anxiety. He had recovered from the injuries received in his

encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted by hopes of revenge--towards a plan for which he had already made some progress.

Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. Equally had he remained ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar manner had misconceived it. In fact, he had begun to flatter himself, that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. She had been less cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.

He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a

## partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any

renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there was none.

Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the careless _insouciance_ with which he applied the light to his cigar, and afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there for any very important purpose. It may have been to exchange the sultry atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon--though he was not much given to such romantic contemplation.

Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face turned towards the river.

It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open plain.

He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night--a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey. It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.

In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.

The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river.

It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements.

"What the devil can that mean?" muttered Calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. "Damn the man, he's dismounted!" continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse.

"And coming this way--towards the bend of the river--straight as he can streak it!

"Down the bluff--into the bottom--and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. Surely to God he don't intend making his way across into the garden? He'd have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old Scratch can be his intention? A thief?"

This was Calhoun's first idea--rejected almost as soon as conceived. It is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on horseback. Much more might the thief?

For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.

What else could he be after?

The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man's errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.

What could it be?

Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.

"What can the man be after?"

After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time--each with increasing emphasis--the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.

"The stroke of an oar," muttered he, on hearing it. "Is, by the holy Jehovah! He's got hold of the skiff, and's crossing over to the garden. What on earth can he be after?"

The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs--rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.

He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.

This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below--almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.

On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them--what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.

The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.

Loosely attired in white, as though in the neglige of a _robe de chambre_, with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!

Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.

And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?

A clandestine meeting! And by appointment!

There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff.

Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea--speechless and without motion. It was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding.

He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house--at least not then. Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin's disgrace; and then--and then--

In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and,

## acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried

down the _escalera_, and made his way through the house, and out into the garden.

He felt feeble as he pressed forward. His legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. They did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen--while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.

He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow's day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.

With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.

He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.

Why at that moment did he not spring forward--put a termination to the intolerable _tete-a-tete_--and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low--at his own feet and that of his mistress? Why had he not done this at the beginning--for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured?

There was a time when he would not have been so patient. What, then, was the _punctilio_ that restrained him? Was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a "Colt's six-shooter?"

Perhaps it may have been. At all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle--the final embrace--prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending--sure to be procrastinated.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A CHIVALROUS DICTATION.

Where went Cassius Calhoun?

Certainly not to his own sleeping-room. There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.

He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers--now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed--but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.

He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him--in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.

It was not needed. The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the _reja_, filled the chamber with light--sufficient for his purpose. They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture--a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with "mosquito curtains."

Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.

As Calhoun lifted the muslin "bar," the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.

What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion to the Satyr.

"Awake, Harry! awake!" was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.

"Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?"

"Worse than that--worse! worse! Quick! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace--the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!"

After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep--at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor--in an attitude of speechless astonishment.

"Don't wait to dress," cried his excited counsellor, "stay, you may put on your pants. Damn the clothes! There's no time for standing upon trifles. Quick! Quick!"

The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas _cottonade_, were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin--without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth--he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.

"What is it, Cash?" he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. "What does it all mean?"

"See for yourself! Stand close to me! Look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept. Do you see anything there?"

"Something white. It looks like a woman's dress. It is that. It's a woman!"

"It _is_ a woman. Who do you suppose she is?"

"I can't tell. Who do you say she is?"

"There's another figure--a dark one--by her side."

"It appears to be a man? It is a man!"

"And who do you suppose _he_ is?"

"How should I know, cousin Cash? Do you?"

"I do. That man is Maurice the mustanger!"

"And the woman?"

"_Is Louise--your sister--in his arms_!"

As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.

"Stay!" said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. "You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this," continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. "I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you--her brother--should be the avenger of your sister's wrongs. On, my boy! See that you don't hurt _her_; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don't give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. I'll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. Now! Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!"

It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action. The brother of a sister--a beautiful sister--erring, undone!

In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.

"Low villain!" he cried, "unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! Aside, sister! Aside, I say!"

Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist--unless he had found heart to kill Henry Poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done.

Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.

For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister's life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger.

That pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three. The Creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother. She knew there was nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of Maurice. Henry alone had to be held doing mischief.

"Go, go!" she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. "My brother is deceived by appearances. Leave me to explain. Away, Maurice! away!"

"Henry Poindexter," said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, "I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me. Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin. I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence--her love--then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyote, that chanced to cross your track. Till then, I bid you adieu."

Henry's struggle to escape from his sister's arms--perhaps stronger than his own--grew less energetic as he listened to these words. They became feebler and feebler--at length ceasing--when a plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of Casa del Corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home.

It was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive fashion. On the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff; which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the caparison presented along with the spotted mustang.

"Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!" were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. "Oh, Henry--dearest Hal, if you but knew how noble he is! So far from desiring to do me an injury, 'tis only this moment he has been disclosing a plan to--to--prevent--scandal--I mean to make me happy. Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not--if only the common man you take him for--I could not help what I have done--I could not, for _I love him_!"

"Louise! tell me the truth! Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self. From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man. Has he taken advantage of your--your--unfortunate passion?"

"No--no--no. As I live he has not. He is too noble for that--even had I--Henry! he is innocent! If there be cause for regret, I alone am to blame. Why--oh! brother! why did you insult him?"

"Have I done so?"

"You have, Henry--rudely, grossly."

"I shall go after, and apologise. If you speak truly, sister, I owe him that much. I shall go this instant. I liked him from the first--you know I did? I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. I can't now. Sister! come back into the house with me. And now, dearest Loo! you had better go to bed. As for me, I shall be off _instanter_ to the hotel, where I may still hope to overtake him. I cannot rest till I have made reparation for my rudeness."

So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger, he hastily returned to the hacienda--intending to go after the young Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been deemed excusable.

As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.

He, too, had thoughts of _going after_ the mustanger.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

AN UNCOURTEOUS HOST.

"The chicken-hearted fool! Fool myself, to have trusted to such a hope! I might have known she'd cajole the young calf, and let the scoundrel escape. I could have shot him from behind the tree--dead as a drowned rat! And without risking anything--even disgrace! Not a particle of risk. Uncle Woodley would have thanked me--the whole settlement would have said I had done right. My cousin, a young lady, betrayed by a common scamp--a horse, trader--who would have said a word against it? Such a chance! Why have I missed it? Death and the devil--it may not trump up again!"

Such were the reflections of the ex-captain of cavalry, while at some paces distance following his two cousins on their return to the hacienda.

"I wonder," muttered he, on re-entering the _patio_, "whether the blubbering baby be in earnest? Going after to apologise to the man who has made a fool of his sister! Ha--ha! It would be a good joke were it not too serious to be laughed at. He _is_ in earnest, else why that row in the stable? 'Tis he bringing but his horse! It is, by the Almighty!"

The door of the stable, as is customary in Mexican haciendas opened upon the paved _patio_.

It was standing ajar; but just as Calhoun turned his eye upon it, a man coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him.

The man had a Panama hat upon his head, and a cloak thrown loosely around his shoulders. This did not hinder Calhoun from recognising his cousin Henry, as also the dark brown horse that belonged to him.

"Fool! So--you've let him off?" spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as the other came within whispering distance. "Give me back my bowie and pistol. They're not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours! Bah! Why did you not use them as I told you? You've made a mess of it!"

"I have," tranquilly responded the young planter. "I know it. I've insulted--and grossly too--a noble fellow."

"Insulted a noble fellow! Ha--ha--ha! You're mad--by heavens, you're mad!"

"I should have been had I followed your counsel, cousin Cash. Fortunately I did not go so far. I have done enough to deserve being called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, I may obtain forgiveness for my fault. At all events, I intend to try for it, and without losing time."

"Where are you going?"

"After Maurice the mustanger--to apologise to him for my misconduct."

"Misconduct! Ha--ha--ha! Surely you are joking?"

"No. I'm in earnest. If you come along with me, you shall see!"

"Then I say again you are mad! Not only mad, but a damned natural-born idiot! you are, by Jesus Christ and General Jackson!"

"You're not very polite, cousin Cash; though, after the language I've been lately using myself, I might excuse you. Perhaps you will, one day imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness."

Without adding another word, the young gentleman--one of the somewhat rare types of Southern chivalry--sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to his horse; and rode hurriedly through the _saguan_.

Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance.

Then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the verandah to his own room; entered it; reappeared in a rough overcoat; crossed back to the stable; went in; came out again with his own horse saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, as gently as if he was stealing him; and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his back, and rode rapidly away.

For a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by Henry Poindexter. It could not have been with any idea of overtaking the latter: since, long before, the hoofstrokes of Henry's horse had ceased to be heard; and proceeding at a slower pace, Calhoun did not ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin.

He had taken the up-river road. When about midway between Casa del Corvo and the Fort, he reined up; and, after scrutinising the chapparal around him, struck off by a bridle-path leading back toward the bank of the river. As he turned into it he might have been heard muttering to himself--

"A chance still left; a good one, though not so cheap as the other. It will cost me a thousand dollars. What of that, so long as I get rid of this Irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence! If true to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the morning. What time, I wonder. These men of the prairies call it late rising, if they be abed till daybreak! Never mind. There's yet time for the Coyote to get before him on the road! I know that. It must be the same as we followed to the wild horse prairies. He spoke of his hut upon the Alamo. That's the name of the creek where we had our pic-nic. The hovel cannot be far from there! The Mexican must know the place, or the trail leading to it; which last will be sufficient for his purpose and mine. A fig for the shanty itself! The owner may never reach it. There may be Indians upon the road! There _must_ be, before daybreak in the morning!"

As Calhoun concluded this string of strange reflections, he had arrived at the door of another "shanty"--that of the Mexican mustanger. The _jacale_ was the goal of his journey.

Having slipped out of his saddle, and knotted his bridle to a branch, he set foot upon the threshold.

The door was standing wide open. From the inside proceeded a sound, easily identified as the snore of a slumberer.

It was not as of one who sleeps either tranquilly, or continuously. At short intervals it was interrupted--now by silent pauses--anon by hog-like gruntings, interspersed with profane words, not perfectly pronounced, but slurred from a thick tongue, over which, but a short while before, must have passed a stupendous quantity of alcohol.

"_Carrambo! carrai! carajo--chingara! mil diablos_!" mingled with more-- perhaps less--reverential exclamations of "_Sangre de Cristo! Jesus! Santissima Virgen! Santa Maria! Dios! Madre de Dios_!" and the like, were uttered inside the _jacale_, as if the speaker was engaged in an apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the Popish Pantheon.

Calhoun paused upon the threshold, and listened.

"_Mal--dit--dit--o_!" muttered the sleeper, concluding the exclamation with a hiccup. "_Buen--buenos nove-dad-es_! Good news, _por sangre Chrees--Chreest--o! Si S'nor Merican--cano! Nove--dad--es s'perbos! Los Indyos Co--co--manchees_ on the war-trail--_el rastro de guerra_. God bless the Co--co--manchees!"

"The brute's drunk!" said his visitor, mechanically speaking aloud.

"_H'la S'nor_!" exclaimed the owner of the _jacale_, aroused to a state of semi-consciousness by the sound of a human voice. "_Quien llama_! Who has the honour--that is, have I the happiness--I, Miguel Diaz--el Co--coyote, as the _leperos_ call me. Ha, ha! coyo--coyot. Bah! what's in a name? Yours, S'nor? _Mil demonios_! who are you?"

## Partially raising himself from his reed couch, the inebriate remained

for a short time in a sitting attitude--glaring, half interrogatively, half unconsciously, at the individual whose voice had intruded itself into his drunken dreams.

The unsteady examination lasted only for a score of seconds. Then the owner of the _jacale_, with an unintelligible speech, subsided into a recumbent position; when a savage grunt, succeeded by a prolonged snore, proved him to have become oblivious to the fact that his domicile contained a guest.

"Another chance lost!" said the latter, hissing the words through his teeth, as he turned disappointedly from the door.

"A sober fool and a drunken knave--two precious tools wherewith, to accomplish a purpose like mine! Curse the luck! All this night it's been against me! It maybe three long hours before this pig sleeps off the swill that has stupefied him. Three long hours, and then what would be the use of him? 'Twould be too late--too late!"

As he said this, he caught the rein of his bridle, and stood by the head of his horse, as if uncertain what course to pursue.

"No use my staying here! It might be daybreak before the damned liquor gets out of his skull. I may as well go back to the hacienda and wait there; or else--or else--"

The alternative, that at this crisis presented itself, was nor, spoken aloud. Whatever it may have been, it had the effect of terminating the hesitancy that living over him, and stirring him to immediate action.

Roughly tearing his rein from the branch, and passing it over his horse's head, he sprang into the saddle, and rode off from the _jacale_ in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THREE TRAVELLERS ON THE SAME TRACK.

No one can deny, that a ride upon a smooth-turfed prairie is one of the most positive pleasures of sublunary existence. No one _will_ deny it, who has had the good fortune to experience the delightful sensation. With a spirited horse between your thighs, a well-stocked valise strapped to the cantle of your saddle, a flask of French brandy slung handy over the "horn," and a plethoric cigar-case protruding from under the flap of your pistol holster, you may set forth upon a day's journey, without much fear of feeling weary by the way.

A friend riding by your side--like yourself alive to the beauties of nature, and sensitive to its sublimities--will make the ride, though long, and otherwise arduous, a pleasure to be remembered for many, many years.

If that friend chance to be some fair creature, upon whom you have fixed your affections, then will you experience a delight to remain in your memory for ever.

Ah! if all prairie-travellers were to be favoured with such companionship, the wilderness of Western Texas would soon become crowded with tourists; the great plains would cease to be "pathless,"--the savannas would swarm with snobs.

It is better as it is. As it is, you may launch yourself upon the prairie: and once beyond the precincts of the settlement from which you have started--unless you keep to the customary "road," indicated only by the hoof-prints of half a dozen horsemen who have preceded you--you may ride on for hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps a whole year, without encountering aught that bears the slightest resemblance to yourself, or the image in which you have been made.

Only those who have traversed the great plain of Texas can form a true estimate of its illimitable vastness; impressing the mind with sensations similar to those we feel in the contemplation of infinity.

In some sense may the mariner comprehend my meaning. Just as a ship may cross the Atlantic Ocean--and in tracks most frequented by sailing craft--without sighting a single sail, so upon the prairies of South-western Texas, the traveller may journey on for months, amid a solitude that seems eternal!

Even the ocean itself does not give such an impression of endless space. Moving in its midst you perceive no change--no sign to tell you you are progressing. The broad circular surface of azure blue, with the concave hemisphere of a tint but a few shades lighter, are always around and above you, seeming ever the same. You think they _are_ so; and fancy yourself at rest in the centre of a sphere and a circle. You are thus to some extent hindered from having a clear conception of "magnificent distances."

On the prairie it is different. The "landmarks"--there are such, in the shape of "mottes," mounds, trees, ridges, and rocks--constantly changing before your view, admonish you that you are passing through space; and this very knowledge imbues you with the idea of vastness.

It is rare for the prairie traveller to contemplate such scenes alone-- rarer still upon the plains of South-western Texas. In twos at least-- but oftener in companies of ten or a score--go they, whose need it is to tempt the perils of that wilderness claimed by the Comanches as ancestral soil.

For all this, a solitary traveller may at times be encountered: for on the same night that witnessed the tender and stormy scenes in the garden of Casa del Corvo, no less than three such made the crossing of the plain that stretches south-westward from the banks of the Leona River.

Just at the time that Calhoun was making his discontented departure from the _jacale_ of the Mexican mustanger, the foremost of these nocturnal travellers was clearing the outskirts of the village--going in a direction which, if followed far enough, would conduct him to the Nueces River, or one of its tributary streams.

It is scarcely necessary to say, that he was on horseback. In Texas there are no pedestrians, beyond the precincts of the town or plantation.

The traveller in question bestrode a strong steed; whose tread, at once vigorous and elastic, proclaimed it capable of carrying its rider through a long journey, without danger of breaking down.

Whether such a journey was intended, could not have been told by the bearing of the traveller himself. He was equipped, as any Texan cavalier might have been, for a ten-mile ride--perhaps to his own house. The lateness of the hour forbade the supposition, that he could be going from it. The serape on his shoulders--somewhat carelessly hanging--might have been only put on to protect them against the dews of the night.

But as there was no dew on that particular night--nor any outlying settlement in the direction he was heading to--the horseman was more like to have been a real traveller--_en route_ for some distant point upon the prairies.

For all this he did not appear to be in haste; or uneasy as to the hour at which he might reach his destination.

On the contrary, he seemed absorbed in some thought, that linked itself with the past; sufficiently engrossing to render him unobservant of outward objects, and negligent in the management of his horse.

The latter, with the rein lying loosely upon his neck, was left to take his own way; though instead of stopping, or straying, he kept steadily on, as if over ground oft trodden before.

Thus leaving the animal to its own guidance, and pressing it neither with whip nor spur, the traveller rode tranquilly over the prairie, till lost to view--not by the intervention of any object, but solely through the dimness of the light, where the moon became misty in the far distance.

Almost on the instant of his disappearance--and as if the latter had been taken for a cue--a second horseman spurred out from the suburbs of the village; and proceeded along the same path.

From the fact of his being habited in a fashion to defend him against the chill air of the night, he too might have been taken for a traveller.

A cloak clasped across his breast hung over his shoulders, its ample skirts draping backward to the hips of his horse.

Unlike the horseman who had preceded him, he showed signs of haste-- plying both whip and spur as he pressed on.

He appeared intent on overtaking some one. It might be the individual whose form had just faded out of sight?

This was all the more probable from the style of his equitation--at short intervals bending forward in his saddle, and scanning the horizon before him, as if expecting to see some form outlined above the line of the sky.

Continuing to advance in this peculiar fashion, he also disappeared from view--exactly at the same point, where his precursor had ceased to be visible--to any one whose gaze might have been following him from the Fort or village.

An odd contingency--if such it were--that just at that very instant a third horseman rode forth from the outskirts of the little Texan town, and, like the other two, continued advancing in a direct line across the prairie.

He, also, was costumed as if for a journey. A "blanket-coat" of scarlet colour shrouded most of his person from sight--its ample skirts spread over his thighs, half concealing a short jager rifle, strapped aslant along the flap of his saddle.

Like the foremost of the three, he exhibited no signs of a desire to move rapidly along the road. He was proceeding at a slow pace--even for a traveller. For all that, his manner betokened a state of mind far from tranquil; and in this respect he might be likened to the horseman who had more immediately preceded him.

But there was an essential difference between the actions of the two men. Whereas the cloaked cavalier appeared desirous of overtaking some one in advance, he in the red blanket coat seemed altogether to occupy himself in reconnoitring towards his rear.

At intervals he would slue himself round in the stirrups--sometimes half turn his horse--and scan the track over which he had passed; all the while listening, as though he expected to hear some one who should be coming after him.

Still keeping up this singular surveillance, he likewise in due time reached the point of disappearance, without having overtaken any one, or been himself overtaken.

Though at nearly equal distances apart while making the passage of the prairie, not one of the three horsemen was within sight of either of the others. The second, half-way between the other two, was beyond reach of the vision of either, as they were beyond his.

At the same glance no eye could have taken in all three, or any two of them; unless it had been that of the great Texan owl perched upon the summit of some high eminence, or the "whip-poor-will" soaring still higher in pursuit of the moon-loving moth.

An hour later, and at a point of the prairie ten miles farther from Fort Inge, the relative positions of the three travellers had undergone a considerable change.

The foremost was just entering into a sort of alley or gap in the chapparal forest; which here extended right and left across the plain, far as the eye could trace it. The alley might have been likened to a strait in the sea: its smooth turfed surface contrasting with the darker foliage of the bordering thickets; as water with dry land. It was illumined throughout a part of its length--a half mile or so--the moon showing at its opposite extremity. Beyond this the dark tree line closed it in, where it angled round into sombre shadow.

Before entering the alley the foremost of the trio of travellers, and for the first time, exhibited signs of hesitation. He reined up; and for a second or two sate in his saddle regarding the ground before him. His attention was altogether directed to the opening through the trees in his front. He made no attempt at reconnoitring his rear.

His scrutiny, from whatever cause, was of short continuance.

Seemingly satisfied, he muttered an injunction to his horse, and rode onward into the gap.

Though he saw not him, he was seen by the cavalier in the cloak, following upon the same track, and now scarce half a mile behind.

The latter, on beholding him, gave utterance to a slight exclamation.

It was joyful, nevertheless; as if he was gratified by the prospect of at length overtaking the individual whom he had been for ten miles so earnestly pursuing.

Spurring his horse to a still more rapid pace, he also entered the opening; but only in time to get a glimpse of the other, just passing under the shadow of the trees, at the point where the avenue angled.

Without hesitation, he rode after; soon disappearing at the same place, and in a similar manner.

It was a longer interval before the third and hindmost of the horsemen approached the pass that led through the chapparal.

He did approach it, however; but instead of riding into it, as the others had done, he turned off at an angle towards the edge of the timber; and, after leaving his horse among the trees, crossed a corner of the thicket, and came out into the opening on foot.

Keeping along it--to all appearance still more solicitous about something that might be in his rear than anything that was in front of him--he at length arrived at the shadowy turning; where, like the two others, he abruptly disappeared in the darkness.

An hour elapsed, during which the nocturnal voices of the chapparal-- that had been twice temporarily silenced by the hoofstroke of a horse, and once by the footsteps of a man--had kept up their choral cries by a thousand stereotyped repetitions.

Then there came a further interruption; more abrupt in its commencement, and of longer continuance. It was caused by a sound, very different from that made by the passage of either horseman or pedestrian over the prairie turf.

It was the report of a gun, quick, sharp, and clear--the "spang" that denotes the discharge of a rifle.

As to the authoritative wave of the conductor's baton the orchestra yields instant obedience, so did the prairie minstrels simultaneously take their cue from that abrupt detonation, that inspired one and all of them with a peculiar awe.

The tiger cat miaulling in the midst of the chapparal, the coyote howling along its skirts; even the jaguar who need not fear any forest foe that might approach him, acknowledged his dread of that quick, sharp explosion--to him unexplainable--by instantly discontinuing his cries.

As no other sound succeeded the shot--neither the groan of a wounded man, nor the scream of a stricken animal--the jaguar soon recovered confidence, and once more essayed to frighten the denizens of the thicket with his hoarse growling.

Friends and enemies--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--disregarding his voice in the distance, reassumed the thread of their choral strain; until the chapparal was restored to its normal noisy condition, when two individuals standing close together, can only hold converse by speaking in the highest pitch of their voices!

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A MAN MISSING.

The breakfast bell of Casa del Corvo had sounded its second and last summons--preceded by a still earlier signal from a horn, intended to call in the stragglers from remote parts of the plantation.

The "field hands" labouring near had collected around the "quarter;" and in groups, squatted upon the grass, or seated upon stray logs, were discussing their diet--by no means spare--of "hog and hominy" corn-bread and "corn-coffee," with a jocosity that proclaimed a keen relish of these, their ordinary comestibles.

The planter's family assembled in the _sala_ were about to begin breakfast, when it was discovered that one of its members was missing.

Henry was the absent one.

At first there was but little notice taken of the circumstance. Only the conjecture: that he would shortly make his appearance.

As several minutes passed without his coming in, the planter quietly observed that it was rather strange of Henry to be behind time, and wonder where he could be.

The breakfast of the South-western American is usually a well appointed meal. It is eaten at a fixed hour, and _table-d'hote_ fashion--all the members of the family meeting at the table.

This habit is exacted by a sort of necessity, arising out of the nature of some of the viands peculiar to the country; many of which, as "Virginia biscuit," "buckwheat cakes," and "waffles," are only relished coming fresh from, the fire: so that the hour when breakfast is being eaten in the dining-room, is that in which the cook is broiling her skin in the kitchen.

As the laggard, or late riser, may have to put up with cold biscuit, and no waffles or buckwheat cakes, there are few such on a Southern plantation.

Considering this custom, it _was_ somewhat strange, that Henry Poindexter had not yet put in an appearance.

"Where can the boy be?" asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.

None was made by either of the other two guests at the table. Louise only gave expression to a similar conjecture. For all that, there was a strangeness in her glance--as in the tone of her voice--that might have been observed by one closely scrutinising her features.

It could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the breakfast-table? The circumstance was too trifling to call up an emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one.

What was it? No one put the inquiry. Her father did not notice anything odd in her look. Much less Calhoun, who was himself markedly labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an assumed _naivete_.

Ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence; keeping his eyes averted, instead of, according to his usual custom, constantly straying towards his cousin.

He sate nervously in his chair; and once or twice might have been seen to start, as a servant entered the room.

Beyond doubt he was under the influence of some extraordinary agitation.

"Very strange Henry not being here to his breakfast!" remarked the planter, for about the tenth time. "Surely he is not abed till this hour? No--no--he never lies so late. And yet if abroad, he couldn't be at such a distance as not to have heard the horn. He _may_ be in his room? It is just possible. Pluto!"

"Ho--ho! d'ye call me, Mass' Woodley? I'se hya." The sable coachee,

## acting as table waiter, was in the _sala_, hovering around the chairs.

"Go to Henry's sleeping-room. If he's there, tell him we're at breakfast--half through with it."

"He no dar, Mass' Woodley."

"You have been to his room?"

"Ho--ho! Yas. Dat am I'se no been to de room itseff; but I'se been to de 'table, to look atter Massa Henry hoss; an gib um him fodder an corn. Ho--ho! Dat same ole hoss he ain't dar; nor han't a been all ob dis mornin'. I war up by de fuss skreek ob day. No hoss dar, no saddle, no bridle; and ob coass no Massa Henry. Ho--ho! He been an gone out 'fore anb'dy wor 'tirrin' 'bout de place."

"Are you sure?" asked the planter, seriously stirred by the intelligence.

"Satin, shoo, Mass' Woodley. Dar's no hoss doins in dat ere 'table, ceppin de sorrel ob Massa Cahoon. Spotty am in de 'closure outside. Massa Henry hoss ain't nowha."

"It don't follow that Master Henry himself is not in his room. Go instantly, and see!"

"Ho--ho! I'se go on de instum, massr; but f'r all dat dis chile no speck find de young genl'um dar. Ho! ho! wha'ebber de ole hoss am, darr Massr Henry am too."

"There's something strange in all this," pursued the planter, as Pluto shuffled out of the sala. "Henry from home; and at night too. Where can he have gone? I can't think of any one he would be visiting at such unseasonable hours! He must have been out all night, or very early, according to the nigger's account! At the Port, I suppose, with those young fellows. Not at the tavern, I hope?"

"Oh, no! He wouldn't go there," interposed Calhoun, who appeared as much mystified by the absence of Henry as was Poindexter himself. He refrained, however, from suggesting any explanation, or saying aught of the scenes to which he had been witness on the preceding night.

"It is to be hoped _he_ knows nothing of it," reflected the young Creole. "If not, it may still remain a secret between brother and myself. I think I can manage Henry. But why is he still absent? I've sate up all night waiting for him. He must have overtaken Maurice, and they have fraternised. I hope so; even though the tavern may have been the scene of their reconciliation. Henry is not much given to dissipation; but after such a burst of passion, followed by his sudden repentance, he may have strayed from his usual habits? Who could blame him if he has? There can be little harm in it: since he has gone astray in good company?"

How far the string of reflections might have extended it is not easy to say: since it did not reach its natural ending.

It was interrupted by the reappearance of Pluto; whose important air, as he re-entered the room, proclaimed him the bearer of eventful tidings.

"Well!" cried his master, without waiting for him to speak, "is he there?"

"No, Mass' Woodley," replied the black, in a voice that betrayed a large measure of emotion, "he are not dar--Massa Henry am not. But--but," he hesitatingly continued, "dis chile grieb to say dat--dat--_him hoss am dar_."

"His horse there! Not in his sleeping-room, I suppose?"

"No, massa; nor in de 'table neider; but out da, by de big gate."

"His horse at the gate? And why, pray, do you grieve about that?"

"'Ecause, Mass' Woodley, 'ecause de hoss--dat am Massa Henry hoss--'ecause de anymal--"

"Speak out, you stammering nigger! What because? I suppose the horse has his head upon him? Or is it his tail that is missing?"

"Ah, Mass' Woodley, dis nigga fear dat am missin' wuss dan eider him head or him tail. I'se feer'd dat de ole hoss hab loss him rider!"

"What! Henry thrown from his horse? Nonsense, Pluto! My son is too good a rider for that. Impossible that _he_ should have been pitched out of the saddle--impossible!"

"Ho! ho! I doan say he war frown out ob de saddle. Gorramity! I fear de trouble wuss dan dat. O! dear ole Massa, I tell you no mo'. Come to de gate ob do hashashanty, and see fo youseff."

By this time the impression conveyed by Pluto's speech--much more by his manner--notwithstanding its ambiguity, had become sufficiently alarming; and not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their way to the outside gate of the hacienda.

A sight was there awaiting them, calculated to inspire all three with the most terrible apprehensions.

A negro man--one of the field slaves of the plantation--stood holding a horse, that was saddled and bridled. The animal wet with the dews of the night, and having been evidently uncared for in any stable, was snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part.

He was speckled with a colour darker than that of the dewdrops--darker than his own coat of bay-brown. The spots scattered over his shoulders--the streaks that ran parallel with the downward direction of his limbs, the blotches showing conspicuously on the saddle-flaps, were all of the colour of coagulated blood. Blood had caused them--spots, streaks, and blotches!

Whence came that horse?

From the prairies. The negro had caught him, on the outside plain, as, with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying towards the hacienda.

To whom did he belong?

The question was not asked. All present knew him to be the horse of Henry Poindexter.

Nor did any one ask whose blood bedaubed the saddle-flaps. The three individuals most interested could think only of that one, who stood to them in the triple relationship of son, brother, and cousin.

The dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted from the veins of Henry Poindexter. They had no other thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE AVENGERS.

Hastily--perhaps too truly--construing the sinister evidence, the half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct for the Fort.

Calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after.

The hue and cry soon spread abroad. Rapid riders carried it up and down the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement.

The Indians were out, and near at hand, reaping their harvest of scalps! That of young Poindexter was the firstfruits of their sanguinary gleaning!

Henry Poindexter--the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all Texas! Who but Indians could have spilled such innocent blood? Only the Comanches could have been so cruel?

Among the horsemen, who came quickly together on the parade ground of Port Inge, no one doubted that the Comanches had done the deed. It was simply a question of how, when, and where.

The blood drops pretty clearly, proclaimed the first. He who had shed them must have been shot, or speared, while sitting in his saddle. They were mostly on the off side; where they presented an appearance, as if something had been slaked over them. This was seen both on the shoulders of the horse, and the flap of the saddle. Of course it was the body of the rider as it slipped lifeless to the earth.

There were some who spoke with equal certainty as to the time--old frontiersmen experienced in such matters.

According to them the blood was scarce "ten hours old:" in other words, must have been shed about ten hours before.

It was now noon. The murder must have been committed at _two_ o'clock in the morning.

The third query was, perhaps, the most important--at least now that the deed was done.

_Where_ had it been done? Where was the body to be found?

After that, where should the assassins be sought for?

These were the questions discussed by the mixed council of settlers and soldiers, hastily assembled at Port Inge, and presided over by the commandant of the Fort--the afflicted father standing speechless by his side.

The last was of special importance. There are thirty-two points in the compass of the prairies, as well as in that which guides the ocean wanderer; and, therefore, in any expedition going in search of a war-party of Comanches, there would be thirty-two chances to one against its taking the right track.

It mattered not that the home of these nomadic savages was in the west. That was a wide word; and signified anywhere within a semicircle of some hundreds of miles.

Besides, the Indians were now upon the _war-trail_; and, in an isolated settlement such as that of the Leona, as likely to make their appearance from the east. More likely, indeed, since such is a common strategic trick of these astute warriors.

To have ridden forth at random would have been sheer folly; with such odds against going the right way, as thirty-two to one.

A proposal to separate the command into several parties, and proceed in different directions, met with little favour from any one. It was directly negatived by the major himself.

The murderers might be a thousand, the avengers were but the tenth of that number: consisting of some fifty dragoons who chanced to be in garrison, with about as many mounted civilians. The party must be kept together, or run the risk of being attacked, and perhaps cut off, in detail!

The argument was deemed conclusive. Even, the bereaved father--and cousin, who appeared equally the victim of a voiceless grief--consented to shape their course according to the counsels of the more prudent majority, backed by the authority of the major himself.

It was decided that the searchers should proceed in a body.

In what direction? This still remained the subject of discussion.

The thoughtful captain of infantry now became a conspicuous figure, by suggesting that some inquiry should be made, as to what direction had been last taken by the man who was supposed to be murdered. Who last saw Henry Poindexter?

His father and cousin were first appealed to.

The former had last seen his son at the supper table; and supposed him to have gone thence to his bed.

The answer of Calhoun was less direct, and, perhaps, less satisfactory. He had conversed with his cousin at a later hour, and had bidden him good night, under the impression that he was retiring to his room.

Why was Calhoun concealing what had really occurred? Why did he refrain from giving a narration of that garden scene to which he had been witness?

Was it, that he feared humiliation by disclosing the part he had himself played?

Whatever was the reason, the truth was shunned; and an answer given, the sincerity of which was suspected by more than one who listened to it.

The evasiveness might have been more apparent, had there been any reason for suspicion, or had the bystanders been allowed longer time to reflect upon it.

While the inquiry was going on, light came in from a quartet hitherto unthought of. The landlord of the Rough and Ready, who had come uncalled to the council, after forcing his way through the crowd, proclaimed himself willing to communicate some facts worth their hearing--in short, the very facts they were endeavouring to find out: when Henry Poindexter had been last seen, and what the direction he had taken.

Oberdoffer's testimony, delivered in a semi-Teutonic tongue, was to the effect: that Maurice the mustanger--who had been staying at his hotel ever since his fight with Captain Calhoun--had that night ridden out at a late hour, as he had done for several nights before.

He had returned to the hotel at a still later hour; and finding it open--on account of a party of _bons vivants_ who had supped there--had done that which he had not done for a long time before--demanded his bill, and to Old Duffer's astonishment--as the latter naively confessed--settled every cent of it!

Where he had procured the money "Gott" only knew, or why he left the hotel in such a hurry. Oberdoffer himself only knew that he had left it, and taken all his `trapsh' along with him--just as he was in the habit of doing, whenever he went off upon one of his horse-catching expeditions.

On one of these the village Boniface supposed him to have gone.

What had all this to do with the question before the council? Much indeed; though it did not appear till the last moment of his examination, when the witness revealed the more pertinent facts:--that about twenty minutes after the mustanger had taken his departure from the hotel, "Heinrich Poindexter" knocked at the door, and inquired after Mr Maurice Gerald;--that on being told the latter was gone, as also the time, and probable direction he had taken, the "young gentlemans" rode off a a quick pace, as if with the intention of overtaking him.

This was all Mr Oberdoffer knew of the matter; and all he could be expected to tell.

The intelligence, though containing several points but ill understood, was nevertheless a guide to the expeditionary party. It furnished a sort of clue to the direction they ought to take. If the missing man had gone off with Maurice the mustanger, or after him, he should be looked for on the road the latter himself would be likely to have taken.

Did any one know where the horse-hunter had his home?

No one could state the exact locality; though there were several who believed it was somewhere among the head-waters of the Nueces, on a creek called the "Alamo."

To the Alamo, then, did they determine upon proceeding in quest of the missing man, or his dead body--perhaps, also, to find that of Maurice the mustanger; and, at the same time, avenge upon the savage assassins two murders instead of one.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE POOL OF BLOOD.

Notwithstanding its number--larger than usual for a party of borderers merely in search of a strayed neighbour--the expedition pursued its way with, considerable caution.

There was reason. The Indians were upon the war-trail. Scouts were sent out in advance; and professed "trackers" employed to pick up, and interpret the "sign."

On the prairie, extending nearly ten miles to the westward of the Leona, no trail was discovered. The turf, hard and dry, only showed the tracks of a horse when going in a gallop. None such were seen along the route.

At ten miles' distance from the Fort the plain is traversed by a tract of chapparal, running north-west and south-east. It is a true Texan jungle, laced by llianas, and almost impenetrable for man and horse.

Through this jungle, directly opposite the Fort, there is an opening, through which passes a path--the shortest that leads to the head waters of the Nueces. It is a sort of natural avenue among the trees that stand closely crowded on each side, but refrain from meeting. It may be artificial: some old "war-trail" of the Comanches, erst trodden by their expeditionary parties on the maraud to Tamaulipas, Coahuila, or New Leon.

The trackers knew that it conducted to the Alamo; and, therefore, guided the expedition into it.

Shortly after entering among the trees, one of the latter, who had gone afoot in the advance, was seen standing by the edge of the thicket, as if waiting to announce some recently discovered fact.

"What is it?" demanded the major, spurring ahead of the others, and riding up to the tracker. "Sign?"

"Ay, that there is, major; and plenty of it. Look there! In that bit of sottish ground you see--"

"The tracks of a horse."

"Of two horses, major," said the man, correcting the officer with an air of deference.

"True. There are two."

"Farther on they become four; though they're all made by the same two horses. They have gone up this openin' a bit, and come back again."

"Well, Spangler, my good fellow; what do you make of it?"

"Not much," replied Spangler, who was one of the paid scouts of the cantonment; "not much of _that_; I hav'n't been far enough up the openin' to make out what it means--only far enough to know that _a man has been murdered_."

"What proof have you of what you say? Is there a dead body?"

"No. Not as much as the little finger; not even a hair of the head, so fur as I can see."

"What then?"

"Blood, a regular pool of it--enough to have cleared out the carcass of a hull buffalo. Come and see for yourself. But," continued the scout in a muttered undertone, "if you wish me to follow up the sign as it ought to be done, you'll order the others to stay back--'specially them as are now nearest you."

This observation appeared to be more particularly pointed at the planter and his nephew; as the tracker, on making it, glanced furtively towards both.

"By all means," replied the major. "Yes, Spangler, you shall have every facility for your work. Gentlemen! may I request you to remain where you are for a few minutes. My tracker, here, has to go through a performance that requires him to have the ground to himself. He can only take me along with him."

Of course the major's request was a command, courteously conveyed, to men who were not exactly his subordinates. It was obeyed, however, just as if they had been; and one and all kept their places, while the officer, following his scout, rode away from the ground.

About fifty yards further on, Spangler came to a stand.

"You see that, major?" said he, pointing to the ground.

"I should be blind if I didn't," replied the officer. "A pool of blood--as you say, big enough to have emptied the veins of a buffalo. If it has come from those of a man, I should say that whoever shed it is no longer in the land of the living."

"Dead!" pronounced the tracker. "Dead before that blood had turned purple--as it is now."

"Whose do you think it is, Spangler?"

"That of the man we're in search of--the son of the old gentleman down there. That's why I didn't wish him to come forward."

"He may as well know the worst. He must find it out in time."

"True what you say, major; but we had better first find out how the young fellow has come to be thrown in his tracks. That's what is puzzling me."

"How! by the Indians, of course? The Comanches have done it?"

"Not a bit of it," rejoined the scout, with an air of confidence.

"Hu! why do you say that, Spangler?"

"Because, you see, if the Indyins had a been here, there would be forty horse-tracks instead of four, and them made by only two horses."

"There's truth in that. It isn't likely a single Comanch would have had the daring, even to assassinate--"

"No Comanche, major, no Indyin of any kind committed this murder. There are two horse-tracks along the opening. As you see, both are shod; and they're the same that have come back again. Comanches don't ride shod horses, except when they've stolen them. Both these were ridden by white men. One set of the tracks has been made by a mustang, though it it was a big 'un. The other is the hoof of an American horse. Goin' west the mustang was foremost; you can tell that by the overlap. Comin' back the States horse was in the lead, the other followin' him; though it's hard to say how fur behind. I may be able to tell better, if we keep on to the place whar both must have turned back. It can't be a great ways off."

"Let us proceed thither, then," said the major. "I shall command the people to stay where they are."

Having issued the command, in a voice loud enough to be heard by his following, the major rode away from the bloodstained spot, preceded by the tracker.

For about four hundred yards further on, the two sets of tracks were traceable; but by the eye of the major, only where the turf was softer under the shadow of the trees. So far--the scout said the horses had passed and returned in the order already declared by him:--that is, the mustang in the lead while proceeding westward, and in the rear while going in the opposite direction.

At this point the trail ended--both horses, as was already known, having returned on their own tracks.

Before taking the back track, however, they had halted, and stayed some time in the same place--under the branches of a spreading cottonwood. The turf, much trampled around the trunk of the tree, was evidence of this.

The tracker got off his horse to examine it; and, stooping to the earth, carefully scrutinised the sign.

"They've been here thegither," said he, after several minutes spent in his analysis, "and for some time; though neither's been out of the saddle. They've been on friendly terms, too; which makes it all the more unexplainable. They must have quarrelled afterwards."

"If you are speaking the truth, Spangler, you must be a witch. How on earth can you know all that?"

"By the sign, major; by the sign. It's simple enough. I see the shoes of both horses lapping over each other a score of times; and in such a way that shows they must have been thegither--the animals, it might be, restless and movin' about. As for the time, they've taken long enough to smoke a cigar apiece--close to the teeth too. Here are the stumps; not enough left to fill a fellow's pipe."

The tracker, stooping as he spoke, picked up a brace of cigar stumps, and handed them to the major.

"By the same token," he continued, "I conclude that the two horsemen, whoever they were, while under this tree could not have had any very hostile feelins, the one to the tother. Men don't smoke in company with the design of cutting each other's throats, or blowing out one another's brains, the instant afterwards. The trouble between them must have come on after the cigars were smoked out. That it did come there can be no doubt. As sure, major, as you're sittin' in your saddle, one of them has wiped out the other. I can only guess which has been wiped out, by the errand we're on. Poor Mr Poindexter will niver more see his son alive."

"'Tis very mysterious," remarked the major.

"It is, by jingo!"

"And the body, too; where can _it_ be?"

"That's what purplexes me most of all. If 't had been Indyins, I wouldn't a thought much o' its being missin'. They might a carried the man off wi them to make a target of him, if only wounded; and if dead, to eat him, maybe. But there's been no Indyins here--not a redskin. Take my word for it, major, one o' the two men who rid these horses has wiped out the other; and sartinly he _have_ wiped him out in the litterlest sense o' the word. What he's done wi' the body beats me; and perhaps only hisself can tell."

"Most strange!" exclaimed the major, pronouncing the words with emphasis--"most mysterious!"

"It's possible we may yet unravel some o' the mystery," pursued Spangler. "We must follow up the tracks of the horses, after they started from this--that is, from where the deed was done. We may make something out of that. There's nothing more to be learnt here. We may as well go back, major. Am I to tell _him_?"

"Mr Poindexter, you mean?"

"Yes. You are convinced that his son is the man who has been murdered?"

"Oh, no; not so much as that comes to. Only convinced that the horse the old gentleman is now riding is one of the two that's been over this ground last night--the States horse I feel sure. I have compared the tracks; and if young Poindexter was the man who was on _his back_, I fear there's not much chance for the poor fellow. It looks ugly that the other _rid after_ him."

"Spangler! have you any suspicion as to who the other may be?"

"Not a spark, major. If't hadn't been for the tale of Old Duffer I'd never have thought of Maurice the mustanger. True, it's the track o' a shod mustang; but I don't know it to be hisn. Surely it can't be? The young Irishman aint the man to stand nonsense from nobody; but as little air he the one to do a deed like this--that is, if it's been cold-blooded killin'."

"I think as you about that."

"And you may think so, major. If young Poindexter's been killed, and by Maurice Gerald, there's been a fair stand-up fight atween them, and the planter's son has gone under. That's how I shed reckon it up. As to the disappearance o' the dead body--for them two quarts o' blood could only have come out o' a body that's now dead--that _trees me_. We must follow the trail, howsoever; and maybe it'll fetch us to some sensible concloosion. Am I to tell the old gentleman what I think o't?"

"Perhaps better not. He knows enough already. It will at least fall lighter upon him if he find things out by piecemeal. Say nothing of what we've seen. If you can take up the trail of the two horses after going off from the place where the blood is, I shall manage to bring the command after you without any one suspecting what we've seen."

"All right, major," said the scout, "I think I can guess where the off trail goes. Give me ten minutes upon it, and then come on to my signal."

So saying the tracker rode back to the "place of blood;" and after what appeared a very cursory examination, turned off into a lateral opening in the chapparal.

Within the promised time his shrill whistle announced that he was nearly a mile distant, and in a direction altogether different from the spot that had been profaned by some sanguinary scene.

On hearing the signal, the commander of the expedition--who had in the meantime returned to his party--gave orders to advance; while he himself, with Poindexter and the other principal men, moved ahead, without his revealing to any one of his retinue the chapter of strange disclosures for which he was indebted to the "instincts" of his tracker.

CHAPTER FORTY.

THE MARKED BULLET.

Before coming up with the scout, an incident occurred to vary the monotony of the march. Instead of keeping along the avenue, the major had conducted his command in a diagonal direction through the chapparal. He had done this to avoid giving unnecessary pain to the afflicted father; who would otherwise have looked upon the life-blood of his son, or at least what the major believed to be so. The gory spot was shunned, and as the discovery was not yet known to any other save the major himself, and the tracker who had made it, the party moved on in ignorance of the existence of such a dread sign.

The path they were now pursuing was a mere cattle-track, scarce broad enough for two to ride abreast. Here and there were glades where it widened out for a few yards, again running into the thorny chapparal.

On entering one of these glades, an animal sprang out of the bushes, and bounded off over the sward. A beautiful creature it was, with its fulvous coat ocellated with rows of shining rosettes; its strong lithe limbs supporting a smooth cylindrical body, continued into a long tapering tail; the very type of agility; a creature rare even in these remote solitudes--the jaguar.

Its very rarity rendered it the more desirable as an object to test the skill of the marksman; and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the expedition, two of the party were tempted to discharge their rifles at the retreating animal.

They were Cassius Calhoun, and a young planter who was riding by his side.

The jaguar dropped dead in its tracks: a bullet having entered its body, and traversed the spine in a longitudinal direction.

Which of the two was entitled to the credit of the successful shot? Calhoun claimed it, and so did the young planter.

The shots had been fired simultaneously, and only one of them had hit.

"I shall show you," confidently asserted the ex-officer, dismounting beside the dead jaguar, and unsheathing his knife. "You see, gentlemen, the ball is still in the animal's body? If it's mine, you'll find my initials on it--C.C.--with a crescent. I mould my bullets so that I can always tell when I've killed my game."

The swaggering air with which he held up the leaden missile after extracting it told that he had spoken the truth. A few of the more curious drew near and examined the bullet. Sure enough it was moulded as Calhoun had declared, and the dispute ended in the discomfiture of the young planter.

The party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them along a fresh trail.

It was no longer a track made by two horses, with shod hooves. The turf showed only the hoof-marks of one; and so indistinctly, that at times they were undiscernible to all eyes save those of the tracker himself.

The trace carried them through the thicket, from glade to glade--after a circuitous march--bringing them back into the lane-like opening, at a point still further to the west.

Spangler--though far from being the most accomplished of his calling-- took it; up as fast as the people could ride after him. In his own mind he had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was following. He knew it to be a mustang--the same that had stood under the cottonwood whilst its rider was smoking a cigar--the same whose hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human blood.

The track of the States horse he had also followed for a short distance--in the interval, when he was left alone. He saw that it would conduct him back to the prairie through which they had passed; and thence, in all likelihood, to the settlements on the Leona.

He had forsaken it to trace the footsteps of the shod mustang; more likely to lead him to an explanation of that red mystery of murder-- perhaps to the den of the assassin.

Hitherto perplexed by the hoof-prints of two horses alternately overlapping each other, he was not less puzzled now, while scrutinising the tracks of but one.

They went not direct, as those of an animal urged onwards upon a journey; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; and then circling again, as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider was asleep in the saddle!

Could these be the hoof-prints of a horse with a man upon his back--an assassin skulking away from the scene of assassination, his conscience freshly excited by the crime?

Spangler did not think so. He knew not what to think. He was mystified more than ever. So confessed he to the major, when being questioned as to the character of the trail.

A spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes--simultaneously seen by every individual of the party--so far from solving the mystery, had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable.

More than this. What had hitherto been but an ambiguous affair--a subject for guess and speculation--was suddenly transformed into a horror; of that intense kind that can only spring from thoughts of the supernatural.

No one could say that this feeling of horror had arisen without reason.

When a man is seen mounted on a horse's back, seated firmly in the saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding the rein--in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider; when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still closer scrutiny, that this something is the _head_, it would be strange if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the very core of his heart.

And this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously to rein up, and with as much suddenness, as if each had rashly ridden within less than his horse's length of the brink of an abyss!

The sun was low down, almost on a level with the sward. Facing westward, his disc was directly before them. His rays, glaring redly in their eyes, hindered them from having a very accurate view, towards the quarter of the west. Still could they see that strange shape above described--a horseman without a head!

Had only one of the party declared himself to have seen it, he would have been laughed at by his companions as a lunatic. Even two might have been stigmatised in a similar manner.

But what everybody saw at the same time, could not be questioned; and only he would have been thought crazed, who should have expressed incredulity about the presence of the abnormal phenomenon.

No one did. The eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or the best counterfeit that could have been contrived.

Was it this? If not, what was it?

These interrogatories passed simultaneously through the minds of all. As no one could answer them, even to himself, no answer was vouchsafed. Soldiers and civilians sate silent in their saddles--each expecting an explanation, which the other was unable to supply.

There could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror. No one even offered a conjecture.

The headless horseman, whether phantom or real, when first seen, was about entering the avenue--near the debouchure of which the searchers had arrived. Had he continued his course, he must have met them in the teeth--supposing their courage to have been equal to the encounter.

As it was, he had halted at the same instant as themselves; and stood regarding them with a mistrust that may have been mutual.

There was an interval of silence on both sides, during which a cigar stump might have been heard falling upon the sward. It was then the strange apparition was most closely scrutinised by those who had the courage: for the majority of the men sate shivering in their stirrups-- through sheer terror, incapable even of thought!

The few who dared face the mystery, with any thought of accounting for it, were baffled in their investigation by the glare of the setting sun. They could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble shape, with a man upon his back. The figure of the man was less easily determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering.

What signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most essential to existence? A man without a head--on horseback, sitting erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace--with spurs sparkling upon his heels--the bridle-rein held in one hand--the other where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh!

Great God! what could it mean?

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

They who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or phantasmagoria. Many of them had met Nature in her remotest solitudes, and wrestled with her in her roughest moods. They were not given to a belief in ghosts.

But the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so strange--so absolutely unnatural--and to such an extent, that the stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words:--

"_Is it a phantom? Surely it cannot be human_?"

Its size favoured the idea of the supernatural. It appeared double that of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse. It was more like a giant on a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory light under which it was seen--the refraction of the sun's rays passing horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain.

There was but little time to philosophise--not enough to complete a careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present, with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare, was endeavouring to make.

Nothing of colour could be noted--neither the garments of the man, nor the hairy coat of the horse. Only the shape could be traced, outlined in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned stern towards them, was still the same--still that inexplicable phenomenon: _a horseman without a head_!

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

"'Tis old Nick upon horseback!" cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise. "By the 'tarnal Almighty, it's the devil himself."

The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman. Wheeling suddenly round--his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble--he commenced galloping away.

He went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have puzzled the philosopher--at length altogether disappearing, as though he had ridden into the dazzling disc!

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

CUATRO CAVALLEROS.

The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.

Nor was it the earliest to take saddle. Long before--in fact close following the dawn of day--a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.

These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter. At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing. The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe. The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt.

Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two

## parties of mounted men. Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian

blood; or this commingled with Aztecan. In other words they were Mexicans.

It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this. A glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips--more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles--the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican costume.

That they were the former there was not a question. The sallow hue; the pointed Vandyke beard, covering the chin, sparsely--though not from any thinning by the shears--the black, close-cropped _chevelure_; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the Moctezumas.

One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the _cuartilla_.

He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek--furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker--gave him the appearance of being younger than he was.

But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality--if not with positive cruelty--the individual in question might have been described as handsome.

A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.

It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas.

His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet "El Coyote."

How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning--apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others--when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacale--so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?

The change of situation though sudden--and to some extent strange--is not so difficult of explanation. It will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun's leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three _conpaisanos_.

On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning--El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber.

At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. This to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor--all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in.

It might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the instant; but he did not. It was the only aperture, excepting some holes arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior of the jacale; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the design that had summoned him to his feet.

The grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway, scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more frequently _mezcal_.

The odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as he made the discovery.

"_Sangre de Cristo_!" he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment, giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. "Not a drop--not enough to drown a chiga! And my tongue sticking to my teeth. My throat feels as if I had bolted a _brazero_ of red-hot charcoal. Por Dios! I can't stand it. What's to be done? Daylight? It is. I must up to the _pueblita_. It's possible that Senor Doffer may have his trap open by this time to catch the early birds. If so, he'll find a customer in the Coyote. Ha, ha, ha!"

Slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through the slit of his serape, he set forth for the village.

The tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with his eyes under "tapojos." In twenty minutes after, he was staggering past the sign-post of the "Rough and Ready."

He chanced to be in luck. Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers--a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to swallow their morning dram.

"Mein Gott, Mishter Dees!" said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived guest, and without ceremony forsaking six _credit_ customers, for one that he knew to be _cash_. "Mein Gott! is it you I sees so early ashtir? I knowsh vat you vant. You vant your pig coord fill mit ze Mexican spirits--ag--ag--vat you call it?"

"_Aguardiente_! You've guessed it, cavallero. That's just what I want."

"A tollar--von tollar ish the price."

"_Carrambo_! I've paid it often enough to know that. Here's the coin, and there's the canteen. Fill, and be quick about it!"

"Ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr. Fel--I von't keeps you waitin'; I suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish. If there's anything goot among the droves, I'm afeart that the Irishmans will pick it up before you. He went off lasht night. He left my housh at a late hour-- after midnight it wash--a very late hour, to go a shourney! But he's a queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, Mister Maurish Sherralt. Nobody knows his ways. I shouldn't say anythings againsht him. He hash been a goot cushtomer to me. He has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash plenty peside. Mein Gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!"

On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the "horsh prairish," as Oberdoffer termed them, the Mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than an ordinary interest in the announcement.

It was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while listening to the long rigmarole that followed.

It was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed. Instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless drawl--

"It don't concern me, cavallero. There are plenty of _mustenos_ on the plains--enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas. Look alive, senor, and let's have the aguardiente!"

A little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a gossip, the German Boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and, without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back to his military customers, more amiable because drinking _upon the score_.

Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!

His excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass of ardent spirits. There was something stronger stirring within, that for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite.

Whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own--all situated in the suburbs of the _pueblita_, and inhabited by men like himself--not till then, did he return to his jacale.

It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut.

"_Carrambo_!" he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, "_the Capitan Americano_ has been here in the night. Por Dios! I remember something--I thought I had dreamt it. I can guess his errand. He has heard of Don Mauricio's departure. Perhaps he'll repeat his visit, when he thinks I'm in a proper state to receive him? Ha! ha! It don't matter now. The thing's all understood; and I sha'n't need any further instructions from him, till I've earned his thousand dollars. _Mil pesos_! What a splendid fortune! Once gained, I shall go back to the Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora."

After delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted _tasajo_, washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. Then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed machete on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away.

The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village--waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance.

Whatever it was, his trio of _confreres_ appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the Alamo. When a short distance out upon the plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way.

"I know the Alamo well," said one of them, himself a mustanger. "I've hunted horses there many a time. It's southwest from here. The nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!"

"Indeed!" contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. "You're a _gringo_, Senor Vicente Barajo! You forget the errand we're upon; and that we are riding shod horses? Indians don't go out from Port Inge and then direct to the Alamo to do--no matter what. I suppose you understand me?"

"Oh true!" answered Senor Vicente Barajo, "I beg your pardon, Don Miguel. _Carrambo_! I did not think of that."

And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence--scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.

Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen's dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

VULTURES ON THE WING.

He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence--a flock of black vultures upon the wing.

An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations--now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal--anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part--their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky--they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.

The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.

There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature--quadruped, or it may be _man_--dead, or it may be _dying_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.

At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.

A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.

Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.

Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.

At that early hour there was no traveller--Texan, or stranger--to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.

At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.

It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being--a man!

A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape--so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form--with a face fair to look upon, even in death.

Was he dead?

At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.

He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky--no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.

A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun's beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face--paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.

His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?

Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.

Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.

Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.

The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.

"Am I dead, or living?" muttered he to himself. "Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?"

The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.

"Trees above--around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?

"Now I have it," continued he, after a short spell of reflection. "My head was dashed against a tree. There it is--the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!"

As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint--either shattered or dislocated.

"Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.

"The other?" he added, after a pause. "Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!

"What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can't stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one--a hundred--a thousand--against any one coming this way; at least not till I've become food for those filthy birds. Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!

"How long have I been lying here? The surf don't seem very high. It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle. I suppose I've been unconscious about an hour. By my faith, I'm in a serious scrape? In all likelihood a broken limb--it feels broken--with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal--the thicket around me, perhaps for miles--no chance to escape from it of myself--no hope of human creature coming to help me--wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein? I may have ridden my last ride!"

The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.

Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.

Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. He only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him.

The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite--surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received.

The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else--even the pain of his wounds--became of trifling consideration.

"It will kill me, if I stay here?" reflected the sufferer. "I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there's a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! There's no help for it but try. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. It already burns into my brain. I may lose my senses, and then--the wolves--the vultures--"

The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:

"If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It runs towards the chalk prairie. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!"

With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket--creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge Saurian whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow!

Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.

The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.

He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst-- almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.

Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.

At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.

His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.

He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted-- one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.

"Perhaps," said he, "I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there's a sapling of the right size--a bit of blackjack. It will do."

Drawing the knife--a "bowie"--from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.

Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.

He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.

It was not so easy. The sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. Moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant detours to take advantage of its openings. He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.

After proceeding about a mile--not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between--he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. It was slight, but running in a direct line--a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration--in all likelihood a watering-place--stream, pond, or spring.

Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail--now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.

The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. It became _blind_. In other words it ran out--ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. He saw, to his dismay, that it led _from_ the glade, instead of _towards_ it. He had been following it the wrong way!

Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. To stay in the glade would have been to die there.

He retraced the trodden path--going on beyond the point where he had first struck it.

Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. And this was every moment becoming more unendurable.

The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. They afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.

The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst--until the appetite became an agony!

Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the _mezquites_, filled with mellifluous moisture. The agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. The former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.

He was acquainted with the character of both. He knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.

He passed the depending pods, without plucking them. He passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.

To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. It had swollen to enormous dimensions. Every step caused him a spasm of pain. Even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? If not, there was no hope for him. He could but lie down in the thicket, and die!

Death would not be immediate. Although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. He might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. Thirst would be his destroyer--of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.

The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make--despite the pain experienced in making it--he toiled on.

The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. Now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there--their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. Instinct--perhaps rather experience--told them it must soon succumb.

Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced-- filling him with ominous fears for the end.

There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight--even when excited by the prospect of a repast. The hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. Even the hideous "horned frog" reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones.

The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself--the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.

By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. The spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.

He was near to the point of despondence--in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.

In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. Lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound--so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible.

Slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which his senses were sharpened. It was the murmur of moving water!

With an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound.

He plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy. Even the disabled leg appeared to sustain him. It was strength and the love of life, struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death.

The former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet-- wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable agony!

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE CUP AND THE JAR.

Once more the mustanger's hut! Once more his henchman, astride of a stool in the middle of the floor! Once more his hound lying astretch upon the skin-covered hearth, with snout half buried in the cinders!

The relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same-- as when seen on a former occasion--their attitudes almost identical. Otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted--a transformation at once striking and significant.

The horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls. The slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the "shake down" of the servitor.

But the other "chattels" wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry are either out of sight, or displaced. The double gun has been removed from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and serapes are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and _papeterie_ have entirely disappeared.

At first sight it might be supposed that Indians have paid a visit to the jacale, and pillaged it of its _penates_.

But no. Had this been the case, Phelim would not be sitting so unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head.

Though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away. The articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor--among which is the leathern portmanteau--proclaims the purpose of the transposition.

Though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is intended.

In the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was still seen in its accustomed corner--the demijohn. It was seen by Phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the angle.

"Ach! me jewel, it's there yez are!" said he, apostrophising the demijohn for about the twentieth time, "wid more than two quarts av the crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin' ye a bit av good, nayther. If the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty binnefit to me intistines. Trath wud it that same. Wudn't it, Tara?"

On hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him.

Perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he resumed his attitude of repose.

"Faix! I don't want any answer to that, owld boy. It's meself that knows it, widout tillin'. A hape av good a glass of that same potyeen would do me; and I dar'n't touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid to me about it. Afther all that packin', too, till me throat is stickin' to me tongue, as if I had been thryin' to swallow a pitch plaster. Sowl! it's a shame av Masther Maurice to make me promise agaynst touchin' the dhrink--espacially when it's not goin' to be wanted. Didn't he say he wudn't stay more than wan night, whin he come back heeur; an shure he won't conshume two quarts in wan night--unless that owld sinner Stump comes along wid him. Bad luck to his greedy gut! he gets more av the Manongahayla than the masther himsilf.

"There's wan consolashun, an thank the Lord for it, we're goin' back to the owld _sad_, an the owld place at Ballyballagh. Won't I have a skinful when I get thare--av the raal stuff too, instid of this Amerikyan rotgut! Hooch--hoop--horoo! The thought av it's enough to sit a man mad wid deloight. Hooch--hoop--horoo!"

Tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came down again, the excited Galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous shibboleth. Then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence--his thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited him at Ballyballagh.

They soon reverted to the objects around him--more especially to the demijohn in the corner. On this once more his eyes became fixed in a gaze, in which increasing covetousness was manifestly visible.

"Arrah, me jewel!" said he, again apostrophising the vessel, "ye're extramely bewtifull to look at--that same ye arr. Shure now, yez wudn't till upon me, if I gave yez a thrifle av a kiss? Ye wudn't be the thraiter to bethray me? Wan smack only. Thare can be no harum in that. Trath, I don't think the masther 'ud mind it--when he thinks av the throuble I've had wid this packin', an the dhry dust gettin' down me throat. Shure he didn't mane me to kape that promise for this time-- which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin' away. A dhry flittin', they say, makes a short sittin'. I'll tell the masther that, whin he comes back; an shure it 'll pacify him. Besoides, there's another ixcuse. He's all av tin hours beyant his time; an I'll say I took a thriflin' dhrap to kape me from thinkin' long for him. Shure he won't say a word about it. Be Sant Pathrick! I'll take a smell at the dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist. Loy down, Tara, I'm not agoin' out."

The staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door.

But the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose--which was simply to take a survey of the path by which the jacale was approached, and make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his intended dealings with the demijohn.

Becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed something more than a "thriflin' dhrap av its contints."

Then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool.

After remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more proceeded to soliloquise--now and then changing his speech to the apostrophic form--Tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured by his discourse.

"In the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, I wondher what's kapin' the masther! He sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the marnin', and it's now good six in the afthernoon, if thare's any truth in a Tixas sun. Shure thare's somethin' detainin' him? Don't yez think so, Tara?"

This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative "sniff"--having poked his nose too far into the ashes.

"Be the powers! then, I hope it's no harum that's befallen him! If there has, owld dog, fwhat 'ud become av you an me? Thare might be no Ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage wid these thraps av the masther's. The drinkin' cup--raal silver it is--wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage. Be japers! now that it stroikes me, I niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel. I'm shure the liquor must taste swater that way. Does it, I wondher--trath, now's just the time to thry."

Saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion of its contents--of about the measure of a wineglassful.

Quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips--as if to assure himself of the quality of the liquor.

"Sowl! I don't know that it _does_ taste betther," said he, still holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other. "Afther all, I think, it's swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as I cyan remimber. But it isn't givin' the gawblet fair play. It's so long since I had the jar to me mouth, that I a'most forget how it tasted that way. I cowld till betther if I thryed thim thegither. I'll do that, before I decoide."

The demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several "glucks" was again taken away.

Then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion, with the head held reflectingly steadfast.

"Trath! an I'm wrong agane!" said he, accompanying the remark with another doubtful shake of the head. "Althegither asthray. It's swater from the silver. Or, is it only me imaginayshin that's desavin' me? It's worth while to make shure, an I can only do that by tastin' another thrifle out av the cup. That wud be givin' fair play to both av the vessels; for I've dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the silver. Fair play's a jewil all the world over; and thare's no raison why this bewtiful little mug showldn't be trated as dacently as that big basket av a jar. Be japers! but it shall tho'!"

The cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it--to be poured immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied connoisseur.

Whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he retained his preference for the jar, is not known. After the fourth potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside.

Instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master.

"Come, Tara!" cried he, striding towards the door. "Let us stip up to the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain. If masther's comin' at all, he shud be in sight by this. Come along, ye owld dog! Masther Maurice 'll think all the betther av us, for bein' a little unazy about his gettin' back."

Taking the path through the wooded bottom--with the staghound close at his heels--the Galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.

From this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was standing.

The sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a cloudless sky. There was nothing to interrupt his view. Here and there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain. Otherwise the surface was smooth; and a coyote could not have crossed it without being seen.

Beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of trees--where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream stretched transversely across the _llano_.

The Galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him.

Ere long his vigil was rewarded. A horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.

He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. The striped serape of brilliant hues--a true Navajo blanket, which Maurice was accustomed to take with him when travelling--was not to be mistaken. It gleamed gaudily under the glare of the setting sun--its bands of red, white, and blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain.

Phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to the cantle of his saddle!

"Trath, Tara! it looks quare, doesn't it? It's hot enough to roast a stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don't seem to think so. I hope he hasn't caught a cowld from stayin' in that close crib at owld Duffer's tavern. It wasn't fit for a pig to dwill in. Our own shanty's a splindid parlour to it."

The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman--by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer.

When his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed. It was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment. But it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under restraint.

"Mother av Moses!" cried he. "What can the masther mane? Not contint with havin' the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he's got it over his head!

"He's playin' us a thrick, Tara. He wants to give you an me a surproise. He wants to have a joke agaynst us!

"Sowl! but it's quare anyhow. It looks as if he _had_ no head. In faix does it! Ach! what cyan it mane? Be the Howly Virgin! it's enough to frighten wan, av they didn't know it was the masther!

"_Is_ it the masther? Be the powers, it's too short for him! The head? Saint Patrick presarve us, whare is it? It cyan't be smothered up in the blankyet? Thare's no shape thare! Be Jaysus, thare's somethin' wrong! What does it mane, Tara?"

The tone of the speaker had again undergone a change. It was now close bordering upon terror--as was also the expression of his countenance.

The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. He stood a little in advance--half cowering, half inclined to spring forward--with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman--now scarce two hundred yards from the spot!

As Phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer.

Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally puzzling him.

Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger.

If Phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still further astonished by what now appeared to him.

As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay--which the ex-groom had long before identified as his master's horse--turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!

While performing the wheel, Phelim saw--or fancied he saw--that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.

It was a head--that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider's hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!

As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face--ghastly and covered with gore--half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster!

He saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

A QUARTETTE OF COMANCHES.

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 jacale, 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 jacale.

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 jacale.

"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 jacale, 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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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 jacale 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 jacale 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 jacale.

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 machete 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 _monte_. He is desirous of having his _revanche_: for he well knows how his _confreres_ will spend the time in his absence.

"Quick. Senor 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 monte. 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 jacale, 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 serape.

_Cavallo_ and _soto_ (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monte 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 jacale.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetes. 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 _canada_-- 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_!

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A TRAIL GONE BLIND.

Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?

So questioned El Coyote and his terrified companions. So, too, had the scared Galwegian interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the terror.

In a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others, to whom the headless horseman had shown himself--the party of searchers who accompanied the major.

It was at an earlier hour, and a point in the prairie five miles farther east, that to these the weird figure had made itself manifest.

Looking westward, with the sun-glare in their eyes, they had seen only its shape, and nothing more--at least nothing to connect it with Maurice the mustanger.

Viewing it from the west, with the sun at his back, the Galwegian had seen enough to make out a resemblance to his master--if not an absolute identification.

Under the light of the moon the four Mexicans, who knew Maurice Gerald by sight, had arrived at a similar conclusion.

If the impression made upon the servant was one of the wildest awe, equally had it stricken the conspirators.

The searchers, though less frightened by the strange phenomenon, were none the less puzzled to explain it.

Up to the instant of its disappearance no explanation had been attempted--save that jocularly conveyed in the bizarre speech of the borderer.

"What _do_ you make of it, gentlemen?" said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: "I confess it mystifies me."

"An Indian trick?" suggested one. "Some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?"

"A most unlikely lure, then;" remarked another; "certainly the last that would attract me."

"I don't think it's Indian," said the major; "I don't know what to think. What's your opinion of it, Spangler?"

The tracker shook his head, as if equally uncertain.

"Do you think it's an Indian in disguise?" urged the officer, pressing him for an answer.

"I know no more than yourself, major," replied he. "It _should_ be somethin' of that kind: for what else _can_ it be? It must eyther be a man, or a dummy!"

"That's it--a dummy!" cried several, evidently relieved by his hypothesis.

"Whatsomever it is--man, dummy, or devil," said the frontiersman, who had already pronounced upon it, "thar's no reason why we should be frightened from followin' its trail. Has it left any, I wonder?"

"If it has," replied Spangler, "we'll soon see. Ours goes the same way--so fur as can be judged from here. Shall we move forr'ad, major?"

"By all means. We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. Forward!"

The horsemen again advanced--some of them not without a show of reluctance. There were among them men, who, if left to themselves, would have taken the back track. Of this number was Calhoun, who, from the first moment of sighting the strange apparition, had shown signs of affright even beyond the rest of his companions. His eyes had suddenly assumed an unnatural glassiness; his lips were white as ashes; while his drooping jaw laid bare two rows of teeth, which he appeared with difficulty to restrain from chattering!

But for the universal confusion, his wild manner might have been observed. So long as the singular form was in sight, there were eyes only for it; and when it had at length disappeared, and the party advanced along the trail, the ex-captain hung back, riding unobserved among the rearmost.

The tracker had guessed aright. The spot upon which the ghostly shape had for the moment stood still, lay direct upon the trail they were already taking up.

But, as if to prove the apparition a spirit, on reaching the place there were no tracks to be seen!

The explanation, however, was altogether natural. Where the horse had wheeled round, and for miles beyond, the plain was thickly strewn with white shingle. It was, in trapper parlance, a "chalk prairie." The stones showed displacement; and here and there an abrasion that appeared to have been made by the hoof of a horse. But these marks were scarce discernible, and only to the eyes of the skilled tracker.

It was the case with the trail they had been taking up--that of the shod mustang; and as the surface had lately been disturbed by a wild herd, the particular hoof-marks could no longer be distinguished.

They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider. The sun would have been their guide, and after that the evening star. But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail--gone blind among the shingle.

Spangler proclaimed himself at fault, as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal, and bivouac among the bushes.

The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning.

It was not fulfilled, at least as regarded time. The trial was postponed by an unexpected circumstance.

Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major. It was from the commanding officer of the district, whose head-quarters were at San Antonio do Bexar. It had been sent to Fort Inge, and thence forwarded.

The major made known its tenor by ordering "boots and saddles" to be sounded; and before the sweat had become dry upon the horses, the dragoons were once more upon their backs.

The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward, close to the town of San Antonio itself.

It was no longer a mere rumour. The maraud had commenced by the murder of men, women, and children, with the firing of their houses.

The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations. Hence his hurried decampment.

The civilians might have stayed; but friendship--even parental affection--must yield to the necessities of nature. Most of them had set forth without further preparation than the saddling of their horses, and shouldering their guns; and hunger now called them home.

There was no intention to abandon the search. That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses, and establish a better system of commissariat. Then would it be continued--as one and all declared, to the "bitter end."

A small party was left with Spangler to take up the trail of the American horse, which according to the tracker's forecast would lead back to the Leona. The rest returned along with the dragoons.

Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them--what he had hitherto kept back--the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker's interpretation of it. As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.

It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, with whom in the way of his calling he had held some pleasant intercourse. But duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger's guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.

With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.

That the deed had been done no one thought of doubting.

Oberdoffer's story had furnished the first chapter of the evidence. Henry's horse returning with the blood-stained saddle the last. The intermediate links were readily supplied--partly by the interpretations of the tracker, and partly by conjecture.

No one paused to investigate the motive--at least with any degree of closeness. The hostility of Gerald was accounted for by his quarrel with Calhoun; on the supposition that it might have extended to the whole family of the Poindexters!

It was very absurd reasoning; but men upon the track of a supposed murderer rarely reason at all. They think only of destroying him.

With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found--one or both, living or dead.

The party left with Spangler remained upon the spot which the major had chosen as a camping ground.

They were in all less than a dozen. A larger number was deemed unnecessary. Comanches, in that quarter, were no longer to be looked for; nor was there any other danger that called for a strength of men. Two or three would have been sufficient for the duty required of them.

Nine or ten stayed--some out of curiosity, others for the sake of companionship. They were chiefly young men--sons of planters and the like. Calhoun was among them--the acknowledged chief of the party; though Spangler, acting as guide, was tacitly understood to be the man to whom obedience should be given.

Instead of going to sleep, after the others had ridden away, they gathered around a roaring fire, already kindled within the thicket glade.

Among them was no stint for supper--either of eatables or drinkables. The many who had gone back--knowing they would not need them--had surrendered their haversacks, and the "heel-taps" of their canteens, to the few who remained. There was liquor enough to last through the night--even if spent in continuous carousing.

Despite their knowledge of this--despite the cheerful crackling of the logs, as they took their seats around the fire--they were not in high spirits.

One and all appeared to be under some influence, that, like a spell, prevented them from enjoying a pleasure perhaps not surpassed upon earth.

You may talk of the tranquil joys of the domestic hearth. At times, upon the prairie, I have myself thought of, and longed to return to them. But now, looking back upon both, and calmly comparing them, one with the other, I cannot help exclaiming:

"Give me the circle of the camp-fire, with half-a-dozen of my hunter comrades around it--once again give me that, and be welcome to the wealth I have accumulated, and the trivial honours I have gained--thrice welcome to the care and the toil that must still be exerted in retaining them."

The sombre abstraction of their spirits was easily explained. The weird shape was fresh in their thoughts. They were yet under the influence of an indefinable awe.

Account for the apparition as they best could, and laugh at it--as they at intervals affected to do--they could not clear their minds of this unaccountable incubus, nor feel satisfied with any explanation that had been offered.

The guide Spangler partook of the general sentiment, as did their leader Calhoun.

The latter appeared more affected by it than any of the party! Seated, with moody brow, under the shadow of the trees, at some distance from the fire, he had not spoken a word since the departure of the dragoons. Nor did he seem disposed to join the circle of those who were basking in the blaze; but kept himself apart, as if not caring to come under the scrutiny of his companions.

There was still the same wild look in his eyes--the same scared expression upon his features--that had shown itself before sunset.

"I say, Cash Calhoun!" cried one of the young fellows by the fire, who was beginning to talk "tall," under the influence of the oft-repeated potations--"come up, old fellow, and join us in a drink! We all respect your sorrow; and will do what we can to get satisfaction, for you and yours. But a man mustn't always mope, as you're doing. Come along here, and take a `smile' of the Monongaheela! It'll do you a power of good, I promise you."

Whether it was that he was pleased at the interpretation put upon his silent attitude--which the speech told him had been observed--or whether he had become suddenly inclined towards a feeling of good fellowship, Calhoun accepted the invitation; and stepping up to the fire, fell into line with the rest of the roysterers. Before seating himself, he took a pull at the proffered flask.

From that moment his air changed, as if by enchantment. Instead of showing sombre, he became eminently hilarious--so much so as to cause surprise to more than one of the party. The behaviour seemed odd for a man, whose cousin was supposed to have been murdered that very morning.

Though commencing in the character of an invited guest, he soon exhibited himself as the host of the occasion. After the others had emptied their respective flasks, he proved himself possessed of a supply that seemed inexhaustible. Canteen after canteen came forth, from his capacious saddle-bags--the legacy left by many departed friends, who had gone back with the major.

Partaking of these at the invitation of their leader--encouraged by his example--the young planter "bloods" who encircled the camp fire, talked, sang, danced, roared, and even rolled around it, until the alcohol could no longer keep them awake. Then, yielding to exhausted nature, they sank back upon the sward, some perhaps to experience the dread slumber of a first intoxication.

The ex-officer of volunteers was the last of the number who laid himself along the grass.

If the last to lie down, he was the first to get up. Scarce had the carousal ceased--scarce had the sonorous breathing of his companions proclaimed them asleep--when he rose into an erect attitude, and with cautious steps stole out from among them. With like stealthy tread he kept on to the confines of the camp--to the spot where his horse stood "hitched" to a tree.

Releasing the rein from its knot, and throwing it over the neck of the animal, he clambered into the saddle, and rode noiselessly away.

In all these actions there was no evidence that he was intoxicated. On the contrary, they proclaimed a clear brain, bent upon some purpose previously determined. What could it be?

Urged by affection, was he going forth to trace the mystery of the murder, by finding the body of the murdered man? Did he wish to show his zeal by going alone?

Some such design might have been interpreted from a series of speeches that fell carelessly from his lips, as he rode through the chapparal.

"Thank God, there's a clear moon, and six good hours before those youngsters will think of getting to their feet! I'll have time to search every corner of the thicket, for a couple of miles around the place; and if the body be there I cannot fail to find it. But what could that thing have meant? If I'd been the only one to see it, I might have believed myself mad. But they all saw it--every one of them. Almighty heavens! what could it have been?"

The closing speech ended in an exclamation of terrified surprise-- elicited by a spectacle that at the moment presented itself to the eyes of the ex-officer--causing him to rein up his horse, as if some dread danger was before him.

Coming in by a side path, he had arrived on the edge of the opening already described. He was just turning into it, when he saw, that he was not the only horseman, who at that late hour was traversing the chapparal.

Another, to all appearance as well mounted as himself, was approaching along the avenue--not slowly as he, but in a quick trot.

Long before the strange rider had come near, the moonlight, shining fall upon him, enabled Calhoun to see that he was _headless_!

There could be no mistake about the observation. Though quickly made, it was complete. The white moon beams, silvering his shoulders, were reflected from no face, above or between them! It could be no illusion of the moon's light. Calhoun had seen that same shape under the glare of the sun.

He now saw more--the missing head, ghastly and gory, half shrouded behind the hairy holsters! More still--he recognised the horse--the striped serape upon the shoulders of the rider--the water-guards upon his legs--the complete caparison--all the belongings of Maurice the mustanger!

He had ample time to take in these details. At a stand in the embouchure of the side path, terror held him transfixed to the spot. His horse appeared to share the feeling. Trembling in its tracks, the animal made no effort to escape; even when the headless rider pulled up in front, and, with a snorting, rearing steed, remained for a moment confronting the frightened party.

It was only after the blood bay had given utterance to a wild "whigher"--responded to by the howl of a hound close following at his heels--and turned into the avenue to continue his interrupted trot--only then that Calhoun became sufficiently released from the spell of horror to find speech.

"God of heaven!" he cried, in a quivering voice, "what can it mean? Is it man, or demon, that mocks me? Has the whole day been a dream? Or am I mad--mad--mad?"

The scarce coherent speech was succeeded by action, instantaneous but determined. Whatever the purpose of his exploration, it was evidently abandoned: for, turning his horse with a wrench upon the rein, he rode back by the way he had come--only at a far faster pace,--pausing not till he had re-entered the encampment.

Then stealing up to the edge of the fire, he lay down among the slumbering inebriates--not to sleep, but to stay trembling in their midst, till daylight disclosed a haggard pallor upon his cheeks, and ghastly glances sent forth from his sunken eyes.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A SECRET CONFIDED.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of Casa del Corvo. The courtyard was crowded with men--armed, though not in the regular fashion. They carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of coloured blanket, and "Kentucky jeans," trowsers of brown "homespun," and blue "cottonade," hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck--these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an assemblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of Texas.

Despite the _bizarrerie_ of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. Others had now joined the assemblage--settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day--even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the assembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. Irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. These were the "_Regulators_."

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any other individual. They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder--of the murder of Henry Poindexter--coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not--of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony--and the serious manner in which it was given-- could not long be resisted; and the existence of the _headless horseman_ became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested. The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman--that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside--some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most "hitched" to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter--on this occasion their chief--to give the signal for setting forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo--who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.

There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service--old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.

There was a _woman_, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track--to the very hearthstone of the supposed assassin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. Had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda without him. The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the "plunder"--as he was wont to term it--procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home. She was even eager for the interview--so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare--the latter laden with the spoils of the chase--slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.

A glad sight to her--that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood. She recognised in it the form of a true friend--to whose keeping she could safely entrust her most secret confidence. And she had now such a secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully pent up within her bosom.

Long before Zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she had gone out into the verandah to receive him.

The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house. There was just perceptible the slightest expression of surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred.

It had not been the custom of the hacienda--at least during its present proprietary.

The sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of the saguan, strengthened Zeb's surprise--sufficiently to call forth an inquiry.

"Why, Pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi' ye? Yur lookin' like a 'coon wi' his tail chopped off--clost to the stump at thet! An' why air the big gate shet an barred--in the middle o' breakfist time? I hope thur hain't nuthin' gone astray?"

"Ho! ho! Mass 'Tump, dat's jess what dar hab goed stray--dat's preecise de ting, dis chile sorry t' say--berry much goed stray. Ho! berry, berry much!"

"Heigh!" exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone. "Thur air sommeat amiss? What is't, nigger? Tell me sharp quick. It can't be no wuss than yur face shows it. Nothin' happened to yur young mistress, I hope? Miss Lewaze--"

"Ho--ho! nuffin' happen to de young Missa Looey. Ho--ho! Bad enuf 'thout dat. Ho! de young missa inside de house yar, 'Tep in, Mass' 'Tump. She tell you de drefful news herseff."

"Ain't yur master inside, too? He's at home, ain't he?"

"Golly, no. Dis time no. Massa ain't 'bout de house at all nowhar. He wa' hya a'most a quarrer ob an hour ago. He no hya now. He off to de hoss prairas--wha de hab de big hunt 'bout a momf ago. You know, Mass' Zeb?"

"The hoss purayras! What's tuk him thur? Who's along wi' him?"

"Ho! ho! dar's Mass Cahoon, and gobs o' odder white genlum. Ho! ho! Dar's a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis nigga tell you."

"An' yur young Master Henry--air he gone too?"

"O Mass' 'Tump! Dat's wha am be trubble. Dat's de whole ob it. Mass' Hen' he gone too. He nebber mo' come back. De hoss he been brought home all kibbered over wif blood. Ho! ho! de folks say Massa Henry he gone dead."

"Dead! Yur jokin'? Air ye in airnest, nigger?"

"Oh! I is, Mass' 'Tump. Sorry dis chile am to hab say dat am too troo. Dey all gone to sarch atter de body."

"Hyur! Take these things to the kitchen. Thur's a gobbler, an some purayra chickens. Whar kin I find Miss Lewaze?"

"Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!" replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it.

"Alas! it is too true what Pluto has been telling you. My brother is missing. He has not been seen since the night before last. His horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. O Zeb! it's fearful to think of it!"

"Sure enuf that _air_ ugly news. He rud out somewhar, and the hoss kim back 'ithout him? I don't weesh to gie ye unneedcessary pain, Miss Lewaze; but, as they air still sarchin' I mout be some help at that ere bizness; and maybe ye won't mind tellin' me the particklers?"

These were imparted, as far as known to her. The gardes scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. Oberdoffer was given as authority for the belief, that Henry had gone off after the mustanger.

The narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell Zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people--that Maurice was the murderer.

"It air a lie!" cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: "a false, parjured lie! an he air a stinkin' skunk that invented it. The thing's impossible. The mowstanger ain't the man to a dud sech a deed as that. An' why shed he have dud it? If thur hed been an ill-feelin' atween them. But thur wa'n't. I kin answer for the mowstanger--for more'n oncest I've heern him talk o' your brother in the tallest kind o' tarms. In coorse he hated yur cousin Cash--an who doesn't, I shed like to know? Excuse me for sayin' it. As for the other, it air different. Ef thar hed been a quarrel an hot blood atween them--"

"No--no!" cried the young Creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. "It was all over. Henry was reconciled. He said so; and Maurice--"

The astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. Covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears.

"Hoh--oh!" muttered Zeb; "thur _hev_ been somethin'? D'ye say, Miss Lewaze, thur war a--a--quarrel atween yur brother--"

"Dear, dear Zeb!" cried she, removing her hands, and confronting the stalwart hunter with an air of earnest entreaty, "promise me, you will keep my secret? Promise it, as a friend--as a brave true-hearted man! You will--you will?"

The pledge was given by the hunter raising his broad palm, and extending it with a sonorous slap over the region of his heart.

In five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man--except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence.

The hunter showed less surprise than might have been expected; merely muttering to himself:--

"I thort it wild come to somethin' o' the sort--specially arter thet ere chase acrost the purayra."

"Wal, Miss Lewaze," he continued, speaking in a tone of kindly approval, "Zeb Stump don't see anythin' to be ashamed o' in all thet. Weemen will be weemen all the world over--on the purayras or off o' them; an ef ye have lost yur young heart to the mowstanger, it wud be the tallest kind o' a mistake to serpose ye hev displaced yur affeckshuns, as they calls it. Though he air Irish, he aint none o' the common sort; thet he aint. As for the rest ye've been tellin' me, it only sarves to substantify what I've been sayin'--that it air parfickly unpossible for the mowstanger to hev dud the dark deed; that is, ef thur's been one dud at all. Let's hope thur's nothin' o' the kind. What proof hez been found? Only the hoss comin' home wi' some rid spots on the seddle?"

"Alas! there is more. The people were all out yesterday. They followed a trail, and saw something, they would not tell me what. Father did not appear as if he wished me to know what they had seen; and I--I feared, for reasons, to ask the others. They've gone off again--only a short while--just as you came in sight on the other side."

"But the mowstanger? What do it say for hisself?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. He has not been found either. _Mon Dieu! mon Dieu_! He, too, may have fallen by the same hand that has struck down my brother!"

"Ye say they war on a trail? His'n I serpose? If he be livin' he oughter be foun' at his shanty on the crik. Why didn't they go thar? Ah! now I think o't, thur's nobody knows the adzack sittavashun o' that ere domycile 'ceptin' myself I reckon: an if it war that greenhorn Spangler as war guidin' o' them he'd niver be able to lift a trail acrost the chalk purayra. Hev they gone that way agin?"

"They have. I heard some of them say so."

"Wal, if they're gone in sarch o' the mowstanger I reck'n I mout as well go too. I'll gie tall odds I find him afore they do."

"It is for that I've been so anxious to see you. There am many rough men along with papa. As they went away I heard them use wild words. There were some of those called `Regulators.' They talked of lynching and the like. Some of them swore terrible oaths of vengeance. O my God! if they should find _him_, and he cannot make clear his innocence, in the height of their angry passions--cousin Cassius among the number-- you understand what I mean--who knows what may be done to him? Dear Zeb, for my sake--for his, whom you call friend--go--go! Reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger! Your horse is slow. Take mine--any one you can find in the stable--"

"Thur's some truth in what ye say," interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. "Thur mout be a smell o' danger for the young fellur; an I'll do what I kin to avart it. Don't be uneezay, Miss Lewaze. Thur's not sech a partickler hurry. Thet ere shanty ain't agoin' ter be foun' 'ithout a spell o' sarchin'. As to ridin' yur spotty I'll manage better on my ole maar. Beside, the critter air reddy now if Plute hain't tuk off the saddle. Don't be greetin' yur eyes out--thet's a good chile! Maybe it'll be all right yit 'bout yur brother; and as to the mowstanger, I hain't no more surspishun o' his innersense than a unborn babby."

The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance in backwoodsman style, and striding out of the verandah; while the young Creole glided off to her chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit in supplications for his success.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

AN INTERCEPTED EPISTLE.

Urged by the most abject fear, had El Coyote and his three comrades rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle.

They had no idea of returning to the jacale of Maurice Gerald. On the contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and that solitary dwelling--whose owner they had encountered riding towards it in such strange guise.

That it was "Don Mauricio" not one of them doubted. All four knew him by sight--Diaz better than any--but all well enough to be sure it was the _Irlandes_. There was his horse, known to them; his _armas de agua_ of jaguar-skin; his _Navajo_ blanket, in shape differing from the ordinary serape of Saltillo;--and his _head_!

They had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in its place--the sombrero of black glaze which Maurice was accustomed to wear. It had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the moon.

Besides, they had seen the great dog, which Diaz remembered to be his. The staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with a fierce growl attacked the assailant--though it had not needed this to accelerate their retreat.

Fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines--not that where they had meant to commit murder--they reached the level of the upper plateau.

Nor did they halt there for a single second; but, galloping across the plain, re-entered the chapparal, and spurred on to the place where they had so skilfully transformed themselves into Comanches.

The reverse metamorphosis, if not so carefully, was more quickly accomplished. In haste they washed the war-paint from their skins-- availing themselves of some water carried in their canteens;--in haste they dragged their civilised habiliments from the hollow tree, in which they had hidden them; and, putting them on in like haste, they once more mounted their horses, and rode towards the Leona.

On their homeward way they conversed only of the headless horseman: but, with their thoughts under the influence of a supernatural terror, they could not satisfactorily account for an appearance so unprecedented; and they were still undecided as they parted company on the outskirts of the village--each going to his own jacale.

"_Carrai_!" exclaimed the Coyote, as he stepped across the threshold of his, and dropped down upon his cane couch. "Not much chance of sleeping after that. _Santos Dios_! such a sight! It has chilled the blood to the very bottom of my veins. And nothing here to warm me. The canteen empty; the posada shut up; everybody in bed!

"_Madre de Dios_! what can it have been? Ghost it could not be; flesh and bones I grasped myself; so did Vicente on the other side? I felt that, or something very like it, under the tiger-skin. _Santissima_! it could not be a cheat!

"If a contrivance, why and to what end? Who cares to play carnival on the prairies--except myself, and my camarados? _Mil demonios_! what a grim masquerader!

"_Carajo_! am I forestalled? Has some other had the offer, and earned the thousand dollars? Was it the Irlandes himself, dead, decapitated, carrying his head in his hand?

"Bah! it could not be--ridiculous, unlikely, altogether improbable!

"But what then?

"Ha! I have it! A hundred to one I have it! He may have got warning of our visit, or, at least, had suspicions of it. 'Twas a trick got up to try us!--perhaps himself in sight, a witness of our disgraceful flight? _Maldito_!

"But who could have betrayed us? No one. Of course no one could tell of _that_ intent. How then should he have prepared such an infernal surprise?

"Ah! I forget. It was broad daylight as we made the crossing of the long prairie. We may have been seen, and our purpose suspected? Just so--just so. And then, while we were making our toilet in the chapparal, the other could have been contrived and effected. That, and that only, can be the explanation!

"Fools! to have been frightened at a scarecrow!

"_Carrambo_! It shan't long delay the event. To-morrow I go back to the Alamo. I'll touch that thousand yet, if I should have to spend twelve months in earning it; and, whether or not, the _deed_ shall be done all the same. Enough to have lost Isidora. It may not be true; but the very suspicion of it puts me beside myself. If I but find out that she loves him--that they have met since--since--Mother of God! I shall go mad; and in my madness destroy not only the man I hate, but the woman I love! O Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos! Angel of beauty, and demon of mischief! I could kill you with my caresses--I can kill you with my steel! One or other shall be your fate. It is for you to choose between them!"

His spirit becoming a little tranquillised, partly through being relieved by this conditional threat--and partly from the explanation he had been able to arrive at concerning the other thought that had been troubling it--he soon after fell asleep.

Nor did he awake until daylight looked in at his door, and along with it a visitor.

"Jose!" he cried out in a tone of surprise in which pleasure was perceptible--"you here?"

"_Si, Senor; yo estoy_."

"Glad to see you, good Jose. The Dona Isidora here?--on the Leona, I mean?"

"_Si, Senor_."

"So soon again! She was here scarce two weeks ago, was she not? I was away from the settlement, but had word of it. I was expecting to hear from you, good Jose. Why did you not write?"

"Only, Senor Don Miguel, for want of a messenger that could be relied upon. I had something to communicate, that could not with safety be entrusted to a stranger. Something, I am sorry to say, you won't thank me for telling you; but my life is yours, and I promised you should know all."

The "prairie wolf" sprang to his feet, as if pricked with a sharp-pointed thorn.

"Of her, and him? I know it by your looks. Your mistress has met him?"

"No, Senor, she hasn't--not that I know of--not since the first time."

"What, then?" inquired Diaz, evidently a little relieved, "She was here while he was at the posada. Something passed between them?"

"True, Don Miguel--something did pass, as I well know, being myself the bearer of it. Three times I carried him a basket of _dulces_, sent by the Dona Isidora--the last time also a letter."

"A letter! You know the contents? You read it?"

"Thanks to your kindness to the poor _peon_ boy, I was able to do that; more still--to make a copy of it."

"You have one?"

"I have. You see, Don Miguel, you did not have me sent to school for nothing. This is what the Dona Isidora wrote to him."

Diaz reached out eagerly, and, taking hold of the piece of paper, proceeded to devour its contents.

It was a copy of the note that had been sent among the sweetmeats.

Instead of further exciting, it seemed rather to tranquillise him.

"_Carrambo_!" he carelessly exclaimed, as he folded up the epistle. "There's not much in this, good Jose. It only proves that your mistress is grateful to one who has done her a service. If that's all--"

"But it is not all, Senor Don Miguel; and that's why I've come to see you now. I'm on an errand to the _pueblita_. This will explain it."

"Ha! Another letter?"

"_Si, Senor_! This time the original itself, and not a poor copy scribbled by me."

With a shaking hand Diaz took hold of the paper, spread it out, and read:--

Al Senor Don Mauricio Gerald.

_Querido amigo_!

_Otra vez aqui estoy--con tio Silvio quedando! Sin novedades de V. no puedo mas tiempo existir. La incertitud me malaba. Digame que es V. convalescente! Ojala, que estuviera asi! Suspiro en vuestros ojos mirar, estos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos--a ver, si es restablecido vuestra salud. Sea graciosa darme este favor. Hay--opportunidad. En una cortita media de hora, estuviera quedando en la cima de loma, sobre la cosa del tio. Ven, cavallero, ven_!

Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

With a curse El Coyote concluded the reading of the letter. Its sense could scarce be mistaken. Literally translated it read thus:--

"Dear Friend,--I am once more here, staying with uncle Silvio. Without hearing of you I could not longer exist. The uncertainty was killing me. Tell me if you are convalescent. Oh! that it may be so. I long to look into your eyes--those eyes so beautiful, so expressive--to make sure that your health is perfectly restored. Be good enough to grant me this favour. There is an opportunity. In a short half hour from this time, I shall be on the top of the hill, above my uncle's house. Come, sir, come!

"Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos."

"_Carajo_! an assignation!" half shrieked the indignant Diaz. "That and nothing else! She, too, the proposer. Ha! Her invitation shall be answered; though not by him for whom it is so cunningly intended. Kept to the hour--to the very minute; and by the Divinity of Vengeance--

"Here, Jose! this note's of no use. The man to whom it is addressed isn't any longer in the pueblita, nor anywhere about here. God knows where he is! There's some mystery about it. No matter. You go on to the posada, and make your inquiries all the same. You must do that to fulfil your errand. Never mind the _papelcito_; leave it with me. You can have it to take to your mistress, as you come back this way. Here's a dollar to get you a drink at the inn. Senor Doffer keeps the best kind of aguardiente. _Hasta luejo_!"

Without staying to question the motive for these directions given to him, Jose, after accepting the _douceur_, yielded tacit obedience to them, and took his departure from the jacale.

He was scarce out of sight before Diaz also stepped over its threshold. Hastily setting the saddle upon his horse, he sprang into it, and rode off in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

ISIDORA.

The sun has just risen clear above the prairie horizon, his round disc still resting upon the sward, like a buckler of burnished gold. His rays are struggling into the chapparal, that here and there diversifies the savanna. The dew-beads yet cling upon the acacias, weighting their feathery fronds, and causing them to droop earthward, as if grieving at the departure of the night, whose cool breeze and moist atmosphere are more congenial to them than the fiery sirocco of day. Though the birds are stirring--for what bird could sleep under the shine of such glorious sunrise?--it is almost too early to expect human being abroad--elsewhere than upon the prairies of Texas. There, however, the hour of the sun's rising is the most enjoyable of the day; and few there are who spend it upon the unconscious couch, or in the solitude of the chamber.

By the banks of the Leona, some three miles below Fort Inge, there is one who has forsaken both, to stray through the chapparal. This early wanderer is not afoot, but astride a strong, spirited horse, that seems impatient at being checked in his paces. By this description, you may suppose the rider to be a man; but, remembering that the scene is in Southern Texas still sparsely inhabited by a Spano-Mexican population-- you are equally at liberty to conjecture that the equestrian is a woman. And this, too, despite the round hat upon the head--despite the serape upon the shoulders, worn as a protection against the chill morning air-- despite the style of equitation, so _outre_ to European ideas, since the days of La Duchesse de Berri; and still further, despite the crayon-like colouring on the upper lip, displayed in the shape of a pair of silken moustaches. More especially may this last mislead; and you may fancy yourself looking upon some Spanish youth, whose dark but delicate features bespeak the _hijo de algo_, with a descent traceable to the times of the Cid.

If acquainted with the character of the Spano-Mexican physiognomy, this last sign of virility does not decide you as to the sex. It may be that the rider in the Texan chapparal, so distinguished, is, after all, a woman!

On closer scrutiny, this proves to be the case. It is proved by the small hand clasping the bridle-rein; by the little foot, whose tiny toes just touch the "estribo"--looking less in contrast with the huge wooden block that serves as a stirrup; by a certain softness of shape, and pleasing rotundity of outline, perceptible even through the thick serape of Saltillo; and lastly, by the grand luxuriance of hair coiled up at the back of the head, and standing out in shining clump beyond the rim of the sombrero. After noting these points, you become convinced that you are looking upon a woman, though it may be one distinguished by certain idiosyncrasies. You are looking upon the Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

You are struck by the strangeness of her costume--still more by the way she sits her horse. In your eyes, unaccustomed to Mexican modes, both may appear odd--unfeminine--perhaps indecorous.

The Dona Isidora has no thought--not even a suspicion--of there being anything odd in either. Why should she? She is but following the fashion of her country and her kindred. In neither respect is she peculiar.

She is young, but yet a woman. She has seen twenty summers, and perhaps one more. Passed under the sun of a Southern sky, it is needless to say that her girlhood is long since gone by. In her beauty there is no sign of decadence. She is fair to look upon, as in her "buen quince" (beautiful fifteen), Perhaps fairer. Do not suppose that the dark lining on her lip damages the feminine expression of her face. Rather does it add to its attractiveness. Accustomed to the glowing complexion of the Saxon blonde, you may at first sight deem it a deformity. Do not so pronounce, till you have looked again. A second glance, and--my word for it--you will modify your opinion. A third will do away with your indifference; a fourth change it to admiration!

Continue the scrutiny, and it will end in your becoming convinced: that a woman wearing a moustache--young, beautiful, and brunette--is one of the grandest sights which a beneficent Nature offers to the eye of man.

It is presented in the person of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. If there is anything unfeminine in her face, it is not this; though it may strengthen a wild, almost fierce, expression, at times discernible, when her white teeth gleam conspicuously under the sable shadow of the "bigotite."

Even then is she beautiful; but, like that of the female jaguar, 'tis a beauty that inspires fear rather than affection.

At all times it is a countenance that bespeaks for its owner the possession of mental attributes not ordinarily bestowed upon her sex. Firmness, determination, courage--carried to the extreme of reckless daring--are all legible in its lines. In those cunningly-carved features, slight, sweet, and delicate, there is no sign of fainting or fear. The crimson that has struggled through the brown skin of her cheeks would scarce forsake them in the teeth of the deadliest danger.

She is riding alone, through the timbered bottom of the Leona. There is a house not far off; but she is leaving it behind her. It is the hacienda of her uncle, Don Silvio Martinez, from the portals of which she has late issued forth.

She sits in her saddle as firmly as the skin that covers it. It is a spirited horse, and has the habit of showing it by his prancing paces. But you have no fear for the rider: you are satisfied of her power to control him.

A light lazo, suited to her strength, is suspended from the saddle-bow. Its careful coiling shows that it is never neglected. This almost assures you, that she understands how to use it. She does--can throw it, with the skill of a mustanger.

The accomplishment is one of her conceits; a part of the idiosyncrasy already acknowledged.

She is riding along a road--not the public one that follows the direction of the river. It is a private way leading from the hacienda of her uncle, running into the former near the summit of a hill--the hill itself being only the bluff that abuts upon the bottom lands of the Leona.

She ascends the sloping path--steep enough to try the breathing of her steed. She reaches the crest of the ridge, along which trends the road belonging to everybody.

She reins up; though not to give her horse an opportunity of resting. She has halted, because of having reached the point where her excursion is to terminate.

There is an opening on one side of the road, of circular shape, and having a superficies of some two or three acres. It is grass-covered and treeless--a prairie in _petto_. It is surrounded by the chapparal forest--very different from the bottom timber out of which she has just emerged. On all sides is the enclosing thicket of spinous plants, broken only by the embouchures of three paths, their triple openings scarce perceptible from the middle of the glade.

Near its centre she has pulled up, patting her horse upon the neck to keep him quiet. It is not much needed. The scaling of the "cuesta" has done that for him. He has no inclination either to go on, or tramp impatiently in his place.

"I am before the hour of appointment," mutters she, drawing a gold watch from under her serape, "if, indeed, I should expect him at all. He may not come? God grant that he be able!

"I am trembling! Or is it the breathing of the horse? _Valga me Dios_, no! 'Tis my own poor nerves!

"I never felt so before! Is it fear? I suppose it is.

"'Tis strange though--to fear the man I love--the only one I over have loved: for it could not have been love I had for Don Miguel. A girl's fancy. Fortunate for me to have got cured of it! Fortunate my discovering him to be a coward. That disenchanted me--quite dispelled the romantic dream in which he was the foremost figure. Thank my good stars, for the disenchantment; for now I hate him, now that I hear he has grown--_Santissima_! can it be true that he has become--a--a _salteador_?

"And yet I should have no fear of meeting him--not even in this lone spot!

"_Ay de mi_! Fearing the man I love, whom I believe to be of kind, noble nature--and having no dread of him I hate, and know to be cruel and remorseless! 'Tis strange--incomprehensible!

"No--there is nothing strange in it. I tremble not from any thought of danger--only the danger of not being beloved. That is why I now shiver in my saddle--why I have not had one night of tranquil sleep since my deliverance from those drunken savages.

"I have never told _him_ of this; nor do I know how he may receive the confession. It must, and shall be made. I can endure the uncertainty no longer. In preference I choose despair--death, if my hopes deceive me!

"Ha! There is a hoof stroke! A horse comes down the road! It is his? Yes. I see glancing through the trees the bright hues of our national costume. He delights to wear it. No wonder; it so becomes him!

"_Santa Virgin_! I'm under a serape, with a sombrero on my head. He'll mistake me for a man! Off, ye ugly disguises, and let me seem what I am--a woman."

Scarce quicker could be the transformation in a pantomime. The casting off the serape reveals a form that Hebe might have envied; the removal of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of Canova!

A splendid picture is exhibited in that solitary glade; worthy of being framed, by its bordering of spinous trees, whose hirsute arms seem stretched out to protect it.

A horse of symmetrical shape, half backed upon his haunches, with nostrils spread to the sky, and tail sweeping the ground; on his back one whose aspect and attitude suggest a commingling of grand, though somewhat incongruous ideas, uniting to form a picture, statuesque as beautiful.

The _pose_ of the rider is perfect. Half sitting in the saddle, half standing upon the stirrup, every undulation of her form is displayed-- the limbs just enough relaxed to show that she is a woman.

Notwithstanding what she has said, on her face there is no fear--at least no sign to betray it. There is no quivering lip--no blanching of the cheeks.

The expression is altogether different. It is a look of love--couched under a proud confidence, such as that with which the she-eagle awaits the wooing of her mate.

You may deem the picture overdrawn--perhaps pronounce it unfeminine.

And yet it is a copy from real life--true as I can remember it; and more than once had I the opportunity to fix it in my memory.

The attitude is altered, and with the suddenness of a _coup d'eclair_; the change being caused by recognition of the horseman who comes galloping into the glade. The shine of the gold-laced vestments had misled her. They are worn not by Maurice Gerald, but by Miguel Diaz!

Bright looks become black. From her firm seat in the saddle she subsides into an attitude of listlessness--despairing rather than indifferent; and the sound that escapes her lips, as for an instant they part over her pearl-like teeth, is less a sigh than an exclamation of chagrin.

There is no sign of fear in the altered attitude--only disappointment, dashed with defiance.

El Coyote speaks first.

"_H'la! S'norita_, who'd have expected to find your ladyship in this lonely place--wasting your sweetness on the thorny chapparal?"

"In what way can it concern you, Don Miguel Diaz?"

"Absurd question, S'norita! You know it can, and does; and the reason why. You well know how madly I love you. Fool was I to confess it, and acknowledge myself your slave. 'Twas that that cooled you so quickly."

"You are mistaken, Senor. I never told you I loved you. If I did admire your feats of horsemanship, and said so, you had no right to construe it as you've done. I meant no more than that I admired _them_--not you. 'Tis three years ago. I was a girl then, of an age when such things have a fascination for our sex--when we are foolish enough to be caught by personal accomplishments rather than moral attributes. I am now a woman. All that is changed, as--it ought to be."

"_Carrai_! Why did you fill me with false hopes? On the day of the _herradero_, when I conquered the fiercest bull and tamed the wildest horse in your father's herds--a horse not one of his _vaqueros_ dared so much as lay hands upon--on that day you smiled--ay, looked love upon me. You need not deny it, Dona Isidora! I had experience, and could read the expression--could tell your thoughts, as they were then. They are changed, and why? Because I was conquered by your charms, or rather because I was the silly fool to acknowledge it; and you, like all women, once you had won and knew it, no longer cared for your conquest. It is true, S'norita; it is true."

"It is not, Don Miguel Diaz. I never gave you word or sign to say that I loved, or thought of you otherwise than as an accomplished cavalier. You appeared so then--perhaps were so. What are you now? You know what's said of you, both here and on the Rio Grande!"

"I scorn to reply to calumny--whether it proceeds from false friends or lying enemies. I have come here to seek explanations, not to give them."

"Prom whom?"

"Prom your sweet self, Dona Isidora."

"You are presumptive, Don Miguel Diaz! Think, Senor, to whom you are addressing yourself. Remember, I am the daughter of--"

"One of the proudest _Haciendados_ in Tamaulipas, and niece to one of the proudest in Texas. I have thought of all that; and thought too that I was once a haciendado myself and am now only a hunter of horses. _Carrambo_! what of that? You're not the woman to despise a man for the inferiority of his rank. A poor mustanger stands as good a chance in your eyes as the owner of a hundred herds. In that respect, _I have proof of your generous spirit_!"

"What proof?" asked she, in a quick, entreating tone, and for the first time showing signs of uneasiness. "What evidence of the generosity you are so good as to ascribe to me?"

"This pretty epistle I hold in my hand, indited by the Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos, to one who, like myself, is but a dealer in horseflesh. I need not submit it to very close inspection. No doubt you can identify it at some distance?"

She could, and did; as was evinced by her starting in the saddle--by her look of angry surprise directed upon Diaz.

"Senor! how came you in possession of this?" she asked, without any attempt to disguise her indignation.

"It matters not. I am in possession of it, and of what for many a day I have been seeking; a proof, not that you had ceased to care for me--for this I had good reason to know--but that you had begun to care for him. This tells that you love him--words could not speak plainer. You long to look into his beautiful eyes. _Mil demonios_! you shall never see them again!"

"What means this, Don Miguel Diaz?"

The question was put not without a slight quivering of the voice that seemed to betray fear. No wonder it should. There was something in the aspect of El Coyote at that moment well calculated to inspire the sentiment.

Observing it, he responded, "You may well show fear: you have reason. If I have lost you, my lady, no other shall enjoy you. I have made up my mind about that."

"About what?"

"What I have said--that no other shall call you his, and least of all Maurice the mustanger."

"Indeed!"

"Ay, indeed! Give me a promise that you and he shall never meet again, or you depart not from this place!"

"You are jesting, Don Miguel?"

"I am in earnest, Dona Isidora."

The manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech. Coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks, whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his machete.

Despite her Amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of uneasiness. She saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of averting it. Something of this she had felt from the first moment of the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change its character.

During the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for the sound of a horse's hoof--casting occasional and furtive glances through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it.

This hope was no more. The sight of her own letter told its tale: it had not reached its destination.

Deprived of this hope--hitherto sustaining her--she next thought of retreating from the spot.

But this too presented both difficulties and dangers. It was possible for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet. The butt of El Coyote's pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his machete.

She was fully aware of the danger. Almost any other woman would have given way to it. Not so Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. She did not even show signs of being affected by it.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of well dissembled incredulity. "You are making sport of me, Senor. You wish to frighten me. Ha! ha! ha! Why should I fear _you_? I can ride as well--fling my lazo as sure and far as you, Look at this I see how skilfully I can handle it!"

While so speaking--smiling as she spoke--she had lifted the lazo from her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate her observations.

The act had a very different intent, though it was not perceived by Diaz; who, puzzled by her behaviour, sate speechless in his saddle.

Not till he felt the noose closing around his elbows did he suspect her design; and then too late to hinder its execution. In another instant his arms were pinioned to his sides--both the butt of his pistol and the hilt of his machete beyond the grasp of his fingers!

He had not even time to attempt releasing himself from the loop. Before he could lay hand upon the rope, it tightened around his body, and with a violent pluck jerked him out of his saddle--throwing him stunned and senseless to the ground.

"Now, Don Miguel Diaz!" cried she who had caused this change of situation, and who was now seen upon her horse, with head turned homeward, the lazo strained taut from the saddle-tree. "Menace me no more! Make no attempt to release yourself. Stir but a finger, and I spur on! Cruel villain! coward as you are, you would have killed me--I saw it in your eye. Ha! the tables are turned, and now--"

Perceiving that there was no rejoinder, she interrupted her speech, still keeping the lazo at a stretch, with her eyes fixed upon the fallen man.

El Coyote lay upon the ground, his arms enlaced in the loop, without stirring, and silent as a stick of wood. The fall from his horse had deprived him of speech, and consciousness at the same time. To all appearance he was dead--his steed alone showing life by its loud neighing, as it reared back among the bushes.

"Holy Virgin! have I killed him?" she exclaimed, reining her horse slightly backward, though still keeping him headed away, and ready to spring to the spur. "Mother of God! I did not intend it--though I should be justified in doing even that: for too surely did he intend to kill _me_! Is he dead, or is it a _ruse_ to get me near? By our good Guadaloupe! I shall leave others to decide. There's not much fear of his overtaking me, before I can reach home; and if he's in any danger the people of the hacienda will get back soon enough to release him. Good day, Don Miguel Diaz! _Hasta luego_!"

With these words upon her lips--the levity of which proclaimed her conscience clear of having committed a crime she drew a small sharp-bladed knife from beneath the bodice of her dress; severed the rope short off from her saddle-bow; and, driving the spur deep into the flanks of her horse, galloped off out of the glade--leaving Diaz upon the ground, still encircled by the loop of the lazo!

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

THE LAZO UNLOOSED.

An eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed Cottonwood, with a scream, soars upward into the air.

Startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre.

A single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade. There, poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the open space and the chapparal that surrounds it. In the former it beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance--a man thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him--prostrate-- apparently dead. In the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman, with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other, also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion, riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace, but with equal earnestness in her looks.

Such is the _coup d'oeil_ presented to the eye of the eagle.

Of these fair equestrians both are already known. She galloping away is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she who approaches, Louise Poindexter.

It is known why the first has gone out of the glade. It remains to be told for what purpose the second is coming into it.

After her interview with Zeb Stump, the young creole re-entered her chamber, and kneeling before an image of the Madonna, surrendered her spirit to prayer.

It is needless to say that, as a Creole, she was a Catholic, and therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession. Strange and sad was the theme of her supplication--the man who had been marked as the murderer of her brother!

She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime. It could not be. The very suspicion of it would have lacerated her heart.

Her prayer was not for pardon, but protection. She supplicated the Virgin to save him from his enemies--her own friends!

Tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the ear of Heaven. She had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly affection. She sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that other affection, stronger than the ties of blood. While mourning her brother's loss she prayed for her lover's safety.

As she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow--that implement so cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved.

"Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! I may never use it again!"

The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. Might there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the place where it had been carried on?

She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. He must have been left in the boat!

On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of this. It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as she supposed, no tongue but theirs--and that for ever silent--could tell the tale.

The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass. She threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding towards the skiff. In the _balcon_ her steps were arrested, on hearing voices above.

Two persons were conversing. They were her maid Florinde, and the sable groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the _azotea_.

Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not intentionally listen to them. It was only on their pronouncing a name, that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.

"Dey calls de young fella Jerrad. Mors Jerrad am de name. Dey do say he Irish, but if folks 'peak de troof, he an't bit like dem Irish dat works on de Lebee at New Orlean. Ho, ho! He more like bos gen'lum planter. Dat's what he like."

"You don't tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Massa Henry?"

"I doan't tink nuffin ob de kind. Ho, ho! He kill Massa Henry! no more dan dis chile hab done dat same. Goramity--Goramity! 'Peak ob de debbil and he dar--de berry individible we talkin' 'bout. Ho, ho! look Florinde; look yonner!"

"Whar?"

"Dar--out dar, on todder side ob de ribber. You see man on horseback. Dat's Mors Jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira. De same dat gub Missa Loode 'potted hoss; de same dey've all gone to sarch for. Ho, ho! Dey gone dey wrong way. Dey no find him out on dem prairas dis day."

"O, Pluto! an't you glad? I'm sure he innocent--dat brave bewful young gen'lum. He nebba could been de man--"

The listener below stayed to hear no more. Gliding back into her chamber she made her way towards the _azotea_. The beating of her heart was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the _escalera_. It was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from the two individuals whose conversation had caused it. "What have you seen, that you talk so loudly?" said she, trying to hide her agitation under a pretended air of severity, "Ho, ho! Missa Looey--look ober dar. De young fella!"

"What young fellow?"

"Him as dey be gone sarch for--him dat--"

"I see no one."

"Ho, ho! He jess gone in 'mong de tree. See yonner--yonner! You see de black glaze hat, de shinin' jacket ob velvet, an de glancin' silver buttons--dat's him. I sartin sure dat's de same young fella."

"You may be mistaken for all that, Master Pluto. There are many here who dress in that fashion. The distance is too great for you to distinguish; and now that he's almost out of sight--Never mind, Florinde. Hasten below--get out my hat and habit. I'm going out for a ride. You, Pluto! have the saddle on Luna in the shortest time. I must not let the sun get too high. Haste! haste!"

As the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts. Unobserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal.

She was too late. The horseman had ridden entirely out of sight.

"It was very like him, and yet it was not. It can scarce be possible. If it be he, why should he be going that way?"

A new pang passed through her bosom. She remembered once before having asked herself the same question.

She no longer stayed upon the _azotea_ to watch the road. In ten minutes' time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the horseman had disappeared.

She rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance.

Suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked the Leona. The act was consequent on the hearing of voices.

She listened. Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.

What man? What woman? Another pang passed through her heart at these put questions.

She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.

The conversation was carried on in Spanish. There was no relief to her in this. Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words. The tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a passion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.

She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.

The man's voice was heard no longer. The woman's sounded dear and firm, as if in menace!

There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses--another pause--another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy--then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground.

Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.

The listener knew of the opening--to her a hallowed spot. The voices had come out of it. She had made her last halt a little way from its edge. She had been restrained from advancing by a fear--the fear of finding out a bitter truth.

Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.

A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro--a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead--a _sombrero_ and _serape_ lying near, evidently not the man's! What could be the interpretation of such a tableau?

The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican _ranchero_--the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.

At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy. Whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the _azotea_; and he was _not_ Maurice Gerald.

She had doubted before--had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed.

She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face, which was turned up--the man lying upon his back. She fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain.

It was plain that he was a Mexican. Not only his dress but his countenance--every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.

He was far from being ill-featured. On the contrary, he might have been pronounced handsome.

It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.

The joy caused by his presence--by the discovery that he was not somebody else--found gratification in performing an act of humanity.

"He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?"

The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.

It was loosened on the instant--the noose giving way to a Woman's strength.

"Now, he can breathe more freely. Pardieu! what can have caused it? Lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth? That is most probable. But who could have done it? It was a woman's voice. Surely it was? I could not be mistaken about that.

"And yet there is a man's hat, and a _serape_, not this man's! Was there another, who has gone away with the woman? Only one horse went off.

"Ah! he is coming to himself! thank Heaven for that! He will be able to explain all. You are recovering, sir?"

"S'norita! who are you?" asked Don Miguel Diaz, raising his head, and looking apprehensively around.

"Where is she?" he continued.

"Of whom do you speak? I have seen no one but yourself."

"_Carrambo_! that's queer. Haven't you met a woman astride a grey horse?"

"I heard a woman's voice, as I rode up."

"Say rather a she-devil's voice: for that, sure, is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos."

"Was it she who has done this?"

"Maldito, yes! Where is she now? Tell me that, s'norita."

"I cannot. By the sound of the hoofs I fancy she has gone down the hill. She must have done so, as I came the other way myself."

"Ah--gone down the hill--home, then, to --. You've been very kind, s'norita, in loosening this lazo--as I make no doubt you've done. Perhaps you will still further assist me by helping me into the saddle? Once in it, I think I can stay there. At all events, I must not stay here. I have enemies, not far off. Come, Carlito!" he cried to his horse, at the same time summoning the animal by a peculiar whistle. "Come near! Don't be frightened at the presence of this fair lady. She's not the same that parted you and me so rudely--_en verdad_, almost for ever! Come on, _cavallo_! come on!"

The horse, on hearing the whistle, came trotting up, and permitted his master--now upon his feet--to lay hold of the bridle-rein.

"A little help from you, kind s'norita, and I think I can climb into my saddle. Once there, I shall be safe from their pursuit."

"You expect to be pursued?"

"_Quien sale_? I have enemies, as I told you. Never mind that. I feel very feeble. You will not refuse to help me?"

"Why should I? You are welcome, sir, to any assistance I can give you."

"_Mil gracias, s'norita! Mil, mil gracias_!"

The Creole, exerting all her strength, succeeded in helping the disabled horseman into his saddle; where, after some balancing, he appeared to obtain a tolerably firm seat.

Gathering up his reins, he prepared to depart.

"Adios, s'norita!" said he, "I know not who you are. I see you are not one of our people. Americano, I take it. Never mind that. You are good as you are fair; and if ever it should chance to be in his power, Miguel Diaz will not be unmindful of the service you have this day done him."

Saying this El Coyote rode off, not rapidly, but in a slow walk, as if he felt some difficulty in preserving his equilibrium.

Notwithstanding the slowness of the pace--he was soon out of sight,--the trees screening him as he passed the glade. He went not by any of the three roads, but by a narrow track, scarce discernible where it entered the underwood.

To the young Creole the whole thing appeared like a dream--strange, rather than disagreeable.

It was changed to a frightful reality, when, after picking up a sheet of paper left by Diaz where he had been lying, she read what was written upon it. The address was "Don Mauricio Gerald;" the signature, "Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos."

To regain her saddle, Louise Poindexter was almost as much in need of a helping hand as the man who had ridden away.

As she forded the Leona, in returning to Casa del Corvo, she halted her horse in the middle of the stream; and for some time sate gazing into the flood that foamed up to her stirrup. There was a wild expression upon her features that betokened deep despair. One degree deeper, and the waters would have covered as fair a form as was ever sacrificed to their Spirit!

CHAPTER FIFTY.

A CONFLICT WITH COYOTES.

The purple shadows of a Texan twilight were descending upon the earth, when the wounded man, whose toilsome journey through the chapparal has been recorded, arrived upon the banks of the streamlet.

After quenching his thirst to a surfeit, he stretched himself along the grass, his thoughts relieved from the terrible strain so long and continuously acting upon them.

His limb for the time pained him but little; and his spirit was too much worn to be keenly apprehensive as to the future.

He only desired repose; and the cool evening breeze, sighing through the feathery fronds of the acacias, favoured his chances of obtaining it.

The vultures had dispersed to their roosts in the thicket; and, no longer disturbed by their boding presence, he soon after fell asleep.

His slumber was of short continuance. The pain of his wounds, once more returning, awoke him.

It was this--and not the cry of the coyote--that kept him from sleeping throughout the remainder of the night.

Little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies--a true jackal-- that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying.

He did not believe that he was dying.

It was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would never dawn.

The light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him. Along with it came the birds, and the beasts went not away.

Over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended their shadowy wings. Around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyote, in a hundred hideous repetitions.

Crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst.

He now hungered; and looked round for something to eat.

A pecan tree stood, near. There were nuts upon its branches, within six feet of the ground.

He was able to reach the pecan upon his hands and knees; though the effort caused agony.

With his crutch he succeeded in detaching some of the nuts; and on these broke his fast.

What was the next step to be taken?

To stir away from the spot was simply impossible. The slightest movement gave him pain; at the same time assuring him of his utter inability to go anywhere.

He was still uncertain as to the nature of the injuries he had sustained--more especially that in his leg, which was so swollen that he could not well examine it. He supposed it to be either a fracture of the knee-cap, or a dislocation of the joint. In either case, it might be days before he could use the limb; and what, meanwhile, was he to do?

He had but little expectation of any one coming that way. He had shouted himself hoarse; and though, at intervals, he still continued to send forth a feeble cry, it was but the intermittent effort of hope struggling against despair.

There was no alternative but stay where he was; and, satisfied of this, he stretched himself along the sward, with the resolve to be as patient as possible.

It required all the stoicism of his nature to bear up against the acute agony he was enduring. Nor did he endure it altogether in silence. At intervals it elicited a groan.

Engrossed by his sufferings, he was for a while unconscious of what was going on around him. Still above him wheeled the black birds; but he had become accustomed to their presence, and no longer regarded it--not even when, at intervals, some of them swooped so near, that he could hear the "wheep" of their wings close to his ears.

Ha! what was that--that sound of different import?

It resembled the pattering of little feet upon the sandy channel of the stream, accompanied by quick breathings, as of animal in a state of excitement.

He looked around for an explanation.

"Only the coyotes!" was his reflection, on seeing a score of these animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream, and "squatting" upon the grass.

Hitherto he had felt no fear--only contempt--for these cowardly creatures.

But his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and attitudes. The former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening. Clearly did the coyotes mean mischief.

He now remembered having heard, that these animals--ordinarily innocuous, from sheer cowardice--will attack man when disabled beyond the capability of defending himself. Especially will they do so when stimulated by the smell of blood.

His had flowed freely, and from many veins--punctured by the spines of the cactus. His garments were saturated with it, still but half dry.

On the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour. The coyotes could not help scenting it.

Was it this that was stirring them to such excited action--apparently making them mad?

Whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to attack him.

He had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place in his belt. His rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been carried off by his horse.

He drew the knife; and, resting upon his right knee, prepared to defend himself.

He did not perform the action a second too soon. Emboldened by having been so long left to make their menaces unmolested--excited to courage by the smell of blood, stronger as they drew nearer--stimulated by their fierce natural appetites--the wolves had by this time reached the turning point of their determination: which was, to spring forward upon the wounded man.

They did so--half a dozen of them simultaneously--fastening their teeth upon his arms, limbs, and body, as they made their impetuous onset.

With a vigorous effort he shook them off, striking out with his knife. One or two were gashed by the shining blade, and went howling away. But a fresh band had by this time entered into the fray, others coming up, till the assailants counted a score. The conflict became desperate, deadly. Several of the animals were slain. But the fate of their fallen comrades did not deter the survivors from continuing the strife. On the contrary, it but maddened them the more.

The struggle became more and more confused--the coyotes crowding over one another to lay hold of their victim. The knife was wielded at random; the arm wielding it every moment becoming weaker, and striking with less fatal effect. The disabled man was soon further disabled. He felt fear for his life. No wonder--death was staring him in the face.

At this crisis a cry escaped his lips. Strange it was not one of terror, but joy! And stranger still that, on hearing it, the coyotes for an instant desisted from their attack!

There was a suspension of the strife--a short interval of silence. It was not the cry of their victim that had caused it, but that which had elicited the exclamation.

There was the sound of a horse's hoofs going at a gallop, followed by the loud baying of a hound.

The wounded man continued to exclaim,--in shouts calling for help. The horse appeared to be close by. A man upon his back could not fail to hear them.

But there was no response. The horse, or horseman, had passed on.

The hoof-strokes became less distinct. Despair once more returned to the antagonist of the coyotes.

At the same time his skulking assailants felt a renewal of their courage, and hastened to renew the conflict.

Once more it commenced, and was soon raging fiercely as before--the wretched man believing himself doomed, and only continuing the strife through sheer desperation.

Once more was it interrupted, this time by an intruder whose presence inspired him with fresh courage and hope.

If the horseman had proved indifferent to his calls for help, not so the hound. A grand creature of the staghound species--of its rarest and finest breed--was seen approaching the spot, uttering a deep sonorous bay, as with impetuous bound it broke through the bushes.

"_A friend! thank Heaven, a friend_!"

The baying ceased, as the hound cleared the selvage of the chapparal, and rushed open-mouthed among the cowed coyotes--already retreating at his approach!

One was instantly seized between the huge jaws; jerked upward from the earth; shaken as if it had been only a rat; and let go again, to writhe over the ground with a shattered spine!

Another was served in a similar manner; but ere a third could be attacked, the terrified survivors dropped their tails to the sward, and went yelping away; one and all retreating whence they had come--into the silent solitudes of the chapparal.

The rescued man saw no more. His strength was completely spent. He had just enough left to stretch forth his arms, and with a smile close them around the neck of his deliverer. Then, murmuring some soft words, he fainted gradually away.

His syncope was soon over, and consciousness once more assumed away.

Supporting himself on his elbow, he looked inquiringly around.

It was a strange, sanguinary spectacle that met his eyes. But for his swoon, he would have seen a still stranger one. During its continuance a horseman had ridden into the glade, and gone out again. He was the same whose hoofstroke had been heard, and who had lent a deaf ear to the cries for help. He had arrived too late, and then without any idea of offering assistance. His design appeared to be the watering of his horse.

The animal plunged straight into the streamlet, drank to its satisfaction, climbed out on the opposite bank, trotted across the open ground, and disappeared in the thicket beyond.

The rider had taken no notice of the prostrate form; the horse only by snorting, as he saw it, and springing from side to side, as he trod amidst the carcases of the coyotes.

The horse was a magnificent animal, not large, but perfect in all his parts. The man was the very reverse--having no head!

There was a head, but not in its proper place. It rested against the holster, seemingly held in the rider's hand!

A fearful apparition.

The dog barked, as it passed through the glade, and followed it to the edge of the underwood. He had been with it for a long time, straying where it strayed, and going where it went.

He now desisted from this fruitless fellowship; and, returning to the sleeper, lay down by his side.

It was then that the latter was restored to consciousness, and remembered what had made him for the moment oblivious.

After caressing the dog he again sank into a prostrate position; and, drawing the skirt of the cloak over his face to shade it from the glare of the sun, he fell asleep.

The staghound lay down at his feet, and also slumbered; but only in short spells. At intervals it raised its head, and uttered an angry growl, as the wings of the vultures came switching too close to its ears.

The young man muttered in his sleep. They were wild words that came from his unconscious lips, and betokened a strange commingling of thoughts: now passionate appeals of love--now disjointed speeches, that pointed to the committal of murder!

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

TWICE INTOXICATED.

Our story takes us back to the lone hut on the Alamo, so suddenly forsaken by the gambling guests, who had made themselves welcome in the absence of its owner.

It is near noon of the following day, and he has not yet come home. The _ci-devant_ stable-boy of Bally-ballagh is once more sole occupant of the _jacale_--once more stretched along the floor, in a state of inebriety; though not the same from which we have seen him already aroused. He has been sober since, and the spell now upon him has been produced by a subsequent appeal to the Divinity of drink.

To explain, we must go back to that hour between midnight and morning, when the monte players made their abrupt departure.

The sight of three red savages, seated around the slab table, and industriously engaged in a game of cards, had done more to restore Phelim to a state of sobriety than all the sleep he had obtained.

Despite a certain grotesqueness in the spectacle, he had not seen such a ludicrous sight, as was proved by the terrific screech with which he saluted them. There was nothing laughable in what followed. He had no very clear comprehension of what _did_ follow. He only remembered that the trio of painted warriors suddenly gave up their game, flung their cards upon the floor, stood over him for a time with naked blades, threatening his life; and then, along with a fourth who had joined them, turned their backs abruptly, and rushed pellmell out of the place!

All this occupied scarce twenty seconds of time; and when he had recovered from his terrified surprise, he found himself once more alone in the _jacale_!

Was the sleeping, or awake? Drunk, or dreaming? Was the scene real? Or was it another chapter of incongruous impossibilities, like that still fresh before his mind?

But no. The thing was no fancy. It could not be. He had seen the savages too near to be mistaken as to their reality. He had heard them talking in a tongue unknown to him. What could it be but Indian jargon? Besides, there were the pieces of pasteboard strewn over the floor!

He did not think of picking one up to satisfy himself of _their_ reality. He was sober enough, but not sufficiently courageous for that. He could not be sure of their not burning his fingers--those queer cards? They might belong to the devil?

Despite the confusion of his senses, it occurred to him that the hut was no longer a safe place to stay in. The painted players might return to finish their game. They had left behind not only their cards, but everything else the _jacale_ contained; and though some powerful motive seemed to have caused their abrupt departure, they might re-appear with equal abruptness.

The thought prompted the Galwegian to immediate action; and, blowing out the candle, so as to conceal his movements, he stole softly out of the hut.

He did not go by the door. The moon was shining on the grass-plat in front. The savages might still be there.

He found means of exit at the back, by pulling one of the horse hides from its place, and squeezing himself through the stockade wall.

Once outside, he skulked off under the shadow of the trees.

He had not gone far when a clump of dark objects appeared before him. There was a sound, as of horses champing their bitts, and the occasional striking of a hoof. He paused in his steps, screening his body behind the trunk of a cypress.

A short observation convinced him, that what he saw was a group of horses. There appeared to be four of them; no doubt belonging to the four warriors, who had turned the mustanger's hut into a gaming-house. The animals appeared to be tied to a tree, but for all that, their owners might be beside them.

Having made this reflection, he was about to turn back and go the other way; but just at that moment he heard voices in the opposite direction-- the voices of several men speaking in tones of menace and command.

Then came short, quick cries of affright, followed by the baying of a hound, and succeeded by silence, at intervals interrupted by a swishing noise, or the snapping of a branch--as if several men were retreating through the underwood in scared confusion!

As he continued to listen, the noises sounded nearer. The men who made them were advancing towards the cypress tree.

The tree was furnished with buttresses all around its base, with shadowy intervals between. Into one of these he stepped hastily; and, crouching close, was completely screened by the shadow.

He had scarce effected his concealment, when four men came rushing up; and, without stopping, hastened on towards the horses.

As they passed by him, they were exchanging speeches which the Irishman could not understand; but their tone betrayed terror. The excited

## action of the men confirmed it. They were evidently retreating from

some enemy that had filled them with fear.

There was a glade where the moon-beams fell upon the grass. It was just outside the shadow of the cypress. To reach the horses they had to cross it; and, as they did so, the vermilion upon their naked skins flashed red under the moonlight.

Phelim identified the four gentlemen who had made so free with the hospitality of the hut.

He kept his place till they had mounted, and rode off--till he could tell by the tramp of their horses that they had ascended the upper plain, and gone off in a gallop--as men who were not likely to come back again.

"Doesn't that bate Banagher?" muttered he, stepping out from his hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment. "Be japers! it diz. Mother av Moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow? What are them divvils afther? An fwhat's afther them? Shure somethin' has given them a scare--that's plain as a pikestaff. I wondher now if it's been that same. Be me sowl it's jist it they've encounthered. I heerd the hound gowlin, an didn't he go afther it. O Lard! what cyan _it_ be? May be it'll be comin' this way in purshoot av them?"

The dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree; where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense.

"Afther all, _it_ must be some thrick av Masther Maurice. Maybe to give me a scare; an comin' back he's jist been in time to frighten off these ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too. Sowl! I hope it is that. How long since I saw it first? Trath! it must be some considerable time. I remimber having four full naggins, an that's all gone off. I wondher now if them Indyins has come acrass av the dimmyjan? I've heerd that they're as fond of the crayther as if their skins was white. Sowl! if they've smelt the jar there won't be a dhrap in it by this time. I'll jist slip back to the hut an see. If thare's any danger now it won't be from them. By that tarin' gallop, I cyan tell they've gone for good."

Once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards the _jacale_.

He approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself that no one was near.

Notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself, he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman-- who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it.

But for the hope of finding a "dhrap" in the demijohn, he would not have ventured back that night. As it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped doubtfully into the darkness.

He made no attempt to rekindle the light. Every inch of the floor was familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find the demijohn.

He tried for it. An exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment told that it was not there.

"Be dad!" muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; "it looks as if they'd been at it. Av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its place? I lift it thare--shure I lift it thare."

"Ach, me jewel! an it's thare yez are yet," he continued, as his hand came in contact with the wickerwork; "an' bad luck to their imperence-- impty as an eggshill! Ach! ye greedy gutted bastes! If I'd a known yez were goin' to do that, I'd av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye--jist fwhat yez wants. Divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin' a man's liquor when he's aslape! Och-an-anee! fwhat am I to do now? Go to slape agane? I don't belave I cyan, thinkin' av tham an the tother, widout a thrifle av the crayther to comfort me. An' thare isn't a dhrap widin twenty--Fwhat--fwhat! Howly Mary! Mother av Moses! Sant Pathrick and all the others to boot, fwhat am I talkin' about? The pewther flask-- the pewther flask! Be japers! it's in the thrunk--full to the very neck! Didn't I fill it for Masther Maurice to take wid him the last time he went to the sittlements? And didn't he forget to take it? Lard have mercy on me! If the Indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon _that_ I shall be afther takin' lave at me sinses."

"Hoo--hoop--hoorro!" he cried, after an interval of silence, during which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau. "Hoo--hoop--hoorro! thanks to the Lord for all his mercies. The rid-skins haven't been cunnin' enough to look thare. The flask as full as a tick--not wan av them has had a finger on it. Hoo--hoop--hoorro!"

For some seconds the discoverer of the spirituous treasure, giving way to a joyous excitement, could be heard in the darkness, dancing over the floor of the _jacale_.

Then there was an interval of silence, succeeded by the screwing of a stopper, and after that a succession of "glucks," that proclaimed the rapid emptying of a narrow-necked vessel.

After a time this sound was suspended, to be replaced by a repeated, smacking of lips, interlarded with grotesque ejaculations.

Again came the gluck-gluck, again the smackings, and so on alternately, till an empty flask was heard falling upon the floor.

After that there were wild shouts--scraps of song intermingled with cheers and laughter--incoherent ravings about red Indians and headless horsemen, repeated over and over again, each time in more subdued tones, till the maudlin gibberish at length ended in loud continuous snoring!

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

AN AWAKENER.

Phelim's second slumber was destined to endure for a more protracted term than his first. It was nearly noon when he awoke from it; and then only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.

It was Zeb Stump who administered the _douche_.

After parting from the precincts of Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had taken the road, or rather _trail_, which he knew to be the most direct one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.

Without staying to notice tracks or other "sign," he rode straight across the prairie, and into the avenue already mentioned.

Prom what Louise Poindexter had told him--from a knowledge of the people who composed the party of searchers--he knew that Maurice Gerald was in danger.

Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them--coupled with caution to keep out of their way.

He knew that if he came up with the Regulators, equivocation would be a dangerous game; and, _nolens volens_, he should be compelled to guide them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer.

On turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently engaged in the examination of "sign."

At the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was rewarded, by himself remaining unseen.

"Durn them!" he muttered, with bitter emphasis. "I mout a know'd they'd a bin hyur. I must go back an roun' the tother way. It'll deelay me better'n a hour. Come, ole maar! This air an obstruckshun _you_, won't like. It'll gi'e ye the edition o' six more mile to yur journey. Ee-up, ole gal! Roun' an back we go!"

With a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue.

Once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering it by the path which on the day before had been taken by Diaz and his trio of confederates. From this point he proceeded without pause or adventure until he had descended to the Alamo bottom-land, and arrived within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger's dwelling.

Instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and leaving her behind him, approached the _jacale_ with his customary caution.

The horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out. What was the meaning of that?

Zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture.

It increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope.

He kept round by the rear--so as to avail himself of the cover afforded by the trees; and at length, having crouched into the horse-shed at the back, he knelt down and listened.

There was an opening before his eyes; where one of the split posts had been pushed out of place, and the skin tapestry torn off. He saw this with some surprise; but, before he could shape any conjecture as to its cause, his ears were saluted with a sonorous breathing, that came out through the aperture. There was also a snore, which he fancied he could recognise, as proceeding from Irish nostrils.

A glance through the opening settled the point. The sleeper was Phelim.

There was an end to the necessity for stealthy manoeuvring. The hunter rose to his feet, and stepping round to the front, entered by the door-- which he found unbolted.

He made no attempt to rouse the sleeper, until after he had taken stock of the paraphernalia upon the floor.

"Thur's been packin' up for some purpiss," he observed, after a cursory glance. "Ah! Now I reccollex. The young fellur sayed he war goin' to make a move from hyur some o' these days. Thet ere anymal air not only soun' asleep, but dead drunk. Sartin he air--drunk as Backis. I kin tell that by the smell o' him. I wonder if he hev left any o' the licker? It air dewbious. Not a drop, dog-gone him! Thur's the jar, wi' the stop plug out o' it, lyin' on its side; an thur's the flask, too, in the same preedikamint--both on 'em fall o' empiness. Durn him for a drunken cuss! He kin suck up as much moister as a chalk purayra.

"Spanish curds! A hul pack on 'em scattered abeout the place. What kin he ha' been doin' wi' them? S'pose he's been havin' a game o' sollatury along wi' his licker."

"But what's cut the hole in the door, an why's the tother broken out at the back? I reckon he kin tell. I'll roust him, an see. Pheelum! Pheelum!"

Phelim made no reply.

"Pheelum, I say! Pheelum!"

Still no reply. Although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the slumberer to show that he even heard it.

A rude shaking administered by Zeb had no better effect. It only produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same stentorous respiration.

"If 'twa'n't for his snorin' I mout b'lieve him to be dead. He _air_ dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o' his toe-nails. Kickin' him 'ud be no use. Dog-goned, ef I don't try _this_."

The old hunter's eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in a corner of the cabin. It was full of water, which Phelim, for some purpose, had fetched from the creek. Unfortunately for himself, he had not wasted it.

With a comical expression in his eye, Zeb took up the pail; and swilled the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the sleeper.

It had the effect intended. If not quite sobered, the inebriate was thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud cachinnations of the hunter.

It was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit of the two men entering upon a serious conversation.

Phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself.

As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail, as concisely as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.

It was the first that Zeb Stump had heard of the _Headless Horseman_.

Although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning broadly scattered around Fort Inge, and along the Leona, Zeb, having passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at Casa del Corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such a startling item of intelligence. In fact, he had exchanged speech only with Pluto and Louise Poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by the party of searchers. The planter, for some reason or another, had been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse with any of the others.

At first Zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head. He called it "a fantassy of Pheelum's brain, owin' to his havin' tuk too much of the corn-juice."

He was puzzled, however, by Phelim's persistence in declaring it to be a fact--more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known to him.

"Arrah, now, how could I be mistaken?" argued the Irishman. "Didn't I see Masther Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minnit? All except the hid, and that I had a peep at as he turned to gallop away. Besides, thare was the Mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth, and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty horse? An' havn't I towld yez that Tara went away afther him, an thin I heerd the dog gowlin', jist afore the Indyins--"

"Injuns!" exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. "Injuns playin' wi' Spanish curds! White Injuns, I reck'n."

"Div yez think they waren't Indyins, afther all?"

"Ne'er a matter what I think. Thur's no time to talk o' that now. Go on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern."

When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon the grass.

His object was, as he said himself, to have "a good think;" which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while "hampered wi' a house abeout him."

It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.

Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before.

Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands! This last might be a trick. What else could it be?

Still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should be playing them!

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather conglomeration of circumstances--events without causes--causes without sequence--crimes committed without any probable motive--mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter--a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery--Maurice having departed for the prairies--Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness--in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.

That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief. Only by the evidence of his eyes could Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.

After spending a full half hour at his "think," he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circumstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men--he did not believe them to be Indians--had been making free with the mustanger's hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed. But the presence of these men at the _jacale_, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!

A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind. He entertained for the young Irishman a peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart.

He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance.

So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature's presence. And then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.

"What is it, Pheelum? What's wrong? Hes a snake bit ye?"

"Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara! See! thare's somethin' tied about his neck. It wasn't there when he lift. What do yez think it is?"

The hunter's eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal's neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides--a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!

Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in fear.

A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again.

The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a _card_!

There was a name upon the card, and writing--writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was _blood_!

The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. Even Zeb Stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.

As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!

"Thank the Almighty for this!" he added; "and thank my ole Katinuck schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my Webster's spellin'-book. He lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, _you_ can't read. No matter. He lives! he lives!"

"Who? Masther Maurice? Thin the Lord be thanked--"

"Wagh! thur's no time to thank him now. Get a blanket an some pieces o' horse-hide thong. Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar. Quick! Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!"

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

JUST IN TIME.

"Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!"

They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.

They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger--once more surrounded by the coyotes.

But it was not these he had need to fear. A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.

Maurice Gerald--by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat--after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.

With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.

He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.

The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. But to what end? The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger--perhaps of the wounds he had received?

He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position.

At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. Tara might take a message to the hut!

"If I could but get him to go," said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. "Come hither, old fellow!" he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; "I want you to play postman for me--to carry a letter. You understand? Wait till I've got it written. I shall then explain myself more fully."

"By good luck I've got a card," he added, feeling for his case. "No pencil! That don't matter. There's plenty of ink around; and for a pen I can use the thorn of yonder maguey."

He crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyote that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it.

With a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the lining of the Panama hat.

It only remained to despatch the canine post upon his errand. This proved a somewhat difficult task. The dumb creature, despite a wondrous intelligence, could not comprehend why he should forsake the side of one he had so faithfully befriended; and for a long time resisted the coaxings and chidings, meant to warn him away.

It was only after being scolded in a tone of assumed anger, and beaten by the black-jack crutch--stricken by the man whose life he had so lately saved, that he had consented to leave the spot. Even canine affection could not endure this; and with repeated looks of reproach, cast backwards as he was chased off, he trotted reluctantly into the chapparal.

"Poor fellow!" soliloquised Maurice, as the dog disappeared from his view. "'Tis like boating one's self, or one's dearest friend! Well, I shall make up for it in extra kindness if I have the good fortune to see him again.

"And now, that he is gone, I must provide against the coming back of these villainous coyotes. They will be sure to come, once they discover that I'm alone."

A scheme had been already considered.

A tree stood near--the pecan already alluded to--having two stout branches that extended horizontally and together, at six or seven feet from the ground.

Taking off his cloak, and spreading it out upon the grass, with his knife he cut a row of holes along each edge.

Then unwinding from his waist the sash of china crape, he tore it up the middle, so as to make two strips, each several yards long.

The cloak was now extended between the branches, and fast tied by the strips of crape--thus forming a sort of hammock capable of containing the body of a man laid out at full length.

The maker of it knew that the coyotes are not tree climbers; and, reclining on his suspended couch, he could observe with indifference their efforts to assail him.

He took all this trouble, feeling certain they would return. If he had any doubt, it was soon set at rest, by seeing them, one after the other, come skulking out of the chapparal, lopping a pace or two, at intervals, pausing to reconnoitre, and then advancing towards the scene of their late conflict.

Emboldened by the absence of the enemy most dreaded by them, the pack was soon reassembled, once more exhibiting the truculent ferocity for which these cowardly creatures are celebrated.

It was first displayed in a very unnatural manner--by the devouring of their own dead--which was done in less time than it would have taken the spectator in the tree to have counted a score.

To him their attention was next directed. In swinging his hammock, he had taken no pains to conceal it. He had suspended it high enough to be out of their reach; and that he deemed sufficient for his purpose.

The cloak of dark cloth was conspicuous, as well as the figure outlined within it. The coyotes clustered underneath--their appetites whetted by the taste of blood. It was a sight to see them lick their red lips after their unnatural repast--a fearful sight!

He who saw it scarce regarded them--not even when they were springing up to lay hold of his limbs, or at times attempting to ascend by the trunk of the tree! He supposed there was no danger.

There _was_ danger, however, on which he had not reckoned; and not till the coyotes have desisted from their idle attempts, and stretched themselves, panting, under the tree, did he begin to perceive it.

Of all the wild denizens, either of prairie or chapparal, the coyote is that possessed of the greatest cunning. The trapper will tell you it is the "cunningest varmint in creation." It is a fox in astuteness--a wolf in ferocity. It may be tamed, but it will turn at any time to tear the hand that caresses it. A child can scare it with a stick, but a disabled man may dread its attack. Alone it has the habit of a hare; but in packs--and it hunts only in packs--its poltroonery is less observable; sometimes under the influence of extreme hunger giving place to a savageness of disposition that assumes the semblance of courage.

It is the coyotes' cunning that is most to be feared; and it was this that had begun to excite fresh apprehension in the mind of the mustanger.

On discovering that they could not reach him--a discovery they were not long in making--instead of scattering off from the spot, the wolves, one and all, squatted down upon the grass; while others, stragglers from the original troop, were still coming into the glade. He saw that they intended a siege.

This should not have troubled him, seeing that he was secure in his suspended couch.

Nor would it, but for another source of trouble, every moment making itself more manifest--that from which he had so lately had such a narrow escape. He was once more on the eve of being tortured by thirst.

He blamed himself for having been so simple, as not to think of this before climbing up to the tree. He might easily have carried up a supply of water. The stream was there; and for want of a better vessel, the concave blades of the maguey would have served as a cistern.

His self-reproaches came too late. The water was under his eyes, only to tantalise him; and by so doing increase his eagerness to obtain it. He could not return to the stream, without running the gauntlet of the coyotes, and that would be certain death. He had but faint hopes that the hound would return and rescue him a second time--fainter still that his message would reach the man for whom it was intended. A hundred to one against that.

Thirst is quick in coming to a man whose veins are half-emptied of their blood. The torture proclaimed itself apace. How long was it to continue?

This time it was accompanied by a straying of the senses. The wolves, from being a hundred, seemed suddenly to have increased their number tenfold. A thousand appeared to encompass the tree, filling the whole ground of the glade! They came nearer and nearer. Their eyes gave out a lurid light. Their red tongues lapped the hanging cloth; they tore it with their teeth. He could feel their fetid breath, as they sprang up among the branches!

A lucid interval told him that it was all fancy. The wolves were still there; but only a hundred of them--as before, reclining upon the grass, pitiably awaiting a crisis! It came before the period of lucidity had departed; to the spectator unexpected as inexplicable. He saw the coyotes suddenly spring to their feet, and rush off into the thicket, until not one remained within the glade.

Was this, too, a fancy? He doubted the correctness of his vision. He had begun to believe that his brain was distempered.

But it was clear enough now. There were no coyotes. What could have frightened them off?

A cry of joy was sent forth from his lips, as he conjectured a cause. Tara had returned? Perhaps Phelim along with him? There had been time enough for the delivery of the message. For two hours he had been besieged by the coyotes.

He turned upon his knee, and bending over the branch, scanned the circle around him. Neither hound nor henchman was in sight. Nothing but branches and bushes!

He listened. No sound, save an occasional howl, sent back by the coyotes that still seemed to continue their retreat! More than ever was it like an illusion. What could have caused their scampering?

No matter. The coast was clear. The streamlet could now be approached without danger. Its water sparkled under his eyes--its rippling sounded sweet to his ears.

Descending from the tree, he staggered towards its bank, and reached it.

Before stooping to drink, he once more looked around him. Even the agony of thirst could not stifle the surprise, still fresh in his thoughts. To what was he indebted for his strange deliverance?

Despite his hope that it might be the hound, he had an apprehension of danger.

One glance, and he was certain of it. The spotted yellow skin shining among the leaves--the long, lithe form crawling like a snake out of the underwood was not to be mistaken. It was the tiger of the New World-- scarce less dreaded than his congener of the Old--the dangerous jaguar.

Its presence accounted for the retreat of the coyotes.

Neither could its intent be mistaken. It, too, had scented blood, and was hastening to the spot where blood had been sprinkled, with that determined air that told it would not be satisfied till after partaking of the banquet.

Its eyes were upon him, who had descended from the tree--its steps were towards him--now in slow, crouching gait; but quicker and quicker, as if preparing for a spring.

To retreat to the tree would have been sheer folly. The jaguar can climb like a cat. The mustanger knew this.

But even had he been ignorant of it, it would have been all the same, as the thing was no longer possible. The animal had already passed that tree, upon which he had found refuge, and there was t'other near that could be reached in time.

He had no thought of climbing to a tree--no thought of any thing, so confused were his senses--partly from present surprise, partly from the bewilderment already within his brain.

It was a simple act of unreasoning impulse that led him to rush on into the stream, until he stood up to his waist in the water.

Had he reasoned, he would have known that this would do nothing to secure his safety. If the jaguar climbs like a cat, it also swims with the ease of an otter; and is as much to be dreaded in the water as upon the land.

Maurice made no such reflection. He suspected that the little pool, towards the centre of which he had waded, would prove but poor protection. He was sure of it when the jaguar, arriving upon the bank above him, set itself in that cowering attitude that told of its intention to spring.

In despair he steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal.

He had nought wherewith to repel it--no knife--no pistol--no weapon of any kind--not even his crutch! A struggle with his bare arms could but end in his destruction.

A wild cry went forth from his lips, as the tawny form was about launching itself for the leap.

There was a simultaneous scream from the jaguar. Something appeared suddenly to impede it; and instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water!

Like an echo of his own, a cry came from the chapparal, close following a sound that had preceded it--the sharp "spang" of a rifle.

A huge dog broke through the bushes, and sprang with a plunge into the pool where the jaguar had sunk below the surface. A man of colossal size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph.

To the wounded man these sights and sounds were more like a vision than the perception of real phenomena. They were the last thoughts of that day that remained in his memory. His reason, kept too long upon the rack, had given way. He tried to strangle the faithful hound that swam fawningly around him and struggled against the strong arms that, raising him out of the water, bore him in friendly embrace to the bank!

His mind had passed from a horrid reality, to a still more horrid dream--the dream of delirium.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

A PRAIRIE PALANQUIN.

The friendly arms, flung around Maurice Gerald, were those of Zeb Stump.

Guided by the instructions written upon the card, the hunter had made all haste towards the rendezvous there given.

He had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the spot, at that critical moment when the jaguar was preparing to spring.

His bullet did not prevent the fierce brute from making the bound--the last of its life--though it had passed right through the animal's heart.

This was a thing thought of afterwards--there was no opportunity then.

On rushing into the water, to make sure that his shot had proved fatal, the hunter was himself attacked; not by the claws of the jaguar, but the hands of the man just rescued from them.

Fortunate for Zeb, that the mustanger's knife had been left upon land. As it was, he came near being throttled; and only after throwing aside his rifle, and employing all his strength, was he able to protect himself against the unlooked-for assault.

A struggle ensued, which ended in Zeb flinging his colossal arms around the young Irishman, and bearing him bodily to the bank.

It was not all over. As soon as the latter was relieved from the embrace, he broke away and made for the pecan tree;--as rapidly as if the injured limb no longer impeded him.

The hunter suspected his intent. Standing over six feet, he saw the bloody knife-blade lying along the cloak. It was for that the mustanger was making!

Zeb bounded after; and once more enfolding the madman in his bear-like embrace, drew him back from the tree.

"Speel up thur, Pheelum!" shouted he. "Git that thing out o' sight. The young fellur hev tuck leeve o' his seven senses. Thur's fever in the feel o' him. He air gone dullerious!"

Phelim instantly obeyed; and, scrambling up the tree-trunk took possession of the knife.

Still the struggle was not over. The delirious man wrestled with his rescuer--not in silence, but with shouts and threatening speeches--his eyes all the time rolling and glaring with a fierce, demoniac light.

For full ten minutes did he continue the mad wrestling match.

At length from sheer exhaustion he sank back upon the grass; and after a few tremulous shiverings, accompanied by sighs heaved from the very bottom of his breast, he lay still, as if the last spark of life had departed from his body!

The Galwegian, believing it so, began uttering a series of lugubrious cries--the "keen" of Connemara.

"Stop yur gowlin, ye durned cuss!" cried Zeb. "It air enuf to scare the breath out o' his karkidge. He's no more dead than you air--only fented. By the way he hev fit me, I reck'n there ain't much the matter wi' him. No," he continued, after stooping down and giving a short examination, "I kin see no wound worth makin' a muss about. Thur's a consid'able swellin' o' the knee; but the leg ain't fructered, else he kudn't a stud up on it. As for them scratches, they ain't much. What kin they be? 'Twarnt the jegwur that gin them. They air more like the claws o' a tom cat. Ho, ho! I sees now. Thur's been a bit o' a skrimmage afore the spotted beest kim up. The young fellur's been attakted by coyoats! Who'd a surposed that the cowardly varmints would a had the owdacity to attakt a human critter? But they _will_, when they gits the chance o' one krippled as he air--durn 'em!"

The hunter had all the talking to himself. Phelim, now overjoyed to know that his master still lived--and furthermore was in no danger of dying--suddenly changed his melancholy whine to a jubilant hullaballoo, and commenced dancing over the ground, all the while snapping his fingers in the most approved Connemara fashion.

His frenzied action provoked the hound to a like pitch of excitement; and the two became engaged in a sort of wild Irish jig.

Zeb took no notice of these grotesque demonstrations; but, once more bending over the prostrate form, proceeded to complete the examination already begun.

Becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around him. He had already noticed the Panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through his mind.

Hats of Guayaquil grass--erroneously called Panama--were not uncommon. Scores of Southerners wore them, in Texas as elsewhere. But he knew that the young Irishman was accustomed to carry a Mexican _sombrero_--a very different kind of head-gear. It was possible he might have seen fit to change the fashion.

Still, as Zeb continued to gaze upon it, he fancied he had seen _that_ hat before, and on some other head.

It was not from any suspicion of its being honestly in possession of him now wearing it that the hunter stooped down, and took it off with the design to examine it. His object was simply to obtain some explanation of the mystery, or series of mysteries, hitherto baffling his brain.

On looking inside the hat he read two names; first, that of a New Orleans hatter, whose card was pasted in the crown; and then, in writing, another well known to him:--

"HENRY POINDEXTER."

The cloak now came under his notice. It, too, carried marks, by which he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner.

"Dog-goned kewrious, all this!" muttered the backwoodsman, as he stood with his eyes turned upon the ground, and apparently buried in a profound reflection.

"Hats, heads, an everythin'. Hats on the wrong head; heads i' the wrong place! By the 'tarnal thur's somethin' goed astray! Ef 'twa'nt that I feel a putty consid'able smartin' whar the young fellur gin me a lick over the left eye, I mout be arter believin' my own skull-case wa'nt any longer atween my shoulders!"

"It air no use lookin' to him," he added, glancing towards Maurice, "for an explanation; leastwise till he's slep' off this dullerium thet's on him. When that'll be, ole Nick only knows.

"Wal," he continued after another interval spent in silent reflection, "It won't do no good our stayin' hyur. We must git him to the shanty, an that kin only be did by toatin' him. He sayed on the curd, he cudn't make neer a track. It war only the anger kep' him up a bit. That leg looks wusser and wusser. He's boun to be toated."

The hunter seemed to cogitate on how he was to effect this purpose.

"'Taint no good expektin' _him_ to help think it out," he continued looking at the Galwegian, who was busy talking to Tara. "The dumb brute hev more sense than he. Neer a mind. I'd make him take his full share o' the carryin' when it kum to thet. How air it to be done? We must git him on a streetcher. That I reck'n we kin make out o' a kupple o' poles an the cloak; or wi' the blanket Pheelum fetch'd from the shanty. Ye-es! a streetcher. That's the eydentikul eyedee."

The Connemara man was now summoned to lend assistance. Two saplings of at least ten feet in length were cut from the chapparal, and trimmed clear of twigs. Two shorter ones were also selected, and lashed crosswise over the first; and upon these there spread, first the serape, and afterwards the cloak, to give greater strength.

In this way a rude stretcher was constructed, capable of carrying either an invalid or an inebriate.

In the mode of using it, it more resembled the latter than the former: since he who was to be borne upon it, again deliriously raging, had to be strapped to the trestles!

Unlike the ordinary stretcher, it was not carried between two men; but a man and a mare--the mare at the head, the man bearing behind.

It was he of Connemara who completed the ill-matched team. The old hunter had kept his promise, that Phelim should "take his full share o' the carryin', when it kum to thet."

He was taking it, or rather getting it--Zeb having appointed himself to the easier post of conductor.

The idea was not altogether original. It was a rude copy from the Mexican _litera_, which in Southern Texas Zeb may have seen--differing from the latter only in being without screen, and instead of two mules, having for its _atelage_ a mare and a man!

In this improvised palanquin was Maurice Gerald transported to his dwelling.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the _locale_.

In strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose.

He was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces bending over him. His thoughts were still astray, though no longer exciting him to violent action. He was experiencing an interval of calm.

He was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with an inconsequence that might have provoked mirth. But there were wild words upon his lips that forbade it--suggesting only serious thoughts.

His wounds received such rude dressing as his companions were capable of administering to them; and nothing more could be done but await the return of day.

Phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sate up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer.

It was not from any unfaithfulness on the part of the foster-brother, that he seemed thus to disregard his duty; but simply because Zeb had requested him to lie down--telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake.

The old hunter had his reasons. He did not desire that those wild words should be heard even by Phelim. Better he should listen to them alone.

And alone he sate listening to them--throughout the live-long night.

He heard speeches that surprised him, and names that did not. He was not surprised to hear the name "Louise" often repeated, and coupled with fervent protestations of love.

But there was another name also often pronounced--with speeches less pleasant to his ear.

It was the name of Louise's brother.

The speeches were disjointed--incongruous, and almost unintelligible.

Comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances already known to him, before the morning light had entered the _jacale_, Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no longer a living man!

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

UN DIA DE NOVEDADES.

Don Silvio Martinez was one of the few Mexican _ricos_, who had chosen to remain in Texas, after the conquest of that country by the stalwart colonisers from the North.

A man of more than mature age, of peaceful habits, and taking no part in politics, he accepted the new situation without any great regret. He was the more easily reconciled to it, from a knowledge, that his loss of nationality was better than counterbalanced by his gain of security against Comanche incursions; which, previous to the coming of the new colonists, had threatened the complete depopulation of the country.

The savage was not yet entirely subdued; but his maraud was now intermittent, and occurred only at long intervals. Even this was an improvement on the old _regime_.

Don Silvio was a _ganadero_,--a grazier, on a grand scale. So grand that his _ganaderia_ was leagues in length and breadth, and contained within its limits many thousands of horses and horned cattle.

He lived in a large rectangular one-storied house--more resembling a jail than a dwelling--surrounded by extensive enclosures--_corrales_.

It was usually a quiet place; except during the time of the _herradero_, or cattle-branding; when for days it became the scene of a festivity almost Homeric.

These occasions were only of annual occurrence.

At all other times the old haciendado--who was a bachelor to boot--led a tranquil and somewhat solitary life; a sister older than himself being his only companion. There were occasional exceptions to this rule: when his charming _sobrina_ rode across from the Rio Grande to pay him and his sister a visit. Then the domicile of Don Silvio became a little more lively.

Isidora was welcome whenever she came; welcome to come and go when she pleased; and do as she pleased, while under her uncle's roof. The sprightliness of her character was anything but displeasing to the old haciendado; who was himself far from being of a sombre disposition. Those traits, that might have appeared masculine in many other lands, were not so remarkable in one, where life is held by such precarious tenure; where the country house is oft transformed into a fortress, and the domestic hearth occasionally bedewed with the blood of its inmates!

Is it surprising that in such a land women should be found, endowed with those qualities that have been ascribed to Isidora? If so, it is not the less true that they exist.

As a general thing the Mexican woman is a creature of the most amiable disposition; _douce_--if we may be allowed to borrow from a language that deals more frequently with feminine traits--to such an extent, as to have become a national characteristic. It is to the denizens of the great cities, secure from Indian incursion, that this character more especially applies. On the frontiers, harried for the last half century by the aboriginal freebooter, the case is somewhat different. The amiability still exists; but often combined with a _bravourie_ and hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic.

Since Malinche, more than one fair heroine has figured in the history of Anahuac.

Don Silvio Martinez had himself assisted at many a wild scene and ceremony. His youth had been passed amid perils; and the courage of Isidora--at times degenerating into absolute recklessness--so far from offending, rather gave him gratification.

The old gentleman loved his darling _sobrina_, as if she had been his own child; and had she been so, she would not have been more certain of succeeding to his possessions.

Every one knew, that, when Don Silvio Martinez should take leave of life, Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos would be the owner of--not his broad acres, but--his _leagues_ of land, as also his thousands of horses and horned cattle.

With this understanding, it is needless to say, that the senorita carried respect with her wherever she went, or that the vassals of the Hacienda Martinez honoured her as their future mistress.

Independently of this was she regarded. Hers were just the qualities to win the esteem of the dashing _rancheros_; and there was not one upon the estate, but would have drawn his _machete_ at her nod, and used it to the shedding of blood.

Miguel Diaz spoke the truth, when he said he was in danger. Well might he believe it. Had it pleased Isidora to call together her uncle's _vaqueros_, and send them to chastise him, it would have been speedily done--even to hanging him upon the nearest tree!

No wonder he had made such haste to get away from the glade.

As already stated, the real home of Isidora was upon the other side of the Rio Grande--separated by some three-score miles from the Hacienda Martinez. But this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to her relations upon the Leona.

There was no selfishness in the motive. The prospect of the rich inheritance had nothing to do with it. She was an expectant heiress without that: for her own father was a _rico_. But she liked the company of her uncle and aunt. She also enjoyed the ride from river to river--oft made by her between morning and night, and not unfrequently alone!

Of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence.

Had she grown fonder of the society of her Texan relatives--fonder as they grew older? If not, what was her motive?

Imitating her own frankness of character, it may at once be declared.

She came oftener to the Leona, in the hope of meeting with Maurice Gerald.

With like frankness may it be told, that she _loved_ him.

Beyond doubt, the young Irishman was in possession of her heart. As already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing it, that had put the love-spell on the daring Isidora.

Perhaps, too, she saw in him other captivating qualities, less easily defined. Whether these had been undesignedly exhibited, or with the intention to effect a conquest, he alone can tell. He has himself said, No; and respect is due to his declaration. But it is difficult to believe, that mortal man could have gazed into the eyes of Isidora de los Llanos without wishing them to look longingly upon him.

Maurice may have spoken the truth; but we could better believe him, had he seen Louise Poindexter before becoming acquainted with Isidora.

The episode of the burnt prairie was several weeks subsequent to the adventure with the intoxicated Indians.

Certainly something appears to have occurred between him and the Mexican maiden, that leads her to believe she has a hope--if not a claim--upon his affections.

It has come to that crisis, that she can no longer rest satisfied. Her impulsive spirit cannot brook ambiguity. She knows that she loves _him_. She has determined to make frank confession of it; and to ask with like frankness whether her passion be reciprocated. Hence her having made an appointment that could not be kept.

For that day Don Miguel Diaz had interfered between her and her purpose.

So thought she, as she galloped out of the glade, and hastened back to the hacienda of her uncle.

Astride her grey steed she goes at a gallop.

Her head is bare; her coiffure disarranged; her rich black tresses streaming back beyond her shoulders, no longer covered by scarf or serape. The last she has left behind her, and along with it her _vicuna_ hat.

Her eyes are flashing with excitement; her cheeks flushed to the colour of carmine.

The cause is known.

And also why she is riding in such hot haste. She has herself declared it.

On nearing the house, she is seen to tighten her rein. The horse is pulled in to a slower pace--a trot; slower still--a walk; and, soon after, he is halted in the middle of the road.

His rider has changed her intention; or stops to reflect whether she should.

She sits reflecting.

"On second thoughts--perhaps--better not have him taken? It would create a terrible scandal, everywhere. So far, no one knows of --. Besides, what can I say myself--the only witness? Ah! were I to tell these gallant Texans the story, my own testimony would be enough to have him punished with a harsh hand. No! let him live. _Ladron_ as he is, I do not fear him. After what's happened he will not care to come near me. _Santa Virgen_! to think that I could have felt a fancy for this man--short-lived as it was!

"I must send some one back to release him. One who can keep my secret-- who? Benito, the mayor-domo--faithful and brave. _Gracias a Dios_! Yonder's my man--as usual busied in counting his cattle. Benito! Benito!"

"At your orders, s'norita?"

"Good Benito, I want you to do me a kindness. You consent?"

"At your orders, s'norita?" repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low.

"Not _orders_, good Benito. I wish you to do me a _favour_."

"Command me, s'norita!"

"You know the spot of open ground at the top of the hill--where the three roads meet?"

"As well as the corral of your uncle's hacienda."

"Good! Go there. You will find a man lying upon the ground, his arms entangled in a lazo. Release, and let him go free. If he be hurt--by a harsh fall he has had--do what you can to restore him; but don't tell him who sent you. You may know the man--I think you do. No matter for that. Ask him no questions, nor answer his, if he should put any. Once you have seen him on his legs, let him make use of them after his own fashion. You understand?"

"_Perfectamente, s'norita_. Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter."

"Thanks, good Benito. Uncle Silvio will like you all the better for it; though _you_ mustn't tell him of it. Leave that to me. If he shouldn't--if he shouldn't--well! one of these days there may be an estate on the Rio Grande that will stand in need of a brave, faithful steward--such an one as I know you to be."

"Every one knows that the Dona Isidora is gracious as she is fair."

"Thanks--thanks! One more request. The service I ask you to do for me must be known to only three individuals. The third is he whom you are sent to succour. You know the other two?"

"S'norita, I comprehend. It shall be as you wish it."

The mayor-domo is moving off on horseback, it need scarce be said. Men of his calling rarely set foot to the earth--never upon a journey of half a league in length.

"Stay! I had forgotten!" calls out the lady, arresting him. "You will find a hat and serape. They are mine. Bring them, and I shall wait for you here, or meet you somewhere along the way."

Bowing, he again rides away. Again is he summoned to stop.

"On second thoughts, Senor Benito, I've made up my mind to go along with you. _Vamos_!"

The steward of Don Silvio is not surprised at caprice, when exhibited by the niece of his employer. Without questioning, he obeys her command, and once more heads his horse for the hill.

The lady follows. She has told him to ride in the advance. She has her reason for departing from the aristocratic custom.

Benito is astray in his conjecture. It is not to caprice that he is indebted for the companionship of the senorita. A serious motive takes her back along the road.

She has forgotten something more than her wrapper and hat--that little letter that has caused her so much annoyance.

The "good Benito" has not had _all_ her confidence; nor can he be entrusted with this. _It_ might prove a scandal, graver than the quarrel with Don Miguel Diaz.

She rides back in hopes of repossessing herself of the epistle. How stupid not to have thought of it before!

How had El Coyote got hold of it? He must have had it from Jose!

Was her servant a traitor? Or had Diaz met him on the way, and forced the letter from him?

To either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised.

On the part of Diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as for Jose, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his fidelity.

So run her thoughts as she re-ascends the slope, leading up from the river bottom.

The summit is gained, and the opening entered; Isidora now riding side by side with the mayor-domo.

No Miguel Diaz there--no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater chagrin, not a scrap of paper!

There is her hat of vicuna wool--her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop end of her lazo--nothing more.

"You may go home again, Senor Benito! The man thrown from his horse must have recovered his senses--and, I suppose, his saddle too. Blessed be the virgin! But remember, good Benito _Secrecy all the same. Entiende, V_?"

"_Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora_."

The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_ of a youthful hidalgo.

She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the

## action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot

is for a second or two poised in the air.

Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.

But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.

He is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter.

"What have you done with it, sirrah?"

"Delivered it, my lady."

"To whom?"

"I left it at--at--the _posada_," he replies, stammering and turning pale. "Don Mauricio had gone out."

"A lie, _lepero_! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir! I've seen it since."

"O Senora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty--indeed I am not."

"Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?"

"As I live, lady, it was not treason. He--he--forced it from me--by threats--blows. I--I--was not paid."

"You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that--"

For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.

He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse.

Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastisement cease.

"Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. _Al monte! al monte_!"

With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket.

But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of traitors!

Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people--peons, vaqueros, and employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified ejaculations. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.

"What is causing the commotion?"

This is the question asked by Isidora.

The mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the individual thus interrogated.

A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.

The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of Caso del Corvo--the son of the American haciendado himself.

Indians are reported to have done the deed.

Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio's servitors.

It explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms.

The fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circumstance in that land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more especially when the man was a stranger, an "Americano."

But the report that Indians are abroad, is altogether a different affair. In it there is an idea of danger.

The effect produced on Isidora is different. It is not fear of the savages. The name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being wonderfully beautiful. She has herself looked upon this beauty, and cannot help believing in it.

A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother's death--only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.

Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful interest; in short, an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man--by _Maurice the mustanger_!

There are no Indians near.

This later edition of "novedades," while tranquilising Don Silvio's servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.

For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to the study of _La lengua Americana_. Her vocabulary of English words, still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with "full

## particulars of the murder," so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez. On reaching the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. The new cause of excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so regarded by the superstitious _peons_. A rare rumour has reached the place. A man without a head--_un hombre descabezado_--has been seen riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!

Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness of the report. It is rife throughout the settlement. But there is still surer confirmation of it. A party of Don Silvio's own people-- herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the _cavallero descabezado_; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from him, as they would have done from the devil!

The _vaqueros_--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the account given. But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy evidence of its truthfulness.

The sun goes down upon a _congeries_ of frightful rumours. Neither these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly to have formed--which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande. It makes no difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly apparition of a headless horseman! What to any other traveller should cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.

She even proposes making the journey _alone_! Don Silvio offers an escort--half a score of his _vaqueros_, armed to the teeth. The offer is rejected. Will she take Benito? No. She prefers journeying alone. In short, she is determined upon it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next morning she carries out this determination. By day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!

Why has she thus deviated from her route? Is she straying?

She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by the rein.

Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.

Happier for her, if she had.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

A SHOT AT THE DEVIL.

All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion.

All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.

They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb's mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered!

The last was a belief that, under any circumstances, would have been painful to the backwoodsman. Coupled with the facts already known, it was agonising.

He thought of the quarrel--the hat--the cloak. He writhed as he contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to his mind. Never in his life had his analytical powers been so completely baffled. He groaned as he felt their impotence.

He kept no watch upon the door. He knew that if _they_ came, it would not be in the night.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal "gowl," and come running scared-like into the hut.

Extinguishing the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound? What had caused _it_?

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be.

He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky--broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest. There were about fifty paces of clear space, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice.

The line separating the _chiaro_ from the _oscuro_ could be traced distinctly as in the day. A brilliant moon was beyond it. A snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.

There was nothing to be seen there.

But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. It resembled the clinking of a horse's shoe struck against a loose stone.

So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repetition.

It was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct--a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back--both horse and man distinctly seen in dark _silhouette_ against the clear sapphire sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.

That of the man could be traced--only from the saddle to the shoulders. Below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there. Above, there was nothing--not even the semblance of a head!

Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. It did not change the character of the apparition. If he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same--a horseman without a head.

This very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving--saw the horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace--without footfall--without sound of any kind--as if gliding rather than walking-- like the shifting scene of a cosmorama!

Not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every detail--long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the eye, or in any way a deception of his senses.

Nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually: first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering tail!

"Geehosophat!"

It was not surprise at the disappearance of the headless horseman that extorted this exclamation from the lips of Zeb Stump. There was nothing strange about this. The spectacle had simply passed behind the proscenium--represented by the tope of tree tops rising above the bluff.

"Geehosophat!"

Twice did the backwoodsman give utterance to this, his favourite expression of surprise; both times with an emphasis that told of an unlimited astonishment.

His looks betrayed it. Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame; while the pallor upon his lips was perceptible through their brown priming of tobacco juice.

For some time he stood speechless, as if unable to follow up his double ejaculation.

His tongue at length returned to him.

"Dog-gone my cats!" he muttered, but in a very low tone, and with eyes still fixed upon the point where the horse's tail had been last seen. "If that ere don't whip the hul united creashun, my name ain't Zeb'lon Stump! The Irish hev been right arter all. I tho't he hed dreemt o' it in his drink. But no. He hev seed somethin'; and so hev I meself. No wonner the cuss war skeeart. I feel jest a spell shaky in my own narves beout this time. Geehosophat! what kin the durned thing be?"

"What _kin_ it be?" he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. "Dog-goned, ef I kin detarmine one way or the tother. Ef 't hed been only i' the daylight, an I ked a got a good sight on't; or eft hed been a leetle bit cloaster! Ha! Why moutn't I git cloaster to _it_? Dog-goned, ef I don't hev a try! I reck'n it won't eet me--not ef it air ole Nick; an ef it _air_ him, I'll jest satersfy meself whether a bullet kin go custrut thro' his infernal karkidge 'ithout throwin' him out o' the seddle. Hyur go for a cloaster akwaintance wi' the varmint, whatsomiver it be."

So saying, the hunter stalked off through the trees--upon the path that led up to the bluff.

He had not needed to go inside for his rifle--having brought that weapon out with him, on hearing the howl of the hound.

If the headless rider was real flesh and blood--earthly and not of the other world--Zeb Stump might confidently count upon seeing him again.

When viewed from the door of the _jacale_, he was going direct towards the ravine, that permitted passage from the higher level to the bottom lands of the Alamo. As Zeb had started to avail himself of the same path, unless the other should meantime change direction, or his tranquil pace to a trot or gallop, the backwoodsman would be at the head of the pass as soon as he.

Before starting, Zeb had made a calculation of the distance to be done, and the time to do it in.

His estimate proved correct--to a second, and an inch. As his head was brought nearly on a level with the upland plain, he saw the _shoulders_ of the horseman rising above it.

Another step upward, and the body was in view. Another, and the horse was outlined against the sky, from hoof to forelock.

He stood at a halt. He was standing, as Zeb first came in sight of him. He was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into the gorge. His rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine; or, what was more likely, scented him.

For whatever reason, he was standing, front face to the spectator.

On seeing him thus, Zeb Stump also came to a stand. Had it been many another man, the same might have been said of his hair; and it is not to be denied, that the old hunter was at that moment, as he acknowledged himself, "a spell shaky 'beout the narves."

He was firm enough, however, to carry out the purpose that had prompted him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he had to deal with a human being, or the devil!

In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon the heart of the Headless Horseman.

In another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that just then flashed across the brain of the backwoodsman.

Maybe he was about to commit _murder_?

At the thought he lowered the muzzle of his piece, and remained for a time undecided.

"It mout be a man?" muttered he, "though it don't look like it air. Thur ain't room enuf for a head under that ere Mexikin blanket, no how. Ef it be a human critter he hev got a tongue I reck'n, though he ain't much o' a head to hold it in. Hilloo stronger! Ye're out for a putty lateish ride, ain't ye? Hain't yo forgot to fetch yur head wi ye?"

There was no reply. The horse snorted, on hearing the voice. That was all.

"Lookee hyur, strenger! Ole Zeb Stump from the State o' Kintucky, air the individooal who's now speakin' to ye. He ain't one o' thet sort ter be trifled wi'. Don't try to kum none o' yer damfoolery over this hyur coon. I warn ye to declur yur game. If ye're playin possum, ye'd better throw up yur hand; or by the jumpin' Geehosophat, ye may lose both yur stake an yur curds! Speak out now, afore ye gits plugged wi' a piece o' lead!"

Less response than before. This time the horse, becoming accustomed to the voice, only tossed up his head.

"Then dog-gone ye!" shouted the hunter, exasperated by what he deemed an insulting silence. "Six seconds more--I'll gie ye six more; an ef ye don't show speech by that time, I'll let drive at yur guts. Ef ye're but a dummy it won't do ye any harm. No more will it, I reckun, ef ye _air_ the devil. But ef ye're a man playin' possum, durn me ef ye don't desarve to be shot for bein' sech a damned fool. Sing out!" he continued with increasing anger, "sing out, I tell ye! Ye won't? Then hyur goes! One--two--three--four--five--six!"

Where "seven" should have come in, had the count been continued, was heard the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by the sibillation of a spinning bullet; then the dull "thud" as the deadly missile buried itself in some solid body.

The only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of the horse. The rider still kept his seat in the saddle!

It was not even certain the horse was scared. The clear neigh that responded to the detonation of the rifle, had something in it that sounded derisive!

For all that, the animal went off at a tearing gallop; leaving Zeb Stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced.

After discharging his rifle, he remained upon his knees, for a period of several seconds.

If his nerves were unsteady before the shot, they had become doubly so now. He was not only surprised at the result, but terrified. He was certain that his bullet had passed through the man's heart--or where it should be--as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs.

It could not be a man? He did not believe it to be one; and this thought might have reassured him, but for the behaviour of the horse. It was that wild unearthly neigh, that was now chilling his blood, and causing his limbs to shake, as if under an ague.

He would have retreated; but, for a time, he felt absolutely unable to rise to his feet; and he remained kneeling, in a sort of stupefied terror--watching the weird form till it receded out of sight far off over the moonlit plain. Not till then did he recover sufficient courage, to enable him to glide back down the gorge, and on towards the _jacale_.

And not till he was under its roof, did he feel sufficiently himself, to reflect with any calmness on the odd encounter that had occurred to him.

It was some time before his mind became disabused of the idea that he had been dealing with the devil. Reflection, however, convinced him of the improbability of this; though it gave him no clue as to what the thing really was.

"Shurly," muttered he, his conjectural form of speech showing that he was still undecided, "Shurly arter all it can't be a thing o' the tother world--else I kedn't a heern the _cothug_ o' my bullet? Sartin the lead struck agin somethin' solid; an I reck'n thur's nothin' solid in the karkidge o' a ghost?"

"Wagh!" he concluded, apparently resigning the attempt to obtain a solution of the strange physical phenomenon. "Let the durned thing slide! One o' two things it air boun' to be: eyther a bunnel o' rags, or ole Harry from hell?"

As he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him.

It was time to awaken Phelim, that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid.

The Connemara man, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, and under the impression of having been a little derelict in his duty, was ready to undertake the task.

The old hunter, before consigning his charge to the care of his unskilled successor, made a fresh dressing of the scratches--availing himself of the knowledge that a long experience had given him in the pharmacopoeia of the forest.

The _nopal_ was near; and its juice inspissated into the fresh wounds would not fail to effect their speedy cure.

Zeb knew that in twenty-four hours after its application, they would be in process of healing; and in three days, entirely cicatrised.

With this confidence--common to every denizen of the cactus-covered land of Mexico--he felt defiant as to doctors; and if a score of them could have been procured upon the instant, he would not have summoned one. He was convinced that Maurice Gerald was in no danger--at least not from his wounds.

There was a danger; but that was of a different kind.

"An' now, Mister Pheelum," said he, on making a finish of his surgical operations; "we hev dud all thet kin be dud for the outard man, an it air full time to look arter the innard. Ye say thur ain't nuthin to eet?"

"Not so much as a purtaty, Misther Stump. An' what's worse thare's nothin' to dhrink--not a dhrap lift in the whole cyabin."

"Durn ye, that's _yur_ fault," cried Stump, turning upon the Irishman with a savage scowl that showed equal regret at the announcement. "Eft hadn't a been for you, thur war licker enough to a lasted till the young fellur got roun' agin. What's to be dud now?"

"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be wrongin' _me_ althegither intirely. That same yez are. I hadn't a taste exciptin what came out av the little flask. It wus thim Indyins that imptied the dimmyjan. Trath was it."

"Wagh! ye cudn't a got drunk on what wur contained i' the flask. I know yur durned guts too well for thet. Ye must a had a good pull at the tother, too."

"Be all the saints--"

"Durn yur stinkin' saints! D'you s'pose any man o' sense believes in sech varmint as them?

"Wal; 'tain't no use talkin' any more beout it. Ye've sucked up the corn juice, an thur's an end o't. Thur ain't no more to be hed 'ithin twenty mile, an we must go 'ithout."

"Be Jaysus, but it's bad!"

"Shet up yur head, durn ye, an hear what I've got to say. We'll hev to go 'ithout drinkin'; but thet air no reezun for sturvin' ourselves for want o' somethin' to eet. The young fellur, I don't misdoubt, air by this time half starved hisself. Thur's not much on his stummuk, I reck'n, though thur may be on his mind. As for meself, I'm jest hungry enough to eat coyoat; an I ain't very sure I'd turn away from turkey buzzart; which, as I reck'n, wud be a wusser victual than coyoat. But we ain't obleeged to eet turkey buzzart, whar thur's a chance o' gettin' turkey; an thet ain't so dewbious along the Alamo. You stay hyur, an take care o' the young fellur, whiles I try up the crik, an see if I kin kum acrosst a gobbler."

"I'll do that, Misther Stump, an no mistake. Be me trath--"

"Keep yur palaver to yurself, till I've finished talkin' to ye."

"Sowl! I won't say a word."

"Then don't, but lissen! Thur's somethin 'bout which I don't wait ye to make any mistake. It air this. Ef there shed anybody stray this way dyurin my absince, ye'll let me know. You musn't lose a minnit o' time, but let me know."

"Shure I will--sowl, yis."

"Wal, I'll depend on ye."

"Trath, yez may;--but how Misther Stump? How am I to lit yez know, if you're beyant hearin' av me voice? How thin?"

"Wal, I reck'n, I shan't need to go so fur as thet. Thur ought to be gobblers cloast by--at this time o' the mornin'.

"An yit there moutent," continued Zeb, after reflecting a while. "Ye ain't got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty? A pistol 'ud do."

"Nayther wan nor the tother. The masther tuk both away wid him, when he went last time to the sittlements. He must have lift them thare."

"It air awk'ard. I mout _not_ heer yur shout."

Zeb, who had by this time passed through the doorway, again stopped to reflect.

"Heigh!" he exclaimed, after a pause of six seconds. "I've got it. I've treed the eydee. Ye see my ole maar, tethered out thur on the grass?"

"Shure I do, Misther Stump. Av coorse I do."

"Wal, ye see thet ere prickly cacktis plant growin' cloast to the edge o' the openin'?"

"Faith, yis."

"Wal, that's sensible o' ye. Now lissen to what I say. Ye must keep a look out at the door; an ef anybody kums up whiles I'm gone, run straight custrut for the cacktis, cut off one o' its branches--the thorniest ye kin see--an stick it unner the maar's tail."

"Mother av Moses! For what div yez want me to do that?"

"Wal, I reck'n I'd better explain," said Zeb, reflectingly; "otherwise ye'll be makin' a mess o' it."

"Ye see, Pheelum, ef anybody interlopes durin' my absince I hed better be hyur. I ain't a goin' fur off. But howsomediver near, I moutn't hear yur screech; thurfore the maar's 'll do better. You clap the cacktis under her tail, cloast up to the fundament; and ef she don't squeal loud enuf to be heern by me, then ye may konklude that this coon air eyther rubbed out, or hev both his lugs plugged wi picket pins. So, Pheelum; do you adzactly as I've tolt ye."

"I'll do it, be Japers!"

"Be sure now. Yur master's life may depend upon it."

After delivering this last caution, the hunter shouldered his long rifle, and walked away from the hut.

"He's a cute owld chap that same," said Phelim as soon as Zeb was out of hearing. "I wonder what he manes by the master bein' in danger from any wan comin' to the cyabin. He sed, that his life moight depend upon it? Yis--he sed that."

"He towlt me to kape a luk out. I suppose he maned me to begin at wance. I must go to the inthrance thin."

So saying, he stepped outside the door; and proceeded to make an ocular inspection of the paths by which the _jacale_ might be approached.

After completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took stand, in the attitude of one upon the watch.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

SOUNDING THE SIGNAL.

Phelim's vigil was of short duration. Scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse's hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.

His heart commenced hammering against his ribs.

The trees, standing thickly, hindered him from having a view of the approaching horseman; and he could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the _jacale_. But the hoofstroke told him there was only _one_; and this it was that excited his apprehension. He would have been less alarmed to hear the trampling of a troop. Though well assured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him--in everything except the head.

His first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme entrusted to him by Zeb. But the indecision springing from his fears kept him to his place--long enough to show him that they were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.

"Shure an that same he hez," said Phelim, as the latter rode out from among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; "a raal hid, an a purty face in front av it. An' yit it don't show so plazed nayther. He luks as if he'd jist buried his grandmother. Sowl! what a quare young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two days' goslin'! O Lard! Luk at his little fut! _Be Jaysus, he's a woman_!"

While the Irishman was making these observations--partly in thought,

## partly in muttered speech--the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and

again paused.

On a nearer view of his visitor, Phelim saw that he had correctly guessed the sex; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat, and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his of Connemara.

It _was_ a woman. It was Isidora.

It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden-- the first that hers had ever rested upon him. They were equally unknown to one another.

He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure. On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad-- almost disconsolate.

It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees. Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.

Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the _jacale_. She knew of its existence. It was the goal of her journey. It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway. He was not the man she expected to see there.

In doubt she advanced to address him:

"I may have made a mistake?" said she, speaking in the best "Americana" she could command. "Pardon me, but--I--I thought--that Don Mauricio lived here."

"Dan Marryshow, yez say? Trath, no. Thare's nobody av that name lives heeur. Dan Marryshow? Thare was a man they called Marrish had a dwillin' not far out av Ballyballagh. I remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade. But his name wasn't Dan. No; it was Pat. Pat Marrish was the name--divil burn him for a desaver!"

"Don Mauricio--Mor-rees--Mor-ees."

"Oh! Maurice! Maybe ye'd be after spakin' av the masther--Misther Gerrald!"

"Si--Si! Senor Zyerral."

"Shure, thin, an if that's fwhat ye're afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin--that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin' the wild horses. He only kapes it for a huntin' box, ye know. Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he's at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that's now cryin' her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won't go back thare. Sowl, if yez saw _her_!"

Despite its _patois_, Phelim's talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed. Jealousy is an apt translator. Something like a sigh escaped from Isidora, as he pronounced that little word "her."

"I don't wish to see _her_," was the quick rejoinder; "but him you mention. Is he at home? Is he inside?"

"Is he at home? Thare now, that's comin' to the point--straight as a poike staff. An' supposin' I wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther wantin' wid him?"

"I wish to see him."

"Div yez? Maybe now ye'll wait till yez be asked. Ye're a purty crayther, notwithstandin' that black strake upon yer lip. But the masther isn't in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan--unless it was the praste or a docthur. Yez cyant see him."

"But I wish very much to see him, senor."

"Trath div yez. Ye've sayed that alriddy. But yez cyant, I till ye. It isn't Phaylim Onale ud deny wan av the fair six--espacially a purty black-eyed colleen loike yerself. But for all that yez cyant see the masther now."

"Why can I not?"

"Why cyant yez not? Will--thare's more than wan rayzon why yez cyant. In the first place, as I've towlt you, he's not in a condishun to resave company--the liss so av its bein' a lady."

"But why, senor? Why?"

"Bekase he's not dacently drissed. He's got nothin' on him but his shirt--exceptin' the rags that Misther Stump's jist tied all roun' him. Be japers! thare's enough av them to make him a whole shoot--coat, waiscoat, and throwsers--trath is thare."

"Senor, I don't understand you."

"Yez don't? Shure an I've spoke plain enough! Don't I till ye that the masther's in bid?"

"In bed! At this hour? I hope there's nothing--"

"The matther wid him, yez wur goin' to say? Alannah, that same is there--a powerful dale the matther wid him--enough to kape him betwane the blankets for weeks to come."

"Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?"

"Don't I till ye! Arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin' it? It ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about it? Yez moight say it afore his face, an he won't conthradict ye."

"He _is_ ill, then. O, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his illness--what has caused it?"

"Shure an I cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries--the first yez hiv phut. His disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he's been resavin--the Lord only knows what, or who administhered it. He's got a bad lig; an his skin luks as if he'd been tied up in a sack along wid a score av angry cats. Sowl! thare's not the brenth av yer purty little hand widout a scratch upon it. Worse than all, he's besoide hisself."

"Beside himself?"

"Yis, that same. He's ravin' loike wan that had a dhrap too much overnight, an thinks thare's the man wid the poker afther him. Be me trath, I belave the very bist thing for him now ud be a thrifle av potheen--if wan cud only lay hands upon that same. But thare's not the smell av it in the cyabin. Both the dimmy-jan an flask. Arrah, now; _you_ wouldn't be afther havin' a little flask upon yer sweet silf? Some av that agwardinty, as yer people call it. Trath, I've tasted worse stuff than it. I'm shure a dhrink av it ud do the masther good. Spake the truth, misthress! Hiv yez any about ye?"

"No, senor. I have nothing of the kind. I am sorry I have not."

"Faugh! The more's the pity for poor Masther Maurice. It ud a done him a dale av good. Well; he must put up widout it."

"But, senor; surely I can see him?"

"Divil a bit. Besides fwhat ud be the use? He wudn't know ye from his great grandmother. I till yez agane, he's been badly thrated, an 's now besoide hisself!"

"All the more reason why I should see him. I may be of service. I owe him a debt--of--of--"

"Oh! yez be owin' him somethin? Yez want to pay it? Faith, that makes it intirely different. But yez needn't see _him_ for that. I'm his head man, an thransact all that sort av bizness for him. I cyant write myself, but I'll give ye a resate on the crass wid me mark--which is jist as good, among the lawyers. Yis, misthress; yez may pay the money over to me, an I promise ye the masther 'll niver axe ye for it agane. Trath! it'll come handy jist now, as we're upon the ave av a flittin, an may want it. So if yez have the pewther along wid ye, thare's pins, ink, an paper insoide the cyabin. Say the word, an I'll giv ye the resate!"

"No--no--no! I did not mean money. A debt of--of--gratitude."

"Faugh! only that. Sowl, it's eezy paid, an don't want a resate. But yez needn't return that sort av money now: for the masther woudn't be sinsible av fwhat ye wur sayin. Whin he comes to his sinses, I'll till him yez hiv been heeur, and wiped out the score."

"Surely I can see him?"

"Shurely now yez cyant."

"But I must, senor!"

"Divil a must about it. I've been lift on guard, wid sthrict ordhers to lit no wan go inside."

"They couldn't have been meant for me. I am his friend--the friend of Don Mauricio."

"How is Phaylum Onale to know that? For all yer purty face, yez moight be his didliest innemy. Be Japers! its loike enough, now that I take a second luk at ye."

"I must see him--I must--I will--I shall!"

As Isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle, and advanced in the direction of the door.

Her air of earnest determination combined with the fierce--scarce feminine--expression upon her countenance, convinced the Galwegian, that the contingency had arrived for carrying out the instructions left by Zeb Stump, and that he had been too long neglecting his cue.

Turning hurriedly into the hut, he came out again, armed with a tomahawk; and was about to rush past, when he was brought to a sudden stand, by seeing a pistol in the hands of his lady visitor, pointed straight at his head!

"_Abajo la hacha_!" (Down with the hatchet), cried she. "_Lepero_! lift your arm to strike me, and it will be for the last time!"

"Stroike ye, misthress! Stroike _you_!" blubbered the _ci-devant_ stable-boy, as soon as his terror permitted him to speak. "Mother av the Lard! I didn't mane the waypon for you at all, at all! I'll sware it on the crass--or a whole stack av Bibles if yez say so. In trath misthress; I didn't mane the tammyhauk for you!"

"Why have you brought it forth?" inquired the lady, half suspecting that she had made a mistake, and lowering her pistol as she became convinced of it. "Why have you thus armed yourself?"

"As I live, only to ixecute the ordhers, I've resaved--only to cut a branch off av the cyacktus yez see over yander, an phut it undher the tail av the owld mare. Shure yez won't object to my doin' that?"

In her turn, the lady became silent--surprised at the singular proposition.

The odd individual she saw before her, could not mean mischief. His looks, attitude, and gestures were grotesque, rather than threatening; provocative of mirth--not fear, or indignation.

"Silince gives consint. Thank ye," said Phelim, as, no longer in fear of being shot down in his tracks, he ran straight across the lawn, and carried out to the letter, the parting injunctions of Zeb Stump.

The Mexican maiden hitherto held silent by surprise, remained so, on perceiving the absolute idleness of speech.

Further conversation was out of the question. What with the screaming of the mare--continuous from the moment the spinous crupper was inserted under her tail--the loud trampling of her hoofs as she "cavorted" over the turf--the dismal howling of the hound--and the responsive cries of the wild forest denizens--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--only the voice of a Stentor could have been heard!

What could be the purpose of the strange proceeding? How was it to terminate?

Isidora looked on in silent astonishment. She could do nothing else. So long as the infernal fracas continued, there was no chance to elicit an explanation from the queer creature who had caused it.

He had returned to the door of the jacale; and once more taken his stand upon the threshold; where he stood, with the tranquil satisfied air of an actor who has completed the performance of his part in the play, and feels free to range himself among the spectator.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

RECOILING FROM A KISS.

For full ten minutes was the wild chorus kept up, the mare all the time squealing like a stuck pig; while the dog responded in a series of lugubrious howls, that reverberated along the cliffs on both sides of the creek.

To the distance of a mile might the sounds have been heard; and as Zeb Stump was not likely to be so far from the hut, he would be certain to hear them.

Convinced of this, and that the hunter would soon respond to the signal he had himself arranged, Phelim stood square upon the threshold, in hopes that the lady visitor would stay outside--at least, until he should be relieved of the responsibility of admitting her.

Notwithstanding her earnest protestations of amity, he was still suspicious of some treasonable intention towards his master; else why should Zeb have been so particular about being summoned back?

Of himself, he had abandoned the idea of offering resistance. That shining pistol, still before his eyes, had cured him of all inclination for a quarrel with the strange equestrian; and so far as the Connemara man was concerned, she might have gone unresisted inside.

But there was another from Connemara, who appeared more determined to dispute her passage to the hut--one whom a whole battery of great guns would not have deterred from protecting its owner. This was Tara.

The staghound was not acting as if under the excitement of a mere senseless alarm. Mingling with his prolonged sonorous "gowl" could be heard in repeated interruptions a quick sharp bark, that denoted anger. He had witnessed the attitude of the intruder--its apparent hostility-- and drawing his deductions, had taken stand directly in front of Phelim and the door, with the evident determination that neither should be reached except over his own body, and after running the gauntlet of his formidable incisors.

Isidora showed no intention of undertaking the risk. She had none. Astonishment was, for the time, the sole feeling that possessed her.

She remained transfixed to the spot, without attempting to say a word.

She stood expectingly. To such an eccentric prelude there should be a corresponding _finale_. Perplexed, but patiently, she awaited it.

Of her late alarm there was nothing left. What she saw was too ludicrous to allow of apprehension; though it was also too incomprehensible to elicit laughter.

In the mien of the man, who had so oddly comported himself, there was no sign of mirth. If anything, a show of seriousness, oddly contrasting with the comical act he had committed; and which plainly proclaimed that he had not been treating her to a joke.

The expression of helpless perplexity that had become fixed upon her features, continued there; until a tall man, wearing a faded blanket coat, and carrying a six-foot rifle, was seen striding among the tree-trunks, at the rate of ten miles to the hour. He was making direct for the _jacale_.

At sight of the new-comer her countenance underwent a change. There was now perceptible upon it a shade of apprehension; and the little pistol was clutched with renewed nerve by the delicate hand that still continued to hold it.

The act was partly precautionary, partly mechanical. Nor was it unnatural, in view of the formidable-looking personage who was approaching, and the earnest excited manner with which he was hurrying forward to the hut.

All this became altered, as he advanced into the open ground, and suddenly stopped on its edge; a look of surprise quite as great as that upon the countenance of the lady, supplanting his earnest glances.

Some exclamatory phrases were sent through his teeth, unintelligible in the tumult still continuing, though the gesture that accompanied them seemed to proclaim them of a character anything but gentle.

On giving utterance to them, he turned to one side; strode rapidly towards the screaming mare; and, laying hold of her tail--which no living man save himself would have dared to do--he released her from the torments she had been so long enduring.

Silence was instantly restored; since the mare, abandoned by her fellow choristers, as they became accustomed to her wild neighs, had been, for some time, keeping up the solo by herself.

The lady was not yet enlightened. Her astonishment continued; though a side glance given to the droll individual in the doorway told her, that he had successfully accomplished some scheme with which he had been entrusted.

Phelim's look of satisfaction was of short continuance. It vanished, as Zeb Stump, having effected the deliverance of the tortured quadruped, faced round to the hut--as he did so, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance, darkly ominous of an angry storm.

Even the presence of beauty did not hinder it from bursting. "Durn, an dog-gone ye, for a Irish eedyit! Air this what ye've brought me back for! An' jest as I wur takin' sight on a turkey, not less 'n thirty poun' weight, I reck'n; skeeart afore he ked touch trigger, wi' the skreek o' thet cussed critter o' a maar. Damned little chance for breakfust now."

"But, Misther Stump, didn't yez till me to do it? Ye sid if any wan showld come to the cyabin--"

"Bah! ye fool! Ye don't serpose I meened weemen, did ye?"

"Trath! I didn't think it wus wan, whin she furst presented hersilf. Yez showld a seen the way she rid up--sittin' astraddle on her horse."

"What matter it, how she wur sittin'! Hain't ye seed thet afore, ye greenhorn? It's thur usooal way 'mong these hyur Mexikin sheemales. Ye're more o' a woman than she air, I guess; an twenty times more o' a fool. Thet I'm sartint o'. I know _her_ a leetle by sight, an somethin' more by reeport. What hev fetched the critter hyur ain't so difeequilt to comprehend; tho' it may be to git it out o' her, seein' as she kin only talk thet thur Mexikin lingo; the which this chile can't, nor wudn't ef he kud."

"Sowl, Misther Stump! yez be mistaken. She spakes English too. Don't yez, misthress?"

"Little Inglees," returned the Mexican, who up to this time had remained listening. "Inglees _poco pocito_."

"O--ah!" exclaimed Zeb, slightly abashed at what he had been saying. "I beg your pardin, saynoritta. Ye kin _habla_ a bit o' Amerikin, kin ye? _Moocho bono_--so much the betterer. Ye'll be able to tell me what ye mout be a wantin' out hyur. Ye hain't lost yur way, hev ye?"

"No, senor," was the reply, after a pause. "In that case, ye know whar ye air?"

"_Si, senor--si_--yes, of Don Mauricio Zyerral, this the--house?"

"Thet air the name, near as a Mexikin mouth kin make it, I reck'n. 'Tain't much o' a house; but it air his'n. Preehaps ye want to see the master o't?"

"O, senor--yees--that is for why I here am--_por esta yo soy aqui_."

"Wal; I reck'n, thur kin be no objecshun to yur seein' him. Yur intenshuns ain't noways hostile to the young fellur, I kalklate. But thur ain't much good in yur talkin' to him now. He won't know yo from a side o' sole-leather."

"He is ill? Has met with some misfortune? _El guero_ has said so."

"Yis. I towlt her that," interposed Phelim, whose carroty hair had earned for him the appellation "El guero."

"Sartin," answered Zeb. "He air wounded a bit; an jest now a leetle dulleerious. I reck'n it ain't o' much consekwence. He'll be hisself agin soon's the ravin' fit's gone off o' him."

"O, sir! can I be his nurse till then? _Por amor dios_! Let me enter, and watch over him? I am his friend--_un amigo muy afficionado_."

"Wal; I don't see as thur's any harm in it. Weemen makes the best o' nusses I've heern say; tho', for meself, I hain't hed much chance o' tryin' 'em, sincst I kivered up my ole gurl unner the sods o' Massissipi. Ef ye want to take a spell by the side o' the young fellur, ye're wilkim--seein' ye're his friend. Ye kin look arter him, till we git back, an see thet he don't tummel out o' the bed, or claw off them thur bandidges, I've tied roun him."

"Trust me, good sir, I shall take every care of him. But tell me what has caused it? The Indians? No, they are not near? Has there been a quarrel with any one?"

"In thet, saynoritta; ye're beout as wise as I air meself. Thur's been a quarrel wi' coyeats; but that ain't what's gin him the ugly knee. I foun' him yesterday, clost upon sun-down, in the chapparal beyont. When we kim upon him, he war up to his waist in the water o' a crik as runs through thur, jest beout to be attakted by one o' them spotty critters yur people call tigers. Wal, I relieved him o' that bit o' danger; but what happened afore air a mystery to me. The young fellur had tuk leeve o' his senses, an ked gie no account o' hisself. He hain't rekivered them yet; an', thurfore, we must wait till he do."

"But you are sure, sir, he is not badly injured? His wounds--they are not dangerous?"

"No danger whatsomediver. Nuthin' beyont a bit o' a fever, or maybe a touch o' the agey, when that goes off o' him. As for the wounds, they're only a wheen o' scratches. When the wanderin' hev gone out o' his senses, he'll soon kum roun, I reck'n. In a week's time, ye'll see him as strong as a buck."

"Oh! I shall nurse him tenderly!"

"Wal, that's very kind o' you; but--but--"

Zeb hesitated, as a queer thought came before his mind. It led to a train of reflections kept to himself. They were these:

"This air the same she, as sent them kickshaws to the tavern o' Rough an Ready. Thet she air in love wi' the young fellur is clur as Massissipi mud--in love wi' him to the eends o' her toe nails. So's the tother. But it air equally clur that he's thinkin' o' the tother, an not o' her. Now ef she hears him talk about tother, as he hev been a doin' all o' the night, thur'll be a putty consid'able rumpus riz inside o' her busom. Poor thing! I pity her. She ain't a bad sort. But the Irish-- Irish tho' he be--can't belong to both; an I _know_ he freezes to the critter from the States. It air durned awkurd--Better ef I ked pursuade her not to go near him--leastwise till he gets over ravin' about Lewaze.

"But, miss," he continued, addressing himself to the Mexican, who during his long string of reflections had stood impatiently silent, "don't ye think ye'd better ride home agin; an kum back to see him arter he gits well. He won't know ye, as I've sayed; an it would be no use yur stayin', since he ain't in any danger o' makin' a die of it."

"No matter, that he may not know me. I should tend him all the same. He may need some things--which I can send, and procure for him."

"Ef ye're boun' to stay then," rejoined Zeb, relentingly, as if some new thought was causing him to consent, "I won't interfere to say, no. But don't you mind what he'll be palaverin' about. Ye may hear some queer talk out o' him, beout a man bein' murdered, an the like. That's natral for any one as is dulleerious. Don't be skeeart at it. Beside, ye may hear him talkin' a deal about a woman, as he's got upon his mind."

"A woman!"

"Jest so. Ye'll hear him make mention o' her name."

"Her name! Senor, what name?"

"Wal, it air the name o' his sister, I reck'n. Fact, I'm sure o' it bein' his sister."

"Oh! Misther Stump. If yez be spakin' av Masther Maurice--"

"Shut up, ye durned fool! What is't to you what I'm speakin' beout? You can't unnerstan sech things. Kum along!" he continued, moving off, and motioning the Connemara man to follow him. "I want ye a leetle way wi' me. I killed a rattle as I wur goin' up the crik, an left it thur. Kum you, an toat it back to the shanty hyur, lest some varmint may make away wi' it; an lest, arter all, I moutn't strike turkey agin."

"A rattle. Div yez mane a rattle-snake?"

"An' what shed I mean?"

"Shure, Misther Stump, yez wudn't ate a snake. Lard! wudn't it poison yez?"

"Pisen be durned! Didn't I cut the pisen out, soon 's I killed the critter, by cuttin' off o' its head?"

"Trath! an for all that, I wudn't ate a morsel av it, if I was starvin'."

"Sturve, an be durned to ye! Who axes ye to eet it. I only want ye to toat it home. Kum then, an do as I tell ye; or dog-goned, ef I don't make ye eet the head o' the reptile,--pisen, fangs an all!"

"Be japers, Misther Stump, I didn't mane to disobey you at all--at all. Shure it's Phaylim O'Nale that's reddy to do your biddin' anyhow. I'm wid ye for fwhativer yez want; aven to swallowin the snake whole. Saint Pathrick forgive me!"

"Saint Patrick be durned! Kum along!"

Phelim made no farther remonstrance; but, striking into the tracks of the backwoodsman, followed him through the wood.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion!

Worse than scorpion's sting was that which had caused her to spring back.

And yet 'twas but a word--a little word--of only two syllables!

There was nothing strange in this. Oft, on one word--that soft short syllabic "Yes"--rests the happiness of a life; while oft, too oft, the harsher negative is the prelude to a world of war!

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

ANOTHER WHO CANNOT REST.

A dark day for Louise Poindexter--perhaps the darkest in the calendar of her life--was that in which she released Don Miguel Diaz from the lazo.

Sorrow for a brother's loss, with fears for a lover's safety, were yesterday commingled in the cup. To-day it was further embittered by the blackest passion of all--jealousy. Grief--fear--jealousy--what must be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent? A tumult of terrible imaginings.

So was it in the bosom of Louise Poindexter after deciphering the epistle which contained written evidence of her lover's disloyalty.

True, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive.

But in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young Creole did not reason thus. In the wording of the letter there was strong presumption, that the relationship between Maurice Gerald and the Mexican was of a more affectionate character than he had represented it to be--that he had, in fact, been practising a deception.

Why should _that_ woman write to him in such free strain--giving bold, almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: "_Essos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos_?"

These were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient passion. As such only could the Creole understand them: since they were but a paraphrase of her own feelings.

And then there was the appointment itself--solicited, it is true, in the shape of a request. But this was mere courtesy--the coquetry of an accomplished _maitresse_. Moreover, the tone of solicitation was abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a positive command: "Come, sir! come!"

Something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this. A spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,--and the stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it had fallen.

"Ah, me!" reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, "I see it all now. 'Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, `the hill above my uncle's house'--slightly described, but well understood--oft visited before."

Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair. Her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor--like it, crushed and ruined.

For a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation. Wild emotions passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves. Among others she thought of her beloved Louisiana--of going back there to bury her secret sorrow in the cloisters of the _Sacre Coeur_. Had the Creole convent been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum within its sacred walls. In very truth was it the darkest day of her existence. After long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer, while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone. The letter was re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration.

There was still a hope--the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might _not_ be in the Settlement.

It was at best but a faint ray. Surely _she_ should know--she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it? Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour.

It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the position of Louise Poindexter. But no other course appeared open to her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel--on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!

As the men of the place were all absent--some on the track of the assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. But he knew it not as such. It was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories addressed to him.

Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.

On hearing she was not the first of her sex who had that day made inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.

A night was spent in the agony of unrest--sleep only obtained in short snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.

Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.

It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo alone; and this was her determination.

There was no one to stay her--none to say nay. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. No report had come back to Casa del Corvo. She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.

But it may be easily guessed. Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere suspicion. Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it to that state of helpless submission. Unsatisfied it could no longer exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.

She might find peace--she might chance upon ruin. Even the last appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.

How like to the reasoning of her rival!

It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do it. It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. Talk to the tigress when frenzied by a similar feeling. With a love unhallowed, the will of the Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American Creole, when stirred by its holiest passion. It acknowledges no right of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death.

It is a spirit rare upon earth. In its tranquil state, soft as the rays of the Aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and perilous as the light of Lucifer!

Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type. Where love was the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain. Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or compatible with her existence. She must find proofs to destroy, or confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.

Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be sought upon the Alamo.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie already known to her.

On passing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.

These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved, to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!

Ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful contemplation of his treachery.

From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty miles. It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling-- that is in the saddle. To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.

Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of her rider.

Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had scarce reached the point of despair. Through her sadness there still shone a scintillation of hope.

It was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the _jacale_; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain.

_There was a woman within the hut_!

From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the other--so alike were they in anguish.

Like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from Isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been pronounced--the "Louise" so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain.

To the young Creole the case was clear--painfully clear. She saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, _had been kept_. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party--Maurice Gerald? That would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.

Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice Gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech.

Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora--equally agonising. She already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her!

Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two stood eyeing each other.

Alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!

Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort--those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!

It was an attitude of silent hostility--all the more terrible for its silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.

Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.

It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other's dress. The same thought was in her heart--perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.

The grey horse stood nearest--the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount--the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.

Glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful "_carajo_!"--a fearful phrase from female lips-- was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.