The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

The Headless Horseman

Prologue

The stag of Texas[1], reclining in midnight lair, is startled from his slumbers by the hoofstroke of a horse.

He does not forsake his covert, nor yet rise to his feet. His domain is shared by the wild steeds of the savannah[2], given to nocturnal straying. He only uprears his head; and, with antlers o’ertopping the tall grass, listens for a repetition of the sound.

Again is the hoofstroke heard, but with altered intonation. There is a ring of metal – the clinking of steel against stone.

The sound, significant to the ear of the stag, causes a quick change in his air and attitude. Springing clear of his couch, and bounding a score of yards across the prairie[3], he pauses to look back upon the disturber of his dreams.

In the clear moonlight of a southern sky, he recognises the most ruthless of his enemies – man. One is approaching upon horseback.

Yielding to instinctive dread, he is about to resume his flight: when something in the appearance of the horseman – some unnatural seeming – holds him transfixed to the spot.

With haunches in quivering contact with the sward, and frontlet faced to the rear, he continues to gaze – his large brown eyes straining upon the intruder in a mingled expression of fear and bewilderment.

What has challenged the stag to such protracted scrutiny?

The horse is perfect in all its parts – a splendid steed, saddled, bridled, and otherwise completely caparisoned. In it there appears nothing amiss – nothing to produce either wonder or alarm. But the man – the rider? Ah! About him there is something to cause both – something weird – something wanting!

By heavens! it is the head!

Even the unreasoning animal can perceive this; and, after gazing a moment with wildered eyes – wondering what abnormal monster thus mocks its cervine intelligence – terror-stricken it continues its retreat; nor again pauses, till it has plunged through the waters of the Leona[4], and placed the current of the stream between itself and the ghastly intruder.

Heedless of the affrighted deer – either of its presence, or precipitate flight – the Headless Horseman rides on.

He, too, is going in the direction of the river. Unlike the stag, he does not seem pressed for time; but advances in a slow, tranquil pace: so silent as to seem ceremonious.

Apparently absorbed in solemn thought, he gives free rein to his steed: permitting the animal, at intervals, to snatch a mouthful of the herbage growing by the way. Nor does he, by voice or gesture, urge it impatiently onward, when the howl-bark of the prairie-wolf causes it to fling its head on high, and stand snorting in its tracks.

He appears to be under the influence of some all-absorbing emotion, from which no common incident can awake him. There is no speech – not a whisper – to betray its nature. The startled stag, his own horse, the wolf, and the midnight moon, are the sole witnesses of his silent abstraction.

His shoulders shrouded under a serape[5], one edge of which, flirted up by the wind, displays a portion of his figure: his limbs encased in “water-guards” of jaguar-skin: thus sufficiently sheltered against the dews of the night, or the showers of a tropical sky, he rides on – silent as the stars shining above, unconcerned as the cicada[6] that chirrups in the grass beneath, or the prairie breeze playing with the drapery of his dress.

Something at length appears to rouse from his reverie, and stimulate him to greater speed – his steed, at the same time. The latter, tossing up its head, gives utterance to a joyous neigh; and, with outstretched neck, and spread nostrils, advances in a gait gradually increasing to a canter. The proximity of the river explains the altered pace.

The horse halts not again, till the crystal current is surging against his flanks, and the legs of his rider are submerged knee-deep under the surface.

The animal eagerly assuages its thirst; crosses to the opposite side; and, with vigorous stride, ascends the sloping bank.

Upon the crest occurs a pause: as if the rider tarried till his steed should shake the water from its flanks. There is a rattling of saddle-flaps, and stirrup-leathers, resembling thunder, amidst a cloud of vapour, white as the spray of a cataract.

Out of this self-constituted nimbus[7], the Headless Horseman emerges; and moves onward, as before.

Apparently pricked by the spur, and guided by the rein, of his rider, the horse no longer strays from the track; but steps briskly forward, as if upon a path already trodden.

A treeless savannah stretches before – selvedged by the sky. Outlined against the azure[8] is seen the imperfect centaurean[9] shape gradually dissolving in the distance, till it becomes lost to view, under the mystic gloaming of the moonlight!

Chapter 1

The Burnt Prairie

On the great plain of Texas, about a hundred miles southward from the old Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar[10], the noonday sun is shedding his beams from a sky of cerulean brightness. Under the golden light appears a group of objects, but little in unison with the landscape around them: since they betoken the presence of human beings, in a spot where there is no sign of human habitation.

The objects in question are easily identified – even at a great distance. They are waggons; each covered with its ribbed and rounded tilt of snow-white “Osnaburgh[11].”

There are ten of them – scarce enough to constitute a “caravan” of traders, nor yet a “government train.” They are more likely the individual property of an emigrant; who has landed upon the coast, and is wending his way to one of the late-formed settlements on the Leona.

Slowly crawling across the savannah, it could scarce be told that they are in motion; but for their relative-position, in long serried line, indicating the order of march.

The dark bodies between each two declare that the teams are attached; and that they are making progress is proved, by the retreating antelope, scared from its noonday siesta, and the long-shanked curlew, rising with a screech from the sward – both bird and beast wondering at the string of strange behemoths, thus invading their wilderness domain.

Elsewhere upon the prairie, no movement may be detected – either of bird or quadruped. It is the time of day when all tropical life becomes torpid, or seeks repose in the shade; man alone, stimulated by the love of gain, or the promptings of ambition, disregarding the laws of nature, and defying the fervour of the sun.

So seems it with the owner of the tilted train; who, despite the relaxing influence of the fierce mid-day heat, keeps moving on.

That he is an emigrant – and not one of the ordinary class – is evidenced in a variety of ways. The ten large waggons of Pittsburgh[12] build, each hauled by eight able-bodied mules; their miscellaneous contents: plenteous provisions, articles of costly furniture, even of luxe, live stock in the shape of coloured women and children; the groups of black and yellow bondsmen, walking alongside, or straggling foot-sore in the rear; the light travelling carriage in the lead, drawn by a span of sleek-coated Kentucky[13] mules, and driven by a black Jehu[14], sweltering in a suit of livery; all bespeak, not a poor Northern-States settler in search of a new home, but a rich Southerner who has already purchased one, and is on his way to take possession of it.

And this is the exact story of the train. It is the property of a planter who has landed at Indianola[15], on the Gulf of Matagorda[16]; and is now travelling overland – en route[17] for his destination.

In the cortège[18] that accompanies it, riding habitually at its head, is the planter himself – Woodley Poindexter – a tall thin man of fifty, with a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe. He is simply though not inexpensively clad: in a loosely fitting frock of alpaca cloth, a waistcoat of black satin, and trousers of nankin[19]. A shirt of finest linen shows its plaits through the opening of his vest – its collar embraced by a piece of black ribbon; while the shoe, resting in his stirrup, is of finest tanned leather. His features are shaded by a broad-brimmed Leghorn hat[20].

Two horsemen are riding alongside – one on his right, the other on the left – a stripling scarce twenty, and a young man six or seven years older. The former is his son – a youth, whose open cheerful countenance contrasts, not only with the severe aspect of his father, but with the somewhat sinister features on the other side, and which belong to his cousin.

The youth is dressed in a French blouse of sky-coloured “cottonade,” with trousers of the same material; a most appropriate costume for a southern climate, and which, with the Panama hat[21] upon his head, is equally becoming.

The cousin, an ex-officer of volunteers, affects a military undress of dark blue cloth, with a forage cap to correspond.

There is another horseman riding near, who, only on account of having a white skin – not white for all that – is entitled to description. His coarser features, and cheaper habiliments; the keel-coloured “cowhide” clutched in his right hand, and flirted with such evident skill, proclaim him the overseer – and whipper up – of the swarthy pedestrians composing the entourage[22] of the train.

The travelling carriage, which is a “carriole[23]” – a sort of cross between a Jersey waggon[24] and a barouche[25] – has two occupants. One is a young lady of the whitest skin; the other a girl of the blackest. The former is the daughter of Woodley Poindexter – his only daughter. She of the sable complexion is the young lady’s handmaid.

The emigrating party is from the “coast” of the Mississippi[26] – from Louisiana[27]. The planter is not himself a native of this State – in other words a Creole[28]; but the type is exhibited in the countenance of his son – still more in that fair face, seen occasionally through the curtains of the carriole, and whose delicate features declare descent from one of those endorsed damsels – filles à la casette – who, more than a hundred years ago, came across the Atlantic provided with proofs of their virtue – in the casket!

A grand sugar planter of the South is Woodley Poindexter; one of the highest and haughtiest of his class; one of the most profuse in aristocratic hospitalities: hence the necessity of forsaking his Mississippian home, and transferring himself and his “penates[29],” – with only a remnant of his “niggers,” – to the wilds of south-western Texas.

The sun is upon the meridian line, and almost in the zenith. The travellers tread upon their own shadows. Enervated by the excessive heat, the white horsemen sit silently in their saddles. Even the dusky pedestrians, less sensible to its influence, have ceased their garrulous “gumbo;” and, in straggling groups, shamble listlessly along in the rear of the waggons.

The silence – solemn as that of a funereal procession – is interrupted only at intervals by the pistol-like crack of a whip, or the loud “wo-ha,” delivered in deep baritone from the thick lips of some sable teamster.

Slowly the train moves on, as if groping its way. There is no regular road. The route is indicated by the wheel-marks of some vehicles that have passed before – barely conspicuous, by having crushed the culms of the shot grass.

Notwithstanding the slow progress, the teams are doing their best. The planter believes himself within less than twenty miles of the end of his journey. He hopes to reach it before night: hence the march continued through the mid-day heat.

Unexpectedly the drivers are directed to pull up, by a sign from the overseer; who has been riding a hundred yards in the advance, and who is seen to make a sudden stop – as if some obstruction had presented itself.

He comes trotting back towards the train. His gestures tell of something amiss. What is it?

There has been much talk about Indians – of a probability of their being encountered in this quarter.

Can it be the red-skinned marauders? Scarcely: the gestures of the overseer do not betray actual alarm.

“What is it, Mr Sansom?” asked the planter, as the man rode up.

“The grass air burnt. The prairy’s been afire.”

“Been on fire! Is it on fire now?” hurriedly inquired the owner of the waggons, with an apprehensive glance towards the travelling carriage. “Where? I see no smoke!”

“No, sir – no,” stammered the overseer, becoming conscious that he had caused unnecessary alarm; “I didn’t say it air afire now: only thet it hez been, an the hul ground air as black as the ten o’ spades.”

“Ta – tat! what of that? I suppose we can travel over a black prairie, as safely as a green one?

“What nonsense of you, Josh Sansom, to raise such a row about nothing – frightening people out of their senses! Ho! there, you niggers! Lay the leather to your teams, and let the train proceed. Whip up! – whip up!”

“But, Captain Calhoun,” protested the overseer, in response to the gentleman who had reproached him in such chaste terms; “how air we to find the way?”

“Find the way! What are you raving about? We haven’t lost it – have we?”

“I’m afeerd we hev, though. The wheel-tracks ain’t no longer to be seen. They’re burnt out, along wi’ the grass.”

“What matters that? I reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie, without wheel-marks to guide us? We’ll find them again on the other side.”

“Ye-es,” naïvely responded the overseer, who, although a “down-easter,” had been far enough west to have learnt something of frontier life; “if theer air any other side. I kedn’t see it out o’ the seddle – ne’er a sign o’ it.”

“Whip up, niggers! whip up!” shouted Calhoun, without heeding the remark; and spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed.

The teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of the burnt tract, without instructions from any one, are once more brought to a stand.

The white men on horseback draw together for a consultation. There is need: as all are satisfied by a single glance directed to the ground before them.

Far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour – black as Erebus[30]. There is nothing green – not a blade of grass – not a reed nor weed!

It is after the summer solstice. The ripened culms of the gramineae[31], and the stalks of the prairie flowers, have alike crumbled into dust under the devastating breath of fire.

In front – on the right and left – to the utmost verge of vision extends the scene of desolation. Over it the cerulean sky is changed to a darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than shine – as if reciprocating the frown of the earth.

The overseer has made a correct report – there is no trail visible. The action of the fire, as it raged among the ripe grass, has eliminated the impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route. “What are we to do?”

The planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a vacillating spirit.

“Do, uncle Woodley! What else but keep straight on? The river must be on the other side? If we don’t hit the crossing, to a half mile or so, we can go up, or down the bank – as the case may require.”

“But, Cassius: if we should lose our way?”

“We can’t. There’s but a patch of this, I suppose? If we do go a little astray, we must come out somewhere – on one side, or the other.”

“Well, nephew, you know best: I shall be guided by you.”

“No fear, uncle. I’ve made my way out of a worse fix than this. Drive on, niggers! Keep straight after me.”

The ex-officer of volunteers, casting a conceited glance towards the travelling carriage – through the curtains of which appears a fair face, slightly shadowed with anxiety – gives the spur to his horse; and with confident air trots onward.

A chorus of whipcracks is succeeded by the trampling of fourscore mules, mingled with the clanking of wheels against their hubs. The waggon-train is once more in motion.

The mules step out with greater rapidity. The sable surface, strange to their eyes, excites them to brisker action – causing them to raise the hoof, as soon as it touches the turf. The younger animals show fear – snorting, as they advance.

In time their apprehensions become allayed; and, taking the cue from their older associates, they move on steadily as before.

A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of starting. Then there is a halt. The self-appointed guide has ordered it. He has reined up his horse; and is sitting in the saddle with less show of confidence. He appears to be puzzled about the direction.

The landscape – if such it may be called – has assumed a change; though not for the better. It is still sable as ever, to the verge of the horizon. But the surface is no longer a plain: it rolls. There are ridges – gentle undulations – with valleys between. They are not entirely treeless – though nothing that may be termed a tree is in sight. There have been such, before the fire – algarobias[32], mezquites[33], and others of the acacia family – standing solitary, or in copses. Their light pinnate foliage has disappeared like flax before the flame. Their existence is only evidenced by charred trunks, and blackened boughs.

“You’ve lost the way, nephew?” said the planter, riding rapidly up.

“No uncle – not yet. I’ve only stopped to have a look. It must lie in this direction – down that valley. Let them drive on. We’re going all right – I’ll answer for it.”

Once more in motion – adown the slope – then along the valley – then up the acclivity of another ridge – and then there is a second stoppage upon its crest.

“You’ve lost the way, Cash?” said the planter, coming up and repeating his former observation.

“Damned if I don’t believe I have, uncle!” responded the nephew, in a tone of not very respectful mistrust. “Anyhow; who the devil could find his way out of an ashpit like this? No, no!” he continued, reluctant to betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up. “I see now. We’re all right yet. The river must be in this direction. Come on!”

On goes the guide, evidently irresolute. On follow the sable teamsters, who, despite their stolidity, do not fail to note some signs of vacillation. They can tell that they are no longer advancing in a direct line; but circuitously among the copses, and across the glades that stretch between.

All are gratified by a shout from the conductor, announcing recovered confidence. In response there is a universal explosion of whipcord, with joyous exclamations.

Once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road – where a half-score of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them. And not long before: the wheel-tracks are of recent impress – the hoof-prints of the animals fresh as if made within the hour. A train of waggons, not unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie!

Like themselves, it could only be going towards the Leona: perhaps some government convoy on its way to Fort Inge[34]? In that case they have only to keep in the same track. The Fort is on the line of their march – but a short distance beyond the point where their journey is to terminate.

Nothing could be more opportune. The guide, hitherto perplexed – though without acknowledging it – is at once relieved of all anxiety; and with a fresh exhibition of conceit, orders the route to be resumed.

For a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed – not in a direct line, but bending about among the skeleton copses. The countenance of Cassius Calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes clouded. It assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have been made by ten Pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole – the same that are now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling all the way from the Gulf of Matagorda!

Chapter 2

The Trail of the Lazo

[35]

Beyond doubt, the waggons of Woodley Poindexter were going over ground already traced by the tiring of their wheels.

“Our own tracks!” muttered Calhoun on making the discovery, adding a fierce oath as he reined up.

“Our own tracks! What mean you, Cassius? You don’t say we’ve been travelling – ”

“On our own tracks. I do, uncle; that very thing. We must have made a complete circumbendibus of it. See! here’s the hind hoof of my own horse, with half a shoe off; and there’s the foot of the niggers. Besides, I can tell the ground. That’s the very hill we went down as we left our last stopping place. Hang the crooked luck! We’ve made a couple of miles for nothing.”

Embarrassment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the speaker. It has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame. It is through him that the train is without a regular guide. One, engaged at Indianola, had piloted them to their last camping place. There, in consequence of some dispute, due to the surly temper of the ex-captain of volunteers, the man had demanded his dismissal, and gone back.

For this – as also for an ill-timed display of confidence in his power to conduct the march – is the planter’s nephew now suffering under a sense of shame. He feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes become witnesses of his discomfiture.

Poindexter does not repeat his inquiry. That the road is lost is a fact evident to all. Even the barefooted or “broganned” pedestrians have recognised their long-heeled footprints, and become aware that they are for the second time treading upon the same ground.

There is a general halt, succeeded by an animated conversation among the white men. The situation is serious: the planter himself believes it to be so. He cannot that day reach the end of his journey – a thing upon which he had set his mind.

That is the very least misfortune that can befall them. There are others possible, and probable. There are perils upon the burnt plain. They may be compelled to spend the night upon it, with no water for their animals. Perhaps a second day and night – or longer – who can tell how long?

How are they to find their way? The sun is beginning to descend; though still too high in heaven to indicate his line of declination. By waiting a while they may discover the quarters of the compass.

But to what purpose? The knowledge of east, west, north, and south can avail nothing now: they have lost their line of march.

Calhoun has become cautious. He no longer volunteers to point out the path. He hesitates to repeat his pioneering experiments – after such manifest and shameful failure.

A ten minutes’ discussion terminates in nothing. No one can suggest a feasible plan of proceeding. No one knows how to escape from the embrace of that dark desert, which appears to cloud not only the sun and sky, but the countenances of all who enter within its limits.

A flock of black vultures is seen flying afar off. They come nearer, and nearer. Some alight upon the ground – others hover above the heads of the strayed travellers. Is there a boding in the behaviour of the birds?

Another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom. Then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness re-assume its sway. The cause? A horseman riding in the direction of the train!

An unexpected sight: who could have looked for human being in such a place? All eyes simultaneously sparkle with joy; as if, in the approach of the horseman, they beheld the advent of a saviour!

“He’s coming this way, is he not?” inquired the planter, scarce confident in his failing sight.

“Yes, father; straight as he can ride,” replied Henry, lifting the hat from his head, and waving it on high: the action accompanied by a shout intended to attract the horseman.

The signal was superfluous. The stranger had already sighted the halted waggons; and, riding towards them at a gallop, was soon within speaking distance.

He did not draw bridle, until he had passed the train; and arrived upon the spot occupied by the planter and his party.

“A Mexican!” whispered Henry, drawing his deduction from the habiliments of the horseman.

“So much the better,” replied Poindexter, in the same tone of voice; “he’ll be all the more likely to know the road.”

“Not a bit of Mexican about him,” muttered Calhoun, “excepting the rig. I’ll soon see. Buenos días, cavallero! Está V. Mexicano?” (Good day, sir! are you a Mexican?)

“No, indeed,” replied the stranger, with a protesting smile. “Anything but that. I can speak to you in Spanish, if you prefer it; but I dare say you will understand me better in English: which, I presume, is your native tongue?”

Calhoun, suspecting that he had spoken indifferent Spanish, or indifferently pronounced it, refrains from making rejoinder.

“American, sir,” replied Poindexter, his national pride feeling slightly piqued. Then, as if fearing to offend the man from whom he intended asking a favour, he added: “Yes, sir; we are all Americans – from the Southern States.”

“That I can perceive by your following.” An expression of contempt – scarce perceptible – showed itself upon the countenance of the speaker, as his eye rested upon the groups of black bondsmen. “I can perceive, too,” he added, “that you are strangers to prairie travelling. You have lost your way?”

“We have, sir; and have very little prospect of recovering it, unless we may count upon your kindness to direct us.”

“Not much kindness in that. By the merest chance I came upon your trail, as I was crossing the prairie. I saw you were going astray; and have ridden this way to set you right.”

“It is very good of you. We shall be most thankful, sir. My name is Poindexter – Woodley Poindexter, of Louisiana. I have purchased a property on the Leona river, near Fort Inge. We were in hopes of reaching it before nightfall. Can we do so?”

“There is nothing to hinder you: if you follow the instructions I shall give.”

On saying this, the stranger rode a few paces apart; and appeared to scrutinise the country – as if to determine the direction which the travellers should take.

Poised conspicuously upon the crest of the ridge, horse and man presented a picture worthy of skilful delineation.

A steed, such as might have been ridden by an Arab sheik – blood-bay in colour – broad in counter – with limbs clean as culms of cane, and hips of elliptical outline, continued into a magnificent tail sweeping rearward like a rainbow: on his back a rider – a young man of not more than five-and-twenty – of noble form and features; habited in the picturesque costume of a Mexican ranchero[36] – spencer jacket of velveteen – calzoneros[37] laced along the seams – calzoncillos[38] of snow-white lawn – botas[39] of buff leather, heavily spurred at the heels – around the waist a scarf of scarlet crape; and on his head a hat of black glaze, banded with gold bullion. Picture to yourself a horseman thus habited; seated in a deep tree-saddle, of Moorish[40] shape and Mexican manufacture, with housings of leather stamped in antique patterns, such as were worn by the caparisoned steeds of the Conquistadores[41]; picture to yourself such a cavallero[42], and you will have before your mind’s eye a counterpart of him, upon whom the planter and his people were gazing.

Through the curtains of the travelling carriage he was regarded with glances that spoke of a singular sentiment. For the first time in her life, Louise Poindexter looked upon that – hitherto known only to her imagination – a man of heroic mould. Proud might he have been, could he have guessed the interest which his presence was exciting in the breast of the young Creole.

He could not, and did not. He was not even aware of her existence. He had only glanced at the dust-bedaubed vehicle in passing – as one might look upon the rude incrustation of an oyster, without suspecting that a precious pearl may lie gleaming inside.

“By my faith!” he declared, facing round to the owner of the waggons, “I can discover no landmarks for you to steer by. For all that, I can find the way myself. You will have to cross the Leona five miles below the Fort; and, as I have to go by the crossing myself, you can follow the tracks of my horse. Good day, gentlemen!”

Thus abruptly bidding adieu, he pressed the spur against the side of his steed; and started off at a gallop.

An unexpected – almost uncourteous departure! So thought the planter and his people.

They had no time to make observations upon it, before the stranger was seen returning towards them!

In ten seconds he was again in their presence – all listening to learn what had brought him back.

“I fear the tracks of my horse may prove of little service to you. The mustangs[43] have been this way, since the fire. They have made hoof-marks by the thousand. Mine are shod; but, as you are not accustomed to trailing, you may not be able to distinguish them – the more so, that in these dry ashes all horse-tracks are so nearly alike.”

“What are we to do?” despairingly asked the planter.

“I am sorry, Mr Poindexter, I cannot stay to conduct you, I am riding express, with a despatch for the Fort. If you should lose my trail, keep the sun on your right shoulders: so that your shadows may fall to the left, at an angle of about fifteen degrees to your line of march. Go straight forward for about five miles. You will then come in sight of the top of a tall tree – a cypress. You will know it by its leaves being in the red. Head direct for this tree. It stands on the bank of the river; and close by is the crossing.”

The young horseman, once more drawing up his reins, was about to ride off; when something caused him to linger. It was a pair of dark lustrous eyes – observed by him for the first time – glancing through the curtains of the travelling carriage.

Their owner was in shadow; but there was light enough to show that they were set in a countenance of surpassing loveliness. He perceived, moreover, that they were turned upon himself – fixed, as he fancied, in an expression that betokened interest – almost tenderness!

He returned it with an involuntary glance of admiration, which he made but an awkward attempt to conceal. Lest it might be mistaken for rudeness, he suddenly faced round; and once more addressed himself to the planter – who had just finished thanking him for his civility.

“I am but ill deserving thanks,” was his rejoinder, “thus to leave you with a chance of losing your way. But, as I’ve told you, my time is measured.”

The despatch-bearer consulted his watch – as though not a little reluctant to travel alone.

“You are very kind, sir,” said Poindexter; “but with the directions you have given us, I think we shall be able to manage. The sun will surely show us – ”

“No: now I look at the sky, it will not. There are clouds looming up on the north. In an hour, the sun may be obscured – at all events, before you can get within sight of the cypress. It will not do. Stay!” he continued, after a reflective pause, “I have a better plan still: follow the trail of my lazo!”

While speaking, he had lifted the coiled rope from his saddlebow, and flung the loose end to the earth – the other being secured to a ring in the pommel. Then raising his hat in graceful salutation – more than half directed towards the travelling carriage – he gave the spur to his steed; and once more bounded off over the prairie.

The lazo, lengthening out, tightened over the hips of his horse; and, dragging a dozen yards behind, left a line upon the cinereous surface – as if some slender serpent had been making its passage across the plain.

“An exceedingly curious fellow!” remarked the planter, as they stood gazing after the horseman, fast becoming hidden behind a cloud of sable dust. “I ought to have asked him his name?”

“An exceedingly conceited fellow, I should say,” muttered Calhoun; who had not failed to notice the glance sent by the stranger in the direction of the carriole, nor that which had challenged it. “As to his name, I don’t think it matters much. It mightn’t be his own he would give you. Texas is full of such swells, who take new names when they get here – by way of improvement, if for no better reason.”

“Come, cousin Cash,” protested young Poindexter; “you are unjust to the stranger. He appears to be educated – in fact, a gentleman – worthy of bearing the best of names, I should say.”

“A gentleman! Deuced unlikely: rigged out in that fanfaron fashion. I never saw a man yet, that took to a Mexican dress, who wasn’t a Jack[44]. He’s one, I’ll be bound.”

During this brief conversation, the fair occupant of the carriole was seen to bend forward; and direct a look of evident interest, after the form of the horseman fast receding from her view.

To this, perhaps, might have been traced the acrimony observable in the speech of Calhoun.

“What is it, Loo?” he inquired, riding close up to the carriage, and speaking in a voice not loud enough to be heard by the others. “You appear impatient to go forward? Perhaps you’d like to ride off along with that swaggering fellow? It isn’t too late: I’ll lend you my horse.”

The young girl threw herself back upon the seat – evidently displeased, both by the speech and the tone in which it was delivered. But her displeasure, instead of expressing itself in a frown, or in the shape of an indignant rejoinder, was concealed under a guise far more galling to him who had caused it. A clear ringing laugh was the only reply vouchsafed to him.

“So, so! I thought there must be something – by the way you behaved yourself in his presence. You looked as if you would have relished a tête-à-tête[45] with this showy despatch-bearer. Taken with his stylish dress, I suppose? Fine feathers make fine birds. His are borrowed. I may strip them off some day, along with a little of the skin that’s under them.”

“For shame, Cassius! your words are a scandal!”

“’Tis you should think of scandal, Loo! To let your thoughts turn on a common scamp – a masquerading fellow like that! No doubt the letter carrier, employed by the officers at the Fort!”

“A letter carrier, you think? Oh, how I should like to get love letters by such a postman!”

“You had better hasten on, and tell him so. My horse is at your service.”

“Ha! ha! ha! What a simpleton you show yourself! Suppose, for jesting’s sake, I did have a fancy to overtake this prairie postman! It couldn’t be done upon that dull steed of yours: not a bit of it! At the rate he is going, he and his blood-bay will be out of sight before you could change saddles for me. Oh, no! he’s not to be overtaken by me, however much I might like it; and perhaps I might like it!”

“Don’t let your father hear you talk in that way.”

“Don’t let him hear you talk in that way,” retorted the young lady, for the first time speaking in a serious strain. “Though you are my cousin, and papa may think you the pink of perfection, I don’t – not I! I never told you I did – did I?” A frown, evidently called forth by some unsatisfactory reflection, was the only reply to this tantalising interrogative.

“You are my cousin,” she continued, in a tone that contrasted strangely with the levity she had already exhibited, “but you are nothing more – nothing more – Captain Cassius Calhoun! You have no claim to be my counsellor. There is but one from whom I am in duty bound to take advice, or bear reproach. I therefore beg of you, Master Cash, that you will not again presume to repeat such sentiments – as those you have just favoured me with. I shall remain mistress of my own thoughts – and actions, too – till I have found a master who can control them. It is not you!”

Having delivered this speech, with eyes flashing – half angrily, half contemptuously – upon her cousin, the young Creole once more threw herself back upon the cushions of the carriole.

The closing curtains admonished the ex-officer, that further conversation was not desired.

Quailing under the lash of indignant innocence, he was only too happy to hear the loud “gee-on” of the teamsters, as the waggons commenced moving over the sombre surface – not more sombre than his own thoughts.

Chapter 3

The Prairie Finger-Post

The travellers felt no further uneasiness about the route. The snake-like trail was continuous; and so plain that a child might have followed it.

It did not run in a right line, but meandering among the thickets; at times turning out of the way, in places where the ground was clear of timber. This had evidently been done with an intent to avoid obstruction to the waggons: since at each of these windings the travellers could perceive that there were breaks, or other inequalities, in the surface.

“How very thoughtful of the young fellow!” remarked Poindexter. “I really feel regret at not having asked for his name. If he belong to the Fort, we shall see him again.”

“No doubt of it,” assented his son. “I hope we shall.”

His daughter, reclining in shadow, overheard the conjectural speech, as well as the rejoinder. She said nothing; but her glance towards Henry seemed to declare that her heart fondly echoed the hope.

Cheered by the prospect of soon terminating a toilsome journey – as also by the pleasant anticipation of beholding, before sunset, his new purchase – the planter was in one of his happiest moods. His aristocratic bosom was moved by an unusual amount of condescension, to all around him. He chatted familiarly with his overseer; stopped to crack a joke with “Uncle” Scipio, hobbling along on blistered heels; and encouraged “Aunt” Chloe in the transport of her piccaninny[46].

“Marvellous!” might the observer exclaim – misled by such exceptional interludes, so pathetically described by the scribblers in Lucifer[47]’s pay – “what a fine patriarchal institution is slavery, after all! After all we have said and done to abolish it! A waste of sympathy – sheer philanthropic folly to attempt the destruction of this ancient edifice – worthy corner-stone to a ‘chivalric’ nation! Oh, ye abolition fanatics! why do ye clamour against it? Know ye not that some must suffer – must work and starve – that others may enjoy the luxury of idleness? That some must be slaves, that others may be free?”

Such arguments – at which a world might weep – have been of late but too often urged. Woe to the man who speaks, and the nation that gives ear to them!

The planter’s high spirits were shared by his party, Calhoun alone excepted. They were reflected in the faces of his black bondsmen, who regarded him as the source, and dispenser, of their happiness, or misery – omnipotent – next to God. They loved him less than God, and feared him more; though he was by no means a bad master – that is, by comparison. He did not absolutely take delight in torturing them. He liked to see them well fed and clad – their epidermis shining with the exudation of its own oil. These signs bespoke the importance of their proprietor – himself. He was satisfied to let them off with an occasional “cow-hiding” – salutary, he would assure you; and in all his “stock” there was not one black skin marked with the mutilations of vengeance – a proud boast for a Mississippian slave-owner, and more than most could truthfully lay claim to.

In the presence of such an exemplary owner, no wonder that the cheerfulness was universal – or that the slaves should partake of their master’s joy, and give way to their garrulity.

It was not destined that this joyfulness should continue to the end of their journey. It was after a time interrupted – not suddenly, nor by any fault on the part of those indulging in it, but by causes and circumstances over which they had not the slightest control.

As the stranger had predicted: the sun ceased to be visible, before the cypress came in sight.

There was nothing in this to cause apprehension. The line of the lazo was conspicuous as ever; and they needed no guidance from the sun: only that his cloud-eclipse produced a corresponding effect upon their spirits.

“One might suppose it close upon nightfall,” observed the planter, drawing out his gold repeater, and glancing at its dial; “and yet it’s only three o’clock! Lucky the young fellow has left us such a sure guide. But for him, we might have floundered among these ashes till sundown; perhaps have been compelled to sleep upon them.”

“A black bed it would be,” jokingly rejoined Henry, with the design of rendering the conversation more cheerful. “Ugh! I should have such ugly dreams, were I to sleep upon it.”

“And I, too,” added his sister, protruding her pretty face through the curtains, and taking a survey of the surrounding scene: “I’m sure I should dream of Tartarus[48], and Pluto[49], and Proserpine[50], and – ”

“Hya! hya! hya!” grinned the black Jehu, on the box – enrolled in the plantation books as Pluto Poindexter – “De young missa dream ’bout me in de mids’ ob dis brack praira! Golly! dat am a good joke – berry! Hya! hya! hya!”

“Don’t be too sure, all of ye,” said the surly nephew, at this moment coming up, and taking part in the conversation – “don’t be too sure that you won’t have to make your beds upon it yet. I hope it may be no worse.”

“What mean you, Cash?” inquired the uncle.

“I mean, uncle, that that fellow’s been misleading us. I won’t say it for certain; but it looks ugly. We’ve come more than five miles – six, I should say – and where’s the tree? I’ve examined the horizon, with a pair of as good eyes as most have got, I reckon; and there isn’t such a thing in sight.”

“But why should the stranger have deceived us?”

“Ah – why? That’s just it. There may be more reasons than one.”

“Give us one, then!” challenged a silvery voice from the carriole. “We’re all ears to hear it!”

“You’re all ears to take in everything that’s told you by a stranger,” sneeringly replied Calhoun. “I suppose if I gave my reason, you’d be so charitable as to call it a false alarm!”

“That depends on its character, Master Cassius. I think you might venture to try us. We scarcely expect a false alarm from a soldier, as well as traveller, of your experience.”

Calhoun felt the taunt; and would probably have withheld the communication he had intended to make, but for Poindexter himself.

“Come, Cassius, explain yourself!” demanded the planter, in a tone of respectful authority. “You have said enough to excite something more than curiosity. For what reason should the young fellow be leading us astray?”

“Well, uncle,” answered the ex-officer, retreating a little from his original accusation, “I haven’t said for certain that he is; only that it looks like it.”

“In what way?”

“Well, one don’t know what may happen. Travelling parties as strong, and stronger than we, have been attacked on these plains, and plundered of every thing – murdered.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Louise, in a tone of terror, more affected than real.

“By Indians,” replied Poindexter.

“Ah – Indians, indeed! Sometimes it may be; and sometimes, too, they may be whites who play at that game – not all Mexican whites, neither. It only needs a bit of brown paint; a horsehair wig, with half a dozen feathers stuck into it; that, and plenty of hullabalooing[51]. If we were to be robbed by a party of white Indians, it wouldn’t be the first time the thing’s been done. We as good as half deserve it – for our greenness, in trusting too much to a stranger.”

“Good heavens, nephew! this is a serious accusation. Do you mean to say that the despatch-rider – if he be one – is leading us into – into an ambuscade[52]?”

“No, uncle; I don’t say that. I only say that such things have been done; and it’s possible he may.”

“But not probable,” emphatically interposed the voice from the carriole, in a tone tauntingly quizzical.

“No!” exclaimed the stripling Henry, who, although riding a few paces ahead, had overheard the conversation. “Your suspicions are unjust, cousin Cassius. I pronounce them a calumny. What’s more, I can prove them so. Look there!”

The youth had reined up his horse, and was pointing to an object placed conspicuously by the side of the path; which, before speaking, he had closely scrutinised. It was a tall plant of the columnar cactus, whose green succulent stem had escaped scathing by the fire.

It was not to the plant itself that Henry Poindexter directed the attention of his companions; but to a small white disc, of the form of a parallelogram, impaled upon one of its spines. No one accustomed to the usages of civilised life could mistake the “card.” It was one.

“Hear what’s written upon it!” continued the young man, riding nearer, and reading aloud the directions pencilled upon the bit of pasteboard.

“The cypress in sight!”

“Where?” inquired Poindexter.

“There’s a hand,” rejoined Henry, “with a finger pointing – no doubt in the direction of the tree.”

All eyes were instantly turned towards the quarter of the compass, indicated by the cipher on the card.

Had the sun been shining, the cypress might have been seen at the first glance. As it was, the sky – late of cerulean hue – was now of a leaden grey; and no straining of the eyes could detect anything along the horizon resembling the top of a tree.

“There’s nothing of the kind,” asserted Calhoun, with restored confidence, at the same time returning to his unworthy accusation. “It’s only a dodge – another link in the chain of tricks the scamp is playing us.”

“You mistake, cousin Cassius,” replied that same voice that had so often contradicted him. “Look through this lorgnette[53]! If you haven’t lost the sight of those superior eyes of yours, you’ll see something very like a tree – a tall tree – and a cypress, too, if ever there was one in the swamps of Louisiana.”

Calhoun disdained to take the opera glass from the hands of his cousin. He knew it would convict him: for he could not suppose she was telling an untruth.

Poindexter availed himself of its aid; and, adjusting the focus to his failing sight, was enabled to distinguish the red-leafed cypress, topping up over the edge of the prairie.

“It’s true,” he said: “the tree is there. The young fellow is honest: you’ve been wronging him, Cash. I didn’t think it likely he should have taken such a queer plan to make fools of us. He there! Mr Sansom! Direct your teamsters to drive on!”

Calhoun, not caring to continue the conversation, nor yet remain longer in company, spitefully spurred his horse, and trotted off over the prairie.

“Let me look at that card, Henry?” said Louise, speaking to her brother in a restrained voice. “I’m curious to see the cipher that has been of such service to us. Bring it away, brother: it can be of no further use where it is – now that we have sighted the tree.”

Henry, without the slightest suspicion of his sister’s motive for making the request, yielded obedience to it.

Releasing the piece of pasteboard from its impalement, he “chucked” it into her lap.

“Maurice Gerald!” muttered the young Creole, after deciphering the name upon the card. “Maurice Gerald!” she repeated, in apostrophic thought, as she deposited the piece of pasteboard in her bosom. “Whoever you are – whence you have come – whither you are going – what you may be – Henceforth there is a fate between us! I feel it – I know it – sure as there’s a sky above! Oh! how that sky lowers! Am I to take it as a type of this still untraced destiny?”

Chapter 4

The Black Norther

For some seconds, after surrendering herself to the Sybilline thoughts thus expressed, the young lady sate in silence – her white hands clasped across her temples, as if her whole soul was absorbed in an attempt, either to explain the past, or penetrate the future.

Her reverie – whatever might be its cause – was not of long duration. She was awakened from it, on hearing exclamations without – mingled with words that declared some object of apprehension.

She recognised her brother’s voice, speaking in tones that betokened alarm.

“Look, father! don’t you see them?”

“Where, Henry – where?”

“Yonder – behind the waggons. You see them now?”

“I do – though I can’t say what they are. They look like – like – ” Poindexter was puzzled for a simile – “I really don’t know what.”

“Waterspouts?” suggested the ex-captain, who, at sight of the strange objects, had condescended to rejoin the party around the carriole. “Surely it can’t be that? It’s too far from the sea. I never heard of their occurring on the prairies.”

“They are in motion, whatever they be,” said Henry. “See! they keep closing, and then going apart. But for that, one might mistake them for huge obelisks of black marble!”

“Giants, or ghouls[54]!” jokingly suggested Calhoun; “ogres[55] from some other world, who’ve taken a fancy to have a promenade on this abominable prairie!”

The ex-officer was only humorous with an effort. As well as the others, he was under the influence of an uneasy feeling.

And no wonder. Against the northern horizon had suddenly become upreared a number of ink-coloured columns – half a score of them – unlike anything ever seen before. They were not of regular columnar form, nor fixed in any way; but constantly changing size, shape, and place – now steadfast for a time – now gliding over the charred surface like giants upon skates – anon, bending and balancing towards one another in the most fantastic figurings!

It required no great effort of imagination, to fancy the Titans[56] of old, resuscitated on the prairies of Texas, leading a measure after some wild carousal in the company of Bacchus[57]!

In the proximity of phenomena never observed before – unearthly in their aspect – unknown to every individual of the party – it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm.

And such was the fact. A sense of danger pervaded every bosom. All were impressed with a belief: that they were in the presence of some peril of the prairies.

A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. The animals – mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand – the latter neighing and trembling – the former filling the air with their shrill screams.

These were not the only sounds. From the sable towers could be heard a hoarse swishing noise, that resembled the sough of a waterfall – at intervals breaking into reverberations like the roll of musketry[58], or the detonations of distant thunder!

These noises were gradually growing louder and more distinct. The danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!

Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers, Calhoun’s forming no exception. The ex-officer no longer pretended levity. The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!

At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief – despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered.

Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop – riding direct towards them.

The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. For all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.

The perceptions of woman are quicker than those of man: the young lady within the carriole was the first to identify him. “Onward!” he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. “On – on! as fast as you can drive!”

“What is it?” demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. “Is there a danger?”

“There is. I did not anticipate it, as I passed you. It was only after reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it.”

“Of what, sir?”

“The norther.”

“You mean the storm of that name?”

“I do.”

“I never heard of its being dangerous,” interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but – ”

“You’ll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, “I tell you, that you and your party are in peril. A norther is not always to be dreaded; but this one – look yonder! You see those black pillars?”

“We’ve been wondering – didn’t know what to make of them.”

“They’re nothing – only the precursors of the storm. Look beyond! Don’t you see a coal-black cloud spreading over the sky? That’s what you have to dread. I don’t wish to cause you unnecessary alarm: but I tell you, there’s death in yonder shadow! It’s in motion, and coming this way. You have no chance to escape it, except by speed. If you do not make haste, it will be too late. In ten minutes’ time you may be enveloped, and then – quick, sir, I entreat you! Order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can! The sky – heaven itself – commands you!”

The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. The order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed.

Terror, that inspired the animals equally with their drivers, rendered superfluous the use of the whip.

The travelling carriage, with the mounted men, moved in front, as before. The stranger alone threw himself in the rear – as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger.

At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.

Perceiving it, the planter approached, and accosted him with the inquiry:

“Is there still a danger?”

“I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative,” said he: “I had hopes that the wind might be the other way.”

“Wind, sir? There is none – that I can perceive.”

“Not here. Yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too – direct. By heavens! it is nearing us rapidly! I doubt if we shall be able to clear the burnt track.”

“What is to be done?” exclaimed the planter, terrified by the announcement.

“Are your mules doing their best?”

“They are: they could not be driven faster.”

“I fear we shall be too late, then!”

As the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns – as if calculating the rate at which they were advancing.

The lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than dissatisfaction.

“Yes: too late!” he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny. “They are moving faster than we – far faster. There is no hope of our escaping them!”

“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”

The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting – his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.

“Is there no chance of escape?” urged the planter, with the impatience of a man in presence of a great peril.

“There is!” joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. “There is a chance. I did not think of it before. We cannot shun the storm – the danger we may. Quick, Mr Poindexter! Order your men to muffle the mules – the horses too – otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. Blankets – cloaks – anything will do. When that’s done, let all seek shelter within the waggons. Let the tilts be closed at the ends. I shall myself look to the travelling carriage.”

Having delivered this chapter of instructions – which Poindexter, assisted by the overseer, hastened to direct the execution of – the young horseman galloped towards the front.

“Madame!” said he, reining up alongside the carriole, and speaking with as much suavity as the circumstances would admit of, “you must close the curtains all round. Your coachman will have to get inside; and you, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to Henry and Calhoun – “and you, sir;” to Poindexter, who had just come up. “There will be room for all. Inside, I beseech you! Lose no time. In a few seconds the storm will be upon us!”

“And you, sir?” inquired the planter, with a show of interest in the man who was making such exertions to secure them against some yet unascertained danger. “What of yourself?”

“Don’t waste a moment upon me. I know what’s coming. It isn’t the first time I have encountered it. In – in, I entreat you! You haven’t a second to spare. Listen to that shriek! Quick, or the dust-cloud will be around us!”

The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage.

Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle. Why should he skulk from a visionary danger, that did not deter a man in Mexican garb?

The latter turned away; as he did so, directing the overseer to get inside the nearest waggon – a direction which was obeyed with alacrity – and, for the first time, the stranger was left free to take care of himself.

Quickly unfolding his serape – hitherto strapped across the cantle of his saddle – he flung it over the head of his horse. Then, drawing the edges back, he fastened it, bag-fashion, around the animal’s neck. With equal alertness he undid his scarf of China crape[59]; and stretched it around his sombrero[60] – fixing it in such a way, that one edge was held under the bullion band, while the other dropped down over the brim – thus forming a silken visor for his face.

Before finally closing it, he turned once more towards the carriole; and, to his surprise, saw Calhoun still in the saddle. Humanity triumphed over a feeling of incipient aversion.

“Once again, sir, I adjure you to get inside! If you do not you’ll have cause to repent it. Within ten minutes’ time, you may be a dead man!”

The positive emphasis with which the caution was delivered produced its effect. In the presence of mortal foeman, Cassius Calhoun was no coward. But there was an enemy approaching that was not mortal – not in any way understood. It was already making itself manifest, in tones that resembled thunder – in shadows that mocked the darkness of midnight. Who would not have felt fear at the approach of a destroyer so declaring itself?

The ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance – intended to save appearances – he clambered into the carriage, and ensconced himself behind the closely-drawn curtains.

To describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen. No eye beheld the spectacle: for none dared look upon it. Even had this been possible, nothing could have been seen. In five minutes after the muffling of the mules, the train was enveloped in worse than Cimmerian[61] darkness.

The opening scene can alone be depicted: for that only was observed by the travellers. One of the sable columns, moving in the advance, broke as it came in collision with the waggon-tilts. Down came a shower of black dust, as if the sky had commenced raining gunpowder! It was a foretaste of what was to follow.

There was a short interval of open atmosphere – hot as the inside of an oven. Then succeeded puffs, and whirling gusts, of wind – cold as if projected from caves of ice, and accompanied by a noise as though all the trumpets of Aeolus[62] were announcing the advent of the Storm-King!

In another instant the norther was around them; and the waggon train, halted on a subtropical plain, was enveloped in an atmosphere, akin to that which congeals the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean!

Nothing more was seen – nothing heard, save the whistling of the wind, or its hoarse roaring, as it thundered against the tilts of the waggons. The mules having instinctively turned stern towards it, stood silent in their traces; and the voices of the travellers, in solemn converse inside, could not be distinguished amid the howling of the hurricane.

Every aperture had been closed: for it was soon discovered, that to show a face from under the sheltering canvas was to court suffocation. The air was surcharged with ashes, lifted aloft from the burnt plain, and reduced, by the whirling of the wind, to an impalpable but poisonous powder.

For over an hour did the atmosphere carry this cinereous cloud; during which period lasted the imprisonment of the travellers.

At length a voice, speaking close by the curtains of the carriole, announced their release.

“You can come forth!” said the stranger, the crape scarf thrown back above the brim of his hat. “You will still have the storm to contend against. It will last to the end of your journey; and, perhaps, for three days longer. But you have nothing further to fear. The ashes are all swept off. They’ve gone before you; and you’re not likely to overtake them this side the Rio Grande[63].”

“Sir!” said the planter, hastily descending the steps of the carriage, “we have to thank you for – for – ”

“Our lives, father!” cried Henry, supplying the proper words. “I hope, sir, you will favour us with your name?”

“Maurice Gerald!” returned the stranger; “though, at the Fort, you will find me better known as Maurice the mustanger[64].”

“A mustanger!” scornfully muttered Calhoun, but only loud enough to be heard by Louise.

“Only a mustanger!” reflected the aristocratic Poindexter, the fervour of his gratitude becoming sensibly chilled.

“For guide, you will no longer need either myself, or my lazo,” said the hunter of wild horses. “The cypress is in sight: keep straight towards it. After crossing, you will see the flag over the Fort. You may yet reach your journey’s end before night. I have no time to tarry; and must say adieu.”

Satan[65] himself, astride a Tartarean steed, could not have looked more like the devil than did Maurice the Mustanger, as he separated for the second time from the planter and his party. But neither his ashy envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, did aught to damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already predisposed in his favour – Louise Poindexter.

On hearing him declare his name – by presumption already known to her – she but more tenderly cherished the bit of cardboard, chafing against her snow-white bosom; at the same time muttering in soft pensive soliloquy, heard only by herself: —

“Maurice the mustanger! despite your sooty covering – despite your modest pretence – you have touched the heart of a Creole maiden. Mon Dieu[66] – mon Dieu! He is too like Lucifer for me to despise him!”

Chapter 5

The Home of the Horse-Hunter

Where the Rio de Nueces[67] (River of Nuts) collects its waters from a hundred tributary streams – lining the map like the limbs of a grand genealogical tree – you may look upon a land of surpassing fairness. Its surface is “rolling prairie,” interspersed with clumps of post-oak and pecân, here and there along the banks of the watercourses uniting into continuous groves.

In some places these timbered tracts assume the aspect of the true chapparal – a thicket, rather than a forest – its principal growth being various kinds of acacia, associated with copaiva and creosote trees, with wild aloes, with eccentric shapes of cereus, cactus, and arborescent yucca.

These spinous forms of vegetation, though repulsive to the eye of the agriculturist – as proving the utter sterility of the soil – present an attractive aspect to the botanist, or the lover of Nature; especially when the cereus unfolds its huge wax-like blossoms, or the Fouquiera splendens[68] overtops the surrounding shrubbery with its spike of resplendent flowers, like a red flag hanging unfolded along its staff.

The whole region, however, is not of this character. There are stretches of greater fertility; where a black calcareous earth gives nourishment to trees of taller growth, and more luxuriant foliage. The “wild China” – a true sapindal – the pecan, the elm, the hackberry, and the oak of several species – with here and there a cypress or Cottonwood – form the components of many a sylvan scene, which, from the blending of their leaves of various shades of green, and the ever changing contour of their clumps, deserves to be denominated fair.

The streams of this region are of crystal purity – their waters tinted only by the reflection of sapphire skies. Its sun, moon, and stars are scarcely ever concealed behind a cloud. The demon of disease has not found his way into this salubrious spot: no epidemic can dwell within its borders.

Despite these advantages, civilised man has not yet made it his home. Its paths are trodden only by the red-skinned rovers of the prairie – Lipano[69] or Comanche[70] – and these only when mounted, and upon the maraud towards the settlements of the Lower Nueces, or Leona.

It may be on this account – though it would almost seem as if they were actuated by a love of the beautiful and picturesque – that the true children of Nature, the wild animals, have selected this spot as their favourite habitat and home. In no part of Texas does the stag bound up so often before you; and nowhere is the timid antelope so frequently seen. The rabbit, and his gigantic cousin, the mule-rabbit, are scarcely ever out of sight; while the polecat, the opossum, and the curious peccary, are encountered at frequent intervals.

Birds, too, of beautiful forms and colours, enliven the landscape. The quail whirrs up from the path; the king vulture wheels in the ambient air; the wild turkey, of gigantic stature, suns his resplendent gorget by the side of the pecân copse, and the singular tailor-bird – known among the rude Rangers[71] as the “bird of paradise” – flouts his long scissors-like tail among the feathery fronds of the acacia.

Beautiful butterflies spread their wide wings in flapping flight; or, perched upon some gay corolla, look as if they formed part of the flower. Huge bees (Meliponae), clad in velvet liveries, buzz amid the blossoming bushes, disputing possession with hawkmoths and humming-birds not much larger than themselves.

They are not all innocent, the denizens of this lovely land. Here the rattlesnake attains to larger dimensions than in any other part of North America, and shares the covert with the more dangerous moccasin[72]. Here, too, the tarantula[73] inflicts its venomous sting; the scorpion poisons with its bite; and the centipede[74], by simply crawling over the skin, causes a fever that may prove fatal!

Along the wooded banks of the streams may be encountered the spotted ocelot, the puma, and their more powerful congener, the jaguar; the last of these felidae being here upon the northern limit of its geographical range.

Along the edges of the chapparal skulks the gaunt Texan wolf – solitarily and in silence; while a kindred and more cowardly species, the coyoté, may be observed, far out upon the open plain, hunting in packs.

Sharing the same range with these, the most truculent of quadrupeds, may be seen the noblest and most beautiful of animals – perhaps nobler and more beautiful than man – certainly the most distinguished of man’s companions – the horse!

Here – independent of man’s caprice, his jaw unchecked by bit or curb, his back unscathed by pack or saddle – he roams unrestrained; giving way to all the wildness of his nature.

But even in this, his favourite haunt, he is not always left alone. Man presumes to be his pursuer and tamer: for here was he sought, captured, and conquered, by Maurice the Mustanger.

On the banks of the Alamo[75] – one of the most sparkling streamlets that pay tribute to the Nueces – stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.

Its walls were composed of split trunk of the arborescent yucca, set stockade-fashion in the ground; while its roof was a thatch furnished by the long bayonet-shaped loaves of the same gigantic lily.

The interstices between the uprights, instead of being “chinked” with clay – as is common in the cabins of Western Texas – were covered by a sheeting of horse-skins; attached, not by iron tacks, but with the sharp spines that terminate the leaves of the pita plant.

On the bluffs, that on both sides overlooked the rivulet – and which were but the termination of the escarpment of the higher plain – grew in abundance the material out of which the hut had been constructed: tree yuccas and magueys, amidst other rugged types of sterile vegetation; whereas the fertile valley below was covered with a growth of heavy timber – consisting chiefly of red-mulberry, post-oak, and pecân, that formed a forest of several leagues in length. The timbered tract was, in fact, conterminous with the bottom lands; the tops of the trees scarce rising to a level with the escarpment of the cliff.

It was not continuous. Along the edge of the streamlet were breaks – forming little meads, or savannahs, covered with that most nutritious of grasses, known among Mexicans as grama.

In the concavity of one of these, of semicircular shape – which served as a natural lawn – stood the primitive dwelling above described; the streamlet representing the chord; while the curve was traced by the trunks of the trees, that resembled a series of columns supporting the roof of some sylvan coliseum.

The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. It could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. Its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its inconspicuousness.

The house was a mere cabin – not larger than a marquee tent – with only a single aperture, the door – if we except the flue of a slender clay chimney, erected at one end against the upright posts. The doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it, and hung upon hinges cut from the same hide.

In the rear was an open shed, thatched with yucca leaves, and supported by half a dozen posts. Around this was a small enclosure, obtained by tying cross poles to the trunks of the adjacent trees.

A still more extensive enclosure, containing within its circumference more than an acre of the timbered tract, and fenced in a similar manner, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. Its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints – in some places trampled into a hard surface – told of its use: a “corral” for wild horses – mustangs.

This was made still more manifest by the presence of a dozen or more of these animals within the enclosure; whose glaring eyeballs, and excited actions, gave evidence of their recent capture, and how ill they brooked the imprisonment of that shadowy paddock.

The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. The sheeting of mustang-skins that covered the walls, with the hairy side turned inward, presented no mean appearance. The smooth shining coats of all colours – black, bay, snow-white, sorrel, and skewbald – offered to the eye a surface pleasantly variegated; and there had evidently been some taste displayed in their arrangement.

The furniture was of the scantiest kind. It consisted of a counterfeit camp bedstead, formed by stretching a horse-hide over a framework of trestles; a couple of stools – diminutive specimens on the same model; and a rude table, shaped out of hewn slabs of the yucca-tree. Something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner – a “shakedown,” or “spread,” of the universal mustang-skin.

What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and papeterie[76]; also a newspaper lying upon the slab table.

Further proofs of civilisation, if not refinement, presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau[77], a double-barrelled gun, with “Westley Richards” upon the breech; a drinking cup of chased silver, a huntsman’s horn, and a dog-call.

Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn[78], covered with wicker, and evidently containing something stronger than the water of the Alamo.

Other “chattels” in the cabin were perhaps more in keeping with the place. There was a high-peaked Mexican saddle; a bridle, with headstall of plaited horsehair, and reins to correspond; two or three spare serapes, and some odds and ends of raw-hide rope.

Such was the structure of the mustanger’s dwelling – such its surroundings – such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants – two in number.

On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor – the mien of habitual obedience – was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.

Rude as was the cabin that sheltered him, no one entering under its roof would have mistaken him for its master.

Not that he appeared ill clad or fed, or in any way stinted in his requirements. He was a round plump specimen, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, habited in a suit of stout stuff – half corduroy[79], half cotton-velvet. The corduroy was in the shape of a pair of knee-breeches, with gaiters to correspond; the velveteen, once bottle green, now faded to a brownish hue, exhibited itself in a sort of shooting coat, with ample pockets in the breast and skirts.

A “wide-awake” hat, cocked over a pair of eyes equally deserving the appellation, completed the costume of the individual in question – if we except a shirt of coarse calico[80], a red cotton kerchief loosely knotted around his neck, and a pair of Irish brogues[81] upon his feet.

It needed neither the brogues, nor the corduroy breeches, to proclaim his nationality. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Milesian[82].

Had there been any ambiguity about this, it would have been dispelled as he opened his mouth for the emission of speech; and this he at intervals did, in an accent that could only have been acquired in the shire of Galway[83]. As he was the sole human occupant of the cabin, it might be supposed that he spoke only in soliloquy. Not so, however. Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire, with snout half buried among the ashes, was a canine companion, whose appearance bespoke a countryman – a huge Irish staghound, that looked as if he too understood the speech of Connemara[84].

Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.

“Och, Tara, me jewel!” exclaimed he in the corduroys, fraternally interrogating the hound; “hadn’t yez weesh now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wadn’t yez loike to be wance more in the coortyard av the owld castle, friskin’ over the clane stones, an bein’ tripe-fed till there wasn’t a rib to be seen in your sides – so different from what they are now – when I kyan count ivery wan av them? Sowl! it’s meself that ud loike to be there, anyhow! But there’s no knowin’ when the young masther ’ll go back, an take us along wid him. Niver mind, Tara! He’s goin’ to the Sittlements soon, ye owld dog; an he’s promised to take us thare; that’s some consolashun. Be japers! it’s over three months since I’ve been to the Fort, meself. Maybe I’ll find some owld acquaintance among them Irish sodgers that’s come lately; an be me sowl, av I do, won’t there be a dhrap betwane us – won’t there, Tara?”

The staghound, raising his head at hearing the mention of his name, gave a slight sniff, as if saying “Yes” in answer to the droll interrogatory.

“I’d like a dhrap now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the wickered jar; “mightily I wud that same; but the dimmyjan is too near bein’ empty, an the young masther might miss it. Besides, it wudn’t be raal honest av me to take it widout lave – wud it, Tara?”

The dog again raised his head above the ashes, and sneezed as before.

“Why, that was yis, the last time ye spoke! Div yez mane is for the same now? Till me, Tara!”

Once more the hound gave utterance to the sound – that appeared to be caused either by a slight touch of influenza, or the ashes having entered his nostrils.

“‘Yis’ again? In trath that’s just fwhat the dumb crayther manes! Don’t timpt me, ye owld thief! No – no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out av the dimmyjan, an take a smell at it. Shure the masther won’t know anything about that; an if he did, he wudn’t mind it! Smellin’ kyant do the pothyeen any harm.”

During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.

Notwithstanding the professed innocence of his intent, there was a stealthiness about his movements, that seemed to argue either a want of confidence in his own integrity, or in his power to resist temptation.

He stood for a short while listening – his eyes turned towards the open doorway; and then, taking up the demijohn, he drew out the stopper, and held the neck to his nose.

For some seconds he remained in this attitude: giving out no other sign than an occasional “sniff,” similar to that uttered by the hound, and which he had been fain to interpret as an affirmative answer to his interrogatory. It expressed the enjoyment he was deriving from the bouquet of the potent spirit.

But this only satisfied him for a very short time; and gradually the bottom of the jar was seen going upwards, while the reverse end descended in like ratio in the direction of his protruding lips.

“Be japers!” he exclaimed, once more glancing stealthily towards the door, “flesh and blood cudn’t stand the smell av that bewtiful whisky, widout tastin’ it. Trath! I’ll chance it – jist the smallest thrifle to wet the tap av my tongue. Maybe it’ll burn the skin av it; but no matther – here goes!”

Without further ado the neck of the demijohn was brought in contact with his lips; but instead of the “smallest thrifle” to wet the top of his tongue, the “gluck – gluck” of the escaping fluid told that he was administering a copious saturation to the whole lining of his larynx, and something more.

After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with other exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.

“Tara, ye owld thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that timpted me! No matther, man: the masther ’ll niver miss it; besides, he’s goin’ soon to the Fort, an can lay in a fresh supply.”

For a time the pilferer remained silent; either reflecting on the act he had committed, or enjoying the effects which the “potheen” had produced upon his spirits.

His silence was of short duration; and was terminated by a soliloquy.

“I wondher,” muttered he, “fwhat makes Masther Maurice so anxious to get back to the Sittlements. He says he’ll go wheniver he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. Sowl! isn’t he bad afther that baste! I suppose it must be somethin’ beyant the common – the more be token, as he has chased the crayther three times widout bein’ able to throw his rope over it – an mounted on the blood-bay, too. He sez he won’t give it up, till he gets howlt of it. Trath! I hope it’ll be grupped soon, or wez may stay here till the marnin’ av doomsday. Hush! fwhat’s that?”

Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.

“Phelim!” hailed a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”

“It’s the masther,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.

Chapter 6

The Spotted Mustang

Phelim was not mistaken as to the voice that had hailed him. It was that of his master, Maurice Gerald.

On getting outside, he saw the mustanger at a short distance from the door, and advancing towards it.

As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse – no longer of a reddish colour, but appearing almost black. The animal’s coat was darkened with sweat; its counter and flanks speckled with foam.

The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo – drawn taut from the saddle tree – was a companion, or, to speak more accurately, a captive. With a leathern thong looped around its under jaw, and firmly embracing the bars of its mouth, kept in place by another passing over its neck immediately behind the ears, was the captive secured.

It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen – even among the largest “gangs” that roam over the prairie pastures, where colours of the most eccentric patterns are not uncommon.

That of the animal in question was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black – with white spots distributed over it, as regularly as the contrary colours upon the skin of the jaguar.

As if to give effect to this pleasing arrangement of hues, the creature was of perfect shape – broad chested, full in the flank, and clean limbed – with a hoof showing half a score of concentric rings, and a head that might have been taken as a type of equine beauty. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse; even smaller than the blood-bay – himself a mustang – that had assisted in its capture.

The beautiful captive was a mare – one of a manada[85] that frequented the plains near the source of the Alamo; and where, for the third time, the mustanger had unsuccessfully chased it.

In his case the proverb had proved untrue. In the third time he had not found the “charm”; though it favoured him in the fourth. By the fascination of a long rope, with a running noose at its end, he had secured the creature that, for some reason known only to himself, he so ardently wished to possess.

Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back – as he often did – with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.

But never before at the end of that implement had Phelim beheld such a beauty as the spotted mare. She was a thing to excite the admiration of one less a connoisseur in horse-flesh than the ci-devant[86] stable-boy of Castle Ballagh.

“Hooch – hoop – hoora!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive, at the same time tossing his hat high into the air. “Thanks to the Howly Vargin[87], an Saint Pathrick[88] to boot, Masther Maurice, yez have cotched the spotty at last! It’s a mare, be japers! Och! the purthy crayther! I don’t wondher yez hiv been so bad about gettin’ howlt av her. Sowl! if yez had her in Ballinasloe Fair, yez might ask your own price, and get it too, widout givin’ sixpence av luckpenny. Oh! the purty crayther! Where will yez hiv her phut, masther? Into the corral, wid the others?”

“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Castro must pass his night outside among the trees. If he’s got any gallantry in him he won’t mind that. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim – I mean in the way of horseflesh?”

“Niver, Masther Maurice; niver, in all me life! An’ I’ve seen some nice bits av blood about Ballyballagh. Oh, the purty crayther! she looks as if a body cud ate her; and yit, in trath, she looks like she wud ate you. Yez haven’t given her the schoolin’ lesson, have yez?”

“No, Phelim: I don’t want to break her just yet – not till I have time, and can do it properly. It would never do to spoil such perfection as that. I shall tame her, after we’ve taken her to the Settlements.”

“Yez be goin’ there, masther Maurice? When?”

“To-morrow. We shall start by daybreak, so as to make only one day between here and the Fort.”

“Sowl! I’m glad to hear it. Not on me own account, but yours, Masther Maurice. Maybe yez don’t know that the whisky’s on the idge of bein’ out? From the rattle av the jar, I don’t think there’s more than three naggins left. Them sutlers at the Fort aren’t honest. They chate ye in the mizyure; besides watherin’ the whisky, so that it won’t bear a dhrap more out av the strame hare. Trath! a gallon av Innishowen wud last ayqual to three av this Amerikin rotgut, as the Yankees[89] themselves christen it.”

“Never mind about the whisky, Phelim – I suppose there’s enough to last us for this night, and fill our flasks for the journey of to-morrow. Look alive, old Ballyballagh! Let us stable the spotted mare; and then I shall have time to talk about a fresh supply of ‘potheen,’ which I know you like better than anything else – except yourself!”

“And you, Masther Maurice!” retorted the Galwegian[90], with a comical twinkle of the eye, that caused his master to leap laughingly out of the saddle.

The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree; where Phelim proceeded to groom him after the most approved prairie fashion.

The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the “yegua pinta” had cost him a long and arduous chase – such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.

There was a motive that had urged him on, unknown to Phelim – unknown to Castro who carried him – unknown to living creature, save himself.

Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – despite the weariness thus occasioned, he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.

For several nights he had slept uneasily – at intervals tossing upon his catré – till not only his henchman Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.

The former might have attributed it to his desire to possess the spotted mare; had he not known that his master’s feverish feeling antedated his knowledge of the existence of this peculiar quadruped.

It was several days after his last return from the Fort that the “yegua pinta” had first presented herself to the eye of the mustanger. That therefore could not be the cause of his altered demeanour.

His success in having secured the animal, instead of tranquillising his spirit, seemed to have produced the contrary effect. At least, so thought Phelim: who – with the freedom of that relationship known as “foster-brother” – had at length determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude. As the latter lay shifting from side to side, he was saluted with the interrogatory —

“Masther Maurice, fwhat, in the name of the Howly Vargin, is the matther wid ye?”

“Nothing, Phelim – nothing, mabohil! What makes you think there is?”

“Alannah! How kyan I help thinkin’ it! Yez kyant get a wink av sleep; niver since ye returned the last time from the Sittlement. Och! yez hiv seen somethin’ there that kapes ye awake? Shure now, it isn’t wan av them Mixikin girls – mowchachas, as they call them? No, I won’t believe it. You wudn’t be wan av the owld Geralds to care for such trash as them.”

“Nonsense, my good fellow! There’s nothing the matter with me. It’s all your own imagination.”

“Trath, masther, yez arr mistaken. If there’s anything asthray wid me imaginashun, fhwat is it that’s gone wrong wid your own? That is, whin yez arr aslape – which aren’t often av late.”

“When I’m asleep! What do you mean, Phelim?”

“What div I mane? Fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez are sleepin’, ye begin palaverin’, as if a preast was confessin’ ye!”

“Ah! Is that so? What have you heard me say?”

“Not much, masther, that I cud make sinse out av. Yez be always tryin’ to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin’, though it begins wid a point!”

“A name! What name?”

“Sowl! I kyan’t till ye exakly. It’s too long for me to remimber, seein’ that my edicashun was intirely neglicted. But there’s another name that yez phut before it; an that I kyan tell ye. It’s a wuman’s name, though it’s not common in the owld counthry. It’s Looaze that ye say, Masther Maurice; an then comes the point.”

“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard – somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!”

“Trath! yez spake the truth there; for in your drames, masther, ye talk about a purty girl lookin’ out av a carriage wid curtains to it, an tellin’ her to close them agaynst some danger that yez are going to save her from.”

“I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head?”

“I wondher meself,” rejoined Phelim, fixing his eyes upon his young master with a stealthy but scrutinising look. “Shure,” he continued, “if I may make bowld to axe the quistyun – shure, Masther Maurice, yez haven’t been makin’ a Judy Fitzsummon’s mother av yerself, an fallin’ in love wid wan of these Yankee weemen out hare? Och an-an-ee! that wud be a misforthune; an thwat wud she say – the purty colleen wid the goodlen hair an blue eyes, that lives not twinty miles from Ballyballagh?”

“Poh, poh! Phelim! you’re taking leave of your senses, I fear.”

“Trath, masther, I aren’t; but I know somethin’ I wud like to take lave av.”

“What is that? Not me, I hope?”

“You, alannah? Niver! It’s Tixas I mane. I’d like to take lave of that; an you goin’ along wid me back to the owld sad. Arrah, now, fhwat’s the use av yer stayin’ here, wastin’ the best part av yer days in doin’ nothin’? Shure yez don’t make more than a bare livin’ by the horse-catchin’; an if yez did, what mathers it? Yer owld aunt at Castle Ballagh can’t howld out much longer; an when she’s did, the bewtiful demane ’ll be yours, spite av the dhirty way she’s thratin’ ye. Shure the property’s got a tail to it; an not a mother’s son av them can kape ye out av it!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the young Irishman: “you’re quite a lawyer, Phelim. What a first-rate attorney you’d have made! But come! You forget that I haven’t tasted food since morning. What have you got in the larder?”

“Trath! there’s no great stock, masther. Yez haven’t laid in anythin’ for the three days yez hiv been afther spotty. There’s only the cowld venison an the corn-bread. If yez like I’ll phut the venison in the pat, an make a hash av it.”

“Yes, do so. I can wait.”

“Won’t yez wait betther afther tastin’ a dhrap av the crayther?”

“True – let me have it.”

“Will yez take it nate, or with a little wather? Trath! it won’t carry much av that same.”

“A glass of grog[91] – draw the water fresh from the stream.”

Phelim took hold of the silver drinking-cup, and was about stepping outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution.

The barking of the dog soon subsided into a series of joyful whimperings, which told that he had been gratified by the sight of some old acquaintance.

“It’s owld Zeb Stump,” said Phelim, first peeping out, and then stepping boldly forth – with the double design of greeting the new-comer, and executing the order he had received from his master.

The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger’s cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other.

He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin; into the ample tops of which were thrust the bottoms of his pantaloons – the latter being of woollen homespun, that had been dyed with “dog-wood ooze,” but was now of a simple dirt colour. A deerskin under shirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a “blanket coat,” that had once been green, long since gone to a greenish yellow, with most of the wool worn off.

There was no other garment to be seen: a slouch felt hat, of greyish colour, badly battered, completing the simple, and somewhat scant, collection of his wardrobe.

He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter, of the true Daniel Boone breed: bullet-pouch, and large crescent-shaped powder-horn, both suspended by shoulder-straps, hanging under the right arm; a waist-belt of thick leather keeping his coat closed and sustaining a skin sheath, from which protruded the rough stag-horn handle of a long-bladed knife.

He did not affect either mocassins, leggings, nor the caped and fringed tunic shirt of dressed deerskin worn by most Texan hunters. There was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing, no carving upon his accoutrements or weapons, nothing in his tout ensemble[92] intended as ornamental. Everything was plain almost to rudeness: as if dictated by a spirit that despised “fanfaron.”

Even the rifle, his reliable weapon – the chief tool of his trade – looked like a rounded bar of iron, with a piece of brown unpolished wood at the end, forming its stock; stock and barrel, when the butt rested on the ground, reaching up to the level of his shoulder.

The individual thus clothed and equipped was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect.

On close scrutiny, however, could be detected an underlying stratum of quiet humour; and in the twinkle of a small greyish eye there was evidence that its owner could keenly relish a joke, or, at times, perpetrate one.

The Irishman had pronounced his name: it was Zebulon Stump, or “Old Zeb Stump,” as he was better known to the very limited circle of his acquaintances.

“Kaintuck, by birth an raisin’,” – as he would have described himself, if asked the country of his nativity – he had passed the early part of his life among the primeval forests of the Lower Mississippi – his sole calling that of a hunter; and now, at a later period, he was performing the same métier[93] in the wilds of south-western Texas.

The behaviour of the staghound, as it bounded before him, exhibiting a series of canine welcomes, told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

“Evenin’!” laconically saluted Zeb, as his tail figure shadowed the cabin door.

“Good evening’, Mr Stump!” rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. “Step inside, and take a seat!”

The hunter accepted the invitation; and, making a single stride across the floor, after some awkward manoeuvring, succeeded in planting himself on the stool lately occupied by Phelim. The lowness of the seat brought his knees upon a level with his chin, the tall rifle rising like a pikestaff several feet above his head.

“Durn stools, anyhow!” muttered he, evidently dissatisfied with the posture; “an’ churs, too, for thet matter. I likes to plant my starn upon a log: thur ye’ve got somethin’ under ye as ain’t like to guv way.”

“Try that,” said his host, pointing to the leathern portmanteau in the corner: “you’ll find it a firmer seat.”

Old Zeb, adopting the suggestion, unfolded the zigzag of his colossal carcase, and transferred it to the trunk.

“On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?”

“No: I got my old critter out thur, tied to a saplin’. I wa’n’t a huntin’.”

“You never hunt on horseback, I believe?”

“I shed be a greenhorn if I dud. Anybody as goes huntin’ a hossback must be a durnation fool!”

“But it’s the universal fashion in Texas!”

“Univarsal or no, it air a fool’s fashion – a durned lazy fool’s fashion! I kill more meat in one day afut, then I ked in a hul week wi’ a hoss atween my legs. I don’t misdoubt that a hoss air the best thing for you – bein’ as yur game’s entire different. But when ye go arter baar, or deer, or turkey eyther, ye won’t see much o’ them, trampin’ about through the timmer a hossback, an scarrin’ everythin’ es hes got ears ’ithin the circuit o’ a mile. As for hosses, I shodn’t be bothered wi’ ne’er a one no how, ef twa’n’t for packin’ the meat: thet’s why I keep my ole maar.”

“She’s outside, you say? Let Phelim take her round to the shed. You’ll stay all night?”

“I kim for that purpiss. But ye needn’t trouble about the maar: she air hitched safe enuf. I’ll let her out on the laryitt, afore I take to grass.”

“You’ll have something to eat? Phelim was just getting supper ready. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything very dainty – some hash of venison.”

“Nothin’ better ’n good deermeat, ’ceptin it be baar; but I like both done over the coals. Maybe I can help ye to some’at thet’ll make a roast. Mister Pheelum, ef ye don’t mind steppin’ to whar my critter air hitched, ye’ll find a gobbler hangin’ over the horn o’ the seddle. I shot the bird as I war comin’ up the crik.”

“Oh, that is rare good fortune! Our larder has got very low – quite out, in truth. I’ve been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me. Phelim and I, and Tara, too, had got to the edge of starvation.”

“Whet sort o’ a mustang?” inquired the hunter, in a tone that betrayed interest, and without appearing to notice the final remark.

“A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground – a splendid creature!”

“Durn it, young fellur! thet air’s the very bizness thet’s brung me over to ye.”

“Indeed!”

“I’ve seed that mustang – maar, ye say it air, though I kedn’t tell, as she’d niver let me ’ithin hef a mile o’ her. I’ve seed her several times out on the purayra, an I jest wanted ye to go arter her. I’ll tell ye why. I’ve been to the Leeona settlements since I seed you last, and since I seed her too. Wal, theer hev kum thur a man as I knowed on the Mississippi. He air a rich planter, as used to keep up the tallest kind o’ doin’s, ’specially in the feestin’ way. Many’s the jeint o’ deermeat, and many’s the turkey-gobbler this hyur coon hes surplied for his table. His name air Peintdexter.”

“Poindexter?”

“Thet air the name – one o’ the best known on the Mississippi from Orleens[94] to Saint Looey[95]. He war rich then; an, I reck’n, ain’t poor now – seein’ as he’s brought about a hunderd niggers along wi’ him. Beside, thur’s a nephew o’ hisn, by name Calhoun. He’s got the dollars, an nothin’ to do wi’ ’em but lend ’em to his uncle – the which, for a sartin reezun, I think he will. Now, young fellur, I’ll tell ye why I wanted to see you. Thet ’ere planter hev got a darter, as air dead bent upon hossflesh. She used to ride the skittishest kind o’ cattle in Loozeyanner[96], whar they lived. She heern me tellin’ the old ’un ’bout the spotted mustang; and nothin’ would content her thur and then, till he promised he’d offer a big price for catchin’ the critter. He sayed he’d give a kupple o’ hunderd dollars for the anymal, ef ’twur anythin like what I sayed it wur. In coorse, I knowed thet ’ud send all the mustangers in the settlement straight custrut arter it; so, sayin’ nuthin’ to nobody, I kim over hyur, fast as my ole maar ’ud fetch me. You grup thet ’ere spotty, an Zeb Stump ’ll go yur bail ye’ll grab them two hunderd dollars.”

“Will you step this way, Mr Stump?” said the young Irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation.

Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired —

“Does that look anything like the mustang you’ve been speaking of?”

“Dog-gone my cats, ef ’taint the eyedenticul same! Grupped already! Two hunderd dollars, easy as slidin’ down a barked saplin’! Young fellur, yur in luck: two hunderd, slick sure! – and durn me, ef the anymal ain’t worth every cent o’ the money! Geehosofat! what a putty beest it air! Won’t Miss Peintdexter be pleezed! It’ll turn that young critter ’most crazy!”

Chapter 7

Nocturnal Annoyances

The unexpected discovery, that his purpose had been already anticipated by the capture of the spotted mustang, raised the spirits of the old hunter to a high pitch of excitement.

They were further elevated by a portion of the contents of the demijohn, which held out beyond Phelim’s expectations: giving all hands an appetising “nip” before attacking the roast turkey, with another go each to wash it down, and several more to accompany the post-cenal pipe.

While this was being indulged in, a conversation was carried on; the themes being those that all prairie men delight to talk about: Indian and hunter lore.

As Zeb Stump was a sort of living encyclopaedia of the latter, he was allowed to do most of the talking; and he did it in such a fashion as to draw many a wondering ejaculation, from the tongue of the astonished Galwegian.

Long before midnight, however, the conversation was brought to a close. Perhaps the empty demijohn was, as much as anything else, the monitor that urged their retiring to rest; though there was another and more creditable reason. On the morrow, the mustanger intended to start for the Settlements; and it was necessary that all should be astir at an early hour, to make preparation for the journey. The wild horses, as yet but slightly tamed, had to be strung together, to secure against their escaping by the way; and many other matters required attending to previous to departure.

The hunter had already tethered out his “ole maar” – as he designated the sorry specimen of horseflesh he was occasionally accustomed to bestride – and had brought back with him an old yellowish blanket, which was all he ever used for a bed.

“You may take my bedstead,” said his courteous host; “I can lay myself on a skin along the floor.”

“No,” responded the guest; “none o’ yer shelves for Zeb Stump to sleep on. I prefer the solid groun’. I kin sleep sounder on it; an bus-sides, thur’s no fear o’ fallin’ over.”

“If you prefer it, then, take the floor. Here’s the best place. I’ll spread a hide for you.”

“Young fellur, don’t you do anythin’ o’ the sort; ye’ll only be wastin’ yur time. This child don’t sleep on no floors. His bed air the green grass o’ the purayra.”

“What! you’re not going to sleep outside?” inquired the mustanger in some surprise – seeing that his guest, with the old blanket over his arm, was making for the door.

“I ain’t agoin’ to do anythin’ else.”

“Why, the night is freezing cold – almost as chilly as a norther!”

“Durn that! It air better to stan’ a leetle chillishness, than a feelin’ o’ suffercation – which last I wud sartintly hev to go through ef I slep inside o’ a house.”

“Surely you are jesting, Mr Stump?”

“Young fellur!” emphatically rejoined the hunter, without making direct reply to the question. “It air now nigh all o’ six yeer since Zeb Stump hev stretched his ole karkiss under a roof. I oncest used to hev a sort o’ a house in the hollow o’ a sycamore-tree. That wur on the Massissippi, when my ole ooman wur alive, an I kep up the ’stablishment to ’commerdate her. Arter she went under, I moved into Loozeyanny; an then arterward kim out hyur. Since then the blue sky o’ Texas hev been my only kiver, eyther wakin’ or sleepin’.”

“If you prefer to lie outside – ”

“I prefar it,” laconically rejoined the hunter, at the same time stalking over the threshold, and gliding out upon the little lawn that lay between the cabin and the creek.

His old blanket was not the only thing he carried along with him. Beside it, hanging over his arm, could be seen some six or seven yards of a horsehair rope. It was a piece of a cabriesto[97] – usually employed for tethering horses – though it was not for this purpose it was now to be used.

Having carefully scrutinised the grass within a circumference of several feet in diameter – which a shining moon enabled him to do – he laid the rope with like care around the spot examined, shaping it into a sort of irregular ellipse.

Stepping inside this, and wrapping the old blanket around him, he quietly let himself down into a recumbent position. In an instant after he appeared to be asleep.

And he was asleep, as his strong breathing testified: for Zeb Stump, with a hale constitution and a quiet conscience, had only to summon sleep, and it came.

He was not permitted long to indulge his repose without interruption. A pair of wondering eyes had watched his every movement – the eyes of Phelim O’Neal.

“Mother av Mozis!” muttered the Galwegian; “fwhat can be the manin’ av the owld chap’s surroundin’ himself wid the rope?”

The Irishman’s curiosity for a while struggled with his courtesy, but at length overcame it; and just as the slumberer delivered his third snore, he stole towards him, shook him out of his sleep, and propounded a question based upon the one he had already put to himself.

“Durn ye for a Irish donkey!” exclaimed Stump, in evident displeasure at being disturbed; “ye made me think it war mornin’! What do I put the rope roun’ me for? What else wud it be for, but to keep off the varmints!”

“What varmints, Misther Stump? Snakes, div yez mane?”

“Snakes in coorse. Durn ye, go to your bed!”

Notwithstanding the sharp rebuke, Phelim returned to the cabin apparently in high glee. If there was anything in Texas, “barrin’ an above the Indyins themselves,” as he used to say, “that kept him from slapin’, it was them vinamous sarpints. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest, iver since he’d been in the counthry for thinkin’ av the ugly vipers, or dhramin’ about thim. What a pity Saint Pathrick hadn’t paid Tixas a visit before goin’ to grace!”

Phelim in his remote residence, isolated as he had been from all intercourse, had never before witnessed the trick of the cabriesto.

He was not slow to avail himself of the knowledge thus acquired. Returning to the cabin, and creeping stealthily inside – as if not wishing to wake his master, already asleep – he was seen to take a cabriesto from its peg; and then going forth again, he carried the long rope around the stockade walls – paying it out as he proceeded.

Having completed the circumvallation, he re-entered the hut; as he stepped over the threshold, muttering to himself —

“Sowl! Phalim O’Nale, you’ll slape sound for this night, spite ov all the snakes in Tixas!”

For some minutes after Phelim’s soliloquy, a profound stillness reigned around the hut of the mustanger. There was like silence inside; for the countryman of Saint Patrick, no longer apprehensive on the score of reptile intruders, had fallen asleep, almost on the moment of his sinking down upon his spread horse-skin.

For a while it seemed as if everybody was in the enjoyment of perfect repose, Tara and the captive steeds included. The only sound heard was that made by Zeb Stump’s “maar,” close by cropping the sweet grama grass.

Presently, however, it might have been perceived that the old hunter was himself stirring. Instead of lying still in the recumbent attitude to which he had consigned himself, he could be seen shifting from side to side, as if some feverish thought was keeping him awake.

After repeating this movement some half-score of times, he at length raised himself into a sitting posture, and looked discontentedly around.

“Dod-rot his ignorance and imperence – the Irish cuss!” were the words that came hissing through his teeth. “He’s spoilt my night’s rest, durn him! ’Twould sarve him ’bout right to drag him out, an giv him a duckin’ in the crik. Dog-goned ef I don’t feel ’clined torst doin’ it; only I don’t like to displeeze the other Irish, who air a somebody. Possible I don’t git a wink o’ sleep till mornin’.”

Having delivered himself of this peevish soliloquy, the hunter once more drew the blanket around his body, and returned to the horizontal position.

Not to sleep, however; as was testified by the tossing and fidgeting that followed – terminated by his again raising himself into a sitting posture.

A soliloquy, very similar to his former one, once more proceeded from his lips; this time the threat of ducking Phelim in the creek being expressed with a more emphatic accent of determination.

He appeared to be wavering, as to whether he should carry the design into execution, when an object coming under his eye gave a new turn to his thoughts.

On the ground, not twenty feet from where he sate, a long thin body was seen gliding over the grass. Its serpent shape, and smooth lubricated skin – reflecting the silvery light of the moon – rendered the reptile easy of identification.

“Snake!” mutteringly exclaimed he, as his eye rested upon the reptilian form. “Wonder what sort it air, slickerin’ aboout hyur at this time o’ the night? It air too large for a rattle; though thur air some in these parts most as big as it. But it air too clur i’ the colour, an thin about the belly, for ole rattle-tail! No; ’tain’t one o’ them. Hah – now I ree-cog-nise the varmint! It air a chicken, out on the sarch arter eggs, I reck’n! Durn the thing! it air comin’ torst me, straight as it kin crawl!”

The tone in which the speaker delivered himself told that he was in no fear of the reptile – even after discovering that it was making approach. He knew that the snake would not cross the cabriesto; but on touching it would turn away: as if the horsehair rope was a line of living fire. Secure within his magic circle, he could have looked tranquilly at the intruder, though it had been the most poisonous of prairie serpents.

But it was not. On the contrary, it was one of the most innocuous – harmless as the “chicken,” from which the species takes its trivial title – at the same time that it is one of the largest in the list of North-American reptilia.

The expression on Zeb’s face, as he sat regarding it, was simply one of curiosity, and not very keen. To a hunter in the constant habit of couching himself upon the grass, there was nothing in the sight either strange or terrifying; not even when the creature came close up to the cabriesto, and, with head slightly elevated, rubbed its snout against the rope!

After that there was less reason to be afraid; for the snake, on doing so, instantly turned round and commenced retreating over the sward.

For a second or two the hunter watched it moving away, without making any movement himself. He seemed undecided as to whether he should follow and destroy it, or leave it to go as it had come – unscathed. Had it been a rattlesnake, “copperhead,” or “mocassin,” he would have acted up to the curse delivered in the garden of Eden[98], and planted the heel of his heavy alligator-skin boot upon its head. But a harmless chicken-snake did not come within the limits of Zeb Stump’s antipathy: as was evidenced by some words muttered by him as it slowly receded from the spot.

“Poor crawlin’ critter; let it go! It ain’t no enemy o’ mine; though it do suck a turkey’s egg now an then, an in coorse scarcities the breed o’ the birds. Thet air only its nater, an no reezun why I shed be angry wi’ it. But thur’s a durned good reezun why I shed be wi’ thet Irish – the dog-goned, stinkin’ fool, to ha’ woke me es he dud! I feel dod-rotted like sarvin’ him out, ef I ked only think o’ some way as wudn’t diskermode the young fellur. Stay! By Geehosofat, I’ve got the idee – the very thing – sure es my name air Zeb Stump!”

On giving utterance to the last words, the hunter – whose countenance had suddenly assumed an expression of quizzical cheerfulness – sprang to his feet; and, with bent body, hastened in pursuit of the retreating reptile.

A few strides brought him alongside of it; when he pounced upon it with all his ten digits extended.

In another moment its long glittering body was uplifted from the ground, and writhing in his grasp.

“Now, Mister Pheelum,” exclaimed he, as if apostrophising the serpent, “ef I don’t gi’e yur Irish soul a scare thet ’ll keep ye awake till mornin’, I don’t know buzzart from turkey. Hyur goes to purvide ye wi’ a bedfellur!”

On saying this, he advanced towards the hut; and, silently skulking under its shadow, released the serpent from his gripe – letting it fall within the circle of the cabriesto, with which Phelim had so craftily surrounded his sleeping-place.

Then returning to his grassy couch, and once more pulling the old blanket over his shoulders, he muttered —

“The varmint won’t come out acrost the rope – thet air sartin; an it ain’t agoin’ to leave a yurd o’ the groun’ ’ithout explorin’ for a place to git clur – thet’s eequally sartin. Ef it don’t crawl over thet Irish greenhorn ’ithin the hef o’ an hour, then ole Zeb Stump air a greenhorn hisself. Hi! what’s thet? Dog-goned of ’taint on him arready!”

If the hunter had any further reflections to give tongue to, they could not have been heard: for at that moment there arose a confusion of noises that must have startled every living creature on the Alamo, and for miles up and down the stream.

It was a human voice that had given the cue – or rather, a human howl, such as could proceed only from the throat of a Galwegian. Phelim O’Neal was the originator of the infernal fracas[99].

His voice, however, was soon drowned by a chorus of barkings, snortings, and neighings, that continued without interruption for a period of several minutes.

“What is it?” demanded his master, as he leaped from the catré, and groped his way towards his terrified servitor. “What the devil has got into you, Phelim? Have you seen a ghost?”

“Oh, masther! – by Jaysus! worse than that: I’ve been murdhered by a snake. It’s bit me all over the body. Blessed Saint Pathrick! I’m a poor lost sinner! I’ll be shure to die!”

“Bitten you, you say – where?” asked Maurice, hastily striking a light, and proceeding to examine the skin of his henchman, assisted by the old hunter – who had by this time arrived within the cabin.

“I see no sign of bite,” continued the mustanger, after having turned Phelim round and round, and closely scrutinised his epidermis.

“Ne’er a scratch,” laconically interpolated Stump.

“Sowl! then, if I’m not bit, so much the better; but it crawled all over me. I can feel it now, as cowld as charity, on me skin.”

“Was there a snake at all?” demanded Maurice, inclined to doubt the statement of his follower. “You’ve been dreaming of one, Phelim – nothing more.”

“Not a bit of a dhrame, masther: it was a raal sarpint. Be me sowl, I’m shure of it!”

“I reck’n thur’s been snake,” drily remarked the hunter. “Let’s see if we kin track it up. Kewrious it air, too. Thur’s a hair rope all roun’ the house. Wonder how the varmint could ha’ crossed thet? Thur – thur it is!”

The hunter, as he spoke, pointed to a corner of the cabin, where the serpent was seen spirally coiled.

“Only a chicken!” he continued: “no more harm in it than in a suckin’ dove. It kedn’t ha’ bit ye, Mister Pheelum; but we’ll put it past bitin’, anyhow.”

Saying this, the hunter seized the snake in his hands; and, raising it aloft, brought it down upon the floor of the cabin with a “thwank” that almost deprived it of the power of motion.

“Thru now, Mister Pheelum!” he exclaimed, giving it the finishing touch with the heel of his heavy boot, “ye may go back to yur bed agin, an sleep ’ithout fear o’ bein’ disturbed till the mornin’ – leastwise, by snakes.”

Kicking the defunct reptile before him, Zeb Stump strode out of the hut, gleefully chuckling to himself, as, for the third time, he extended his colossal carcase along the sward.

Chapter 8

The Crawl of the Alacran

[100]

The killing of the snake appeared to be the cue for a general return to quiescence. The howlings of the hound ceased with those of the henchman. The mustangs once more stood silent under the shadowy trees.

Inside the cabin the only noise heard was an occasional shuffling, when Phelim, no longer feeling confidence in the protection of his cabriesto, turned restlessly on his horseskin.

Outside also there was but one sound, to disturb the stillness though its intonation was in striking contrast with that heard within. It might have been likened to a cross between the grunt of an alligator and the croaking of a bull-frog; but proceeding, as it did, from the nostrils of Zeb Stump, it could only be the snore of the slumbering hunter. Its sonorous fulness proved him to be soundly asleep.

He was – had been, almost from the moment of re-establishing himself within the circle of his cabriesto. The revanche[101] obtained over his late disturber had acted as a settler to his nerves; and once more was he enjoying the relaxation of perfect repose.

For nearly an hour did this contrasting duet continue, varied only by an occasional recitative in the hoot of the great horned owl, or a cantata penserosa[102] in the lugubrious wail of the prairie wolf.

At the end of this interval, however, the chorus recommenced, breaking out abruptly as before, and as before led by the vociferous voice of the Connemara man.

“Meliah murdher!” cried he, his first exclamation not only startling the host of the hut, but the guest so soundly sleeping outside. “Howly Mother! Vargin av unpurticted innocence! Save me – save me!”

“Save you from what?” demanded his master, once more springing from his couch and hastening to strike a light. “What is it, you confounded fellow?”

“Another snake, yer hanner! Och! be me sowl! a far wickeder sarpent than the wan Misther Stump killed. It’s bit me all over the breast. I feel the place burnin’ where it crawled across me, just as if the horse-shoer at Ballyballagh had scorched me wid a rid-hot iron!”

“Durn ye for a stinkin’ skunk!” shouted Zeb Stump, with his blanket about his shoulder, quite filling the doorway. “Ye’ve twicest spiled my night’s sleep, ye Irish fool! ’Scuse me, Mister Gerald! Thur air fools in all countries, I reck’n, ’Merican as well as Irish – but this hyur follerer o’ yourn air the durndest o’ the kind iver I kim acrost. Dog-goned if I see how we air to get any sleep the night, ’less we drownd him in the crik fust!”

“Och! Misther Stump dear, don’t talk that way. I sware to yez both there’s another snake. I’m shure it’s in the kyabin yit. It’s only a minute since I feeled it creepin’ over me.”

“You must ha’ been dreemin?” rejoined the hunter, in a more complacent tone, and speaking half interrogatively. “I tell ye no snake in Texas will cross a hosshair rope. The tother ’un must ha’ been inside the house afore ye laid the laryitt roun’ it. ’Taint likely there keel ha’ been two on ’em. We kin soon settle that by sarchin’.”

“Oh, murdher! Luk hare!” cried the Galwegian, pulling off his shirt and laying bare his breast. “Thare’s the riptoile’s track, right acrass over me ribs! Didn’t I tell yez there was another snake? O blissed Mother, what will become av me? It feels like a strake av fire!”

“Snake!” exclaimed Stump, stepping up to the affrighted Irishman, and holding the candle close to his skin. “Snake i’deed! By the ’tarnal airthquake, it air no snake! It air wuss than that!”

“Worse than a snake?” shouted Phelim in dismay. “Worse, yez say, Misther Stump? Div yez mane that it’s dangerous?”

“Wal, it mout be, an it moutn’t. Thet ere ’ll depend on whether I kin find somethin’ ’bout hyur, an find it soon. Ef I don’t, then, Mister Pheelum, I won’t answer – ”

“Oh, Misther Stump, don’t say thare’s danger!”

“What is it?” demanded Maurice, as his eyes rested upon a reddish line running diagonally across the breast of his follower, and which looked as if traced by the point of a hot spindle. “What is it, anyhow?” he repeated with increasing anxiety, as he observed the serious look with which the hunter regarded the strange marking. “I never saw the like before. Is it something to be alarmed about?”

“All o’ thet, Mister Gerald,” replied Stump, motioning Maurice outside the hut, and speaking to him in a whisper, so as not to be overheard by Phelim.

“But what is it?” eagerly asked the mustanger. “It air the crawl o’ the pisen centipede.”

“The poison centipede! Has it bitten him?”

“No, I hardly think it hez. But it don’t need thet. The crawl o’ itself air enuf to kill him!”

“Merciful Heaven! you don’t mean that?”

“I do, Mister Gerald. I’ve seed more ’an one good fellur go under wi’ that same sort o’ a stripe acrost his skin. If thur ain’t somethin’ done, an thet soon, he’ll fust get into a ragin’ fever, an then he’ll go out o’ his senses, jest as if the bite o’ a mad dog had gin him the hydrophoby[103]. It air no use frightenin’ him howsomdever, till I sees what I kin do. Thur’s a yarb, or rayther it air a plant, as grows in these parts. Ef I kin find it handy, there’ll be no defeequilty in curin’ o’ him. But as the cussed lack wud hev it, the moon hez sneaked out o’ sight; an I kin only get the yarb by gropin’. I know there air plenty o’ it up on the bluff; an ef you’ll go back inside, an keep the fellur quiet, I’ll see what kin be done. I won’t be gone but a minute.”

The whispered colloquy, and the fact of the speakers having gone outside to carry it on, instead of tranquillising the fears of Phelim, had by this time augmented them to an extreme degree: and just as the old hunter, bent upon his herborising errand, disappeared in the darkness, he came rushing forth from the hut, howling more piteously than ever.

It was some time before his master could get him tranquillised, and then only by assuring him – on a faith not very firm – that there was not the slightest danger.

A few seconds after this had been accomplished, Zeb Stump reappeared in the doorway, with a countenance that produced a pleasant change in the feelings of those inside. His confident air and attitude proclaimed, as plainly as words could have done, that he had discovered that of which he had gone in search – the “yarb.” In his right hand he held a number of oval shaped objects of dark green colour – all of them bristling with sharp spines, set over the surface in equidistant clusters. Maurice recognised the leaves of a plant well known to him – the oregano cactus.

“Don’t be skeeart, Mister Pheelum!” said the old hunter, in a consolatory tone, as he stepped across the threshold. “Thur’s nothin’ to fear now. I hev got the bolsum as ’ll draw the burnin’ out o’ yur blood, quicker ’an flame ud scorch a feather. Stop yur yellin’, man! Ye’ve rousted every bird an beast, an creepin’ thing too, I reckon, out o’ thar slumbers, for more an twenty mile up an down the crik. Ef you go on at that grist much longer, ye’ll bring the Kumanchees out o’ thur mountains, an that ’ud be wuss mayhap than the crawl o’ this hunderd-legged critter. Mister Gerald, you git riddy a bandige, whiles I purpares the powltiss.”

Drawing his knife from its sheath, the hunter first lopped off the spines; and then, removing the outside skin, he split the thick succulent leaves of the cactus into slices of about an eighth of an inch in thickness. These he spread contiguously upon a strip of clean cotton stuff already prepared by the mustanger; and then, with the ability of a hunter, laid the “powltiss,” as he termed it, along the inflamed line, which he declared to have been made by the claws of the centipede, but which in reality was caused by the injection of venom from its poison-charged mandibles, a thousand times inserted into the flesh of the sleeper!

The application of the oregano was almost instantaneous in its effect. The acrid juice of the plant, producing a counter poison, killed that which had been secreted by the animal; and the patient, relieved from further apprehension, and soothed by the sweet confidence of security – stronger from reaction – soon fell off into a profound and restorative slumber.

After searching for the centipede and failing to find it – for this hideous reptile, known in Mexico as the alacran, unlike the rattlesnake, has no fear of crossing a cabriesto – the improvised physician strode silently out of the cabin; and, once more committing himself to his grassy couch, slept undisturbed till the morning.

At the earliest hour of daybreak all three were astir – Phelim having recovered both from his fright and his fever. Having made their matutinal meal upon the débris of the roast turkey, they hastened to take their departure from the hut. The quondam stable-boy of Ballyballagh, assisted by the Texan hunter, prepared the wild steeds for transport across the plains – by stringing them securely together – while Maurice looked after his own horse and the spotted mare. More especially did he expend his time upon the beautiful captive – carefully combing out her mane and tail, and removing from her glossy coat the stains that told of the severe chase she had cost him before her proud neck yielded to the constraint of his lazo.

“Durn it, man!” exclaimed Zeb, as, with some surprise, he stood watching the movements of the mustanger, “ye needn’t ha’ been hef so purtickler! Wudley Pointdexter ain’t the man as ’ll go back from a barg’in. Ye’ll git the two hunderd dollars, sure as my name air Zeblun Stump; an dog-gone my cats, ef the maar ain’t worth every red cent o’ the money!”

Maurice heard the remarks without making reply; but the half suppressed smile playing around his lips told that the Kentuckian had altogether misconstrued the motive for his assiduous grooming.

In less than an hour after, the mustanger was on the march, mounted on his blood-bay, and leading the spotted mare at the end of his lazo; while the captive cavallada[104], under the guidance of the Galwegian groom, went trooping at a brisk pace over the plain.

Zeb Stump, astride his “ole maar,” could only keep up by a constant hammering with his heels; and Tara, picking his steps through the spinous mezquite grass, trotted listlessly in the rear.

The hut, with its skin-door closed against animal intruders, was left to take care of itself; its silent solitude, for a time, to be disturbed only by the hooting of the horned owl, the scream of the cougar, or the howl-bark of the hungering coyoté.

Chapter 9

The Frontier Fort

The “star-spangled banner” suspended above Fort Inge, as it flouts forth from its tall staff, flings its fitful shadow over a scene of strange and original interest.

It is a picture of pure frontier life – which perhaps only the pencil of the younger Vernet could truthfully portray – half military, half civilian – half savage, half civilised – mottled with figures of men whose complexions, costumes, and callings, proclaim them appertaining to the extremes of both, and every possible gradation between.

Even the mise-en-scène[105] – the Fort itself – is of this miscegenous character. That star-spangled banner waves not over bastions and battlements; it flings no shadow over casemate or covered way, fosse, scarpment, or glacis – scarce anything that appertains to a fortress. A rude stockade, constructed out of trunks of algarobia, enclosing shed-stabling for two hundred horses; outside this a half-score of buildings of the plainest architectural style – some of them mere huts of “wattle and daub” – jacalés[106] – the biggest a barrack; behind it the hospital, the stores of the commissary, and quartermaster; on one side the guardhouse; and on the other, more pretentiously placed, the messroom and officers’ quarters; all plain in their appearance – plastered and whitewashed with the lime plentifully found on the Leona – all neat and clean, as becomes a cantonment of troops wearing the uniform of a great civilised nation. Such is Fort Inge.

At a short distance off another group of houses meets the eye – nearly, if not quite, as imposing as the cluster above described bearing the name of “The Fort.” They are just outside the shadow of the flag, though under its protection – for to it are they indebted for their origin and existence. They are the germ of the village that universally springs up in the proximity of an American military post – in all probability, and at no very remote period, to become a town – perhaps a great city.

At present their occupants are a sutler, whose store contains “knick-knacks” not classed among commissariat rations; an hotel-keeper whose bar-room, with white sanded floor and shelves sparkling with prismatic glass, tempts the idler to step in; a brace of gamblers whose rival tables of faro and monté[107] extract from the pockets of the soldiers most part of their pay; a score of dark-eyed señoritas of questionable reputation; a like number of hunters, teamsters, mustangers, and nondescripts – such as constitute in all countries the hangers-on of a military cantonment, or the followers of a camp.

The houses in the occupancy of this motley corporation have been “sited” with some design. Perhaps they are the property of a single speculator. They stand around a “square,” where, instead of lamp-posts or statues, may be seen the decaying trunk of a cypress, or the bushy form of a hackberry rising out of a tapis of trodden grass.

The Leona – at this point a mere rivulet – glides past in the rear both of fort and village. To the front extends a level plain, green as verdure can make it – in the distance darkened by a bordering of woods, in which post-oaks and pecans, live oaks and elms, struggle for existence with spinous plants of cactus and anona; with scores of creepers, climbers, and parasites almost unknown to the botanist. To the south and east along the banks of the stream, you see scattered houses: the homesteads of plantations; some of them rude and of recent construction, with a few of more pretentious style, and evidently of older origin. One of these last particularly attracts the attention: a structure of superior size – with flat roof, surmounted by a crenelled parapet – whose white walls show conspicuously against the green background of forest with which it is half encircled. It is the hacienda[108] of Casa del Corvo.

Turning your eye northward, you behold a curious isolated eminence – a gigantic cone of rocks – rising several hundred feet above the level of the plain; and beyond, in dim distance, a waving horizontal line indicating the outlines of the Guadalupe mountains[109] – the outstanding spurs of that elevated and almost untrodden plateau, the Llano Estacado[110].

Look aloft! You behold a sky, half sapphire, half turquoise; by day, showing no other spot than the orb of its golden god; by night, studded with stars that appear clipped from clear steel, and a moon whose well-defined disc outshines the effulgence of silver.

Look below – at that hour when moon and stars have disappeared, and the land-wind arrives from Matagorda Bay, laden with the fragrance of flowers; when it strikes the starry flag, unfolding it to the eye of the morn – then look below, and behold the picture that should have been painted by the pencil of Vernet – too varied and vivid, too plentiful in shapes, costumes, and colouring, to be sketched by the pen.

In the tableau you distinguish soldiers in uniform – the light blue of the United States infantry, the darker cloth of the dragoons, and the almost invisible green of the mounted riflemen.

You will see but few in full uniform – only the officer of the day, the captain of the guard, and the guard itself.

Their comrades off duty lounge about the barracks, or within the stockade enclosure, in red flannel shirts, slouch hats, and boots innocent of blacking.

They mingle with men whose costumes make no pretence to a military character: tall hunters in tunics of dressed deerskin, with leggings to correspond – herdsmen and mustangers, habited à la Mexicaine – Mexicans themselves, in wide calzoneros, serapes on their shoulders, botas on their legs, huge spurs upon their heels, and glazed sombreros set jauntily on their crowns. They palaver with Indians on a friendly visit to the Fort, for trade or treaty; whose tents stand at some distance, and from whose shoulders hang blankets of red, and green, and blue – giving them a picturesque, even classical, appearance, in spite of the hideous paint with which they have bedaubed their skins, and the dirt that renders sticky their long black hair, lengthened by tresses taken from the tails of their horses.

Picture to the eye of your imagination this jumble of mixed nationalities – in their varied costumes of race, condition, and calling; jot in here and there a black-skinned scion of Ethiopia[111], the body servant of some officer, or the emissary of a planter from the adjacent settlements; imagine them standing in gossiping groups, or stalking over the level plain, amidst some half-dozen halted waggons; a couple of six-pounders upon their carriages, with caissons close by; a square tent or two, with its surmounting fly – occupied by some eccentric officer who prefers sleeping under canvas; a stack of bayoneted rifles belonging to the soldiers on guard, – imagine all these component parts, and you will have before your mind’s eye a truthful picture of a military fort upon the frontier of Texas, and the extreme selvedge of civilisation.

About a week after the arrival of the Louisiana planter at his new home, three officers were seen standing upon the parade ground in front of Fort Inge, with their eyes turned towards the hacienda of Casa del Corvo.

They were all young men: the oldest not over thirty years of age. His shoulder-straps with the double bar proclaimed him a captain; the second, with a single cross bar, was a first lieutenant; while the youngest of the two, with an empty chevron, was either a second lieutenant or “brevet.”

They were off duty; engaged in conversation – their theme, the “new people” in Casa del Corvo – by which was meant the Louisiana planter and his family.

“A sort of housewarming it’s to be,” said the infantry captain, alluding to an invitation that had reached the Fort, extending to all the commissioned officers of the garrison. “Dinner first, and dancing afterwards – a regular field day, where I suppose we shall see paraded the aristocracy and beauty of the settlement.”

“Aristocracy?” laughingly rejoined the lieutenant of dragoons. “Not much of that here, I fancy; and of beauty still less.”

“You mistake, Hancock. There are both upon the banks of the Leona. Some good States families have strayed out this way. We’ll meet them at Poindexter’s party, no doubt. On the question of aristocracy, the host himself, if you’ll pardon a poor joke, is himself a host. He has enough of it to inoculate all the company that may be present; and as for beauty, I’ll back his daughter against anything this side the Sabine. The commissary’s niece will be no longer belle about here.”

“Oh, indeed!” drawled the lieutenant of rifles, in a tone that told of his being chafed by this representation. “Miss Poindexter must be deuced good-looking, then.”

“She’s all that, I tell you, if she be anything like what she was when I last saw her, which was at a Bayou Lafourche ball. There were half a dozen young Creoles there, who came nigh crossing swords about her.”

“A coquette, I suppose?” insinuated the rifleman.

“Nothing of the kind, Crossman. Quite the contrary, I assure you. She’s a girl of spirit, though – likely enough to snub any fellow who might try to be too familiar. She’s not without some of the father’s pride. It’s a family trait of the Poindexters.”

“Just the girl I should cotton to,” jocosely remarked the young dragoon. “And if she’s as good-looking as you say, Captain Sloman, I shall certainly go in for her. Unlike Crossman here, I’m clear of all entanglements of the heart. Thank the Lord for it!”

“Well, Mr Hancock,” rejoined the infantry officer, a gentleman of sober inclinings, “I’m not given to betting; but I’d lay a big wager you won’t say that, after you have seen Louise Poindexter – that is, if you speak your mind.”

“Pshaw, Sloman! don’t you be alarmed about me. I’ve been too often under the fire of bright eyes to have any fear of them.”

“None so bright as hers.”

“Deuce take it! you make a fellow fall in love with this lady without having set eyes upon her. She must be something extraordinary – incomparable.”

“She was both, when I last saw her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“The Lafourche ball? Let me see – about eighteen months. Just after we got back from Mexico. She was then ‘coming out’ as society styles it: —

“A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!”

“Eighteen months is a long time,” sagely remarked Crossman – “a long time for an unmarried maiden – especially among Creoles, where they often get spliced at twelve, instead of ‘sweet sixteen.’ Her beauty may have lost some of its bloom?”

“I believe not a bit. I should have called to see; only I knew they were in the middle of their ‘plenishing,’ and mightn’t desire to be visited. But the major has been to Casa del Corvo, and brought back such a report about Miss Poindexter’s beauty as almost got him into a scrape with the lady commanding the post.”

“Upon my soul, Captain Sloman!” asseverated the lieutenant of dragoons, “you’ve excited my curiosity to such a degree, I feel already half in love with Louise Poindexter!”

“Before you get altogether into it,” rejoined the officer of infantry, in a serious tone, “let me recommend a little caution. There’s a ibête nor in the background.”

“A brother, I suppose? That is the individual usually so regarded.”

“There is a brother, but it’s not he. A free noble young fellow he is – the only Poindexter I ever knew not eaten up with pride, he’s quite the reverse.”

“The aristocratic father, then? Surely he wouldn’t object to a quartering with the Hancocks?”

“I’m not so sure of that; seeing that the Hancocks are Yankees, and he’s a chivalric Southerner! But it’s not old Poindexter I mean.”

“Who, then, is the black beast, or what is it – if not a human?”

“It is human, after a fashion. A male cousin – a queer card he is – by name Cassius Calhoun.”

“I think I’ve heard the name.”

“So have I,” said the lieutenant of rifles.

“So has almost everybody who had anything to do with the Mexican war[112] – that is, who took part in Scott’s campaign[113]. He figured there extensively, and not very creditably either. He was captain in a volunteer regiment of Mississippians – for he hails from that State; but he was oftener met with at the monté-table[114] than in the quarters of his regiment. He had one or two affairs, that gave him the reputation of a bully. But that notoriety was not of Mexican-war origin. He had earned it before going there; and was well known among the desperadoes of New Orleans as a dangerous man.”

“What of all that?” asked the young dragoon, in a tone slightly savouring of defiance. “Who cares whether Mr Cassius Calhoun be a dangerous man, or a harmless one? Not I. He’s only the girl’s cousin, you say?”

“Something more, perhaps. I have reason to think he’s her lover.”

“Accepted, do you suppose?”

“That I can’t tell. I only know, or suspect, that he’s the favourite of the father. I have heard reasons why; given only in whispers, it is true, but too probable to be scouted. The old story – influence springing from mortgage money. Poindexter’s not so rich as he has been – else we’d never have seen him out here.”

“If the lady be as attractive as you say, I suppose we’ll have Captain Cassius out here also, before long?”

“Before long! Is that all you know about it? He is here; came along with the family, and is now residing with them. Some say he’s a partner in the planting speculation. I saw him this very morning – down in the hotel bar-room – ‘liquoring up,’ and swaggering in his old way.”

“A swarthy-complexioned man, of about thirty, with dark hair and moustaches; wearing a blue cloth frock, half military cut, and a Colt[115]’s revolver strapped over his thigh?”

“Ay, and a bowie knife, if you had looked for it, under the breast of his coat. That’s the man.”

“He’s rather a formidable-looking fellow,” remarked the young rifleman. “If a bully, his looks don’t belie him.”

“Damn his looks!” half angrily exclaimed the dragoon. “We don’t hold commissions in Uncle Sam’s army to be scared by looks, nor bullies either. If he comes any of his bullying over me, he’ll find I’m as quick with a trigger as he.”

At that moment the bugle brayed out the call for morning parade – a ceremony observed at the little frontier fort as regularly as if a whole corps-d’armée[116] had been present – and the three officers separating, betook themselves to their quarters to prepare their several companies for the inspection of the major in command of the cantonment.

Chapter 10

Casa Del Corvo

The estate, or “hacienda,” known as Casa del Corvo, extended along the wooded bottom of the Leona River for more than a league, and twice that distance southwards across the contiguous prairie.

The house itself – usually, though not correctly, styled the hacienda – stood within long cannon range of Fort Inge; from which its white walls were partially visible; the remaining portion being shadowed by tall forest trees that skirted the banks of the stream.

Its site was peculiar, and no doubt chosen with a view to defence: for its foundations had been laid at a time when Indian assailants might be expected; as indeed they might be, and often are, at the present hour.

There was a curve of the river closing upon itself, like the shoe of a racehorse, or the arc of a circle, three parts complete; the chord of which, or a parallelogram traced upon it, might be taken as the ground-plan of the dwelling. Hence the name – Casa del Corvo – “the House of the Curve” (curved river).

The façade, or entrance side, fronted towards the prairie – the latter forming a noble lawn that extended to the edge of the horizon – in comparison with which an imperial park would have shrunk into the dimensions of a paddock.

The architecture of Casa del Corvo, like that of other large country mansions in Mexico, was of a style that might be termed Morisco[117]-Mexican: being a single story in height, with a flat roof – azotea – spouted and parapeted all round; having a courtyard inside the walls, termed patio, open to the sky, with a flagged floor, a fountain, and a stone stairway leading up to the roof; a grand entrance gateway – the saguan – with a massive wooden door, thickly studded with bolt-heads; and two or three windows on each side, defended by a grille of strong iron bars, called reja. These are the chief characteristics of a Mexican hacienda; and Casa del Corvo differed but little from the type almost universal throughout the vast territories of Spanish America.

Such was the homestead that adorned the newly acquired estate of the Louisiana planter – that had become his property by purchase.

As yet no change had taken place in the exterior of the dwelling; nor much in its interior, if we except the personnel of its occupants. A physiognomy, half Anglo-Saxon, half Franco-American, presented itself in courtyard and corridor, where formerly were seen only faces of pure Spanish type; and instead of the rich sonorous language of Andalusia[118], was now heard the harsher guttural of a semi-Teutonic tongue[119] – occasionally diversified by the sweeter accentuation of Creolian French.

Outside the walls of the mansion – in the village-like cluster of yucca-thatched huts which formerly gave housing to the peons[120] and other dependants of the hacienda – the transformation was more striking. Where the tall thin vaquero[121], in broad-brimmed hat of black glaze, and chequered serape, strode proudly over the sward – his spurs tinkling at every step – was now met the authoritative “overseer,” in blue jersey, or blanket coat – his whip cracking at every corner; where the red children of Azteca[122] and Anahuac[123], scantily clad in tanned sheepskin, could be seen, with sad solemn aspect, lounging listlessly by their jacalés, or trotting silently along, were now heard the black sons and daughters of Ethiopia, from morn till night chattering their gay “gumbo,” or with song and dance seemingly contradicting the idea: that slavery is a heritage of unhappiness!

Was it a change for the better upon the estate of Casa del Corvo?

There was a time when the people of England would have answered – no; with a unanimity and emphasis calculated to drown all disbelief in their sincerity.

Alas, for human weakness and hypocrisy! Our long cherished sympathy with the slave proves to have been only a tissue of sheer dissembling. Led by an oligarchy – not the true aristocracy of our country: for these are too noble to have yielded to such, deep designings – but an oligarchy composed of conspiring plebs, who have smuggled themselves into the first places of power in all the four estates – guided by these prurient conspirators against the people’s rights – England has proved untrue to her creed so loudly proclaimed – truculent to the trust reposed in her by the universal acclaim, of the nations.

On a theme altogether different dwelt the thoughts of Louise Poindexter, as she flung herself into a chair in front of her dressing-glass, and directed her maid Florinda to prepare her for the reception of guests – expected soon to arrive at the hacienda.

It was the day fixed for the “house-warming,” and about an hour before the time appointed for dinner to be on the table. This might have explained a certain restlessness observable in the air of the young Creole – especially observed by Florinda; but it did not. The maid had her own thoughts about the cause of her mistress’s disquietude – as was proved by the conversation that ensued between them.

Scarce could it be called a conversation. It was more as if the young lady were thinking aloud, with her attendant acting as an echo. During all her life, the Creole had been accustomed to look upon her sable handmaid as a thing from whom it was not worth while concealing her thoughts, any more than she would from the chairs, the table, the sofa, or any other article of furniture in the apartment. There was but the difference of Florinda being a little more animated and companionable, and the advantage of her being able to give a vocal response to the observations addressed to her.

For the first ten minutes after entering the chamber, Florinda had sustained the brunt of the dialogue on indifferent topics – her mistress only interfering with an occasional ejaculation.

“Oh, Miss Looey!” pursued the negress, as her fingers fondly played among the lustrous tresses of her young mistress’s hair, “how bewful you hair am! Like de long ’Panish moss dat hang from de cyprus-tree; only dat it am ob a diff’rent colour, an shine like the sugar-house ’lasses.”

As already stated, Louise Poindexter was a Creole. After that, it is scarce necessary to say that her hair was of a dark colour; and – as the sable maid in rude speech had expressed it – luxuriant as Spanish moss. It was not black; but of a rich glowing brown – such as may be observed in the tinting of a tortoise-shell, or the coat of a winter-trapped sable.

“Ah!” continued Florinda, spreading out an immense “hank” of the hair, that glistened like a chestnut against her dark palm, “if I had dat lubbly hair on ma head, in’tead ob dis cuss’d cully wool, I fotch em all to ma feet – ebbry one oh dem.”

“What do you mean, girl?” inquired the young lady, as if just aroused from some dreamy reverie. “What’s that you’ve been saying? Fetch them to your feet? Fetch whom?”

“Na, now; you know what dis chile mean?”

“’Pon honour, I do not.”

“Make em lub me. Dat’s what I should hab say.”

“But whom?”

“All de white gen’l’m. De young planter, de officer ob de Fort – all ob dem. Wif you hair, Miss Looey, I could dem all make conquess.”

“Ha – ha – ha!” laughed the young lady, amused at the idea of Florinda figuring under that magnificent chevelure. “You think, with my hair upon your head, you would be invincible among the men?”

“No, missa – not you hair alone – but wif you sweet face – you skin, white as de alumbaster – you tall figga – you grand look. Oh, Miss Looey, you am so ’plendidly bewful! I hear de white gen’l’m say so. I no need hear em say it. I see dat for masef.”

“You’re learning to flatter, Florinda.”

“No, ’deed, missa – ne’er a word ob flattery – ne’er a word, I swa it. By de ’postles, I swa it.”

To one who looked upon her mistress, the earnest asseveration of the maid was not necessary to prove the sincerity of her speech, however hyperbolical it might appear. To say that Louise Poindexter was beautiful, would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point – strangers as well as acquaintances. It was a kind of beauty that needed no discovering – and yet it is difficult to describe it. The pen cannot portray swell a face. Even the pencil could convey but a faint idea of it: for no painter, however skilled, could represent upon cold canvas the glowing ethereal light that emanated from her eyes, and appeared to radiate over her countenance. Her features were purely classic: resembling those types of female beauty chosen by Phidias[124] or Praxiteles[125]. And yet in all the Grecian Pantheon there is no face to which it could have been likened: for it was not the countenance of a goddess; but, something more attractive to the eye of man, the face of a woman.

A suspicion of sensuality, apparent in the voluptuous curving of the lower lip – still more pronounced in the prominent rounding beneath the cheeks – while depriving the countenance of its pure spiritualism, did not perhaps detract from its beauty. There are men, who, in this departure from the divine type, would have perceived a superior charm: since in Louise Poindexter they would have seen not a divinity to be worshipped, but a woman to be loved.

Her only reply vouchsafed to Florinda’s earnest asseveration was a laugh – careless, though not incredulous. The young Creole did not need to be reminded of her beauty. She was not unconscious of it: as could be told by her taking more than one long look into the mirror before which her toilet was being made. The flattery of the negress scarce called up an emotion; certainly not more than she might have felt at the fawning of a pet spaniel; and she soon after surrendered herself to the reverie from which the speech had aroused her.

Florinda was not silenced by observing her mistress’s air of abstraction. The girl had evidently something on her mind – some mystery, of which she desired the éclaircissement[126] – and was determined to have it.

“Ah!” she continued, as if talking to herself; “if Florinda had half de charm ob young missa, she for nobody care – she for nobody heave do deep sigh!”

“Sigh!” repeated her mistress, suddenly startled by the speech. “What do you mean by that?”

“Pa’ dieu, Miss Looey, Florinda no so blind you tink; nor so deaf neider. She you see long time sit in de same place; you nebber ’peak no word – you only heave de sigh – de long deep sigh. You nebba do dat in de ole plantashun in Loozyanny.”

“Florinda! I fear you are taking leave of your senses, or have left them behind you in Louisiana? Perhaps there’s something in the climate here that affects you. Is that so, girl?”

“Pa’ dieu, Miss Looey, dat question ob youself ask. You no be angry case I ’peak so plain. Florinda you slave – she you lub like brack sisser. She no happy hear you sigh. Dat why she hab take de freedom. You no be angry wif me?”

“Certainly not. Why should I be angry with you, child? I’m not. I didn’t say I was; only you are quite mistaken in your ideas. What you’ve seen, or heard, could be only a fancy of your own. As for sighing, heigho! I have something else to think of just now. I have to entertain about a hundred guests – nearly all strangers, too; among them the young planters and officers whom you would entangle if you had my hair. Ha! ha! ha! I don’t desire to enmesh them – not one of them! So twist it up as you like – without the semblance of a snarein it.”

“Oh! Miss Looey, you so ’peak?” inquired the negress with an air of evident interest. “You say none ob dem gen’l’m you care for? Dere am two, tree, berry, berry, berry han’som’. One planter dar be, and two ob de officer – all young gen’l’m. You know de tree I mean. All ob dem hab been ’tentive to you. You sure, missa, tain’t one ob dem dat you make sigh?”

“Sigh again! Ha! ha! ha! But come, Florinda, we’re losing time. Recollect I’ve got to be in the drawing-room to receive a hundred guests. I must have at least half an hour to compose myself into an attitude befitting such an extensive reception.”

“No fear, Miss Looey – no fear. I you toilette make in time – plenty ob time. No much trouble you dress. Pa’ dieu, in any dress you look ’plendid. You be de belle if you dress like one ob de fiel’ hand ob de plantashun.”

“What a flatterer you are grown, Florinda! I shall begin to suspect that you are after some favour. Do you wish me to intercede, and make up your quarrel with Pluto?”

“No, missa. I be friend nebber more wid Pluto. He show hisseff such great coward when come dat storm on de brack prairee. Ah, Miss Looey! what we boaf do if dat young white gen’l’m on de red hoss no come ridin’ dat way?”

“If he had not, cher Florinde, it is highly probable neither of us should now have been here.”

“Oh, missa! wasn’t he real fancy man, dat ’ere? You see him bewful face. You see him thick hair, jess de colour ob you own – only curled leetle bit like mine. Talk ob de young planter, or dem officer at de Fort! De brack folk say he no good for nuffin, like dem – he only poor white trash. Who care fo’ dat? He am de sort ob man could dis chile make sigh. Ah! de berry, berry sort!”

Up to this point the young Creole had preserved a certain tranquillity of countenance. She tried to continue it; but the effort failed her. Whether by accident or design, Florinda had touched the most sensitive chord in the spirit of her mistress.

She would have been loth to confess it, even to her slave; and it was a relief to her, when loud voices heard in the courtyard gave a colourable excuse for terminating her toilette, along with the delicate dialogue upon which she might have been constrained to enter.

Chapter 11

An Unexpected Arrival

“Say, ye durnationed nigger! whar’s yur master?”

“Mass Poindex’er, sar? De ole massr, or de young ’un?”

“Young ’un be durned! I mean Mister Peintdexter. Who else shed I? Whar air he?”

“Ho – ho! sar! dey am boaf at home – dat is, dey am boaf away from de house – de ole massr an de young Massr Henry. Dey am down de ribber, wha de folk am makin’ de new fence. Ho! ho! you find ’em dar.”

“Down the river! How fur d’ye reck’n?”

“Ho! ho! sar. Dis nigga reck’n it be ’bout tree or four mile – dat at de berry leas’.”

“Three or four mile? Ye must be a durnationed fool, nigger. Mister Peintdexter’s plantation don’t go thet fur; an I reck’n he ain’t the man to be makin’ a fence on some’dy else’s clarin’. Lookee hyur! What time air he expected hum? Ye’ve got a straighter idee o’ thet, I hope?”

“Dey boaf ’pected home berry soon, de young massr and de ole massr, and Mass Ca’houn too. Ho! ho! dar’s agwine to be big dooin’s ’bout dis yar shanty – yer see dat fo’ yeseff by de smell ob de kitchen. Ho! ho! All sorts o’ gran’ feassin’ – do roas’ an de bile, an de barbecue; de pot-pies, an de chicken fixins. Ho! ho! ain’t thar agwine to go it hyar jess like de ole times on de coass ob de Massippy! Hoora fo’ ole Mass Poindex’er! He de right sort. Ho! ho! ’tranger! why you no holla too: you no friend ob de massr?”

“Durn you, nigger, don’t ye remember me? Now I look into yur ugly mug, I recollex you.”

“Gorramighty! ’tain’t Mass ’Tump – ’t use to fotch de ven’son an de turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun? By de jumbo, it am, tho’. Law, Mass ’Tump, dis nigga ’members you like it wa de day afore yesserday. Ise heern you called de odder day; but I war away from ’bout de place. I’m de coachman now – dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de ’tablishment – de bewful Missy Loo. Lor, massr, she berry fine gal. Dey do say she beat Florinday into fits. Nebba mind, Mass ’Tump, you better wait till ole massr come home. He am a bound to be hya, in de shortess poss’ble time.”

“Wal, if thet’s so, I’ll wait upon him,” rejoined the hunter, leisurely lifting his leg over the saddle – in which up to this time he had retained his seat. “Now, ole fellur,” he added, passing the bridle into the hands of the negro, “you gi’e the maar half a dozen yeers o’ corn out o’ the crib. I’ve rid the critter better ’n a score o’ miles like a streak o’ lightnin’ – all to do yur master a sarvice.”

“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.

“I thought it was,” continued the young lady, coming up to the railings, “though I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You said you were going upon a long journey. Well – I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner. You have not dined, I know. You are dusty – you’ve been travelling? Here, Morinda! Haste you to the sideboard, and pour out some drink. Mr Stump will be thirsty, I’m sure, this hot day. What would you prefer – port, sherry, claret? Ah, now, if I recollect, you used to be partial to Monongahela whisky. I think there is some. Morinda, see if there be! Step into the verandah, dear Mr Stump, and take a seat. You were inquiring for papa? I expect him home every minute. I shall try to entertain you till he come.”

Had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have received an immediate reply. Even as it was, some seconds elapsed before Zeb made rejoinder. He stood gazing upon her, as if struck speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration.

“Lord o’ marcy, Miss Lewaze!” he at length gasped forth, “I thort when I used to see you on the Massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the airth; but now, I think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in hewing. Geehosofat!”

The old hunter’s praise was scarce exaggerated. Fresh from the toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe of India muslin[127] – white and semi-translucent – certainly did Louise Poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth – if not in heaven.

“Geehosofat!” again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary speech, “I hev in my time seed what I thort war some putty critters o’ the sheemale kind – my ole ’ooman herself warn’t so bad-lookin’ when I fast kim acrost her in Kaintuck – thet she warn’t. But I will say this, Miss Lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o’ all o’ them war clipped out an then jeined thegither agin, they wudn’t make up the thousanth part o’ a angel sech as you.”

“Oh – oh – oh! Mr Stump – Mr Stump! I’m astonished to hear you talk in this manner. Texas has quite turned you into a courtier. If you go on so, I fear you will lose your character for plain speaking! After that I am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink. Haste, Morinda! I think you said you would prefer whisky?”

“Ef I didn’t say it, I thunk it; an that air about the same. Yur right, miss, I prefar the corn afore any o’ them thur furrin lickers; an I sticks to it whuriver I kin git it. Texas hain’t made no alterashun in me in the matter o’ lickerin’.”

“Mass ’Tump, you it hab mix wif water?” inquired Florinda, coming forward with a tumbler about one-half full of “Monongahela.”

“No, gurl. Durn yur water! I hev hed enuf o’ thet since I started this mornin’. I hain’t hed a taste o’ licker the hul day – ne’er as much as the smell o’ it.”

“Dear Mr Stump! surely you can’t drink it that way? Why, it will burn your throat! Have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?”

“Speil it, miss. It air sweet enuf ’ithout that sort o’ docterin’; ’specially arter you hev looked inter the glass. Yu’ll see ef I can’t drink it. Hyur goes to try!”

The old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of Florinda. A loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid.

“Burn my throat, ye say? Ne’er a bit. It hez jest eiled thet ere jugewlar, an put it in order for a bit o’ a palaver I wants to hev wi’ yur father – ’bout thet ere spotty mow-stang.”

“Oh, true! I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t either; but I did not suppose you had time to have news of it. Have you heard anything of the pretty creature?”

“Putty critter ye may well pernounce it. It ur all o’ thet. Besides, it ur a maar.”

“A ma-a-r! What is that, Mr Stump? I don’t understand.”

“A maar I sayed. Shurly ye know what a maar is?”

“Ma-a-r – ma-a-r! Why, no, not exactly. Is it a Mexican word? Mar in Spanish signifies the sea.”

“In coorse it air a Mexikin maar – all mowstangs air. They air all on ’em o’ a breed as wur oncest brought over from some European country by the fust o’ them as settled in these hyur parts – leesewise I hev heern so.”

“Still, Mr Stump, I do not comprehend you. What makes this mustang a ma-a-r?”

“What makes her a maar? ’Case she ain’t a hoss; thet’s what make it, Miss Peintdexter.”

“Oh – now – I – I think I comprehend. But did you say you have heard of the animal – I mean since you left us?”

“Heern o’ her, seed her, an feeled her.”

“Indeed!”

“She air grupped.”

“Ah, caught! what capital news! I shall be so delighted to see the beautiful thing; and ride it too. I haven’t had a horse worth a piece of orange-peel since I’ve been in Texas. Papa has promised to purchase this one for me at any price. But who is the lucky individual who accomplished the capture?”

“Ye mean who grupped the maar?”

“Yes – yes – who?”

“Why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger.”

“A mustanger?”

“Ye-es – an such a one as thur ain’t another on all these purayras – eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one. Yo may talk about yur Mexikins! I never seed neery Mexikin ked manage hoss-doin’s like that young fellur; an thur ain’t a drop o’ thur pisen blood in his veins. He ur es white es I am myself.”

“His name?”

“Wal, es to the name o’ his family, that I niver heern. His Christyun name air Maurice. He’s knowed up thur ’bout the Fort as Maurice the mowstanger.”

The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer.

Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

“La, Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen’l’m – he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?”

“Geehosofat[128], yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “Now I think o’t, he told me o’ thet suckumstance this very mornin’, afore we started. He air the same. Thet’s the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin’ the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump’ny wi’ about a dozen others o’ the same cavyurd. He oughter be hyur afore sundown. I pushed my ole maar ahead, so ’s to tell yur father the spotty war comin’, and let him git the fust chance o’ buyin’. I know’d as how thet ere bit o’ hosdoin’s don’t get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb’dy snaps her up. I thort o’ you, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt ye ’bout the critter. Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. Ole Zeb Stump ’ll be yur bail for thet.”

“Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you! I am very, very grateful. You will now excuse me for a moment. Father will soon be back. We have a dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many people. Florinda, see that Mr Stump’s luncheon is set out for him. Go, girl – go at once about it!”

“And, Mr Stump,” continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, “if the young – young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here – perhaps he don’t know them – will you see that he is not neglected? There is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. You know what I mean, dear Mr Stump?”

“Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly. I kin unnerstan’ all thet ere ’bout the licker’ an other fixins. But who air the young gen’leman yur speakin’ o’? Thet’s the thing as bamboozles me.”

“Surely you know who I mean! The young gentleman – the young man – who, you say, is bringing in the horses.”

“Oh! ah! Maurice the mowstanger! That’s it, is it? Wal, I reck’n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling him a gen’leman; tho’ it ain’t offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. He air one, every inch o’ him – a gen’leman by barth, breed, an raisin’ – tho’ he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet.”

The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.

“I must tell ye, howsomdiver,” continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, “it won’t do to show that ’ere young fellur any sort o’ second-hand hospertality. As they used to say on the Massissippi, he air ‘as proud as a Peintdexter.’ Excuse me, Miss Lewaze, for lettin’ the word slip. I did think o’t thet I war talkin’ to a Peintdexter – not the proudest, but the puttiest o’ the name.”

“Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me. You know that I could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!”

“He’d be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin’ to offend you, miss.”

“Thanks! thanks! I know your honest heart – I know your devotion. Perhaps some time – some time, Mr Stump,” – she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning – “I might stand in need of your friendship.”

“Ye won’t need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin promise ye, Miss Peintdexter. He’d be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn’t stan’ by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o’ breath left in the inside o’ his body.”

“A thousand thanks – again and again! But what were you going to say? You spoke of second-hand hospitality?”

“I dud.”

“You meant – ?”

“I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”

The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.

“Never mind about it,” she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. “Never mind, Mr Stump. You need not invite him. Only let me know when he arrives – unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. But if he should come at that time, you detain him – won’t you?”

“Boun’ to do it, ef you bid me.”

“You will, then; and let me know he is here. I shall ask him to eat.”

“Ef ye do, miss, I reck’n ye’ll speil his appetite. The sight o’ you, to say nothin’ o’ listenin’ to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin’ wolf o’ bein’ hungry. When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. Neow I don’t care a durn about eatin’. I ked go ’ithout chawin’ meat for month.”

As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the “cocina[129],” carrying a light tray – followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted.

“You great giant!” was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; “I won’t believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack. Yonder come Pluto and Morinda. They bring something that will prove more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it. Good bye, Zeb – good bye, or, as the natives say here, hasta luego!”

Gaily were these words spoken – lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the covered corridor. Only after entering her chamber, and finding herself chez soi-même[130], did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning: —

“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”

Chapter 12

Taming a Wild Mare

The pleasantest apartment in a Mexican house is that which has the roof for its floor, and the sky for its ceiling – the azotea. In fine weather – ever fine in that sunny clime – it is preferred to the drawing-room; especially after dinner, when the sun begins to cast rose-coloured rays upon the snow-clad summits of Orizava, Popocatepec, Toluca, and the “Twin Sister;” when the rich wines of Xeres[131] and Madeira[132] have warmed the imaginations of Andalusia’s sons and daughters – descendants of the Conquistadores – who mount up to their house-tops to look upon a land of world-wide renown, rendered famous by the heroic achievements of their ancestors.

Then does the Mexican “cavallero,” clad in embroidered habiliments, exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some señorita – at the same time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks. Then does the dark-eyed donçella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some distant hacienda – the home of him she truly loves.

So enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the housetop, could not fail to be followed by any one who chanced to be the occupant of a Mexican dwelling; and the family of the Louisiana planter had adopted it, as a matter of course.

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage; and as the sun descended towards the horizon, his slanting rays fell upon a throng as gay, as cheerful, and perhaps as resplendent, as ever trod the azotea of Casa del Corvo. Moving about over its tessellated tiles, standing in scattered groups, or lined along the parapet with faces turned towards the plain, were women as fair and men as brave as had ever assembled on that same spot – even when its ancient owner used to distribute hospitality to the hidalgos[133] of the land – the bluest blood in Coahuila[134] and Texas.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, could also boast of this last distinction. They were the élite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant. There were guests from Gonzales, from Castroville, and even from San Antonio – old friends of the planter, who, like him, had sought a home in South-Western Texas, and who had ridden – some of them over a hundred miles – to be present at this, his first grand “reception.”

The planter had spared neither pains nor expense to give it éclat[135]. What with the sprinkling of uniforms and epaulettes, supplied by the Fort – what with the brass band borrowed from the same convenient repository – what with the choice wines found in the cellars of Casa del Corvo, and which had formed part of the purchase – there could be little lacking to make Poindexter’s party the most brilliant ever given upon the banks of the Leona.

And to insure this effect, his lovely daughter Louise, late belle[136] of Louisiana – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

On that occasion was she the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more: for not all were blessed who beheld her beauty.

Was she herself happy?

The interrogatory may appear singular – almost absurd. Surrounded by friends – admirers – one, at least, who adored her – a dozen whose incipient love could but end in adoration – young planters, lawyers, embryo statesmen, and some with reputation already achieved – sons of Mars in armour, or with armour late laid aside – how could she be otherwise than proudly, supremely happy?

A stranger might have asked the question; one superficially acquainted with Creole character – more especially the character of the lady in question.

But mingling in that splendid throng was a man who was no stranger to either; and who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. Cassius Calhoun was the individual thus occupied.

She went not hither, nor thither, without his following her – not close, like a shadow; but by stealth, flitting from place to place; upstairs, and downstairs; standing in corners, with an air of apparent abstraction; but all the while with eyes turned askant upon his cousin’s face, like a plain-clothes policeman employed on detective duty.

Strangely enough he did not seem to pay much regard to her speeches, made in reply to the compliments showered upon her by several would-be winners of a smile – not even when these were conspicuous and respectable, as in the case of young Hancock of the dragoons. To all such he listened without visible emotion, as one listens to a conversation in no way affecting the affairs either of self or friends.

It was only after ascending to the azotea, on observing his cousin near the parapet, with her eye turned interrogatively towards the plain, that his detective zeal became conspicuous – so much so as to attract the notice of others. More than once was it noticed by those standing near: for more than once was repeated the act which gave cause to it.

At intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress of Casa del Corvo might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky.

Why she did so no one could tell. No one presumed to conjecture, except Cassius Calhoun. He had thoughts upon the subject – thoughts that were torturing him.

When a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the garish light of the setting sun – when the spectators upon the azotea pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men – the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that cavallada.

Another appeared to feel an equal interest in its advent, though perhaps from a different motive. Long before the horse-drove had attracted the observation of Poindexter’s guests, his daughter had noted its approach – from the time that a cloud of dust soared up against the horizon, so slight and filmy as to have escaped detection by any eye not bent expressly on discovering it.

From that moment the young Creole, under cover of a conversation carried on amid a circle of fair companions, had been slyly scanning the dust-cloud as it drew nearer; forming conjectures as to what was causing it, upon knowledge already, and as she supposed, exclusively her own.

“Wild horses!” announced the major commandant of Fort Inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. “Some one bringing them in,” he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. “Oh! I see now – it’s Maurice the mustanger, who occasionally helps our men to a remount. He appears to be coming this way – direct to your place, Mr Poindexter.”

“If it be the young fellow you have named, that’s not unlikely,” replied the owner of Casa del Corvo. “I bargained with him to catch me a score or two; and maybe this is the first instalment he’s bringing me.”

“Yes, I think it is,” he added, after a look through the telescope.

“I am sure of it,” said the planter’s son. “I can tell the horseman yonder to be Maurice Gerald.”

The planter’s daughter could have done the same; though she made no display of her knowledge. She did not appear to be much interested in the matter – indeed, rather indifferent. She had become aware of being watched by that evil eye, constantly burning upon her.

The cavallada came up, Maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo.

“What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house, quivering with excitement at a scene so new to it.

“It’s worth a journey to the ground to look at such an animal!” suggested the major’s wife, a lady of enthusiastic inclinings. “I propose we all go down! What say you, Miss Poindexter?”

“Oh, certainly,” answered the mistress of the mansion, amidst a chorus of other voices crying out —

“Let us go down! Let us go down!”

Led by the majoress[137], the ladies filed down the stone stairway – the gentlemen after; and in a score of seconds the horse-hunter, still seated in his saddle, became, with his captive, the centre of the distinguished circle.

Henry Poindexter had hurried down before the rest, and already, in the frankest manner, bidden the stranger welcome.

Between the latter and Louise only a slight salutation could be exchanged. Familiarity with a horse-dealer – even supposing him to have had the honour of an introduction – would scarce have been tolerated by the “society.”

Of the ladies, the major’s wife alone addressed him in a familiar way; but that was in a tone that told of superior position, coupled with condescension. He was more gratified by a glance – quick and silent – when his eye changed intelligence with that of the young Creole.

Hers was not the only one that rested approvingly upon him. In truth, the mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. His journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him. The prairie breeze had freshened the colour upon his cheeks; and his full round throat, naked to the breast-bone, and slightly bronzed with the sun, contributed to the manliness of his mien. Even the dust clinging to his curled hair could not altogether conceal its natural gloss, nor the luxuriance of its growth; while a figure tersely knit told of strength and endurance beyond the ordinary endowment of man. There were stolen glances, endeavouring to catch his, sent by more than one of the fair circle. The pretty niece of the commissary smiled admiringly upon him. Some said the commissary’s wife; but this could be only a slander, to be traced, perhaps, to the doctor’s better half – the Lady Teazle of the cantonment.

“Surely,” said Poindexter, after making an examination of the captured mustang, “this must be the animal of which old Zeb Stump has been telling me?”

“It ur thet eyedenticul same,” answered the individual so described, making his way towards Maurice with the design of assisting him. “Ye-es, Mister Peintdexter; the eyedenticul critter – a maar, es ye kin all see for yurselves – ”

“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interposed the planter, not desiring any further elucidation.

“The young fellur hed grupped her afore I got thur; so I wur jess in the nick o’ time ’bout it. She mout a been tuck elswhar, an then Miss Lewaze thur mout a missed hevin’ her.”

“It is true indeed, Mr Stump! It was very thoughtful of you. I know not how I shall ever be able to reciprocate your kindness?”

“Reciperkate! Wal, I spose thet air means to do suthin in return. Ye kin do thet, miss, ’ithout much difeequilty. I han’t dud nothin’ for you, ceptin’ make a bit o’ a journey acrost the purayra. To see yur bewtyful self mounted on thet maar, wi’ yur ploomed het upon yur head, an yur long-tailed pettykote streakin’ it ahint you, ’ud pay old Zeb Stump to go clur to the Rockies, and back agin.”

“Oh, Mr Stump! you are an incorrigible flatterer! Look around you! you will see many here more deserving of your compliments than I.”

“Wal, wal!” rejoined Zeb, casting a look of careless scrutiny towards the ladies, “I ain’t a goin’ to deny thet thur air gobs o’ putty critters hyur – dog-goned putty critters; but es they used to say in ole Loozyanney, thur air but one Lewaze Peintdexter.”

A burst of laughter – in which only a few feminine voices bore part – was the reply to Zeb’s gallant speech.

“I shall owe you two hundred dollars for this,” said the planter, addressing himself to Maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. “I think that was the sum stipulated for by Mr Stump.”

“I was not a party to the stipulation,” replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. “I cannot take your money. She is not for sale.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the planter, drawing back with an air of proud disappointment; while his brother planters, as well as the officers of the Fort, looked astonished at the refusal of such a munificent price. Two hundred dollars for an untamed mustang, when the usual rate of price was from ten to twenty! The mustanger must be mad?

He gave them no time to descant upon his sanity.

“Mr Poindexter,” he continued, speaking in the same good-humoured strain, “you have given me such a generous price for my other captives – and before they were taken too – that I can afford to make a present – what we over in Ireland call a ‘luckpenny.’ It is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the douceur[138], not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. May I have your permission to introduce this Hibernian[139] fashion into the settlements of Texas?”

“Certainly, by all means!” responded several voices, two or three of them unmistakably with an Irish accentuation.

“Oh, certainly, Mr Gerald!” replied the planter, his conservatism giving way to the popular will – “as you please about that.”

“Thanks, gentlemen – thanks!” said the mustanger, with a patronising look towards men who believed themselves to be his masters. “This mustang is my luckpenny; and if Miss Poindexter will condescend to accept of it, I shall feel more than repaid for the three days’ chase which the creature has cost me. Had she been the most cruel of coquettes, she could scarce have been more difficult to subdue.”

“I accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude,” responded the young Creole – for the first time prominently proclaiming herself, and stepping freely forth as she spoke. “But I have a fancy,” she continued, pointing to the mustang – at the same time that her eye rested inquiringly on the countenance of the mustanger – “a fancy that your captive is not yet tamed? She but trembles in fear of the unknown future. She may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am I to do – poor I?”

“True, Maurice!” said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; “Miss Poindexter speaks very sensibly. That mustang has not been tamed yet – any one may see it. Come, my good fellow! give her the lesson.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” continued the major, turning towards the company, “this is something worth your seeing – those of you who have not witnessed the spectacle before. Come, Maurice; mount, and show us a specimen of prairie horsemanship. She looks as though she would put your skill to the test.”

“You are right, major: she does!” replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young Creole; who, with all her assumed courage, retired tremblingly behind the circle of spectators.

“No matter, my man,” pursued the major, in a tone intended for encouragement. “In spite of that devil sparkling in her eye, I’ll lay ten to one you’ll take the conceit out of her. Try!”

Without losing credit, the mustanger could not have declined acceding to the major’s request. It was a challenge to skill – to equestrian prowess – a thing not lightly esteemed upon the prairies of Texas.

He proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to Zeb Stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive.

The only preliminary called for was the clearing of the ground. This was effected in an instant – the greater part of the company – with all the ladies – returning to the azotea.

With only a piece of raw-hide rope looped around the under jaw, and carried headstall fashion behind the ears – with only one rein in hand – Maurice sprang to the back of the wild mare.

It was the first time she had ever been mounted by man – the first insult of the kind offered to her.

A shrill spiteful scream spoke plainly her appreciation of and determination to resent it. It proclaimed defiance of the attempt to degrade her to the condition of a slave!

With equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. Her rider, anticipating the trick, had thrown his arms around her neck; and, close clasping her throat, appeared part of herself. But for this she might have poised over upon her back, and crushed him beneath her.

The uprearing of the hind quarters was the next “trick” of the mustang – sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without being thrown. From sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the prairies – to tame the naked steed.

He performed it without them. As the mare raised her hind quarters aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him.

Twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but, springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to have no goal this side the ending of the earth.

It must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer’s return.

Conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly “crippled,” were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. But there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression – almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return. Why Louise Poindexter, daughter of the proud Louisiana sugar-planter – a belle – a beauty of more than provincial repute – who could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and noblest in the land – why she should have fixed her fancy, or even permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of Texas, was a mystery that even her own intellect – by no means a weak one – was unable to fathom.

Perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him. She did not think so herself. Had she thought so, and reflected upon it, perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her mind.

She was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a strange individual – one who had presented himself in a fashion that favoured fanciful reflections – one who differed essentially from the common-place types introduced to her in the world of social distinctions.

She was conscious, too, that this interest – originating in a word, a glance, a gesture – listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie – instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase!

It was not diminished when Maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs – no more wild – no longer desiring to destroy him – but with lowered crest and mien submissive, acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master!

Without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young Creole was inspired with a similar reflection.

“Miss Poindexter!” said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, and without making any acknowledgment to the plaudits that were showered upon him – “may I ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? By so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”

A prude would have paltered with the proposal – a coquette would have declined it – a timid girl have shrunk back.

Not so Louise Poindexter – a descendant of one of the filles-à-la-casette. Without a moment’s hesitation – without the slightest show of prudery or fear – she stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope; whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang; and led the captive off towards the caballeriza[140] of Casa del Corvo.

As she did so, the mustanger’s words were ringing in her ears, and echoing through her heart with a strange foreboding weird signification.

“She will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty.”

Chapter 13

A Prairie Pic-Nic

The first rays from a rosy aurora[141], saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell with a more subdued light upon an assemblage of objects occupying the parade-ground below – in front of the “officers’ quarters.”

A small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached to it a double span of tight little Mexican mules, whose quick impatient “stomping,” tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were impatient to move off – warning the bystanders, as well, against a too close approximation to their heels.

Literally speaking, there were no bystanders – if we except a man of colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as Zeb Stump, the hunter.

He was not standing either, but seated astride his “ole maar,” that showed less anxiety to be off than either the Mexican mules or her own master.

The other forms around the vehicle were all in motion – quick, hurried, occasionally confused – hither and thither, from the waggon to the door of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle.

There were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in the colour of their skins. Most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though of different arms of the service. Two would be taken to be mess-cooks; and two or three more, officers’ servants, who had been detailed from the ranks.

A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of valet de tout[142] to the major in command of the cantonment. A sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables – in short, the paraphernalia[143] of a pic-nic.

That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the impedimenta[144]. There were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to Texas.

However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. The dissatisfied Lucullus[145] was Zeb Stump.

“Lookee hyur, surgint,” said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, “I hain’t seed neery smell o’ corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an’, I reck’n, thet out on the purayra, thur’ll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o’ thet theer furrin French stuff. Sham-pain, ye call it, I b’lieve.”

“Prefer corn to champagne! The horses you mean?”

“Hosses be durned. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout hoss corn. I mean M’nongaheela.”

“Oh – ah – I comprehend. You’re right about that, Mr Stump. The whisky mustn’t be forgotten, Pomp. I think I saw a jar inside, that’s intended to go?”

“Yaw – yaw, sagint,” responded the dark-skinned domestic; “dar am dat same wesicle. Hya it is!” he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon.

Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off.

“Ain’t ye riddy, surgint?” he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups.

“Not quite, Mr Stump. The cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take ’em along.”

“Durn the chickens, an the cook too! What air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi’ a wild turkey o’ the purayra; an how am I to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? The major sayed I war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. ’Tain’t so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi’ a clamjamferry like this comin’ clost upon a fellur’s heels? Ye mustn’t surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o’ a fort. Of all the cunnin’ critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun’ one o’ ’em, ye must be up along wi’ the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier.”

“True, Mr Stump. I know the major wants a wild turkey. He told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way.”

“No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi’ a baffler’s tongue, an hump – seein’ as thur ain’t sech a anymal on the purayras o’ South Texas – nor hain’t a been for good twenty yurs past – noterthstandin’ what Eur-op-ean writers o’ books hev said to the contrary, an ’specially French ’uns, as I’ve heern. Thur ain’t no burner ’bout hyur. Thur’s baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o’ gobblers; but to hev one o’ these critters for yur dinner, ye must git it urly enuf for yur breakfist. Unless I hev my own time, I won’t promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both. So, surgint, ef ye expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye’ll do well to be makin’ tracks for the purayra.”

Stirred by the hunter’s representation, the sergeant did all that was possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-coloured company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with Zeb Stump as its guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between the Leona and the “River of Nuts.”

The parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling upon the same spot.

There were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the “meet” in an English hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to accompany them – their friends and acquaintances – fathers, brothers, lovers, and husbands. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.

The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion of the entertainment at Casa del Corvo.

The affair was a reciprocal treat – a simple return of hospitality; the major and his officers being the hosts, the planter and his friends the invited guests. The entertainment about to be provided, if less pretentious in luxurious appointments, was equally appropriate to the time and place. The guests of the cantonment were to be gratified by witnessing a spectacle – grand as rare – a chase of wild steeds!

The arena of the sport could only be upon the wild-horse prairies – some twenty miles to the southward of Fort Inge. Hence the necessity for an early start, and being preceded by a vehicle laden with an ample commissariat.

Just as the sunbeams began to dance upon the crystal waters of the Leona, the excursionists were ready to take their departure from the parade-ground – with an escort of two-score dragoons that had been ordered to ride in the rear. Like the party that preceded them, they too were provided with a guide – not an old backwoodsman in battered felt hat, and faded blanket coat, astride a scraggy roadster; but a horseman completely costumed and equipped, mounted upon a splendid steed, in every way worthy to be the chaperone of such a distinguished expedition.

“Come, Maurice!” cried the major, on seeing that all had assembled, “we’re ready to be conducted to the game. Ladies and gentlemen! this young fellow is thoroughly acquainted with the haunts and habits of the wild horses. If there’s a man in Texas, who can show us how to hunt them, ’tis Maurice the mustanger.”

“Faith, you flatter me, major!” rejoined the young Irishman, turning with a courteous air towards the company; “I have not said so much as that. I can only promise to show you where you may find them.”

“Modest fellow!” soliloquised one, who trembled, as she gave thought to what she more than half suspected to be an untruth.

“Lead on, then!” commanded the major; and, at the word, the gay cavalcade, with the mustanger in the lead, commenced moving across the parade-ground – while the star-spangled banner, unfurled by the morning breeze, fluttered upon its staff as if waving them an elegant adieu!

A twenty-mile ride upon prairie turf is a mere bagatelle – before breakfast, an airing. In Texas it is so regarded by man, woman, and horse.

It was accomplished in less than three hours – without further inconvenience than that which arose from performing the last few miles of it with appetites uncomfortably keen.

Fortunately the provision waggon, passed upon the road, came close upon their heels; and, long before the sun had attained the meridian line, the excursionists were in full pic-nic under the shade of a gigantic pecân tree, that stood near the banks of the Nueces.

No incident had occurred on the way – worth recording. The mustanger, as guide, had ridden habitually in the advance; the company, with one or two exceptions, thinking of him only in his official capacity – unless when startled by some feat of horsemanship – such as leaping clear over a prairie stream, or dry arroyo, which others were fain to ford, or cross by the crooked path.

There may have been a suspicion of bravado in this behaviour – a desire to exhibit. Cassius Calhoun told the company there was. Perhaps the ex-captain spoke the truth – for once.

If so, there was also some excuse. Have you ever been in a hunting-field, at home, with riding habits trailing the sward, and plumed hats proudly nodding around you? You have: and then what? Be cautious how you condemn the Texan mustanger. Reflect, that he, too, was under the artillery of bright eyes – a score pair of them – some as bright as ever looked love out of a lady’s saddle. Think, that Louise Poindexter’s were among the number – think of that, and you will scarce feel surprised at the ambition to “shine.”

There were others equally demonstrative of personal accomplishments – of prowess that might prove manhood. The young dragoon, Hancock, frequently essayed to show that he was not new to the saddle; and the lieutenant of mounted rifles, at intervals, strayed from the side of the commissary’s niece for the performance of some equestrian feat, without looking exclusively to her, his reputed sweetheart, as he listened to the whisperings of applause.

Ah, daughter of Poindexter! Whether in the salons of civilised Louisiana, or the prairies of savage Texas, peace could not reign in thy presence! Go where thou wilt, romantic thoughts must spring up – wild passions be engendered around thee!

Chapter 14

The Manada

[146]

Had their guide held the prairies in complete control – its denizens subject to his secret will – responsible to time and place – he could not have conducted the excursionists to a spot more likely to furnish the sport that had summoned them forth.

Just as the sparkling Johannisberger – obtained from the German wine-stores of San Antonio – had imparted a brighter blue to the sky, and a more vivid green to the grass, the cry “Musteños!” was heard above the hum of conversation, interrupting the half-spoken sentiment, with the peal of merry laughter. It came from a Mexican vaquero, who had been stationed as a vidette[147] on an eminence near at hand.

Maurice – at the moment partaking of the hospitality of his employers, freely extended to him – suddenly quaffed off the cup; and springing to his saddle, cried out —

“Cavallada?”

“No,” answered the Mexican; “manada.”

“What do the fellows mean by their gibberish?” inquired Captain Calhoun.

“Musteños is only the Mexican for mustangs,” replied the major; “and by ‘manada’ he means they are wild mares – a drove of them. At this season they herd together, and keep apart from the horses; unless when – ”

“When what?” impatiently asked the ex-officer of volunteers, interrupting the explanation.

“When they are attacked by asses,” innocently answered the major.

A general peal of laughter rendered doubtful the naïvété of the major’s response – imparting to it the suspicion of a personality not intended.

For a moment Calhoun writhed under the awkward misconception of the auditory; but only for a moment. He was not the man to succumb to an unlucky accident of speech. On the contrary, he perceived the chance of a triumphant reply; and took advantage of it.

“Indeed!” he drawled out, without appearing to address himself to any one in particular. “I was not aware that mustangs were so dangerous in these parts.”

As Calhoun said this, he was not looking at Louise Poindexter or he might have detected in her eye a glance to gratify him.

The young Creole, despite an apparent coolness towards him, could not withhold admiration at anything that showed cleverness. His case might not be so hopeless?

The young dragoon, Hancock, did not think it so; nor yet the lieutenant of rifles. Both observed the approving look, and both became imbued with the belief that Cassius Calhoun had – or might have – in his keeping, the happiness of his cousin.

The conjecture gave a secret chagrin to both, but especially to the dragoon.

There was but short time for him to reflect upon it; the manada was drawing near.

“To the saddle!” was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every tongue.

The bit was rudely inserted between teeth still industriously grinding the yellow corn; the bridle drawn over shoulders yet smoking after the quick skurry of twenty miles through the close atmosphere of a tropical morn; and, before a hundred could have been deliberately counted, every one, ladies and gentlemen alike, was in the stirrup, ready to ply whip and spur.

By this time the wild mares appeared coming over the crest of the ridge upon which the vidette had been stationed. He, himself a horse-catcher by trade, was already mounted, and in their midst – endeavouring to fling his lazo over one of the herd. They were going at mad gallop, as if fleeing from a pursuer – some dreaded creature that was causing them to “whigher” and snort! With their eyes strained to the rear, they saw neither the sumpter waggon, nor the equestrians clustering around it, but were continuing onward to the spot; which chanced to lie directly in the line of their flight.

“They are chased!” remarked Maurice, observing the excited action of the animals.

“What is it, Crespino?” he cried out to the Mexican, who, from his position, must have seen any pursuer that might be after them.

There was a momentary pause, as the party awaited the response. In the crowd were countenances that betrayed uneasiness, some even alarm. It might be Indians who were in pursuit of the mustangs!

“Un asino cimmaron!” was the phrase that came from the mouth of the Mexican, though by no means terminating the suspense of the picknickers. “Un macho!” he added.

“Oh! That’s it! I thought it was!” muttered Maurice. “The rascal must be stopped, or he’ll spoil our sport. So long as he’s after them, they’ll not make halt this side the sky line. Is the macho coming on?”

“Close at hand, Don Mauricio. Making straight for myself.”

“Fling your rope over him, if you can. If not, cripple him with a shot – anything to put an end to his capers.”

The character of the pursuer was still a mystery to most, if not all, upon the ground: for only the mustanger knew the exact signification of the phrases – “un asino cimmaron,” “un macho.”

“Explain, Maurice!” commanded the major. “Look yonder!” replied the young Irishman, pointing to the top of the hill.

The two words were sufficient. All eyes became directed towards the crest of the ridge, where an animal, usually regarded as the type of slowness and stupidity, was seen advancing with the swiftness of a bird upon the wing.

But very different is the “asino cimmaron” from the ass of civilisation – the donkey be-cudgelled into stolidity.

The one now in sight was a male, almost as large as any of the mustangs it was chasing; and if not fleet as the fleetest, still able to keep up with them by the sheer pertinacity of its pursuit!

The tableau of nature, thus presented on the green surface of the prairie, was as promptly produced as it could have been upon the stage of a theatre, or the arena of a hippodrome.

Scarce a score of words had passed among the spectators, before the wild mares were close up to them; and then, as if for the first time, perceiving the mounted party, they seemed to forget their dreaded pursuer, and shied off in a slanting direction.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted the guide to a score of people, endeavouring to restrain their steeds; “keep your places, if you can. I know where the herd has its haunt. They are heading towards it now; and we shall find them again, with a better chance of a chase. If you pursue them at this moment, they’ll scatter into yonder chapparal; and ten to one if we ever more get sight of them.

“Hola[148], Señor Crespino! Send your bullet through that brute. He’s near enough for your escopette, is he not?”

The Mexican, detaching a short gun – “escopeta” – from his saddle-flap, and hastily bringing its butt to his shoulder, fired at the wild ass.

The animal brayed on hearing the report; but only as if in defiance. He was evidently untouched. Crespino’s bullet had not been truly aimed.

“I must stop him!” exclaimed Maurice, “or the mares will run on till the end of daylight.”

As the mustanger spoke, he struck the spur sharply into the flanks of his horse. Like an arrow projected from its bow, Castro shot off in pursuit of the jackass, now galloping regardlessly past.

Half a dozen springs of the blood bay, guided in a diagonal direction, brought his rider within casting distance; and like a flash of lightning, the loop of the lazo was seen descending over the long ears.

On launching it, the mustanger halted, and made a half-wheel – the horse going round as upon a pivot; and with like mechanical obedience to the will of his rider, bracing himself for the expected pluck.

There was a short interval of intense expectation, as the wild ass, careering onward, took up the slack of the rope. Then the animal was seen to rise erect on its hind legs, and fall heavily backward upon the sward – where it lay motionless, and apparently as dead, as if shot through the heart!

It was only stunned, however, by the shock, and the quick tightening of the loop causing temporary strangulation; which the Mexican mustanger prolonged to eternity, by drawing his sharp-edged machete[149] across its throat.

The incident caused a postponement of the chase. All awaited the action of the guide; who, after “throwing” the macho, had dismounted to recover his lazo.

He had succeeded in releasing the rope from the neck of the prostrate animal, when he was seen to coil it up with a quickness that betokened some new cause of excitement – at the same time that he ran to regain his saddle.

Only a few of the others – most being fully occupied with their own excited steeds – observed this show of haste on the part of the mustanger. Those who did, saw it with surprise. He had counselled patience in the pursuit. They could perceive no cause for the eccentric change of tactics, unless it was that Louise Poindexter, mounted on the spotted mustang, had suddenly separated from the company, and was galloping off after the wild mares, as if resolved on being foremost of the field!

But the hunter of wild horses had not construed her conduct in this sense. That uncourteous start could scarce be an intention – except on the part of the spotted mustang? Maurice had recognised the manada, as the same from which he had himself captured it: and, no doubt, with the design of rejoining its old associates, it was running away with its rider!

So believed the guide; and the belief became instantly universal.

Stirred by gallantry, half the field spurred off in pursuit. Calhoun, Hancock, and Crossman leading, with half a score of young planters, lawyers, and legislators close following – each as he rode off reflecting to himself, what a bit of luck it would be to bring up the runaway.

But few, if any, of the gentlemen felt actual alarm. All knew that Louise Poindexter was a splendid equestrian; a spacious plain lay before her, smooth as a race-track; the mustang might gallop till it tired itself down; it could not throw her; there could be little chance of her receiving any serious injury?

There was one who did not entertain this confident view. It was he who had been the first to show anxiety – the mustanger himself.

He was the last to leave the ground. Delayed in the rearrangement of his lazo – a moment more in remounting – he was a hundred paces behind every competitor, as his horse sprang forward upon the pursuit.

Calhoun was a like distance in the lead, pressing on with all the desperate energy of his nature, and all the speed he could extract from the heels of his horse. The dragoon and rifleman were a little in his rear; and then came the “ruck.”

Maurice soon passed through the thick of the field, overlapped the leaders one by one; and forging still further ahead, showed Cassius Calhoun the heels of his horse.

A muttered curse was sent hissing through the teeth of the ex-officer of volunteers, as the blood bay, bounding past, concealed from his sight the receding form of the spotted mustang.

The sun, looking down from the zenith, gave light to a singular tableau. A herd of wild mares going at reckless speed across the prairie; one of their own kind, with a lady upon its back, following about four hundred yards behind; at a like distance after the lady, a steed of red bay colour, bestridden by a cavalier picturesquely attired, and apparently intent upon overtaking her; still further to the rear a string of mounted men – some in civil, some in military, garb; behind these a troop of dragoons going at full gallop, having just parted from a mixed group of ladies and gentlemen – also mounted, but motionless, on the plain, or only stirring around the same spot with excited gesticulations!

In twenty minutes the tableau was changed. The same personages were upon the stage – the grand tapis vert[150] of the prairie – but the grouping was different, or, at all events, the groups were more widely apart. The manada had gained distance upon the spotted mustang; the mustang upon the blood bay; and the blood bay – ah! his competitors were no longer in sight, or could only have been seen by the far-piercing eye of the caracara[151], soaring high in the sapphire heavens.

The wild mares – the mustang and its rider – the red horse, and his – had the savanna to themselves!

Chapter 15

The Runaway Overtaken

For another mile the chase continued, without much change. The mares still swept on in full flight, though no longer screaming or in fear. The mustang still uttered an occasional neigh, which its old associates seemed not to notice; while its rider held her seat in the saddle unshaken, and without any apparent alarm.

The blood bay appeared more excited, though not so much as his master; who was beginning to show signs either of despondency or chagrin.

“Come, Castro!” he exclaimed, with a certain spitefulness of tone. “What the deuce is the matter with your heels – to-day of all others? Remember, you overtook her before – though not so easily, I admit. But now she’s weighted. Look yonder, you dull brute! Weighted with that which is worth more than gold – worth every drop of your blood, and mine too. The yegua pinta[152] seems to have improved her paces. Is it from training; or does a horse run faster when ridden?

“What if I lose sight of her? In truth, it begins to look queer! It would be an awkward situation for the young lady. Worse than that – there’s danger in it – real danger. If I should lose sight of her, she’d be in trouble to a certainty!”

Thus muttering, Maurice rode on: his eyes now fixed upon the form still flitting away before him; at intervals interrogating, with uneasy glances, the space that separated him from it.

Up to this time he had not thought of hailing the rider of the runaway.

His shouts might have been heard; but no words of warning, or instruction. He had refrained: partly on this account; partly because he was in momentary expectation of overtaking her; and partly because he knew that acts, not words, were wanted to bring the mustang to a stand.

All along he had been flattering himself that he would soon be near enough to fling his lazo over the creature’s neck, and control it at discretion. He was gradually becoming relieved of this hallucination.

The chase now entered among copses that thickly studded the plain, fast closing into a continuous chapparal. This was a new source of uneasiness to the pursuer. The runaway might take to the thicket, or become lost to his view amid the windings of the wood.

The wild mares were already invisible – at intervals. They would soon be out of sight altogether. There seemed no chance of their old associate overtaking them.

“What mattered that? A lady lost on a prairie, or in a chapparal – alone, or in the midst of a manada – either contingency pointed to certain danger.”

A still more startling peril suggested itself to the mind of the mustanger – so startling as to find expression in excited speech.

“By heavens!” he ejaculated, his brow becoming more clouded than it had been from his first entering upon the chase. “If the stallions should chance this way! ’Tis their favourite stamping ground among these mottos. They were here but a week ago; and this – yes – ’tis the month of their madness!”

The spur of the mustanger again drew blood, till its rowels were red; and Castro, galloping at his utmost speed, glanced back upbraidingly over his shoulder.

At this crisis the manada disappeared from, the sight both of the blood-bay and his master; and most probably at the same time from that of the spotted mustang and its rider. There was nothing mysterious in it. The mares had entered between the closing of two copses, where the shrubbery hid them from view.

The effect produced upon the runaway appeared to proceed from some magical influence. As if their disappearance was a signal for discontinuing the chase, it suddenly slackened pace; and the instant after came to a standstill!

Maurice, continuing his gallop, came up with it in the middle of a meadow-like glade – standing motionless as marble – its rider, reins in hand, sitting silent in the saddle, in an attitude of easy elegance, as if waiting for him to ride up!

“Miss Poindexter!” he gasped out, as he spurred his steed within speaking distance: “I am glad that you have recovered command of that wild creature. I was beginning to be alarmed about – ”

“About what, sir?” was the question that startled the mustanger.

“Your safety – of course,” he replied, somewhat stammeringly. “Oh, thank you, Mr Gerald; but I was not aware of having been in any danger. Was I really so?”

“Any danger!” echoed the Irishman, with increased astonishment. “On the back of a runaway mustang – in the middle of a pathless prairie!”

“And what of that? The thing couldn’t throw me. I’m too clever in the saddle, sir.”

“I know it, madame; but that accomplishment would have availed you very little had you lost yourself, a thing you were like enough to have done among these chapparal copses, where the oldest Texan can scarce find his way.”

“Oh – lost myself! That was the danger to be dreaded?”

“There are others, besides. Suppose you had fallen in with – ”

“Indians!” interrupted the lady, without waiting for the mustanger to finish his hypothetical speech. “And if I had, what would it have mattered? Are not the Comanches en paz[153] at present? Surely they wouldn’t have molested me, gallant fellows as they are? So the major told us, as we came along. ’Pon my word, sir, I should seek, rather than shun, such an encounter. I wish to see the noble savage on his native prairie, and on horseback; not, as I’ve hitherto beheld him, reeling around the settlements in a state of debasement from too freely partaking of our fire-water.”

“I admire your courage, miss; but if I had the honour of being one of your friends, I should take the liberty of counselling a little caution. The ‘noble savage’ you speak of, is not always sober upon the prairies; and perhaps not so very gallant as you’ve been led to believe. If you had met him – ”

“If I had met him, and he had attempted to misbehave himself, I would have given him the go-by, and ridden, straight back to my friends. On such a swift creature as this, he must have been well mounted to have overtaken me. You found some difficulty – did you not?”

The eyes of the young Irishman, already showing astonishment, became expanded to increased dimensions – surprise and incredulity being equally blended in their glance.

“But,” said he, after a speechless pause, “you don’t mean to say that you could have controlled – that the mustang was not running away with you? Am I to understand – ”

“No – no – no!” hastily rejoined the fair equestrian, showing some slight embarrassment. “The mare certainly made off with me – that is, at the first – but I – I found, that is – at the last – I found I could easily pull her up. In fact I did so: you saw it?”

“And could you have done it sooner?”

A strange thought had suggested the interrogatory; and with more than ordinary interest the questioner awaited the reply.

“Perhaps – perhaps – I might; no doubt, if I had dragged a little harder upon the rein. But you see, sir, I like a good gallop – especially upon a prairie, where there’s no fear of running over pigs, poultry, or people.”

Maurice looked amaze. In all his experience – even in his own native land, famed for feminine braverie[154] – above all in the way of bold riding – he had met no match for the clever equestrian before him.

His astonishment, mixed with admiration, hindered him from making a ready rejoinder.

“To speak truth,” continued the young lady, with an air of charming simplicity, “I was not sorry at being run off with. One sometimes gets tired of too much talk – of the kind called complimentary. I wanted fresh air, and to be alone. So you see, Mr Gerald, it was rather a bit of good fortune: since it saved explanations and adieus.”

“You wanted to be alone?” responded the mustanger, with a disappointed look. “I am sorry I should have made the mistake to have intruded upon you. I assure you, Miss Poindexter, I followed, because I believed you to be in danger.”

“Most gallant of you, sir; and now that I know there was danger, I am truly grateful. I presume I have guessed aright: you meant the Indians?”

“No; not Indians exactly – at least, it was not of them I was thinking.”

“Some other danger? What is it, sir? You will tell me, so that I may be more cautious for the future?”

Maurice did not make immediate answer. A sound striking upon his ear had caused him to turn away – as if inattentive to the interrogatory.

The Creole, perceiving there was some cause for his abstraction, likewise assumed a listening attitude. She heard a shrill scream, succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of hoofs – the conjunction of sounds causing the still atmosphere to vibrate around her.

It was no mystery to the hunter of horses. The words that came quick from his lips – though not designed – were a direct answer to the question she had put.

“The wild stallions!” he exclaimed, in a tone that betokened alarm. “I knew they must be among those mottes; and they are!”

“Is that the danger of which you have been speaking?”

“It is.”

“What fear of them? They are only mustangs!”

“True, and at other times there is no cause to fear them. But just now, at this season of the year, they become as savage as tigers, and equally as vindictive. Ah! the wild steed in his rage is an enemy more to be dreaded than wolf, panther, or bear.”

“What are we to do?” inquired the young lady, now, for the first time, giving proof that she felt fear – by riding close up to the man who had once before rescued her from a situation of peril, and gazing anxiously in his face, as she awaited the answer.

“If they should charge upon us,” answered Maurice, “there are but two ways of escape. One, by ascending a tree, and abandoning our horses to their fury.”

“The other?” asked the Creole, with a sang froid[155] that showed a presence of mind likely to stand the test of the most exciting crisis. “Anything but abandon our animals! ’Twould be but a shabby way of making our escape!”

“We shall not have an opportunity of trying it, I perceive it is impracticable. There’s not a tree within sight large enough to afford us security. If attacked, we have no alternative but to trust to the fleetness of our horses. Unfortunately,” continued he, with a glance of inspection towards the spotted mare, and then at his own horse, “they’ve had too much work this morning. Both are badly blown. That will be our greatest source of danger. The wild steeds are sure to be fresh.”

“Do you intend us to start now?”

“Not yet. The longer we can breathe our animals the better. The stallions may not come this way; or if so, may not molest us. It will depend on their mood at the moment. If battling among themselves, we may look out for their attack. Then they have lost their reason – if I may so speak – and will recklessly rush upon one of their own kind – even with a man upon his back. Ha! ’tis as I expected: they are in conflict. I can tell by their cries! And driving this way, too!”

“But, Mr Gerald; why should we not ride off at once, in the opposite direction?”

“’Twould be of no use. There’s no cover to conceal us, on that side – nothing but open plain. They’ll be out upon it before we could get a sufficient start, and would soon overtake us. The place we must make for – the only safe one I can think of – lies the other way. They are now upon the direct path to it, if I can judge by what I hear; and, if we start too soon, we may ride into their teeth. We must wait, and try to steal away behind them. If we succeed in getting past, and can keep our distance for a two-mile gallop, I know a spot, where we shall be as safe as if inside the corrals of Casa del Corvo. You are sure you can control the mustang?”

“Quite sure,” was the prompt reply: all idea of deception being abandoned in presence of the threatening peril.

Chapter 16

Chased by Wild Stallions

The two sat expectant in their saddles – she, apparently, with more confidence than he: for she confided in him. Still but imperfectly comprehending it, she knew there must be some great danger. When such a man showed sign of fear, it could not be otherwise. She had a secret happiness in thinking: that a portion of this fear was for her own safety.

“I think we may venture now;” said her companion, after a short period spent in listening; “they appear to have passed the opening by which we must make our retreat. Look well to your riding, I entreat you! Keep a firm seat in the saddle, and a sure hold of the rein. Gallop by my side, where the ground will admit of it; but in no case let more than the length of my horse’s tail be between us. I must perforce go ahead to guide the way. Ha! they are coming direct for the glade. They’re already close to its edge. Our time is up!”

The profound stillness that but a short while before pervaded the prairie, no longer reigned over it. In its stead had arisen a fracas that resembled the outpouring of some overcrowded asylum; for in the shrill neighing of the steeds might have been fancied the screams of maniacs – only ten times more vociferous. They were mingled with a thunder-like hammering of hoofs – a swishing and crashing of branches – savage snorts, accompanied by the sharp snapping of teeth – the dull “thud” of heels coming in contact with ribs and rounded hips – squealing that betokened spite or pain – all forming a combination of sounds that jarred harshly upon the ear, and caused the earth to quake, as if oscillating upon its orbit!

It told of a terrible conflict carried on by the wild stallions; who, still unseen, were fighting indiscriminately among themselves, as they held their way among the mottes.

Not much longer unseen. As Maurice gave the signal to start, the speckled crowd showed itself in an opening between two copses. In a moment more it filled the gangway-like gap, and commenced disgorging into the glade, with the impetus of an avalanche!

It was composed of living forms – the most beautiful known in nature: for in this man must give way to the horse. Not the unsexed horse of civilisation, with hunched shoulders, bandied limbs, and bowed frontlet – scarce one in a thousand of true equine shape – and this, still further, mutilated by the shears of the coper and gentleman jockey – but the wild steed of the savannas, foaled upon the green grass, his form left free to develop as the flowers that shed their fragrance around him.

Eye never beheld a more splendid sight than a cavallada of wild stallions, prancing upon a prairie; especially at that season when, stirred by strong passions, they seek to destroy one another. The spectacle is more than splendid – it is fearful – too fearful to be enjoyed by man, much less by timid woman. Still more when the spectator views it from an exposed position, liable to become the object of their attack.

In such situation were the riders of the blood bay and spotted mustang. The former knew it by past experience – the latter could not fail to perceive it by the evidence before her.

“This way!” cried Maurice, lancing his horse’s flanks with the spur, and bending so as to oblique to the rear of the cavallada.

“By heaven – they’ve discovered us! On – on! Miss Poindexter! Remember you are riding for your life!”

The stimulus of speech was not needed. The behaviour of the stallions was of itself sufficient to show, that speed alone could save the spotted mustang and its rider.

On coming out into the open ground, and getting sight of the ridden horses, they had suddenly desisted from their internecine strife; and, as if acting under the orders of some skilled leader, come to a halt. In line, too, like cavalry checked up in the middle of a charge!

For a time their mutual hostility seemed to be laid aside – as if they felt called upon to attack a common enemy, or resist some common danger!

The pause may have proceeded from surprise; but, whether or no, it was favourable to the fugitives. During the twenty seconds it continued, the latter had made good use of their time, and accomplished the circuit required to put them on the path of safety.

Only on the path, however. Their escape was still problematical: for the steeds, perceiving their intention, wheeled suddenly into the line of pursuit, and went galloping after, with snorts and screams that betrayed a spiteful determination to overtake them.

From that moment it became a straight unchanging chase across country – a trial of speed between the horses without riders, and the horses that were ridden.

At intervals did Maurice carry his chin to his shoulder; and though still preserving the distance gained at the start, his look was not the less one of apprehension.

Alone he would have laughed to scorn his pursuers. He knew that the blood-bay – himself a prairie steed – could surpass any competitor of his race. But the mare was delaying him. She was galloping slower than he had ever seen her – as if unwilling, or not coveting escape – like a horse with his head turned away from home!

“What can it mean?” muttered the mustanger, as he checked his pace, to accommodate it to that of his companion. “If there should be any baulk at the crossing, we’re lost! A score of seconds will make the difference.”

“We keep our distance, don’t we?” inquired his fellow-fugitive, noticing his troubled look.

“So far, yes. Unfortunately there’s an obstruction ahead. It remains to be seen how we shall get over it. I know you are a clever rider, and can take a long leap. But your mount? I’m not so sure of the mare. You know her better than I. Do you think she can carry you over – ”

“Over what, sir?”

“You’ll see in a second. We should be near the place now.”

The conversation thus carried on was between two individuals riding side by side, and going at a gallop of nearly a mile to the minute!

As the guide had predicted, they soon came within sight of the obstruction; which proved to be an arroyo – a yawning fissure in the plain full fifteen feet in width, as many in depth, and trending on each side to the verge of vision.

To turn aside, either to the right or left, would be to give the pursuers the advantage of the diagonal; which the fugitives could no longer afford.

The chasm must be crossed, or the stallions would overtake them.

It could only be crossed by a leap – fifteen feet at the least. Maurice knew that his own horse could go over it – he had done it before. But the mare?

“Do you think she can do it?” he eagerly asked, as, in slackened pace, they approached the edge of the barranca.

“I am sure she can,” was the confident reply.

“But are you sure you can sit her over it?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” scornfully laughed the Creole. “What a question for an Irishman to ask! I’m sure, sir, one of your own countrywomen would be offended at your speech. Even I, a native of swampy Louisiana, don’t regard it as at all gallant. Sit her over it! Sit her anywhere she can carry me.”

“But, Miss Poindexter,” stammered the guide, still doubting the powers of the spotted mustang, “suppose she cannot? If you have any doubts, had you not better abandon her? I know that my horse can bear us both to the other side, and with safety. If the mustang be left behind, in all likelihood we shall escape further pursuit. The wild steeds – ”

“Leave Luna behind! Leave her to be trampled to death, or torn to pieces – as you say she would! No – no, Mr Gerald. I prize the spotted mare too much for that. She goes with me: over the chasm, if we can. If not, we both break our necks at the bottom. Come, my pretty pet! This is he who chased, captured, and conquered you. Show him you’re not yet so subdued, but that you can escape, when close pressed, from the toils of either friend or enemy. Show him one of those leaps, of which you’ve done a dozen within the week. Now for a flight in the air!”

Without even waiting for the stimulus of example, the courageous Creole rode recklessly at the arroyo; and cleared it by one of those leaps of which she had “done a dozen within the week.”

There were three thoughts in the mind of the mustanger – rather might they be called emotions – as he sate watching that leap. The first was simple astonishment; the second, intense admiration. The third was not so easily defined. It had its origin in the words – “I prize the spotted mare too much for that.”

“Why?” reflected he, as he drove his spur-rowels into the flanks of the blood bay; and the reflection lasted as long as Castro was suspended in mid-air over the yawning abysm.

Cleverly as the chasm was crossed, it did not ensure the safety of the fugitives. It would be no obstruction to the steeds. Maurice knew it, and looked back with undiminished apprehension.

Rather was it increased. The delay, short as it was, had given the pursuers an advantage. They were nearer than ever! They would not be likely to make a moment’s pause, but clear the crevasse at a single bound of their sure-footed gallop.

And then – what then?

The mustanger put the question to himself. He grew paler, as the reply puzzled him.

On alighting from the leap, he had not paused for a second, but gone galloping on – as before, close followed by his fugitive companion. His pace, however, was less impetuous. He seemed to ride with irresolution, or as if some half-formed resolve was restraining him.

When about a score lengths from the edge of the arroyo, he reined up and wheeled round – as if he had suddenly formed the determination to ride back!

“Miss Poindexter!” he called out to the young lady, at that moment just up with him. “You must ride on alone.”

“But why, sir?” asked she, as she jerked the muzzle of the mustang close up to its counter, bringing it almost instantaneously to a stand.

“If we keep together we shall be overtaken. I must do something to stay those savage brutes. Here there is a chance – nowhere else. For heaven’s sake don’t question me! Ten seconds of lost time, and ’twill be too late. Look ahead yonder. You perceive the sheen of water. ’Tis a prairie pond. Ride straight towards it. You will find yourself between two high fences. They come together at the pond. You’ll see a gap, with bars. If I’m not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you.”

“And you, sir? You are going to undergo some great danger?”

“Have no fear for me! Alone, I shall run but little risk. ’Tis the mustang. – For mercy’s sake, gallop forward! Keep the water under your eyes. Let it guide you like a beacon fire. Remember to close the gap behind you. Away – away!”

For a second or two the young lady appeared irresolute – as if reluctant to part company with the man who was making such efforts to ensure her safety – perhaps at the peril of his own.

By good fortune she was not one of those timid maidens who turn frantic at a crisis, and drag to the bottom the swimmer who would save them. She had faith in the capability of her counsellor – believed that he knew what he was about – and, once more spurring the mare into a gallop, she rode off in a direct line for the prairie pond.

At the same instant, Maurice had given the rein to his horse, and was riding in the opposite direction – back to the place where they had leaped the arroyo!

On parting from his companion, he had drawn from his saddle holster the finest weapon ever wielded upon the prairies – either for attack or defence, against Indian, buffalo, or bear. It was the six-chambered revolver of Colonel Colt – not the spurious improvement of Deane, Adams, and a host of retrograde imitators – but the genuine article from the “land of wooden nutmegs,” with the Hartford[156] brand upon its breech.

“They must get over the narrow place where we crossed,” muttered he, as he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the arroyo.

“If I can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others from attempting the leap; or delay them – long enough for the mustang to make its escape. The big sorrel is leading. He will make the spring first. The pistol’s good for a hundred paces. He’s within range now!”

Simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter. The largest of the stallions – a sorrel in colour – rolled headlong upon the sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the leap.

Half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand; and then the whole cavallada!

The mustanger stayed not to note their movements. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond.

Whether dismayed by the fall of their chief – or whether it was that his dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the chasm could have been cleared at a leap – the stallions abandoned the pursuit; and Maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his fellow fugitive.

He overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the pond. She had obeyed him in everything – except as to the closing of the gap. He found it open – the bars lying scattered over the ground. He found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.

The peril was passed.

Chapter 17

The Mustang Trap

No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked interrogatively around her.

There was a small lake – in Texan phraseology a “pond” – with countless horse-tracks visible along its shores, proving that the place was frequented by wild horses – their excessive number showing it to be a favourite watering place. There was a high rail fence – constructed so as to enclose the pond, and a portion of the contiguous prairie, with two diverging wings, carried far across the plain, forming a funnel-shaped approach to a gap; which, when its bars were up, completed an enclosure that no horse could either enter or escape from.

“What is it for?” inquired the lady, indicating the construction of split rails.

“A mustang trap,” said Maurice.

“A mustang trap?”

“A contrivance for catching wild horses. They stray between the wings; which, as you perceive, are carried far out upon the plain. The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. Once within the corral[157], there is no trouble in taking them. They are then lazoed at leisure.”

“Poor things! Is it yours? You are a mustanger? You told us so?”

“I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way. I prefer being alone, and rarely consort with men of my calling. Therefore I could not make use of this contrivance, which requires at least a score of drivers. My weapon, if I may dignify it by the name, is this – the lazo.”

“You use it with great skill? I’ve heard that you do; besides having myself witnessed the proof.”

“It is complimentary of you to say so. But you are mistaken. There are men on these prairies ‘to the manner born’ – Mexicans – who regard, what you are pleased to call skill, as sheer clumsiness.”

“Are you sure, Mr Gerald, that your modesty is not prompting you to overrate your rivals? I have been told the very opposite.”

“By whom?”

“Your friend, Mr Zebulon Stump.”

“Ha – ha! Old Zeb is but indifferent authority on the subject of the lazo.”

“I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole. “They tell me ’tis not a lady-like accomplishment. What matters – so long as it is innocent, and gives one a gratification?”

“Not lady-like! Surely ’tis as much so as archery, or skating? I know a lady who is very expert at it.”

“An American lady?”

“No; she’s Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes across to the Leona – where she has relatives.”

“A young lady?”

“Yes. About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter.”

“Size?”

“Not so tall as you.”

“But much prettier, of course? The Mexican ladies, I’ve heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain Americanos.”

“I think Creoles are not included in that category,” was the reply, worthy of one whose lips had been in contact with the famed boulder of Blarney.

“I wonder if I could ever learn to fling it?” pursued the young Creole, pretending not to have been affected by the complimentary remark. “Am I too old? I’ve been told that the Mexicans commence almost in childhood; that that is why they attain to such wonderful skill?”

“Not at all,” replied Maurice, encouragingly. “’Tis possible, with a year or two’s practice, to become a proficient lazoer. I, myself, have only been three years at; and – ”

He paused, perceiving he was about to commit himself to a little boasting.

“And you are now the most skilled in all Texas?” said his companion, supplying the presumed finale of his speech.

“No, no!” laughingly rejoined he. “That is but a mistaken belief on the part of Zeb Stump, who judges my skill by comparison, making use of his own as a standard.”

“Is it modesty?” reflected the Creole. “Or is this man mocking me? If I thought so, I should go mad!”

“Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?” said Maurice, observing her abstracted air. “Your father may be alarmed by your long absence? Your brother – your cousin – ”

“Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed either pique, or compunction. “I was not thinking of that. Thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. Let us go back!”

Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur – both acts being performed with an air of languid reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the “mustang trap.”

Once more upon the prairie, Maurice conducted his protégée by the most direct route towards the spot where they had parted from the picnic party.

Their backward way led them across a peculiar tract of country – what in Texas is called a “weed prairie,” an appellation bestowed by the early pioneers, who were not very choice in their titles.

The Louisianian saw around her a vast garden of gay flowers, laid out in one grand parterre, whose borders were the blue circle of the horizon – a garden designed, planted, nurtured, by the hand of Nature.

The most plebeian spirit cannot pass through such a scene without receiving an impression calculated to refine it. I’ve known the illiterate trapper – habitually blind to the beautiful – pause in the midst of his “weed prairie,” with the flowers rising breast high around him, gaze for a while upon their gaudy corollas waving beyond the verge of his vision; then continue his silent stride with a gentler feeling towards his fellow-man, and a firmer faith in the grandeur of his God.

“Pardieu! ’tis very beautiful!” exclaimed the enthusiastic Creole, reining up as if by an involuntary instinct.

“You admire these wild scenes, Miss Poindexter?”

“Admire them? Something more, sir! I see around me all that is bright and beautiful in nature: verdant turf, trees, flowers, all that we take such pains to plant or cultivate; and such, too, as we never succeed in equalling. There seems nothing wanting to make this picture complete – ’tis a park perfect in everything!”

“Except the mansion?”

“That would spoil it for me. Give me the landscape where there is not a house in sight – slate, chimney, or tile – to interfere with the outlines of the trees. Under their shadow could I live; under their shadow let me – ”

The word: “love” uppermost in her thoughts – was upon the tip of her tongue.

She dexterously restrained herself from pronouncing it – changing it to one of very different signification – “die.”

It was cruel of the young Irishman not to tell her that she was speaking his own sentiments – repeating them to the very echo. To this was the prairie indebted for his presence. But for a kindred inclination – amounting almost to a passion – he might never have been known as Maurice the mustanger.

The romantic sentiment is not satisfied with a “sham.” It will soon consume itself, unless supported by the consciousness of reality. The mustanger would have been humiliated by the thought, that he chased the wild horse as a mere pastime – a pretext to keep him upon the prairies. At first, he might have condescended to make such an acknowledgment – but he had of late become thoroughly imbued with the pride of the professional hunter.

His reply might have appeared chillingly prosaic.

“I fear, miss, you would soon tire of such a rude life – no roof to shelter you – no society – no – ”

“And you, sir; how is it you have not grown tired of it? If I have been correctly informed – your friend, Mr Stump, is my authority – you’ve been leading this life for several years. Is it so?”

“Quite true: I have no other calling.”

“Indeed! I wish I could say the same. I envy you your lot. I’m sure I could enjoy existence amid these beautiful scene for ever and ever!”

“Alone? Without companions? Without even a roof to shelter you?”

“I did not say that. But, you’ve not told me. How do you live? Have you a house?”

“It does not deserve such a high-sounding appellation,” laughingly replied the mustanger. “Shed would more correctly serve for the description of my jacalé, which may be classed among the lowliest in the land.”

“Where is it? Anywhere near where we’ve been to-day?”

“It is not very far from where we are now. A mile, perhaps. You see those tree-tops to the west? They shade my hovel from the sun, and shelter it from the storm.”

“Indeed! How I should like to have a look at it! A real rude hut, you say?”

“In that I have but spoken the truth.”

“Standing solitary?”

“I know of no other within ten miles of it.”

“Among trees, and picturesque?”

“That depends upon the eye that beholds it.”

“I should like to see it, and judge. Only a mile you say?”

“A mile there – the same to return – would be two.”

“That’s nothing. It would not take us a score of minutes.”

“Should we not be trespassing on the patience of your people?”

“On your hospitality, perhaps? Excuse me, Mr Gerald!” continued the young lady, a slight shadow suddenly overcasting her countenance. “I did not think of it! Perhaps you do not live alone? Some other shares your – jacalé – as you call it?”

“Oh, yes, I have a companion – one who has been with me ever since I – ”

The shadow became sensibly darker.

Before the mustanger could finish his speech, his listener had pictured to herself a certain image, that might answer to the description of his companion: a girl of her own age – perhaps more inclining to embonpoint[158] – with a skin of chestnut brown; eyes of almond shade, set piquantly oblique to the lines of the nose; teeth of more than pearly purity; a tinge of crimson upon the cheeks; hair like Castro’s tail; beads and bangles around neck, arms, and ankles; a short kirtle elaborately embroidered; mocassins covering small feet; and fringed leggings, laced upon limbs of large development. Such were the style and equipments of the supposed companion, who had suddenly become outlined in the imagination of Louise Poindexter.

“Your fellow tenant of the jacalé might not like being intruded upon by visitors – more especially a stranger?”

“On the contrary, he’s but too glad to see visitors at any time – whether strangers or acquaintances. My foster-brother is the last man to shun society; of which, poor fellow! he sees precious little on the Alamo.”

“Your foster-brother?”

“Yes. Phelim O’Neal by name – like myself a native of the Emerald Isle[159], and shire of Galway; only perhaps speaking a little better brogue than mine.”

“Oh! the Irish brogue. I should so like to hear it spoken by a native of Galway. I am told that theirs is the richest. Is it so, Mr Gerald?”

“Being a Galwegian myself, my judgment might not be reliable; but if you will condescend to accept Phelim’s hospitality for half-an-hour, he will, no doubt, give you an opportunity of judging for yourself.”

“I should be delighted. ’Tis something so new. Let papa and the rest of them wait. There are plenty of ladies without me; or the gentlemen may amuse themselves by tracing up our tracks. ’Twill be as good a horse hunt as they are likely to have. Now, sir, I’m ready to accept your hospitality.”

“There’s not much to offer you, I fear. Phelim has been several days by himself, and as he’s but an indifferent hunter, his larder is likely to be low. ’Tis fortunate you had finished luncheon before the stampede[160].”

It was not Phelim’s larder that was leading Louise Poindexter out of her way, nor yet the desire to listen to his Connemara pronunciation. It was not curiosity to look at the jacalé of the mustanger; but a feeling of a far more irresistible kind, to which she was yielding, as if she believed it to be her fate!

She paid a visit to the lone hut, on the Alamo; she entered under its roof; she scanned with seeming interest its singular penates; and noted, with pleased surprise, the books, writing materials, and other chattels that betokened the refinement of its owner; she listened with apparent delight to the palthogue[161] of the Connemara man, who called her a “coleen bawn;” she partook of Phelim’s hospitality – condescendingly tasting of everything offered, except that which was most urgently pressed upon her, “a dhrap of the crayther, drawn fresh from the dimmyjan;” and finally made her departure from the spot, apparently in the highest spirits.

Alas! her delight was short-lived: lasting only so long as it was sustained by the excitement of the novel adventure. As she recrossed the flower prairie, she found time for making a variety of reflections; and there was one that chilled her to the very core of her heart.

Was it the thought that she had been acting wrongly in keeping her father, her brother, and friends in suspense about her safety? Or had she become conscious of playing a part open to the suspicion of being unfeminine?

Not either. The cloud that darkened her brow in the midst of that blossoming brightness, was caused by a different, and far more distressing, reflection. During all that day, in the journey from the fort, after overtaking her in the chase, in the pursuit while protecting her, lingering by her side on the shore of the lake, returning across the prairie, under his own humble roof – in short everywhere – her companion had only been polite – had only behaved as a gentleman!

Chapter 18

Jealousy upon the Trail

Of the two-score rescuers, who had started in pursuit of the runaway, but few followed far. Having lost sight of the wild mares, the mustang, and the mustanger, they began to lose sight of one another; and before long became dispersed upon the prairie – going single, in couples, or in groups of three and four together. Most of them, unused to tracking up a trail, soon strayed from that taken by the manada; branching off upon others, made, perhaps, by the same drove upon some previous stampede.

The dragoon escort, in charge of a young officer – a fresh fledgling from West Point – ran astray upon one of these ramifications, carrying the hindmost of the field along with it.

It was a rolling prairie through which the pursuit was conducted, here and there intersected by straggling belts of brushwood. These, with the inequalities of the surface, soon hid the various pursuing parties from one another; and in twenty minutes after the start, a bird looking from the heavens above, might have beheld half a hundred horsemen, distributed into half a score of groups – apparently having started from a common centre – spurring at full speed towards every quarter of the compass!

But one was going in the right direction – a solitary individual, mounted upon a large strong-limbed chestnut horse; that, without any claim to elegance of shape, was proving the possession both of speed and bottom. The blue frock-coat of half military cut, and forage cap of corresponding colour, were distinctive articles of dress habitually worn by the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry – Cassius Calhoun. He it was who directed the chestnut on the true trail; while with whip and spur he was stimulating the animal to extraordinary efforts. He was himself stimulated by a thought – sharp as his own spurs – that caused him to concentrate all his energies upon the abject in hand.

Like a hungry hound he was laying his head along the trail, in hopes of an issue that might reward him for his exertions.

What that issue was he had but vaguely conceived; but on occasional glance towards his holsters – from which protruded the butts of a brace of pistols – told of some sinister design that was shaping itself in his soul.

But for a circumstance that assisted him, he might, like the others, have gone astray. He had the advantage of them, however, in being guided by two shoe-tracks he had seen before. One, the larger, he recollected with a painful distinctness. He had seen it stamped upon a charred surface, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie. Yielding to an undefined instinct, he had made a note of it in his memory, and now remembered it.

Thus directed, the ci-devant captain arrived among the copses, and rode into the glade where the spotted mustang had been pulled up in such a mysterious manner. Hitherto his analysis had been easy enough. At this point it became conjecture. Among the hoof-prints of the wild mares, the shoe-tracks were still seen, but no longer going at a gallop. The two animals thus distinguished must have been halted, and standing in juxtaposition.

Whither next? Along the trail of the manada, there was no imprint of iron; nor elsewhere! The surface on all sides was hard, and strewn with pebbles. A horse going in rude gallop, might have indented it; but not one passing over it at a tranquil pace.

And thus had the spotted mustang and blood bay parted from that spot. They had gone at a walk for some score yards, before starting on their final gallop towards the mustang trap.

The impatient pursuer was puzzled. He rode round and round, and along the trail of the wild mares, and back again, without discovering the direction that had been taken by either of the ridden horses.

He was beginning to feel something more than surprise, when the sight of a solitary horseman advancing along the trail interrupted his uncomfortable conjectures.

It was no stranger who was drawing near. The colossal figure, clad in coarse habiliments, bearded to the buttons of his blanket coat, and bestriding the most contemptible looking steed that could have been found within a hundred miles of the spot, was an old acquaintance. Cassius Calhoun knew Zebulon Stump, and Zeb Stump knew Cash Calhoun, long before either had set foot upon the prairies of Texas.

“You hain’t seed nuthin’ o’ the young lady, hev ye, Mister Calhoun?” inquired the hunter, as he rode up, with an unusual impressiveness of manner. “No, ye hain’t,” he continued, as if deducing his inference from the blank looks of the other. “Dog-gone my cats! I wonder what the hell hev becomed o’ her! Kewrious, too; sech a rider as she air, ter let the durned goat o’ a thing run away wi’ her. Wal! thur’s not much danger to be reeprehended. The mowstanger air putty sartin to throw his rope aroun’ the critter, an that ’ll put an eend to its capers. Why hev ye stopped hyur?”

“I’m puzzled about the direction they’ve taken. Their tracks show they’ve been halted here; but I can see the shod hoofs no farther.”

“Whoo! whoo! yur right, Mister Cashus! They hev been halted hyur; an been clost thegither too. They hain’t gone no further on the trail o’ the wild maars. Sartin they hain’t. What then?”

The speaker scanned the surface of the plain with an interrogative glance; as if there, and not from Cassius Calhoun, expecting an answer to his question.

“I cannot see their tracks anywhere,” replied the ex-captain.

“No, kan’t ye? I kin though. Lookee hyur! Don’t ye see them thur bruises on the grass?”

“No.”

“Durn it! thur plain es the nose on a Jew’s face. Thur’s a big shoe, an a little un clost aside o’ it. Thet’s the way they’ve rud off, which show that they hain’t follered the wild maars no further than hyur. We’d better keep on arter them?”

“By all means!”

Without further parley, Zeb started along the new trail; which, though still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous as he had figuratively declared it.

In a little while it became visible to his companion – on their arrival at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply indented the turf.

Shortly after their trail was again lost – or would have been to a scrutiny less keen than that of Zeb Stump – among the hundreds of other hoof-marks seen now upon the sward.

“Hilloo!” exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign. “What’s been a doin’ hyur? This air some ’at kewrious.”

“Only the tracks of the wild mares!” suggested Calhoun. “They appear to have made a circuit, and come round again?”

“If they hev it’s been arter the others rud past them. The chase must a changed sides, I reck’n.”

“What do you mean, Mr Stump?”

“That i’stead o’ them gallupin’ arter the maars, the maars hev been gallupin’ arter them.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Don’t ye see that the shod tracks air kivered by them o’ the maars? Maars – no! By the ’turnal airthquake! – them’s not maar-tracks. They air a inch bigger. Thur’s been studs this way – a hul cavayurd o’ them. Geehosofat! I hope they hain’t – ”

“Haven’t what?”

“Gone arter Spotty. If they hev, then thur will be danger to Miss Peintdexter. Come on!”

Without waiting for a rejoinder, the hunter started off at a shambling trot, followed by Calhoun, who kept calling to him for an explanation of his ambiguous words.

Zeb did not deign to offer any – excusing himself by a backward sweep of the hand, which seemed to say, “Do not bother me now: I am busy.”

For a time he appeared absorbed in taking up the trail of the shod horses – not so easily done, as it was in places entirely obliterated by the thick trampling of the stallions. He succeeded in making it out by piecemeal – still going on at a trot.

It was not till he had arrived within a hundred yards of the arroyo that the serious shadow disappeared from his face; and, checking the pace of his mare, he vouchsafed the explanation once more demanded from him.

“Oh! that was the danger,” said Calhoun, on hearing the explanation. “How do you know they have escaped it?”

“Look thur!”

“A dead horse! Freshly killed, he appears? What does that prove?”

“That the mowstanger hes killed him.”

“It frightened the others off, you think, and they followed no further?”

“They follered no further; but it wa’n’t adzackly thet as scared ’em off. Thur’s the thing as kep them from follerin’. Ole Hickory, what a jump!”

The speaker pointed to the arroyo, on the edge of which both riders had now arrived.

“You don’t suppose they leaped it?” said Calhoun. “Impossible.”

“Leaped it clur as the crack o’ a rifle. Don’t ye see thur toe-marks, both on this side an the t’other? An’ Miss Peintdexter fust, too! By the jumpin’ Geehosofat, what a gurl she air sure enuf! They must both a jumped afore the stellyun war shot; else they kedn’t a got at it. Thur’s no other place whar a hoss ked go over. Geeroozalem! wa’n’t it cunnin’ o’ the mowstanger to throw the stud in his tracks, jest in the very gap?”

“You think that he and my cousin crossed here together?”

“Not adzackly thegither,” explained Zeb, without suspecting the motive of the interrogatory. “As I’ve sayed, Spotty went fust. You see the critter’s tracks yonner on t’other side?”

“I do.”

“Wal – don’t ye see they air kivered wi’ them o’ the mowstanger’s hoss?”

“True – true.”

“As for the stellyuns, they hain’t got over – ne’er a one o’ the hul cavayurd. I kin see how it hez been. The young fellur pulled up on t’other side, an sent a bullet back inter this brute’s karkidge. ’Twar jest like closin’ the gap ahint him; an the pursooers, seein’ it shet, guv up the chase, an scampered off in a different direckshun. Thur’s the way they hev gone – up the side o’ the gully!”

“They may have crossed at some other place, and continued the pursuit?”

“If they dud, they’d hev ten mile to go, afore they ked git back hyur – five up, an five back agin. Not a bit o’ that, Mister Calhoun. To needn’t be uneezy ’bout Miss Lewaze bein’ pursooed by them any further. Arter the jump, she’s rud off along wi’ the mowstanger – both on ’em as quiet as a kupple o’ lambs. Thur wa’n’t no danger then; an by this time, they oughter be dog-goned well on torst rejoinin’ the people as stayed by the purvision waggon.”

“Come on!” cried Calhoun, exhibiting as much impatience as when he believed his cousin to be in serious peril. “Come on, Mr Stump! Let us get back as speedily as possible!”

“Not so fast, if you pleeze,” rejoined Zeb, permitting himself to slide leisurely out of his saddle, and then drawing his knife from his sheath. “I’ll only want ye to wait for a matter o’ ten minutes, or thereabout.”

“Wait! For what?” peevishly inquired Calhoun.

“Till I kin strip the hide off o’ this hyur sorrel. It appear to be a skin o’ the fust qualerty; an oughter fetch a five-dollar bill in the settlements. Five-dollar bills ain’t picked up every day on these hyur purayras.”

“Damn the skin!” angrily ejaculated the impatient Southerner. “Come on, an leave it!”

“Ain’t a goin’ to do anythin’ o’ the sort,” coolly responded the hunter, as he drew the sharp edge of his blade along the belly of the prostrate steed. “You kin go on if ye like, Mister Calhoun; but Zeb Stump don’t start till he packs the hide of this hyur stellyun on the krupper o’ his old maar. Thet he don’t.”

“Come, Zeb; what’s the use of talking about my going back by myself? You know I can’t find my way?”

“That air like enough. I didn’t say ye ked.”

“Look here, you obstinate old case! Time’s precious to me just at this minute. It ’ll take you a full half-hour to skin the horse.”

“Not twenty minutes.”

“Well, say twenty minutes. Now, twenty minutes are of more importance to me than a five-dollar bill. You say that’s the value of the skin? Leave it behind; and I agree to make good the amount.”

“Wal – that air durned gin’rous, I admit – dog-goned gin’rous. But I mussent except yur offer. It ’ud be a mean trick o’ me – mean enuf for a yeller-bellied Mexikin – to take yur money for sech a sarvice as thet: the more so es I ain’t no stranger to ye, an myself a goin’ the same road. On the t’other hand, I kan’t afford to lose the five dollars’ worth o’ hoss-hide which ud be rotten as punk – to say nuthin’ o’ it’s bein’ tored into skreeds by the buzzarts and coyoats – afore I mout find a chance to kum this way agin.”

“’Tis very provoking! What am I to do?”

“You air in a hurry? Wal – I’m sorry to discommerdate ye. But – stay! Thur’s no reezun for yur waitin’ on me. Thur’s nuthin’ to hinder ye from findin’ yur way to the waggon. Ye see that tree stannin’ up agin the sky-line – the tall poplar yonner?”

“I do.”

“Wal; do you remember ever to hev seed it afore? It air a queery lookin’ plant, appearin’ more like a church steeple than a tree.”

“Yes – yes!” said Calhoun. “Now you’ve pointed it out, I do remember it. We rode close past it while in pursuit of the wild mares?”

“You dud that very thing. An’ now, as ye know it, what air to hinder you from ridin’ past it agin; and follering the trail o’ the maars back’ard? That ud bring ye to yur startin’-peint; where, ef I ain’t out o’ my reck’nin’, ye’ll find yur cousin, Miss Peintdexter, an the hul o’ yur party enjoying themselves wi’ that ’ere French stuff, they call shampain. I hope they’ll stick to it, and spare the Monongaheela – of which licker I shed like to hev a triflin’ suck arter I git back myself.”

Calhoun had not waited for the wind-up of this characteristic speech. On the instant after recognising the tree, he had struck the spurs into the sides of his chestnut, and gone off at a gallop, leaving old Zeb at liberty to secure the coveted skin.

“Geeroozalem!” ejaculated the hunter, glancing up, and noticing the quick unceremonious departure. “It don’t take much o’ a head-piece to tell why he air in sech a durned hurry. I ain’t myself much guv torst guessin’; but if I ain’t doggonedly mistaken it air a clur case o’ jellacy on the trail!”

Zeb Stump was not astray in his conjecture. It was jealousy that urged Cassius Calhoun to take that hasty departure – black jealousy, that had first assumed shape in a kindred spot – in the midst of a charred prairie; that had been every day growing stronger from circumstances observed, and others imagined; that was now intensified so as to have become his prevailing passion.

The presentation and taming of the spotted mustang; the acceptance of that gift, characteristic of the giver, and gratifying to the receiver, who had made no effort to conceal her gratification; these, and other circumstances, acting upon the already excited fancy of Cassius Calhoun, had conducted him to the belief: that in Maurice the mustanger he would find his most powerful rival.

The inferior social position of the horse-hunter should have hindered him from having such belief, or even a suspicion.

Perhaps it might have done so, had he been less intimately acquainted with the character of Louise Poindexter. But, knowing her as he did – associating with her from the hour of childhood – thoroughly understanding her independence of spirit – the braverie of her disposition, bordering upon very recklessness – he could place no reliance on the mere idea of gentility. With most women this may be depended upon as a barrier, if not to mésalliance[162], at least to absolute imprudence; but in the impure mind of Cassius Calhoun, while contemplating the probable conduct of his cousin, there was not even this feeble support to lean upon!

Chafing at the occurrences of the day – to him crookedly inauspicious – he hurried back towards the spot where the pic-nic had been held. The steeple-like tree guided him back to the trail of the manada; and beyond that there was no danger of straying. He had only to return along the path already trodden by him.

He rode at a rapid pace – faster than was relished by his now tired steed – stimulated by bitter thoughts, which for more than an hour were his sole companions – their bitterness more keenly felt in the tranquil solitude that surrounded him.

He was but little consoled by a sight that promised other companionship: that of two persons on horseback, riding in advance, and going in the same direction as himself, upon the same path. Though he saw but their backs – and at a long distance ahead – there was no mistaking the identity of either. They were the two individuals that had brought that bitterness upon his spirit.

Like himself they were returning upon the trail of the wild mares; which, when first seen, they had just struck, arriving upon it from a lateral path. Side by side – their saddles almost chafing against each other – to all appearance absorbed in a conversation of intense interest to both, they saw not the solitary horseman approaching them in a diagonal direction.

Apparently less anxious than he to rejoin the party of picknickers, they were advancing at a slow pace – the lady a little inclining to the rear.

Their proximity to one another – their attitudes in the saddle – their obvious inattention to outward objects – the snail-like pace at which they were proceeding – these, along with one or two other slighter circumstances observed by Calhoun, combined to make an impression on his mind – or rather to strengthen one already made – that almost drove him mad.

To gallop rapidly up, and rudely terminate the tête-à-tête, was but the natural instinct of the chivalric Southerner. In obedience to it he spitefully plied the spur; and once more forced his jaded chestnut into an unwilling canter.

In a few seconds, however, he slackened pace – as if changing his determination. The sound of his horse’s hoofs had not yet warned the others of his proximity – though he was now less than two hundred yards behind them! He could hear the silvery tones of his cousin’s voice bearing the better part of the conversation. How interesting it must be to both to have hindered them from perceiving his approach!

If he could but overhear what they were saying?

It seemed a most unpropitious place for playing eavesdropper; and yet there might be a chance?

The seeming interest of the dialogue to the individuals engaged in it gave promise of such opportunity. The turf of the savannah was soft as velvet. The hoof gliding slowly over it gave forth not the slightest sound.

Calhoun was still too impatient to confine himself to a walk; but his chestnut was accustomed to that gait, peculiar to the horse of the South-Western States – the “pace”; and into this was he pressed.

With hoofs horizontally striking the sward – elevated scarce an inch above the ground – he advanced swiftly and noiselessly; so quick withal, that in a few seconds he was close upon the heels of the spotted mustang, and the red steed of the mustanger!

He was then checked to a pace corresponding to theirs; while his rider, leaning forward, listened with an eagerness that evinced some terrible determination. His attitude proclaimed him in the vein for vituperation of the rudest kind – ready with ribald tongue; or, if need be, with knife and pistol!

His behaviour depended on a contingency – on what might be overheard.

As chance, or fate, willed it, there was nothing. If the two equestrians were insensible to external sounds, their steeds were not so absorbed. In a walk the chestnut stepped heavily – the more so from being fatigued. His footfall proclaimed his proximity to the sharp ears, both of the blood-bay and spotted mustang; that simultaneously flung up their heads, neighing as they did so.

Calhoun was discovered.

“Ha! cousin Cash!” cried the lady, betraying more of pique than surprise; “you there? Where’s father, and Harry, and the rest of the people?”

“Why do you ask that, Loo? I reckon you know as well as I.”

“What! haven’t you come out to meet us? And they too – ah! your chestnut is all in a sweat! He looks as if you had been riding a long race – like ourselves?”

“Of coarse he has. I followed you from the first – in hopes of being of some service to you.”

“Indeed! I did not know that you were after us. Thank you, cousin! I’ve just been saying thanks to this gallant gentleman, who also came after, and has been good enough to rescue both Luna and myself from a very unpleasant dilemma – a dreadful danger I should rather call it. Do you know that we’ve been chased by a drove of wild steeds, and had actually to ride for our lives?”

“I am aware of it.”

“You saw the chase then?”

“No. I only knew it by the tracks.”

“The tracks! And were you able to tell by that?”

“Yes – thanks to the interpretation of Zeb Stump.”

“Oh! he was with you? But did you follow them to – to – how far did you follow them?”

“To a crevasse in the prairie. You leaped over it, Zeb said. Did you?”

“Luna did.”

“With you on her back?”

“I wasn’t anywhere else! What a question, cousin Cash! Where would you expect me to have been? Clinging to her tail? Ha! ha! ha!”

“Did you leap it?” inquired the laugher, suddenly changing tone. “Did you follow us any farther?”

“No, Loo. From the crevasse I came direct here, thinking you had got back before me. That’s how I’ve chanced to come up with you.”

The answer appeared to give satisfaction.

“Ah! I’m glad you’ve overtaken us. We’ve been riding slowly. Luna is so tired. Poor thing! I don’t know how I shall ever get her back to the Leona.”

Since the moment of being joined by Calhoun, the mustanger had not spoken a word. However pleasant may have been his previous intercourse with the young Creole, he had relinquished it, without any apparent reluctance; and was now riding silently in the advance, as if by tacit understanding he had returned to the performance of the part for which he had been originally engaged.

For all that, the eye of the ex-captain was bent blightingly upon him – at times in a demoniac glare – when he saw – or fancied – that another eye was turned admiringly in the same direction.

A long journey performed by that trio of travellers might have led to a tragical termination. Such finale was prevented by the appearance of the picknickers; who soon after surrounding the returned runaway, put to flight every other thought by the chorus of their congratulations.

Chapter 19

Whisky and Water

In the embryo city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the “hotel” was the most conspicuous building. This is but the normal condition of every Texan town – whether new or founded forty years ago; and none are older, except the sparse cities of Hispano-Mexican origin – where the presidio[163] and convent took precedence, now surpassed by, and in some instances transformed into, the “tavern.”

The Fort Inge establishment, though the largest building in the place, was, nevertheless, neither very grand nor imposing. Its exterior had but little pretence to architectural style. It was a structure of hewn logs, having for ground-plan the letter T according to the grotesque alphabet – the shank being used for eating and sleeping rooms, while the head was a single apartment entirely devoted to drinking – smoking and expectorating included. This last was the bar-room, or “saloon.”

The sign outside, swinging from the trunk of a post-oak, that had been pollarded some ten feet above the ground, exhibited on both sides the likeness of a well known military celebrity – the hero of that quarter of the globe – General Zachariah Taylor[164]. It did not need looking at the lettering beneath to ascertain the name of the hotel. Under the patronage of such a portrait it could only be called “Rough and Ready.”

There was a touch of the apropos about this designation. Outside things appeared rough enough; while inside, especially if you entered by the “saloon,” there was a readiness to meet you half way, with a mint julep, a sherry cobbler, a gin sling, or any other mixed drink known to trans-Mississippian tipplers – provided always that you were ready with the picayunes to pay for them.

The saloon in question would not call for description, had you ever travelled in the Southern, or South-Western, States of America. If so, no Lethean[165] draught could ever efface from your memory the “bar-room” of the hotel or tavern in which you have had the unhappiness to sojourn. The counter extending longitudinally by the side; the shelved wall behind, with its rows of decanters and bottles, containing liquors, of not only all the colours of the prism, but every possible combination of them; the elegant young fellow, standing or sidling between counter and shelves, ycleped “clerk” – don’t call him a “barkeeper,” or you may get a decanter in your teeth – this elegant young gentleman, in blouse of blue cottonade, or white linen coat, or maybe in his shirt sleeves – the latter of finest linen and lace – ruffled, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty – this elegant young gentleman, who, in mixing you a sherry cobbler, can look you straight in the face, talk to you the politics of the day, while the ice, and the wine, and the water, are passing from glass to glass, like an iris sparkling behind his shoulders, or an aureole surrounding his perfumed head! Traveller through the Southern States of America you; cannot fail to remember him?

If so, my words will recall him, along with his surroundings – the saloon in which he is the presiding administrator, with its shelves and coloured decanters; its counter; its floor sprinkled with white sand, at times littered with cigar stumps, and the brown asterisks[166] produced by expectoration – its odour of mint, absinthe, and lemon-peel, in which luxuriate the common black fly, the blue-bottle, and the sharp-tongued mosquito. All these must be sharply outlined on the retina of your memory.

The hotel, or tavern, “Rough and Ready,” though differing but little from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. Its proprietor, instead of being a speculative Yankee, was a German – in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. He kept his own bar; so that on entering the saloon, instead of the elegant young gentleman with ruffled shirt and odorous chevelure, your “liquor” was mixed for you by a staid Teuton, who looked as sober as if he never tasted – notwithstanding the temptation of wholesale price – the delicious drinks served out to his customers. Oberdoffer was the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by his Texan customers into “Old Duffer.”

There was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the “Rough and Ready,” though it scarce deserved to be so designated; since it was not uncommon elsewhere. As already stated, the building was shaped like a capital T; the saloon representing the head of the letter. The counter extended along one side, that contiguous to the shank; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the incipient city.

This arrangement had been designed to promote the circulation of the air – a matter of primary importance in an atmosphere where the thermometer for half the year stands at 90 degrees in the shade.

The hotels of Texas or the South-Western States – I may say every part of the American Union – serve the double purpose of exchange and club-house. Indeed, it is owing to the cheap accommodation thus afforded – often of the most convenient kind – that the latter can scarce be said to exist.

Even in the larger cities of the Atlantic states the “club” is by no means a necessity. The moderate charges of the hotels, along with their excellent cuisine and elegant accommodations, circumscribe the prosperity of this institution; which in America is, and ever must be, an unhealthy exotic.

The remark is still more true of the Southern and South-western cities; where the “saloon” and “bar-room” are the chief places of resort and rendezvous.

The company, too, is there of a more miscellaneous character. The proud planter does not disdain – for he does not dare – to drink in the same room with the “poor white trash;” often as proud as himself.

There is no peasant in that part of the world – least of all in the state called Texas; and in the saloon of “Rough and Ready” might often be seen assembled representatives of every class and calling to be met with among the settlements.

Perhaps not upon any occasion since “Old Duffer” had hung out the sign of his tavern, was he favoured with a larger company, or served more customers across his counter, than upon that night, after the return of the horse-hunting party to Fort Inge.

With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the “Rough and Ready” was necessary as a “nightcap” before retiring to rest; and as the Dutch clock, quaintly ticking among the coloured decanters, indicated the hour of eleven, one after another – officers of the Fort – planters living near along the river – Sutlers – commissariat contractors – “sportsmen” – and others who might be called nondescripts – came dropping in; each as he entered marching straight up to the counter, calling for his favourite drink, and then falling back to converse with some group already occupying the floor.

One of these groups was conspicuous. It consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers already introduced; the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants – Hancock of the dragoons, and Crossman of the mounted rifles.

Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority, as could be told by the embroidery on his shoulder-strap,that proclaimed him of the rank of major. As he was the only “field officer” at Fort Inge, it is unnecessary to say he was the commandant of the cantonment.

These gentlemen were conversing as freely as if all were subalterns of equal rank – the subject of the discourse being the incidents of the day.

“Now tell us, major!” said Hancock: “you must know. Where did the girl gallop to?”

“How should I know?” answered the officer appealed to. “Ask her cousin, Mr Cassius Calhoun.”

“We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. It’s clear he knows no more than we. He only met them on the return – and not very far from the place where we had our bivouac[167]. They were gone a precious long time; and judging by the sweat of their horses they must have had a hard ride of it. They might have been to the Rio Grande, for that matter, and beyond it.”

“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry. “There was a scowl upon his face that betokened some very unpleasant emotion within his mind, I should say.”

“He did look rather unhappy,” replied the major; “but surely, Captain Sloman, you don’t attribute it to – ?”

“Jealousy. I do, and nothing else.”

“What! of Maurice the mustanger? Poh – poh! impossible – at least, very improbable.”

“And why, major?”

“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald – ”

“May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary.”

“Pshaw!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “a trader in horses! The major is right – the thing’s improbable – impossible.”

“Ah, gentlemen!” pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant shake of the head. “You don’t know Miss Poindexter, so well as I. An eccentric young lady – to say the least of her. You may have already observed that for yourselves.”

“Come, come, Sloman!” said the major, in a bantering way; “you are inclined to be talking scandal, I fear. That would be a scandal. Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding your pretensions to be considered a Joseph[168]? Now, I could understand your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman – supposing him to be disengaged. But as for a common mustanger – poh – poh!”

“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some reason to suspect – ”

“Whatever he be,” interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, “he’s there to answer for himself; and as he’s a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you.”

“I don’t think you will,” muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major’s suggestion.

Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.

“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord.

“Visky und vachter!” echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. “Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two picayunsh the glass.”

“I was not inquiring the price,” replied the mustanger, “I asked to be served with a glass of whisky and water. Have you got any?”

“Yesh – yesh,” responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp rejoinder. “Plenty – plenty of visky und vachter. Here it ish.”

While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but modest air. Most of them knew him personally, on account of his business relations with the Fort.

They were on the eve of interrogating him – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.

The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.

Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. If not absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink. The unsteady sparkle of his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead – still further clouded by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it – with the somewhat grotesque set of his forage cap – told that he had been taking one beyond the limits of wisdom.

“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “let’s hit the waggon a crack, or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we’re wasting his lights. Drinks all round. What say you?”

“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.

“You, major?”

“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”

According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment.

Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; Calhoun himself shouting out – “Brown sherry for me;” and immediately adding – “with a dash of bitters.”

“Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?” said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate.

“Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn’t I?”

“All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters – prandy und pitters,” repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest.

With the large accession of the major’s party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.

Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.

This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone – as regarded boon companionship – was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.

The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.

“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.

“Let us have it!” responded several voices.

“America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”

On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips.

The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.

Was it an accident? No one believed it was – even for a moment. Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated.

All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. There were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it.

“If he does,” whispered Hancock in Sloman’s ear, “he ought to be kicked out of the room.”

“Don’t you be alarmed about that,” responded the infantry officer, in the same sotto voce[169]. “You’ll find it different. I’m not given to betting, as you know; but I’d lay a month’s pay upon it the mustanger don’t back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. Odd devil he is!”

While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar – to use a hackneyed phrase, “the observed of all observers.”

Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.

There was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come. In silence they awaited the development.

They had not long to wait. The whole affair – speculations and whisperings included – did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in.

“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.

Simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning. If the hunter of wild horses had tweaked the nose of Cassius Calhoun, it would not have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge. Its simplicity but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor.

“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round, and standing with his arms akimbo[170]. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt.”

“I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion.”

So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before the ex-captain of volunteers could duck his head, or get out of the way, the remains of the mixed Monongahela were “swilled” into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.

The murmur of approbation was soon suppressed. The circumstances were not such as to call for speech; and the exclamations that accompanied the act were succeeded by a hush of silence. All saw that the quarrel could not be otherwise than a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.

Chapter 20

An Unsafe Position

On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter[171], and drawn it from its holster. He only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his adversary.

The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist – shot for shot.

The more timid of the spectators had already commenced making their escape out of doors tumbling over one another, in their haste to get out of harm’s way.

A few stayed in the saloon from sheer irresolution; a few others, of cooler courage, from choice; or, perhaps, actuated by a more astute instinct, which told them that in attempting to escape they might get a bullet in the back.

There was an interval – some six seconds – of silence, during which a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. It was but the interlude that often occurs between resolution and action; when the mind has completed its task, and the body has yet to begin.

It might have been more brief with other actors on the scene. Two ordinary men would have blazed away at once, and without reflection. But the two now confronting each other were not of the common kind. Both had seen street fighting before – had taken part in it – and knew the disadvantage of an idle shot. Each was determined to take sure aim on the other. It was this that prolonged the interval of inaction.

To those outside, who dared not even look through the doors, the suspense was almost painful. The cracking of the pistols, which they expected every moment to hear, would have been a relief. It was almost a disappointment when, instead, they heard the voice of the major – who was among the few who had stayed inside – raised in a loud authoritative tone.

“Hold!” commanded he, in the accent of one accustomed to be obeyed, at the same time whisking his sabre out of its scabbard, and interposing its long blade between the disputants.

“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger! Hold, I say!”

“Why?” shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion. “Why, Major Ringwood? After an insult like that, and from a low fellow – ”

“You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun.”

“Damn me if I care! I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. Stand out of the way, major. The quarrel is not yours – you have no right to interfere!”

“Indeed! Ha! ha! Sloman! Hancock! Crossman! hear that? I have no right to interfere! Hark ye, Mr Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteers! Know you where you are, sir? Don’t fancy yourself in the state of Mississippi – among your slave-whipping chivalry. This, sir, is a military post – under military law – my humble self its present administrator. I therefore command you to return your six-shooter to the holster from which you have taken it. This instant too, or you shall go to the guard-house, like the humblest soldier in the cantonment!”

“Indeed!” sneeringly replied the Mississippian. “What a fine country you intend Texas to become! I suppose a man mustn’t fight, however much aggrieved, without first obtaining a licence from Major Ringwood? Is that to be the law of the land?”

“Not a bit of it,” retorted the major. “I’m not the man – never was – to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel. You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it so please you. But not just now. You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. I’ve no idea of being bored by a bullet not intended for me. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance; and you may crack away to your heart’s content. Now, sir, will that be agreeable to you?”

Had the major been a man of ordinary character his commands might have been disregarded. But to his official weight, as chief officer of the post, was added a certain reverence due to seniority in age – along with respect for one who was himself known to wield a weapon with dangerous skill, and who allowed no trilling with his authority.

His sabre had not been unsheathed by way of empty gesticulation. The disputants knew it; and by simultaneous consent lowered the muzzles of their pistols – still holding them in hand.

Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth, like a beast of prey momentarily withheld from making attack upon its victim; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an Irishman.

“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.

“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has done – ”

“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.

“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun ain’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”

“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”

“Ha – ha – ha!” responded the Southerner, with a yell of derisive laughter; “a chance for my life! Clear out, all of ye – clear out; and let me at him!”

“Stay!” cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist. “It’s not quite safe. You may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger a second too soon. We must get out of doors before you do. Besides, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to those around him, “there should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!”

“By all means!” chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal.

“Neither of you can object?” continued the major, interrogatively.

“I sha’n’t object to anything that’s fair,” assented the Irishman – “devil a bit!”

“I shall fight with the weapon I hold in my hand,” doggedly declared Calhoun.

“Agreed! the very weapon for me!” was the rejoinder of his adversary.

“I see you both carry Colt’s six-shooter Number 2,” said the major, scanning the pistols held in hand. “So far all right! you’re armed exactly alike.”

“Have they any other weapons?” inquired young Hancock, suspecting that under the cover of his coat the ex-captain had a knife.

“I have none,” answered the mustanger, with a frankness that left no doubt as to his speaking the truth.

All eyes were turned upon Calhoun, who appeared to hesitate about making a reply. He saw he must declare himself.

“Of course,” he said, “I have my toothpick as well. You don’t want me to give up that? A man ought to be allowed to use whatever weapon he has got.”

“But, Captain Calhoun,” pursued Hancock, “your adversary has no knife. If you are not afraid to meet him on equal terms you should surrender yours.”

“Certainly he should!” cried several of the bystanders. “He must! he must!”

“Come, Mr Calhoun!” said the major, in a soothing tone. “Six shots ought to satisfy any reasonable man; without having recourse to the steel. Before you finish firing, one or the other of you – ”

“Damn the knife!” interrupted Calhoun, unbuttoning his coat. Then drawing forth the proscribed weapon, and flinging it to the farthest corner of the saloon, he added, in a tone of bravado, intended to encowardice his adversary. “I sha’n’t want it for such a spangled jay-bird as that. I’ll fetch him out of his boots at the first shot.”

“Time enough to talk when you’ve done something to justify it. Cry boo to a goose; but don’t fancy your big words are going to frighten me, Mr Calhoun! Quick, gentlemen! I’m impatient to put an end to his boasting and blasphemy!”

“Hound!” frantically hissed out the chivalric Southerner. “Low dog of an Irish dam! I’ll send you howling to your kennel! I’ll – ”

“Shame, Captain Calhoun!” interrupted the major, seconded by other voices. “This talk is idle, as it is unpolite in the presence of respectable company. Have patience a minute longer; and you may then say what you like. Now, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to the surrounding, “there is only one more preliminary to be arranged. They must engage not to begin firing till we have got out of their way?”

A difficulty here presented itself. How was the engagement to be given? A simple promise would scarce be sufficient in a crisis like that? The combatants – one of them at least – would not be over scrupulous as to the time of pulling trigger.

“There must be a signal,” pursued the major. “Neither should fire till that be given. Can any one suggest what it is to be?”

“I think. I can,” said the quiet Captain Sloman, advancing as he spoke. “Let the gentlemen go outside, along with us. There is – as you perceive – a door at each end of the room. I see no difference between them. Let them enter again – one at each door, with the understanding that neither is to fire before setting foot across the threshold.”

“Capital! the very thing!” replied several voices. “And what for a signal?” demanded the major. “A shot?”

“No. Ring the tavern bell!”

“Nothing could be better – nothing fairer,” conclusively declared the major, making for one of the doors, that led outward into the square.

“Mein Gott, major!” screamed the German Boniface, rushing out from behind his bar; where, up to this time, he had been standing transfixed with fear. “Mein Gott – surely the shentlemens pe not going to shoot their pisthols inside the shaloon: Ach! they’ll preak all my pottles, and my shplendid looking-glashes, an my crystal clock, that hash cost me von – two hundred dollars. They’ll shpill my pesht liquors – ach! Major, it’ll ruin me – mein Gott – it will!”

“Never fear, Oberdoffer!” rejoined the major, pausing to reply. “No doubt you’ll be paid for the damage. At all events, you had better betake yourself to some place of safety. If you stay in your saloon you’ll stand a good chance of getting a bullet through your body, and that would be worse than the preaking of your pottles.”

Without further parley the major parted from the unfortunate landlord, and hurried across the threshold into the street, whither the combatants, who had gone out by separate doors, had already preceded him.

“Old Duffer,” left standing in the middle of his sanded floor, did not remain long in that perilous position. In six seconds after the major’s coat-tail had disappeared through the outer door, an inner one closed upon his own skirts; and the bar-room, with its camphine lamps, its sparkling decanters, and its costly mirrors, was left in untenanted silence – no other sound being heard save the ticking of its crystal clock.

Chapter 21

A Duel within Doors

Once outside, the major took no further part in the affair. As the commanding officer of the post, it would have been out of place for him to have given encouragement to a fight – even by his interfering to see that it should be a fair one. This, however, was attended to by the younger officers; who at once set about arranging the conditions of the duel.

There was not much time consumed. The terms had been expressed already; and it only remained to appoint some one of the party to superintend the ringing of the bell, which was to be the signal for the combat to commence.

This was an easy matter, since it made no difference who might be entrusted with the duty. A child might have sounded the summons for the terrible conflict that was to follow.

A stranger, chancing at that moment to ride into the rude square of which the hotel “Rough and Ready” formed nearly a side, would have been sorely puzzled to comprehend what was coming to pass. The night was rather dark, though there was still light enough to make known the presence of a conglomeration of human beings, assembled in the proximity of the hotel. Most were in military garb: since, in addition to the officers who had lately figured inside the saloon, others, along with such soldiers as were permitted to pass the sentries, had hastened down from the Fort on receiving intelligence that something unusual was going on within the “square.” Women, too, but scantily robed – soldiers’ wives, washerwomen, and “señoritas” of more questionable calling – had found their way into the street, and were endeavouring to extract from those who had forestalled them an explanation of the fracas.

The conversation was carried on in low tones. It was known that the commandant of the post was present, as well as others in authority; and this checked any propensity there might have been for noisy demonstration.

The crowd, thus promiscuously collected, was not in close proximity with the hotel; but standing well out in the open ground, about a dozen yards from the building. Towards it, however, the eyes of all were directed, with that steady stare which tells of the attention being fixed on some engrossing spectacle. They were watching the movements of two men, whose positions were apart – one at each end of the heavy blockhouse, known to be the bar-room of the hotel; and where, as already stated, there was a door.

Though separated by the interposition of two thick log walls, and mutually invisible, these men were manoeuvring as if actuated by a common impulse. They stood contiguous to the entrance doors, at opposite ends of the bar-room, through both of which glared the light of the camphine lamps – falling in broad divergent bands upon the rough gravel outside. Neither was in front of the contiguous entrance; but a little to one side, just clear of the light. Neither was in an upright attitude, but crouching – not as if from fear, but like a runner about to make a start, and straining upon the spring.

Both were looking inwards – into the saloon, where no sound could be heard save the ticking of a clock. Their attitudes told of their readiness to enter it, and that they were only restrained by waiting for some preconcerted signal.

That their purpose was a serious one could be deduced from several circumstances. Both were in their shirt sleeves, hatless, and stripped of every rag that might form an impediment to action; while on their faces was the stamp of stern determination – alike legible in the attitudes they had assumed.

But there was no fine reflection needed to discover their design. The stranger, chancing to come into the square, could have seen at a glance that it was deadly. The pistols in their hands, cocked and tightly clutched; the nervous energy of their attitudes; the silence of the crowd of spectators; and the concentrated interest with which the two men were regarded, proclaimed more emphatically than words, that there was danger in what they were doing – in short, that they were engaged in some sort of a strife, with death for its probable consummation!

So it was at that moment when the crisis had come. The duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance – perhaps into eternity! They only waited for a signal to cross the threshold; and engage in a combat that must terminate the existence of one or the other – perhaps both.

Were they listening for that fatal formulary: – One – two – fire?

No. Another signal had been agreed upon; and it was given.

A stentorian voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable —

“Ring!”

Three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on which swung the tavern bell. The command instantly set them in motion; and, along with the oscillation of their arms – dimly seen through the darkness – could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell. That bell, whose sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy – calling men together to partake of that which perpetuates life – was now listened to as a summons of death!

The “ringing in” was of short duration. The bell had made less than a score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their services were no longer required. The disappearance of the duellists, who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols; the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside.

No eyes – save those of the combatants themselves – were witnesses to that strange duel.

At the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room. Neither made an attempt to skulk outside. To have done so would have been a ruin to reputation. A hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel – that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold.

Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. Both kept their feet, though both were wounded – their blood spurting out over the sanded floor.

The second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the smoke hindering the aim.

Then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by an interval of quiet.

Previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the room. This noise was no longer being made.

Instead there was profound silence. Had they killed one another? Were both dead? No! Once more the double detonation announced that both still lived. The suspension had been caused as they stood peering through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another. Neither spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position.

Again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more prolonged.

It ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor.

There was the sound of sprawling – the overturning of chairs – then a single shot – the eleventh – and this was the last that was fired!

The spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps. This, with an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack, was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye.

But the ear – that was gratified by a greater variety. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the duller crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle – the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor – at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men whose insensate passions were the cause of all this commotion! The crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. The reports of the pistols were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. Eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.

Instead of a pistol report their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.

“My pistol is at your head! I have one shot left – an apology, or you die!”

By this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching its termination. Some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a strange scene. They saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor; both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails, where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other – one of them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive him of life.

Such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon.

At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – no longer in roistering bravado, but in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”

Chapter 22

An Unknown Donor

In Texas a duel is not even a nine days’ wonder. It oftener ceases to be talked about by the end of the third day; and, at the expiration of a week, is no longer thought of, except by the principals themselves, or their immediate friends and relatives.

This is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable standing in society. When the duellists are of humble position – or, as is often the case, strangers in the place – a single day may suffice to doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the combatant who has survived it – oftener one than both – and perhaps some ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the slash of a knife, not designed for him.

More than once have I been witness to a “street fight” – improvised upon the pavement – where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along, has become the victim – even unto death – of this irregular method of seeking “satisfaction.”

I have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in such cases. They are regarded as belonging to the “chapter of accidents!”

Though Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald were both comparatively strangers in the settlement – the latter being only seen on occasional visits to the Fort – the affair between them caused something more than the usual interest; and was talked about for the full period of the nine days, the character of the former as a noted bully, and that of the latter as a man of singular habitudes, gave to their duello a certain sort of distinction; and the merits and demerits of the two men were freely discussed for days after the affair had taken place nowhere with more earnestness than upon the spot where they had shed each other’s blood – in the bar-room of the hotel.

The conqueror had gained credit and friends. There were few who favoured his adversary; and not a few who were gratified at the result for, short as had been the time since Calhoun’s arrival, there was more than one saloon lounger who had felt the smart of his insolence. For this it was presumed the young Irishman had administered a cure; and there was almost universal satisfaction at the result.

How the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell. He was no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the “Rough and Ready;” though the cause of his absence was well understood. It was not chagrin, but his couch; to which he was confined by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might consign him to his coffin.

Maurice was in like manner compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, were nevertheless of such a character as to make it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in “Old Duffer’s” hotel; where, notwithstanding the éclat derived from his conquest, he was somewhat scurvily treated.

In the hour of his triumph, he had fainted from loss of blood. He could not be taken elsewhere; though, in the shabby apartment to which he had been consigned, he might have thought of the luxurious care that surrounded the couch of his wounded antagonist. Fortunately Phelim was by his side, or he might have been still worse attended to.

“Be Saint Pathrick! it’s a shame,” half soliloquised this faithful follower. “A burnin’ shame to squeeze a gintleman into a hole like this, not bigger than a pig-stoy! A gintleman like you, Masther Maurice. An’ thin such aytin’ and drinkin’. Och! a well fid Oirish pig wud turn up its nose at such traytment. An’ fwhat div yez think I’ve heerd Owld Duffer talkin’ about below?”

“I hav’n’t the slightest idea, my dear Phelim; nor do I care straw to know what you’ve heard Mr Oberdoffer saying below; but if you don’t want him to hear what you are saying above, you’ll moderate your voice a little. Remember, ma bohil[172], that the partitions in this place are only lath and plaster.”

“Divil take the partitions; and divil burn them, av he loikes. Av yez don’t care fur fwhat’s sed, I don’t care far fwhat’s heeurd – not the snappin’ av me fingers. The Dutchman can’t trate us any worse than he’s been doin’ already. For all that, Masther Maurice, I thought it bist to lit you know.”

“Let me know then. What is it he has been saying?”

“Will, thin; I heerd him tellin’ wan av his croneys that besoides the mate an the dhrink, an the washin’, an lodgin’, he intinded to make you pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the night av the shindy.”

“Me pay?”

“Yis, yerself, Masther Maurice; an not a pinny charged to the Yankee. Now I call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty Dutchman wud iver hiv thought av it. Av there be anythin’ to pay, the man that’s bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn’t a discindant av the owld Geralds av Ballyballagh. Hoo – hooch! wudn’t I loike to shake a shaylaylah about Duffer’s head for the matther of two minutes? Wudn’t I?”

“What reason did he give for saying that I should pay? Did you hear him state any?”

“I did, masther – the dhirtiest av all raisuns. He sid that you were the bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score.”

“He’ll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush. I shall be willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more. You may tell him so, if he speak to you about it. And, in troth, Phelim, I don’t know how I am to do even that. There must have been a good many breakages. I remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it. If I don’t mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the kind.”

“A big lookin’-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin’, that was set over the clock. They say two hunderd dollars. I don’t belave they were worth wan half av the money.”

“Even so, it is a serious matter to me – just at this crisis. I fear, Phelim, you will have to make a journey to the Alamo, and fetch away some of the household gods we have hidden there. To get clear of this scrape I shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my gun!”

“Don’t say that, masther! How are we to live, if the gun goes?”

“As we best can, ma bohil. On horseflesh, I suppose: and the lazo will supply that.”

“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us. It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant – whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices – appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.

“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder.

“A shentlemans prot this.”

“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”

“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”

“Brought by a gentleman. Who can he be? See what it in, Phelim.”

Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies – both of the confectionery and the kitchen. There was no note accompanying the present – not even a direction – but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.

Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.”

There proved to be none – not a scrap of paper – not so much as a card!

The generosity of the supply – well-timed as it was – bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. Who could it be?

As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. Could it be Louise Poindexter?

In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.

As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.

“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say! Who div yez think he was, masther?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”

“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them. No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Pwhy div I think it! Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? Isn’t there the smell av swate fingers about it? Jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. That purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. It was done by a wuman; and I’ll warrant a raal lady at that.”

“Nonsense, Phelim! I know no lady who should take so much interest in me.”

“Aw, murdher! What a thumpin’ big fib! I know won that shud. It wud be black ungratytude av she didn’t – afther what yez did for her. Didn’t yez save her life into the bargain?”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Now, don’t be desateful, masther. Yez know that I mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin’ Spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin’ a dollar for the mare. If it wasn’t her that sint ye this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about Ballyballagh. Be the Vargin, masther, speakin’ of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?”

“Danger! it’s all over. The doctor has said so; and that I may go out of doors in a week from this time. Don’t distress yourself about that.”

“Troth, masther, yez be only talkin’. That isn’t the danger I was drhamin’ av. Yez know will enough what I mane. Maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. Or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that’s why ye’ve had the things sint ye.”

“You’re all wrong, Phelim. The thing must have come from the Fort; but whether it did, or not, there’s no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. So, here goes to make trial of them!”

Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products – both of collar and cuisine – while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present.

Could it be the young Creole – the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart?

The thing appeared improbable.

If not she, who else could it be?

The mustanger would have given a horse – a whole drove – to have been assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection.

Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.

Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present – very similar to the first – another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh “confections.”

The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. A “shentlemans” had “prot” it – the same “stranger shentlemans” as before. She could only add that “the shentlemans” was very “Schwartz,” wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.

Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one – not even Phelim – was made the confidant of his thoughts.

In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety – on the receipt of a third basket, “prot by the Schwartz gentleman” in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.

The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket – almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. It might be accounted for by the contents of a billet doux[173], that accompanied the gift – attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.

“’Tis only Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note.

Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read: —

+++“Querido Señor!

“Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tío Silvio. De questra desfortuna he oído – también que V. está mal ciudado en la fonda. He mandado algunas cositas. Sea graciosa usarlos, como una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. En la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. En un momento más, partirá por el Río Grande.

“Bienhichor – de mi vida Salvador – y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra – adiós – adiós!

“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.

“Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.”

Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note ran thus: —

“Dear Sir, – I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio. Of your mischance I have heard – also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. I have sent you some little things. Be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which I am your debtor. I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. In another moment I am off for the Rio Grande!

“Benefactor – preserver of my life – of what to a woman is dearer – my honour – adieu! adieu!

“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”

“Thanks – thanks, sweet Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. “Ever grateful – considerate – kind! But for Louise Poindexter, I might have loved you!”

Chapter 23

Vows of Vengeance

Calhoun, chafing in his chamber, was not the object of such assiduous solicitude. Notwithstanding the luxurious appointments that surrounded him, he could not comfort himself with the reflection: that he was cared for by living creature. Truly selfish in his own heart, he had no faith in friendships; and while confined to his couch – not without some fears that it might be his death-bed – he experienced the misery of a man believing that no human being cared a straw whether he should live or die.

Any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship. It could scarce have been otherwise. His conduct towards his cousins had not been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud Woodley Poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a subdued fear.

It is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew. As already hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and creditor – or mortgagor and mortgagee – the nephew being the latter. To such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that Cassius Calhoun was in effect the real owner of Casa del Corvo; and could at any moment have proclaimed himself its master.

Conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had long fiercely loved – his cousin Louise. He had come to know that he stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit. Trusting to the peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on taking no slight denial.

These circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him.

While dreading, death – which for a length of time he actually did – he had become a little more amiable to those around him. The agreeable mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery, all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture.

It had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful bully – the master of every crowd that might gather around him. He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core.

To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections – a more nameless adventurer – was too much to be endured with equanimity. Even an ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction. Calhoun writhed under it.

He had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.

Maurice, the mustanger, must die! If not by his (Calhoun’s) own hand, then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the settlement. There could not be much difficulty in procuring a confederate. There are bravoes[174] upon the broad prairies of Texas, as well as within the walls of Italian cities. Alas! there is no spot upon earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin.

Calhoun possessed gold – more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it.

In the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans; which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger. He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary – even under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise. He had become too much encowardised to play the assassin. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?

Unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man. There was a Mexican at the time making abode in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate.

As a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the “Lone Star.” By birth and breed they are mostly Mexicans, or mongrel Indians; though, not unfrequently, a Frenchman, or American, finds it a congenial calling. They are usually the outcasts of civilised society – oftener its outlaws – who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of salvo[175] for a conscience that has been severely tried.

While dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently the pests of the society that surrounds them – ever engaged in broil and debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not always to be encountered with safety. More than once is it recorded in the history of Texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce, converted itself into a band of cuadrilla[176] of salteadores[177]; or, disguised as Indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie traveller.

One of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the memory of Cassius Calhoun. The latter remembered having met the man in the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially on the night of the duel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.

Since then he had learnt that he was Maurice’s deadliest enemy – himself excepted.

With these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the Mexican to his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of the invalid.

There was nothing in all this to excite suspicion – even had Calhoun cared for that. His visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle. Some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them. So any one would have supposed. And so for a time thought the Mexican himself: for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted between them. The astute Mississippian knew better than to declare his ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards Maurice the mustanger.

In that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might require – even to the committal of murder.

The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!

The Helen[178] in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed donçella dwelling upon the Rio Grande, where Maurice had been in the habit of making an occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage of her own conpaisano.

The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.

During his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of vengeance – enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete.

Whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates. The outside world but knew that Captain Cassius Calhoun and Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote,” appeared to have taken a fancy for keeping each other’s company; while the more respectable portion of it wondered at such an ill-starred association.

Chapter 24

On the Azotea

There are no sluggards on a Texan plantation. The daybreak begins the day; and the bell, conch, or cow-horn, that summons the dark-skinned proletarians to their toil, is alike the signal for their master to forsake his more luxurious couch.

Such was the custom of Casa del Corvo under its original owners: and the fashion was followed by the family of the American planter – not from any idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of Nature. In a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments are not to be wasted in sleep. The siesta[179] belongs to the hours of noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar luminary – as if surfeited with their superabundance.

On his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy. Then do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage – the flowers their dew-besprinkled petals – to receive his fervent kisses. All nature again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god.

Resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western Texas – fair as any flower that blooms within it – gladdest was she who appeared upon the housetop of Casa del Corvo.

Aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than the young Creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very couch, from which a Texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning gold.

She was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie.

Was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge admiration? No.

Equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising!

Listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling harmoniously around her?

On the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye intent upon any object. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.

In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the sign of sadness on her cheek.

She was alone. There was no one to take note of this melancholy mood, nor inquire into its cause.

The cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if involuntarily, from her lips.

“He may be dangerously wounded – perhaps even to death?”

Who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed?

The invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the hacienda – her cousin Cassius Calhoun?

It could scarce be he. The doctor had the day before pronounced him out of danger, and on the way to quick recovery. Any one listening to her soliloquy – after a time continued in the same sad tone – would have been convinced it was not he.

“I may not send to inquire. I dare not even ask after him. I fear to trust any of our people. He may be in some poor place – perhaps uncourteously treated – perhaps neglected? Would that I could convey to him a message – something more – without any one being the wiser! I wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?”

As if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of Zeb making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the opposite side of the river – where a road led up and down. It was the common highway between Fort Inge and the plantations on the lower Leona. It traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank; approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the base of the bluffs. A reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was visible in the direction of the Fort; as also a cross-path that led to a ford; thence running on to the hacienda. In the opposite direction – down the stream – the view was open for a like length, until the chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna.

The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge. Zeb Stump should come that way. He was not in sight; nor was any one else.

She could not feel disappointment. She had no reason to expect him. She had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct.

Something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round, and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter.

If expecting some one to appear that way, she was not disappointed. A horse was just stepping out from among the trees, where the road debouched from the chapparal. He was ridden by one, who, at first sight, appeared to be a man, clad in a sort of Arab costume; but who, on closer scrutiny, and despite the style of equitation – à la Duchesse de Berri – was unquestionably of the other sex – a lady. There was not much of her face to be seen; but through the shadowy opening of the rebozo – rather carelessly tapado[180] – could be traced an oval facial outline, somewhat brownly “complected,” But with a carmine tinting upon the cheeks, and above this a pair of eyes whose sparkle appeared to challenge comparison with the brightest object either on the earth, or in the sky.

Neither did the loosely falling folds of the lady’s scarf, nor her somewhat outré[181] attitude in the saddle, hinder the observer from coming to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face.

The man following upon the mule, six lengths of his animal in the rear, by his costume – as well as the respectful distance observed – was evidently only an attendant.

“Who can that woman be?” was the muttered interrogatory of Louise Poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes, and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure. “Who can she be?” was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down, and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny. “A Mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. Some grand señora, I suppose? I thought they had all gone to the other side of the Rio Grande. A basket carried by the attendant. I wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the Port – it may be the village. ’Tis the third time I’ve seen her passing within this week? She must be from some of the plantations below!”

What an outlandish style of riding! Par Dieu! I’m told it’s not uncommon among the daughters of Anahuac. What if I were to take to it myself? No doubt it’s much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle were seen in the States it would be styled unfeminine. How our Puritan mammas would scream out against it! I think I hear them. Ha, ha, ha!

The mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration. There came a change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun. It was not a return to that melancholy so late shadowing it; though something equally serious – as might be told by the sudden blanching of her cheeks.

The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. An antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. The creature appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the horse – a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full gallop in pursuit of the affrighted “pronghorn;” while his rider, with her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air!

“What is the woman going to do?” was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. “Ha! As I live, ’tis a lazo!”

The señora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the national implement: – by flinging its noose around the antelope’s neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks!

The attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to administer the coup de grace. Then, flinging the carcass over the croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after his mistress – who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf, and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for!

It was at that moment – when the noose was seen circling in the air – that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole. It was not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character – a thought far more unpleasant.

Nor did it pass speedily away. It was still there – though a white hand holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being seen – still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the screening of the acacias.

“I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she! My own age, he said – not quite so tall. The description suits – so far as one may judge at this distance. Has her home on the Rio Grande. Comes occasionally to the Leona, to visit some relatives. Who are they? Why did I not ask him the name? I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she!”

Chapter 25

A Gift Ungiven

For some minutes after the lady of the lazo and her attendant had passed out of sight, Louise Poindexter pursued the train of reflection – started by the somewhat singular episode of which she had been spectator. Her attitude, and air, of continued dejection told that her thoughts had not been directed into a more cheerful channel.

Rather the reverse. Once or twice before had her mind given way to imaginings, connected with that accomplished equestrienne[182]; and more than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road. The incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature.

It was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump the hunter.

The face of the Creole became bright again – almost to gaiety. There was something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest backwoodsman.

“The man I was wanting to see!” she exclaimed in joyous accents. “He can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who she is. He must have met her on the road. That will enable me to introduce the subject, without Zeb having any suspicion of my object. Even with him I must be circumspect – after what has happened. Ah, me! Not much should I care, if I were sure of his caring for me. How provoking his indifference! And to me – Louise Poindexter! Par dieu! Let it proceed much further, and I shall try to escape from the toils if – if – I should crush my poor heart in the attempt!”

It need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted, was not Zeb Stump.

Her next speech, however, was addressed to Zeb, as he reined up in front of the hacienda.

“Dear Mr Stump!” hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. “I’m so glad to see you. Dismount, and come up here! I know you’re a famous climber, and won’t mind a flight of stone stairs. There’s a view from this housetop that will reward you for your trouble.”

“Thur’s suthin’ on the house-top theear,” rejoined the hunter, “the view o’ which ’ud reward Zeb Stump for climbin’ to the top o’ a steamboat chimbly; ’an thet’s yurself, Miss Lewaze. I’ll kum up, soon as I ha’ stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Gee-up, ole gal!” he continued, addressing himself to the mare, after he had dismounted, “Hold up yur head, an may be Plute hyur ’ll gie ye a wheen o’ corn shucks for yur breakfist.”

“Ho – ho! Mass ’Tump,” interposed the sable coachman, making his appearance in the patio. “Dat same do dis nigga – gub um de shucks wi’ de yaller corn inside ob dem. Ho – ho! You gwup ’tairs to de young missa; an Plute he no ’gleck yar ole mar.”

“Yur a dod-rotted good sample o’ a nigger, Plute; an the nix occashun I shows about hyur, I’ll fetch you a ’possum – wi’ the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. Thet’s what I’m boun’ ter do.”

After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride.

He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.

Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.

“Tell me, Mr Stump!” said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb’s grey eye – “You must know all. How is he? Are his wounds of a dangerous nature?”

“If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon – ”

“No – no – no. I know all about him. It’s not of Mr Calhoun I’m speaking.”

“Wall, Miss Lewasse; thur air only one other as I know of in these parts thet hev got wownds; an thet air’s Maurice the mowstanger. Mout it be thet ere individooal yur inquirin’ abeout?”

“It is – it is! You know I cannot be indifferent to his welfare, notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin. You are aware that he rescued me – twice I may say – from imminent peril. Tell me – is he in great danger?”

Such earnestness could no longer be trifled with. Zeb without further parley, made reply: —

“Ne’er a morsel o’ danger. Thur’s a bullet-hole jest above the ankle-jeint. It don’t signerfy more’n the scratch o’ a kitting. Thur’s another hev goed through the flesh o’ the young fellur’s left arm. It don’t signerfy neyther – only thet it drawed a good sup o’ the red out o’ him. Howsomdever, he’s all right now; an expecks to be out o’ doors in a kupple o’ days, or tharabout. He sez that an hour in the seddle, an a skoot acrosst the purayra, ’ud do him more good than all the docters in Texas. I reckon it wud; but the docter – it’s the surgint o’ the Fort as attends on him – he won’t let him git to grass yit a bit.”

“Where is he?”

“He air stayin’ at the hotel – whar the skrimmage tuk place.”

“Perhaps he is not well waited upon? It’s a rough place, I’ve heard. He may not have any delicacies – such as an invalid stands in need of? Stay here, Mr Stump, till I come up to you again. I have something I wish to send to him. I know I can trust you to deliver it. Won’t you? I’m sure you will. I shall be with you in six seconds.”

Without waiting to note the effect of her speech, the young lady tripped lightly along the passage, and as lightly descended the stone stairway.

Presently she reappeared – bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which was evidently filled with eatables, with something to send them down.

“Now dear old Zeb, you will take this to Mr Gerald? It’s only some little things that Florinda has put up; some cordials and jellies and the like, such as sick people at times have a craving for. They are not likely to be kept in the hotel. Don’t tell him where they come from – neither him, nor any one else. You won’t? I know you won’t, you dear good giant.”

“He may depend on Zeb Stump for thet, Miss Lewaze. Nobody air a goin’ to be a bit the wiser about who sent these hyur delekissies; though, for the matter o’ cakes an kickshaws, an all that sort o’ thing, the mowstanger hain’t had much reezun to complain. He hev been serplied wi’ enuf o’ them to hev filled the bellies o’ a hul school o’ shugar-babbies.”

“Ha! Supplied already! By whom?”

“Wal, thet theer this chile can’t inform ye, Miss Lewaze; not be-knowin’ it hisself. I on’y hyurd they wur fetched to the tavern in baskets, by some sort o’ a sarving-man as air a Mexikin. I’ve seed the man myself. Fact, I’ve jest this minnit met him, ridin’ arter a wuman sot stridy legs in her seddle, as most o’ these Mexikin weemen ride. I reck’n he be her sarvingt, as he war keepin’ a good ways ahint, and toatin’ a basket jest like one o’ them Maurice hed got arready. Like enuf it air another lot o’ Rickshaws they wur takin’ to the tavern.”

There was no need to trouble Zeb Stump with further cross-questioning. A whole history was supplied by that single speech. The case was painfully clear. In the regard of Maurice Gerald, Louise Poindexter had a rival – perhaps something more. The lady of the lazo was either his fiancée, or his mistress!

It was not by accident – though to Zeb Stump it may have seemed so – that the hamper, steadied for a time, upon the coping of the balustrade, and still retained in the hand of the young Creole, escaped from her clutch, and fell with a crash upon the stones below. The bottles were broken, and their contents spilled into the stream that surged along the basement of the wall.

The action of the arm that produced this effect, apparently springing from a spasmodic and involuntary effort, was nevertheless due to design; and Louise Poindexter, as she leant over the parapet, and contemplated the ruin she had caused, felt as if her heart was shattered like the glass that lay glistening below!

“How unfortunate!” said she, making a feint to conceal her chagrin. “The dainties are destroyed, I declare! What will Florinda say? After all, if Mr Gerald be so well attended to, as you say he is, he’ll not stand in need of them. I’m glad to hear he hasn’t been neglected – one who has done me a service. But, Mr Stump, you needn’t say anything of this, or that I inquired after him. You know his late antagonist is our near relative; and it might cause scandal in the settlement. Dear Zeb, you promise me?”

“Swa-ar it ef ye like. Neery word, Miss Lewaze, neery word; ye kin depend on ole Zeb.”

“I know it. Come! The sun is growing hot up here. Let as go down, and see whether we can find you such a thing as a glass of your favourite Monongahela. Come!”

With an assumed air of cheerfulness, the young Creole glided across the azotea; and, trilling the “New Orleans Waltz,” once more commenced descending the escalera[183].

In eager acceptance of the invitation, the old hunter followed close upon her skirts; and although, by habit, stoically indifferent to feminine charms – and with his thoughts at that moment chiefly bent upon the promised Monongahela – he could not help admiring those ivory shoulders brought so conspicuously under his eyes.

But for a short while was he permitted to indulge in the luxurious spectacle. On reaching the bottom of the stair his fair hostess bade him a somewhat abrupt adieu. After the revelations he had so unwittingly made, his conversation seemed no longer agreeable; and she, late desirous of interrogating, was now contented to leave him alone with the Monongahela, as she hastened to hide her chagrin in the solitude of her chamber.

For the first time in her life Louise Poindexter felt the pangs of jealousy. It was her first real love: for she was in love with Maurice Gerald.

A solicitude like that shown for him by the Mexican señora, could scarce spring from simple friendship? Some closer tie must have been established between them? So ran the reflections of the now suffering Creole.

From what Maurice had said – from what she had herself seen – the lady of the lazo was just such a woman as should win the affections of such a man. Hers were accomplishments he might naturally be expected to admire.

Her figure had appeared perfect under the magnifying effect of the lens. The face had not been so fairly viewed, and was still undetermined. Was it in correspondence with the form? Was it such as to secure the love of a man so much master of his passions, as the mustanger appeared to be?

The mistress of Casa del Corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied herself on this score. As soon as Zeb Stump had taken his departure, she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on the opposite side.

Advancing in the direction of the Fort, as she expected, she soon encountered the Mexican señora on her return; no señora according to the exact signification of the term, but a señorita – a young lady, not older than herself.

At the place of their meeting, the road ran under the shadow of the trees. There was no sun to require the coifing of the rebozo upon the crown of the Mexican equestrian. The scarf had fallen upon her shoulders, laying bare a head of hair, in luxuriance rivalling the tail of a wild steed, in colour the plumage of a crow. It formed the framing of a face, that, despite a certain darkness of complexion, was charmingly attractive.

Good breeding permitted only a glance at it in passing; which was returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger. But as the two rode on, back to back, going in opposite directions, neither could restrain herself from turning round in the saddle, and snatching a second glance at the other.

Their reflections were not very dissimilar: if Louise Poindexter had already learnt something of the individual thus encountered, the latter was not altogether ignorant of her existence.

We shall not attempt to portray the thoughts of the señorita consequent on that encounter. Suffice it to say, that those of the Creole were even more sombre than when she sallied forth on that errand of inspection; and that the young mistress of Casa del Corvo rode back to the mansion, all the way seated in her saddle in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection.

“Beautiful!” said she, after passing her supposed rival upon the road. “Yes; too beautiful to be his friend!”

Louise was speaking to her own conscience; or she might have been more chary of her praise.

“I cannot have any doubt,” continued she, “of the relationship that exists between them – He loves her! – he loves her! It accounts for his cold indifference to me? I’ve been mad to risk my heart’s happiness in such an ill-starred entanglement!

“And now to disentangle it! Now to banish him from my thoughts! Ah! ’tis easily said! Can I?”

“I shall see him no more. That, at least, is possible. After what has occurred, he will not come to our house. We can only meet by accident; and that accident I must be careful to avoid. Oh, Maurice Gerald! tamer of wild steeds! you have subdued a spirit that may suffer long – perhaps never recover from the lesson!”

Chapter 26

Still on the Azotea

To banish from the thoughts one who has been passionately loved is a simple impossibility. Time may do much to subdue the pain of an unreciprocated passion, and absence more. But neither time, nor absence, can hinder the continued recurrence of that longing for the lost loved one – or quiet the heart aching with that void that has never been satisfactorily filled.

Louise Poindexter had imbibed a passion that could not be easily stifled. Though of brief existence, it had been of rapid growth – vigorously overriding all obstacles to its indulgence. It was already strong enough to overcome such ordinary scruples as parental consent, or the inequality of rank; and, had it been reciprocated, neither would have stood in the way, so far as she herself was concerned. For the former, she was of age; and felt – as most of her countrywomen do – capable of taking care of herself. For the latter, who ever really loved that cared a straw[184] for class, or caste? Love has no such meanness in its composition. At all events, there was none such in the passion of Louise Poindexter.

It could scarce be called the first illusion of her life. It was, however, the first, where disappointment was likely to prove dangerous to the tranquillity of her spirit.

She was not unaware of this. She anticipated unhappiness for a while – hoping that time would enable her to subdue the expected pain.

At first, she fancied she would find a friend in her own strong will; and another in the natural buoyancy of her spirit. But as the days passed, she found reason to distrust both: for in spite of both, she could not erase from her thoughts the image of the man who had so completely captivated her imagination.

There were times when she hated him, or tried to do so – when she could have killed him, or seen him killed, without making an effort to save him! They were but moments; each succeeded by an interval of more righteous reflection, when she felt that the fault was hers alone, as hers only the misfortune.

No matter for this. It mattered not if he had been her enemy – the enemy of all mankind. If Lucifer himself – to whom in her wild fancy she had once likened him – she would have loved him all the same!

And it would have proved nothing abnormal in her disposition – nothing to separate her from the rest of womankind, all the world over. In the mind of man, or woman either, there is no connection between the moral and the passional. They are as different from each other as fire from water. They may chance to run in the same channel; but they may go diametrically opposite. In other words, we may love the very being we hate – ay, the one we despise!

Louise Poindexter could neither hate, nor despise, Maurice Gerald. She could only endeavour to feel indifference.

It was a vain effort, and ended in failure. She could not restrain herself from ascending to the azotea, and scrutinising the road where she had first beheld the cause of her jealousy. Each day, and almost every hour of the day, was the ascent repeated.

Still more. Notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the saddle and abroad, scouring the country around – riding through the streets of the village – with no other object than to meet him.

During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once again had she seen – from the housetop as before – the lady of the lazo en route up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the pannier across his arm – that Pandora’s box[185] that had bred such mischief in her mind – while she herself stood trembling with jealousy – envious of the other’s errand.

She knew more now, though not much. Only had she learnt the name and social standing of her rival. The Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos – daughter of a wealthy haciendado[186], who lived upon the Rio Grande, and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the boundaries of her father’s new purchase. An eccentric young lady, as some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything else excepting her own caprices.

Such was the character of the Mexican señorita, as known to the American settlers on the Leona.

A knowledge of it did not remove the jealous suspicions of the Creole. On the contrary, it tended to confirm them. Such practices were her own predilections. She had been created with an instinct to admire them. She supposed that others must do the same. The young Irishman was not likely to be an exception.

There was an interval of several days – during which the lady of the lazo was not seen again.

“He has recovered from his wounds?” reflected the Creole. “He no longer needs such unremitting attention.”

She was upon the azotea at the moment of making this reflection – lorgnette in hand, as she had often been before.

It was in the morning, shortly after sunrise: the hour when the Mexican had been wont to make her appearance. Louise had been looking towards the quarter whence the señorita might have been expected to come.

On turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld – that which caused her something more than surprise. She saw Maurice Gerald, mounted on horseback, and riding down the road!

Though seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle, and going at a slow pace, it was certainly he. The glass declared his identity; at the same time disclosing the fact, that his left arm was suspended in a sling.

On recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet – as she did so, giving utterance to a suppressed cry.

Why that anguished utterance? Was it the sight of the disabled arm, or the pallid face: for the glass had enabled her to distinguish both?

Neither one nor the other. Neither could be a cause of surprise. Besides, it was an exclamation far differently intoned to those of either pity or astonishment. It was an expression of sorrow, that had for its origin some heartfelt chagrin.

The invalid was convalescent. He no longer needed to be visited by his nurse. He was on the way to visit her!

Cowering behind the parapet – screened by the flower-spike of the yucca – Louise Poindexter watched the passing horseman. The lorgnette enabled her to note every movement made by him – almost to the play of his features.

She felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face at intervals and fixed his regard upon Casa del Corvo. It was increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road, and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion.

She almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress!

It was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain shadow of an eclipse. It was succeeded by a sadness that might be appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that moment seemed filled with gloom.

Maurice Gerald had ridden on. He had entered the chapparal; and become lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.

Whither was he bound? Whither, but to visit Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

It mattered not that he returned within less than an hour. They might have met in the woods – within eyeshot of that jealous spectator – but for the screening of the trees. An hour was sufficient interview – for lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence.

It mattered not, that in passing upwards he again cast regards towards Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed some time in apparent scrutiny of the mansion.

It was but mockery – or exultation. He might well feel triumphant; but why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips – the kisses he had received from the Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Chapter 27

I Love You! – I Love You!

Louise Poindexter upon the azotea again – again to be subjected to a fresh chagrin! That broad stone stairway trending up to the housetop, seemed to lead only to spectacles that gave her pain. She had mentally vowed no more to ascend it – at least for a long time. Something stronger than her strong will combatted – and successfully – the keeping of that vow. It was broken ere the sun of another day had dried the dew from the grass of the prairie.

As on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from observation.

He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. In like manner did he cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump of trees that grew opposite.

Her heart fluttered between hope and fear. There was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself. Fear prevailed; and in the next instant he was gone.

Whither?

The self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday. It met with a similar response.

Whither, if not to meet Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Could there be a doubt of it?

If so, it was soon to be determined. In less than twenty minutes after, a parded steed was seen upon the same road – and in the same direction – with a lady upon its back.

The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. No truth could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through suspicion. She had resolved on assuring herself, though the knowledge should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes.

She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the acacias. She rode in silence upon the soft turf – keeping close to the side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones. The long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled with the plumes in her hat. She sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to avoid being observed – all the while with earnest glance scanning the open space before her.

She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. There was a house in sight surrounded by tall trees. It might have been termed a mansion. It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the uncle of Doña Isidora. So much had she learnt already.

There were other houses to be seen upon the plain below; but on this one, and the road leading to it, the eyes of the Creole became fixed in a glance of uneasy interrogation.

For a time she continued her scrutiny without satisfaction. No one appeared either at the house, or near it. The private road leading to the residence of the haciendado, and the public highway, were alike without living forms. Some horses were straying over the pastures; but not one with a rider upon his back.

Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?

Were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house? If the former, was Don Silvio aware of it? If the latter, was he at home – an approving party to the assignation?

With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the chinking of a shod hoof against the stones of the causeway. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it – riding directly towards her. She might have seen him sooner, had she not been occupied with the more distant view.

He was alone, as he had ridden past Casa del Corvo. There was nothing to show that he had recently been in company – much less in the company of an inamorata[187].

It was too late for Louise to shun him. The spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. Its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.

“Good day, Miss Poindexter?” said he – for upon the prairies it is not etiquette for the lady to speak first. “Alone?”

“Alone, sir. And why not?”

“’Tis a solitary ride among the chapparals. But true: I think I’ve heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?”

“You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?”

“In faith I do like it; and just for that very reason. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or ‘hotel,’ as mine host is pleased to call it; and one gets so tired of the noises – especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be – that a ride along this quiet road is something akin to luxury. The cool shade of these acacias – which the Mexicans have vulgarised by the name of mezquites – with the breeze that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would invigorate the feeblest of frames. Don’t you think so, Miss Poindexter?”

“You should know best, sir,” was the reply vouchsafed, after some seconds of embarrassment. “You, who have so often tried it.”

“Often! I have been only twice down this road since I have been able to sit in my saddle. But, Miss Poindexter, may I ask how you knew that I have been this way at all?”

“Oh!” rejoined Louise, her colour going and coming as she spoke, “how could I help knowing it? I am in the habit of spending much time on the housetop. The view, the breeze, the music of the birds, ascending from the garden below, makes it a delightful spot – especially in the cool of the morning. Our roof commands a view of this road. Being up there, how could I avoid seeing you as you passed – that is, so long as you were not under the shade of the acacias?”

“You saw me, then?” said Maurice, with an embarrassed air, which was not caused by the innuendo conveyed in her last words – which he could not have comprehended – but by a remembrance of how he had himself behaved while riding along the reach of open road.

“How could I help it?” was the ready reply. “The distance is scarce six hundred yards. Even a lady, mounted upon a steed much smaller than yours, was sufficiently conspicuous to be identified. When I saw her display her wonderful skill, by strangling a poor little antelope with her lazo, I knew it could be no other than she whose accomplishments you were so good as to give me an account of.”

“Isidora?”

“Isidora!”

“Ah; true! She has been here for some time.”

“And has been very kind to Mr Maurice Gerald?”

“Indeed, it is true. She has been very kind; though I have had no chance of thanking her. With all her friendship for poor me, she is a great hater of us foreign invaders; and would not condescend to step over the threshold of Mr Oberdoffer’s hotel.”

“Indeed! I suppose she preferred meeting you under the shade of the acacias!”

“I have not met her at all; at least, not for many months; and may not for months to come – now that she has gone back to her home on the Rio Grande.”

“Are you speaking the truth, sir? You have not seen her since – she is gone away from the house of her uncle?”

“She has,” replied Maurice, exhibiting surprise. “Of course, I have not seen her. I only knew she was here by her sending me some delicacies while I was ill. In truth, I stood in need of them. The hotel cuisine is none of the nicest; nor was I the most welcome of Mr Oberdoffer’s guests. The Doña Isidora has been but too grateful for the slight service I once did her.”

“A service! May I ask what it was, Mr Gerald?”

“Oh, certainly. It was merely a chance. I had the opportunity of being useful to the young lady, in once rescuing her from some rude Indians – Wild Oat and his Seminoles – into whose hands she had fallen, while making a journey from the Rio Grande to visit her uncle on the Leona – Don Silvio Martinez, whose house you can see from here. The brutes had got drunk; and were threatening – not exactly her life – though that was in some danger, but – well, the poor girl was in trouble with them, and might have had some difficulty in getting away, had I not chanced to ride up.”

“A slight service, you call it? You are modest in your estimate, Mr Gerald. A man who should do that much for me!”

“What would you do for him?” asked the mustanger, placing a significant emphasis on the final word.

“I should love him,” was the prompt reply.

“Then,” said Maurice, spurring his horse close up to the side of the spotted mustang, and whispering into the ear of its rider, with an earnestness strangely contrasting to his late reticence, “I would give half my life to see you in the hands of Wild Cat and his drunken comrades – the other half to deliver you from the danger.”

“Do you mean this, Maurice Gerald? Do not trifle with me: I am not a child. Speak the truth! Do you mean it?”

“I do! As heaven is above me, I do!”

The sweetest kiss I ever had in my life, was when a woman – a fair creature, in the hunting field – leant over in her saddle and kissed me as I sate in mine.

The fondest embrace ever received by Maurice Gerald, was that given by Louise Poindexter; when, standing up in her stirrup, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she cried in an agony of earnest passion —

“Do with me as thou wilt: I love you, I love you!”

Chapter 28

A Pleasure Forbidden

Ever since Texas became the scene of an Anglo-Saxon immigration – I might go a century farther back and say, from the time of its colonisation by the descendants of the Conquistadores – the subject of primary importance has been the disposition of its aborigines.

Whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of open war – or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were consenting to a temporary peace – made but slight difference, so far as they were talked about. In either case they were a topic of daily discourse. In the former it related to the dangers to be hourly apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks[188] entombed.

In Mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at desayuno[189], almuerzo[190], comida[191], y cena[192]; in American times, up to this present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast, dinner, and supper tables. In the planter’s piazza[193], as in the hunter’s camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary[194], are not named with half the frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word “Indian.” It is this that scares the Texan child instead of the stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed mattress – disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent.

Despite the surrounding of strong walls – more resembling those of a fortress than a gentleman’s dwelling – the inmates of Casa del Corvo were not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the frontier. As yet they knew little of the Indians, and that little only from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with the character of this natural “terror” that interfered with the slumbers of their fellow settlers.

That it was no mere “bogie” they had begun to believe; but if any of them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the Fort – about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition – was calculated to cure them of their incredulity. It came in the early morning, carried by a mounted rifleman. It was put into the hands of the planter just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which were assembled the three individuals who composed his household – his daughter Louise, his son Henry, and his nephew Cassius Calhoun.

“Startling news!” he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note. “Not very pleasant if true; and I suppose there can be no doubt of that, since the major appears convinced.”

“Unpleasant news, papa?” asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to her cheek as she put the question.

The spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud.

“What can the major have written to him? I met him yesterday while riding in the chapparal. He saw me in company with – Can it be that? Mon Dieu! if father should hear it – ”

“‘The Comanches on the war trail’ – so writes the major.”

“Oh, that’s all!” said Louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase, as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it. “You frightened us, sir. I thought it was something worse.”

“Worse! What trifling, child, to talk so! There is nothing worse, in Texas, than Comanches on the war trail – nothing half so dangerous.”

Louise might have thought there was – a danger at least as difficult to be avoided. Perhaps she was reflecting upon a pursuit of wild steeds – or thinking of the trail of a lazo.

She made no reply. Calhoun continued the conversation.

“Is the major sure of the Indians being up? What does he say, uncle?”

“That there have been rumours of it for some days past, though not reliable. Now it is certain. Last night Wild Cat, the Seminole[195] chief, came to the Fort with a party of his tribe; bringing the news that the painted pole has been erected in the camps of the Comanches all over Texas, and that the war dance has been going on for more than a month. That several parties are already out upon the maraud, and may be looked for among the settlements at any moment.”

“And Wild Cat himself – what of him?” asked Louise, an unpleasant reminiscence suggesting the inquiry. “Is that renegade Indian to be trusted, who appears to be as much an enemy to the whites as to the people of his own race?”

“Quite true, my daughter. You have described the chief of the Seminoles almost in the same terms as I find him spoken of, in a postscript to the major’s letter. He counsels us to beware of the two-faced old rascal, who will be sure to take sides with the Comanches, whenever it may suit his convenience to do so.”

“Well,” continued the planter, laying aside the note, and betaking himself to his coffee and waffles, “I trust we sha’n’t see any redskins here – either Seminoles or Comanches. In making their marauds, let us hope they will not like the look of the crenelled parapets of Casa del Corvo, but give the hacienda a wide berth.”

Before any one could respond, a sable face appearing at the door of the dining-room – which was the apartment in which breakfast was being eaten – caused a complete change in the character of the conversation.

The countenance belonged to Pluto, the coachman.

“What do you want, Pluto?” inquired his owner.

“Ho, ho! Massr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin ’t all. Only look in t’ tell Missa Looey dat soon’s she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. Ho! ho! dat critter do dance ’bout on de pave stone as ef it wa’ mad to ’treak it back to de smoove tuff ob de praira.”

“Going out for a ride, Louise?” asked the planter with a shadow upon his brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.

“Yes, papa; I was thinking of it.”

“You must not.”

“Indeed!”

“I mean, that you must not ride out alone. It is not proper.”

“Why do you think so, papa? I have often ridden out alone.”

“Yes; perhaps too often.”

This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was to put upon it.

Notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation. On the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply.

“If you think so, papa, I shall not go out again. Though to be cooped up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad upon business – is that the life you intend me to lead in Texas?”

“Nothing of the sort, my daughter. I have no objection to your riding out as much as you please; but Henry must be with you, or your cousin Cassius. I only lay an embargo on your going alone. I have my reasons.”

“Reasons! What are they?”

The question came involuntarily to her lips. It had scarce passed them, ere she regretted having asked it. By her uneasy air it was evident she had apprehensions as to the answer.

The reply appeared partially to relieve her.

“What other reasons do you want,” said the planter, evidently endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the Statement of a convenient fact – “what better, than the contents of this letter from the major? Remember, my child, you are not in Louisiana, where a lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but in Texas, where she may dread both – where even her life may be in danger. Here there are Indians.”

“My excursions don’t extend so far from the house, that I need have any fear of Indians. I never go more than five miles at the most.”

“Five miles!” exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic smile; “you would be as safe at fifty, cousin Loo. You are just as likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as at the distance of a hundred miles. When they are on the war trail they may be looked for anywhere, and at any time. In my opinion, uncle Woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone.”

“Oh! you say so?” sharply retorted the young Creole, turning disdainfully towards her cousin. “And pray, sir, may I ask of what service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the Comanches, which I don’t believe there’s the slightest danger of my doing? A pretty figure we’d cut – the pair of us – in the midst of a war-party of painted savages! Ha! ha! The danger would be yours, not mine: since I should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own devices. Danger, indeed, within five miles of the house! If there’s a horseman in Texas – savages not excepted – who can catch up with my little Luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more than you do, Mr Cash!”

“Silence, daughter!” commanded Poindexter. “Don’t let me hear you talk in that absurd strain. Take no notice of it, nephew. Even if there were no danger from Indians, there are other outlaws in these parts quite as much to be shunned as they. Enough that I forbid you to ride abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do.”

“Be it as you will, papa,” rejoined Louise, rising from the breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the room. “Of course I shall obey you – at the risk of losing my health for want of exercise. Go, Pluto!” she added, addressing herself to the darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, “turn Luna loose into the corral – the pastures – anywhere. Let her stray back to her native prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she’s no longer needed here.”

With this speech, the young lady swept out of the sala, leaving the three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words.

They were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series. As she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips. They were in the shape of interrogatories – a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by conjecture.

“What can papa have heard? Is it but his suspicions? Can any one have told him? Does he knew that we have met?”

Chapter 29

El Coyote at Home

Calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly as his cousin; but, on leaving the sala[196] 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 jacalé.

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 jacalé 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 ñor!” he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the jacalé. “P’r Dios! Who’d have expected to see you? Siéntese[197]! 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 jacalé 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.

“Señor Diaz!” said he, “I have come for – ”

“Señor 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[198] – at the proper time and opportunity. I will. Miguel Diaz never played false to his promise. But the time’s not come, ñor 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, ñor 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[199]! With us Mexicans it is different. If we stick our macheté 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[200], 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. “Santíssima Virgen[201]! Do you speak the truth, ñor 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, ñor 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. Adiós[202]! Adiós!”

“Santíssima Virgen!” exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. “What a magnificent fluke of fortune! A perfect chiripé[203]. A thousand dollars for killing the man I intended to kill on my own account, without charging anybody a single claco[204] 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[205]! Success to the pantomime of the prairies!”

Chapter 30

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 manège by the Houma[206] 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 Coupé and the bayou Atchafalaya[207].

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 savanna – 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 Condé[208]; of the Campeador[209]; of Ferdinand[210] and his energetic queen; of the discoverer of the American world; of its two chief conquistadores – Cortez[211] and Pizarro[212]; and of her, alike famous for her beauty and devotion, the Mexican Malinché[213].

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 Malinché, 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[214] 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 31

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[215] 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 32

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[216]-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 33

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[217] 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[218]! 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 negligé[219] of a robe de chambre[220], 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 tête-à-tête – 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 34

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[221], 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[222] to the Satyr[223].

“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[224], 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 coyoté, 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 35

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[225], “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[226]!”

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[227].

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 jacalé 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[228] de Cristo! Jesus! Santíssima Virgen! Santa Maria! Dios! Madre de Dios![229]” and the like, were uttered inside the jacalé, as if the speaker was engaged in an apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the Popish[230] antheon.

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’ñor 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’ñor!” exclaimed the owner of the jacalé, 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[231] call me. Ha, ha! coyo – coyot. Bah! what’s in a name? Yours, S’ñor? 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 jacalé, 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 jacalé in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it.

Chapter 36

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 jacalé 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 jäger 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 coyoté 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 37

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’hôte[232] 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 naïvété.

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 38

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[233] 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 naïvely 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 39

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[234] 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[235] 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 40

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[236]. 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 41

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[237] blood; or this commingled with Aztecan[238]. 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[239] 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[240].

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 jacalé – 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[241].

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 jacalé; 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[242].

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[243]. It’s possible that Señor 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 serapé, 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[244], 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[245]! 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 musteños[246] on the plains – enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas. Look alive, señor, 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 jacalé.

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[247], 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 macheté 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 confrères[248] 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[249], Señor 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 Señor 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 42

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[250] 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 détours 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 43

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 serapés 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 jacalé, 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 jacalé 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 coyoté 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 serapé 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 44

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 jacalé, 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 jacalé.

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 jacalé.

“Ochone[251]! 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[252] 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 jacalé, 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[253] 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 jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt[254] 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 jacalé 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 jacalé.

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[255], “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[256], 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[257]. “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 macheté 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[258] – 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[259] 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! Váyate[260]! váyate! 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 monté. He is desirous of having his revanche: for he well knows how his confrères will spend the time in his absence.

“Quick. Señor 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[261] of monté. 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 jacalé, 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[262] carries under his serape.

Cavallo and soto (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monté 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 jacalé.

The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetes. Phelim stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long Toledos[263].

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 cañada[264] – 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 45

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 serapé 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 46

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 47

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 jacalé 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[265] 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 jacalé.

“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[266]! 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[267]! 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.

“José!” he cried out in a tone of surprise in which pleasure was perceptible – “you here?”

“Sí, Señor; yo estoy.”

“Glad to see you, good José. The Doña Isidora here? – on the Leona, I mean?”

“Sí, Señor.”

“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 José. Why did you not write?”

“Only, Señor 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, Señor, 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 Doña 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 Doña 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 José. 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, Señor 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?”

“Sí, Señor! 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 Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.

Querido amigo!

Otra vez aquí estoy – con tío Silvio quedando! Sin novedades de V. no puedo más tiempo existir. La incertitud me malaba. Dígame que es V. convalescente! Ojalá, 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 casa del tío. 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, José! 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[268]; 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. Señor Doffer keeps the best kind of aguardiente. Hasta luego![269]”

Without staying to question the motive for these directions given to him, José, after accepting the douceur, yielded tacit obedience to them, and took his departure from the jacalé.

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 48

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 serapé upon the shoulders, worn as a protection against the chill morning air – despite the style of equitation, so outré 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[270], 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[271]” – 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 serapé 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 Doña 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 Doña 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[272]. 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[273]” 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 serapé, “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? Válgame 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 – Santíssima! can it be true that he has become – a – a salteador[274]?

“And yet I should have no fear of meeting him – not even in this lone spot!

“Ay de mi![275] 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 serapé reveals a form that Hebe might have envied; the removal of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of Canova[276]!

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’éclair[277]; 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’ñorita, 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’ñorita! 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, Señor. 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[278], 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, Doña 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’ñorita; 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, Doña Isidora.”

“You are presumptive, Don Miguel Diaz! Think, Señor, 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 Doña 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.

“Señor! 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, Doña 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 macheté.

Despite her Amazonian[279] 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, Señor. 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 macheté 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 49

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[280] 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 serapé 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 serapé, 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’ñorita! 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’ñorita.”

“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’ñorita, 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’ñorita, and I think I can climb into my saddle. Once there, I shall be safe from their pursuit.”

“You expect to be pursued?”

“Quién sabe[281]? 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[282], s’ñorita! 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’ñorita!” 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 50

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 coyoté – 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 coyoté, 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 coyotés 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 coyotés 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 coyotés.

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 coyotés.

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 51

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 jacalé – 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 monté 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 jacalé!

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 jacalé 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[283]?” muttered he, stepping out from his hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment. “Be japers! it diz. Mother av Moses[284]! 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 jacalé.

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 jacalé.

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 52

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[285].

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[286], 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 jacalé 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 jacalé, 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 coyoté, 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[287]’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 53

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 coyotés.

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 coyoté 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 pecân 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 coyotés 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 coyotés 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 coyoté 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 coyotés, 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 coyotés 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 coyotés. 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 coyotés.

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 coyotés 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 coyotés.

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 54

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 pecân 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 serapé, 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 jacale’.

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 jacalé, Zeb Stump had come to the conclusion: that Henry Poindexter was no longer a living man!

Chapter 55

Un Día de Novedades

[288]

Don Silvio Martinez was one of the few Mexican ricos[289], 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 régime.

Don Silvio was a ganadero, – a grazier, on a grand scale. So grand that his ganadería[290] 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[291].

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[292] 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[293] – 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[294] and hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic.

Since Malinché, 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 señorita 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 serapé. The last she has left behind her, and along with it her vicuña[295] 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[296] 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[297] – faithful and brave. Gracias a Dios![298] Yonder’s my man – as usual busied in counting his cattle. Benito! Benito!”

“At your orders, s’ñorita?”

“Good Benito, I want you to do me a kindness. You consent?”

“At your orders, s’ñorita?” repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low.

“Not orders, good Benito. I wish you to do me a favour.”

“Command me, s’ñorita!”

“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’ñorita. 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 Doña 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’ñorita, 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 serapé. 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, Señor Benito, I’ve made up my mind to go along with you. Vamos[299]!”

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 señorita. 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 José!

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 José, 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 vicuña wool – her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop end of her lazo – nothing more.

“You may go home again, Señor 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[300], V?”

“Yo entiendo[301], Doña 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[302] 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[303], 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[304] could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.

But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched José; 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[305],” 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 Señora, 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 employés 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[306]. 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[307] 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 56

A Shot at the Devil

All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm[308] 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[309] from the oscuro[310] 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[311]!

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 jacalé, 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 jacalé.

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[312] 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 jacalé might be approached.

After completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took stand, in the attitude of one upon the watch.

Chapter 57

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 jacalé. 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 serapé, 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 jacalé. 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!”

“Sí – Sí! Señor 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[313], 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, señor.”

“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, señor? 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.”

“Señor, 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, señor! 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, señor. 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, señor; 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, señor!”

“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[314] 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 jacalé; 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 58

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 jacalé.

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, señor,” was the reply, after a pause. “In that case, ye know whar ye air?”

“Sí, señor – 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, señor – 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 güero[315] has said so.”

“Yis. I towlt her that,” interposed Phelim, whose carroty hair had earned for him the appellation “El güero.”

“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! Señor, 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 59

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 maîtresse[316]. 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 Sacré Coeur[317]. 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 jacalé; 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[318];” – 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[319] may have given to Athenaia[320], after the award of the apple.[321]

Chapter 60

A Fair Informer

If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacalé. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.

In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.

With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!

She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress – fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.

It is not this that has caused her to pull up. There is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. It is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip.

All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken – all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her!

She has paused at the prompting of a demon – with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind. Her muttered speeches proclaim it. “I should have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly strife?”

“If I killed her, what would it avail? It could not win me back his heart – lost, lost, without hope! Yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place! Oh! there is no hope for me!

“’Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. If I kill him? Ah, then; what would life be to me? Prom that hour an endless anguish!

“Oh! it is anguish now! I cannot endure it. I can think of no solace – if not in revenge. Not only she, he also – both must die!

“But not yet – not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. Mother of God, strengthen me to take vengeance!”

She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine.

On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop – even for the animal to breathe itself – but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined. Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed – only the spur to urge him on.

Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. It leads to the Leona. Is it the way he is wanted to go?

His rider seems neither to know nor care. She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things – even of the rude pace at which she is riding! She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.

She sees a caballada[322] out upon the open prairie!

Indians? No. White men – less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the “stoor” of the parched plain.

“Los Tejanos[323]!” is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality.

“A troop of their rangers scouring the country for Comanches, I suppose? The Indians are not here? If I’ve heard aright at the Settlement, they should be far on the other side.”

Without any strong reason for shunning them, the Mexican maiden has no desire to encounter “Los Tejanos.” They are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. But in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity.

It is possible to avoid them. She is yet among the bushes. They do not appear to have observed her. By turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen.

She is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. A score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider.

It might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. She would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken – especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her.

At first she is so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.

Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.

“Rangers – no! Too well dressed for those ragged vagabundos? Must be the party of ‘searchers,’ of which I’ve heard – led by the father of – Yes – yes it is they. Ay Dios! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!”

Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near.

She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.

In another minute she is in their midst – the mounted circle close drawn around her.

There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired – uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.

Though it is an entourage to cause trembling – especially in a woman – Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her.

But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man – of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!

“Can you speak French, mademoiselle?” asks Woodley Poindexter, addressing her in this tongue – in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. “Speak better Inglees – very little, sir.”

“Oh! English. So much the better for us. Tell me, miss; have you seen anybody out here – that is – have you met any one, riding about, or camped, or halted anywhere?”

Isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply.

The planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the circumstances admit.

“May I ask where you live?”

“On the Rio Grande, señor?”

“Have you come direct from there?”

“No; from the Leona.”

“From the Leona!”

“It’s the niece of old Martinez,” interposes one of the party. “His plantation joins yours, Mister Poindexter.”

“Si – yes – true that. Sobrina – niece of Don Silvio Martinez. Yo soy.”

“Then you’ve come from his place, direct? Pardon me for appearing rude. I assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle curiosity, or impertinence. We have serious reasons – more than serious: they are solemn.”

“From the Hacienda Martinez direct,” answers Isidora, without appearing to notice the last remark. “Two hours ago – un pocito mas – my uncle’s house I leave.”

“Then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a – murder – committed?”

“Si, señor. Yesterday at uncle Silvio’s it was told.”

“But to-day – when you left – was there any fresh news in the Settlement? We’ve had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. Have you heard anything, miss?”

“That people were gone after the asesinado. Your party, señor?”

“Yes – yes – it meant us, no doubt. You heard nothing more?”

“Oh, yes; something very strange, señores; so strange, you may think I am jesting.”

“What is it?” inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian.

“There is a story of one being seen without a head – on horseback – out here too. Valga me Dios! we must now be near the place? It was by the Nueces – not far from the ford – where the road crosses for the Rio Grande. So the vaqueros said.”

“Oh; some vaqueros have seen it?”

“Si, señores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the spectacle.”

Isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a strange story causes among the “Tejanos.” There is an exhibition of interest, but no astonishment. A voice explains:

“We’ve seen it too – that headless horseman – at a distance. Did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?”

“Santissima! no.”

“Can you tell us, miss?”

“I? Not I. I only heard of it, as I’ve said. What it may be, quien sabe?”

There is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard.

The planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory.

“Have you met, or seen, any one, miss – out here, I mean?”

“Si – yes – I have.”

“You have! What sort of person? Be good enough to describe – ”

“A lady.”

“Lady!” echo several voices.

“Si, señores.”

“What sort of a lady?”

“Una Americana.”

“An American lady! – out here? Alone?”

“Si, señores.”

“Who?”

“Quién sabe?”

“You don’t know her? What was she like?”

“Like? – like?”

“Yes; how was she dressed?”

“Vestido de caballo[324].”

“On horseback, then?”

“On horseback.”

“Where did you meet the lady you speak of?”

“Not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal.”

“Which way was she going? Is there any house on the other side?”

“A jacalé. I only know of that.”

Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: “A jacalé?”

“They give that name to their shanties.”

“To whom does it belong – this jacalé?”

“Don Mauricio, el musteñero.”

“Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter.

A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching – fruitless, as earnest – they have struck a trail, – the trail of the murderer!

Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.

“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez – if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”

“It takes me a little out of my way – though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”

Isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal – followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her.

She halts on its western edge; between which and the Alamo there is a stretch of open prairie.

“Yonder!” says she, pointing over the plain; “you see that black spot on the horizon? It is the top of an alhuehuete[325]. Its roots are in the bottom lands of the Alamo. Go there! There is a cañon leading down the cliff. Descend. You will find, a little beyond, the jacalé of which I’ve told you.”

The searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. Almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress.

One of the party alone lingers – not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. Perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by Isidora. He is one who knows Isidora’s language, as well as his own native tongue.

“Tell me, niña[326],” says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude – almost of entreaty – “Did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?”

“Carrambo! yes. What a question, cavallero! Who could help noticing it?”

“The colour?” gasps the inquirer.

“Un musteño pintojo.”

“A spotted mustang! Holy Heaven!” exclaims Cassius Calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers – leaving Isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish!

Chapter 61

Angels on Earth

The retreat of her rival – quick and unexpected – held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision – bewildered by what she saw.

But the moment before she had looked into the jacalé – had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.

What was she to think of that sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?

In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.

At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.

“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catré[327]. “Maurice – wounded – dying! Who has done this?”

There was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman.

“Maurice! Maurice! speak to me! Do you not know me? Louise! Your Louise! You have called me so? Say it – O say it again!”

“Ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! Very beautiful. Yes, yes; you look so – to the eyes – to the eyes. But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are – there are. I know one – ah! more – but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! I mean in beauty – in goodness, that’s another thing. I’m not thinking of goodness – no; no.”

“Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus? You are not in heaven; you are here with me – with Louise.”

“I am in heaven; yes, in heaven! I don’t wish it, for all they say; that is, unless I can have her with me. It may be a pleasant place. Not without her. If she were here, I could be content. Hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me! Very beautiful, you are, I admit; but none of you like her – her – my angel. Oh! there’s a devil, too; a beautiful devil – I don’t mean that. I’m thinking only of the angel of the prairies.”

“Do you remember her name?”

Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer.

She bent over him with ears upon the strain – with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.

“Name? name? Did some one say, name? Have you any names here? Oh! I remember – Michael, Gabriel, Azrael[328] – men, all men. Angels, not like my angel – who is a woman. Her name is – ”

“Is?”

“Louise – Louise – Louise. Why should I conceal it from you – you up here, who know everything that’s down there? Surely you know her – Louise? You should: you could not help loving her – ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine – all – all!”

Not when these last words were once before spoken – first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees – the speaker in full consciousness of intellect – in the full fervour of his soul – not then were they listened to with such delight. O, happy hour for her who heard them!

Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow – upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.

She only stood up erect – triumphant; – her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations. It was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever – in the fear of its being too soon interrupted.

The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared – a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway.

The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup.

There was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer. On the contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical, heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place. Still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species.

If anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as, stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken place in the occupancy of the hut.

“Mother av Moses!” he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; “Shure I must be dhramin? Trath must I! It cyant be yersilf, Miss Pointdixther? Shure now it cyant?”

“But it is, Mr O’Neal. How very ungallant in you to have forgotten me, and so soon!”

“Forgotten yez! Trath, miss, yez needn’t accuse me of doin’ chat which is intirely impossible. The Oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it. Sowl! thare’s wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!”

The speaker glanced significantly towards the couch. A delicious thrill passed through the bosom of the listener.

“But fwhat diz it all mane?” continued Phelim, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. “Fwhare’s the tother – the young chap, or lady, or wuman – whichsomiver she art? Didn’t yez see nothin’ av a wuman, Miss Pointdixther?”

“Yes – yes.”

“Oh! yez did. An fwhere is she now?”

“Gone away, I believe.”

“Gone away! Be japers, thin, she hasn’t remained long in the wan mind. I lift her heeur in the cyabin not tin minnits ago, takin’ aff her bonnit – that was only a man’s hat – an sittlin’ hersilf down for a stay. Gone, yez say? Sowl! I’m not sorry to hear it. That’s a young lady whose room’s betther than her company, any day in the twilmonth. She’s a dale too handy wid her shootin’-iron. Wud yez belave it, Miss Pointdixther; she prisinted a pistol widin six inches av me nose?”

“Pardieu! For what reason?”

“Fwhat rayzun? Only that I thried to hindher her from inthrudin’ into the cyabin. She got in for all that; for whin owld Zeb come back, he made no objecshun to it. She sayed she was a frind av the masther, an wanted to nurse him.”

“Indeed! Oh! it is strange – very strange!” muttered the Creole, reflectingly.

“Trath, is it. And so is iverything in these times, exciptin’ yez own swate silf; that I hope will niver be sthrange in a cyabin frequinted by Phaylim Onale. Shure, now, I’m glad to see yez, miss; an shure so wud the masther, if – ”

“Dear Phelim! tell me all that has happened.”

“Trath! thin miss, if I’m to till all, ye’ll hiv to take off your bonnet, and make up your moind for a long stay – seein’ as it ’ut take the big ind av a whole day to relate all the quare things that’s happened since the day afore yesthirday.”

“Who has been here since then?”

“Who has been heeur?”

“Except the – the – ”

“Exceptin’ the man-wuman, ye mane?”

“Yes. Has any one else been to this place?”

“Trath has thare – plinty besoides. An av all sorts, an colours too. First an foremost there was wan comin’ this way, though he didn’t git all the way to the cyabin. But I daren’t tell you about him, for it moight frighten ye, miss.”

“Tell me. I have no fear.”

“Be dad! and I can’t make it out meself quite intirely. It was a man upon horseback widout a hid.”

“Without a head!”

“Divil a bit av that same on his body.”

The statement caused Phelim to be suspected of having lost his.

“An’ what’s more, miss, he was for all the world like Masther Maurice himself. Wid his horse undher him, an his Mexikin blanket about his showlders, an everything just as the young masther looks, when he’s mounted, Sowl! wasn’t I scared, whin I sit my eyes on him.”

“But where did you see this, Mr O’Neal?”

“Up thare on the top av the bluff. I was out lookin’ for the masther to come back from the Sittlement, as he’d promised he wud that mornin’, an who showld I see but hisself, as I supposed it to be. An’ thin he comes ridin’ up, widout his hid, an’ stops a bit, an thin goes off at a tarin’ gallop, wid Tara gowlin’ at his horse’s heels, away acrass the big plain, till I saw no more av him. Thin I made back for the cyabin heeur, an shut meself up, and wint to slape; and just in the middle av me dhrames, whin I was dhramin’ of – but trath, miss, yez’ll be toired standin’ on yer feet all this time. Won’t yez take aff yer purty little ridin’ hat, an sit down on the thrunk thare? – it’s asier than the stool. Do plaze take a sate; for if I’m to tell yez all – ”

“Never mind me – go on. Please tell me who else has been here besides this strange cavalier; who must have been some one playing a trick upon you, I suppose.”

“A thrick, miss! Trath that’s just what owld Zeb sayed.”

“He has been here, then?”

“Yis – yis – but not till long afther the others.”

“The others?”

“Yis, miss. Zeb only arroived yestherday marnin’. The others paid their visit the night afore, an at a very unsayzonable hour too, wakin’ me out av the middle av my slape.”

“But who? – what others?”

“Why the Indyens, to be shure.”

“There have been Indians, then?”

“Trath was there – a whole tribe av thim. Well, as I’ve been tillin’ yez, miss, jest as I wus in a soun’ slape, I heerd talkin’ in the cyabin heern, right over my hid, an the shufflin’ av paper, as if somebody was dalin’ a pack av cards, an – Mother av Moses! fwhat’s that?”

“What?”

“Didn’t yez heear somethin’? Wheesht! Thare it is agane! Trath, it’s the trampin’ av horses! They’re jist outside.”

Phelim rushed towards the door.

“Be Sant Pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback. Thare’s a thousand av them! an more comin’ behind! Be japers! them’s the chaps owld Zeb – Now for a frish spell av squeelin! O Lard! I’ll be too late!”

Seizing the cactus-branch – that for convenience he had brought inside the hut – he dashed out through the doorway.

“Mon Dieu!” cried the Creole, “’tis they! My father, and I here! How shall I explain it? Holy Virgin, save me from shame!”

Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act. They who were outside would make light of such obstruction. Already she recognised the voices of the Regulators!

The opening in the skin wall came under her eye. Should she make a retreat through that, undignified as it might be?

It was no longer possible. The sound of hoofs also in the rear! There were horsemen behind the hut!

Besides, her own steed was in front – that ocellated creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!

But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat – one more generous.

He was in danger – from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?

“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father – friends – all – all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”

As these noble thoughts passed through her mind, she took her stand by the bedside of the invalid, like a second Dido[329], resolved to risk all – even death itself – for the hero of her heart.

Chapter 62

Waiting for the Cue

Never, since its erection, was there such a trampling of hoofs around the hut of the horse-catcher – not even when its corral was filled with fresh-taken mustangs.

Phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop.

One is heard louder than the rest, and in tones of command that proclaim the speaker to be chief of the party.

“Pull up, damn you! It’s no use – your trying to escape. Another step, and ye’ll go tumbling in your tracks. Pull up, I say!”

The command takes effect upon the Connemara man, who has been making direct for Zeb Stump’s mare, tethered on the other side of the opening. He stops upon the instant.

“Shure, gintlemen, I don’t want to escyape,” asseverates he, shivering at the sight of a score of angry faces, and the same number of gun-barrels bearing upon his person; “I had no such intinshuns. I was only goin’ to – ”

“Run off, if ye’d got the chance. Ye’d made a good beginning. Here, Dick Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton! Damned queer-looking curse he is! Surely, gentlemen, this can’t be the man we’re in search of?”

“No, no! it isn’t. Only his man John.”

“Ho! hilloa, you round there at the back! Keep your eyes skinned. We havn’t got him yet. Don’t let as much as a cat creep past you. Now, sirree! who’s inside?”

“Who’s insoide? The cyabin div yez mane?”

“Damn ye! answer the question that’s put to ye!” says Tracey, giving his prisoner a touch of the trail-rope. “Who’s inside the shanty?”

“O Lard! Needs must whin the divvel dhrives. Wil, then, thare’s the masther for wan – ”

“Ho! what’s this?” inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. “Why – it – it’s Looey’s mustang!”

“It is, uncle,” answers Cassius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.

“I wonder who’s brought the beast here?”

“Loo herself, I reckon.”

“Nonsense! You’re jesting, Cash?”

“No, uncle; I’m in earnest.”

“You mean to say my daughter has been here?”

“Has been – still is, I take it.”

“Impossible?”

“Look yonder, then!”

The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.

“Good God, it is my daughter!”

Poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut – close followed by Calhoun. Both go inside.

“Louises what means this? A wounded man! Is it he – Henry?”

Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat – Henry’s!

“It is; he’s alive! Thank heaven!” He strides towards the couch.

The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.

Calhoun seems equally affected. But the cry from him is an exclamation of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin.

“Great God!” gasps the planter; “what is it? Can you explain, Louise?”

“I cannot, father. I’ve been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious.”

“And – and – Henry?”

“They have told me nothing. Mr Gerald was alone when I entered. The man outside was absent, and has just returned. I have not had time to question him.”

“But – but, how came you to be here?”

“I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible – alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother – Mon dieu! Mon dieu!”

Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.

“I thought I might find Henry here.”

“Here! But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”

“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt – when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”

Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.

“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent – indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come – come away! This is no place for a lady – for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Some one will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.

The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.

They are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.

They stand in groups – some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.

On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is passing. Their looks proclaim it.

Most of them know the young lady by sight – all by fame, or name. They feel surprise – almost wonder – at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!

More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case. Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them – facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak – of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!

But why is Louise Poindexter there – alone – unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it – perhaps he cannot. Her father – can he? Judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful.

Whispers pass from lip to ear – from group to group. There are surmises – many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings – filial as parental – and patiently await the éclaircissement.

“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.” The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Cassius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.

“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?” Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. “It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”

Yancey’s confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience – even to the parental command.

It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.

The two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly following – the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter her chagrin.

Yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his companion. How could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart? Of course he ascribes it to that.

He but half interprets the cause. Were he to look steadfastly into the eye of Louise Poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future.

They ride on through the trees – but not beyond ear-shot of the people they have left behind them.

Suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the Creole – her features lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered her soul.

She stops reflectingly – her escort constrained to do the same.

“Mr Yancey,” says she, after a short pause, “my saddle has got loose. I cannot sit comfortably in it. Have the goodness to look to the girths!”

Yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon him.

He examines the girths. In his opinion they do not want tightening. He does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all his strength.

“Stay!” says the fair equestrian, “let me alight. You will get better at it then.”

Without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and stands by the side of the mustang.

The young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power of his arms.

After a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds in shortening them by a single hole.

“Now, Miss Poindexter; I think it will do.”

“Perhaps it will,” rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of her saddle, and giving it a slight shake. “No doubt it will do now. After all ’tis a pity to start back so soon. I’ve just arrived here after a fast gallop; and my poor Luna has scarce had time to breathe herself. What if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest? ’Tis cruel to take her back without it.”

“But your father? He seemed desirous you should – ”

“That I should go home at once. That’s nothing. ’Twas only to get me out of the way of these rough men – that was all. He won’t care; so long as I’m out of sight. ’Tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade of these fine trees – just now that the sun is blazing down upon the prairie. Let us stay a while, and give Luna a rest! We can amuse ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the stream. Look there, Mr Yancey! What pretty creatures they are!”

The young planter begins to feel flattered. Why should his fair companion wish to linger there with him? Why wish to watch the iodons[330], engaged in their aquatic cotillon[331] – amorous at that time of the year?

He conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations.

His compliance is easily obtained.

“Miss Poindexter,” says he, “it is for you to command me. I am but too happy to stay here, as long as you wish it.”

“Only till Luna be rested. To say the truth, sir, I had scarce got out of the saddle, as the people came up. See! the poor thing is still panting after our long gallop.”

Yancey does not take notice whether the spotted mustang is panting or no. He is but too pleased to comply with the wishes of its rider.

They stay by the side of the stream.

He is a little surprised to perceive that his companion gives but slight heed, either to the silver fish, or the spotted mustang. He would have liked this all the better, had her attentions been transferred to himself.

But they are not. He can arrest neither her eye nor her ear. The former seems straying upon vacancy; the latter eagerly bent to catch every sound that comes from the clearing.

Despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself. He suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted – a trial before Judge Lynch[332], with a jury of “Regulators.”

Excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks. There is an earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination.

Both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a theatre, waiting for her cue.

There are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men; then one longer than the rest – a harangue[333].

Louise recognises the voice. It is that of her cousin Cassius. It is urgent – at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his audience to something they are not willing to do.

His speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick sharp exclamations – cries of assent – one louder than the rest, of fearful import.

While listening, Yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side.

He is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot, and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the jacalé!

Chapter 63

A Jury of Regulators

The cry, that had called the young Creole so suddenly from the side of her companion, was the verdict of a jury – in whose rude phrase was also included the pronouncing of the sentence.

The word “hang” was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the spot.

While pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in front of the jacalé.

Though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the play was progressing.

About the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits a minute description.

The men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the circumference of a circle.

Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous – among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief, with three or four of his “marshals.” Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun. These no longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted.

Such in reality was the nature of the scene. It was a trial for Murder – a trial before Justice Lynch – this grim dignitary being typified in the person of the Regulator Chief – with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground – all except the prisoners.

Of these there are two – Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.

They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.

Even their tongues are not free. Phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth. It has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips.

Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place. Two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground. His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter.

Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.

The servant alone has been examined – asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. It is no use putting questions to his master.

Phelim has told his tale – too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it – that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead – is looked upon as the least improbable!

He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused – that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder!

“All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!” say those to whom he has been imparting them. “A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us – nothing else.”

The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.

In the minds of most – already predisposed to it – there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.

Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacalé – the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.

The explanations given by the Galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.

There are some who will scarce stay to hear them – some who impatiently cry out, “Let the murderer be hanged!”

As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.

A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb – good enough for a gallows.

The vote is taken viva voice[334].

Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die. His hour appears to have come.

And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. The rope is suffered to lie guileless on the grass. No one seems willing to lay hold of it!

Why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous snake, that none dares to touch?

The majority – the plurality, to use a true Western word – has pronounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even blasphemous, speech. Why is it not carried out?

Why? For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action – for want of the proofs to produce it.

There is a minority not satisfied – that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered “No.”

It is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings.

Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself – Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the acclamatory verdict.

“Fellow citizens!” cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, “I’m of the opinion, that there’s a doubt in this case; and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it – that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. It’s no use questioning him now, as ye all see. We have him tight and fast; and there’s not much chance of his getting clear – if guilty. Therefore, I move we postpone the trial, till – ”

“What’s the use of postponing it?” interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “What’s the use, Sam Manly? It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered – I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother – you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”

“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”

“Cyan you give them, Misther Cashius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.

“Perhaps I can.”

“Let’s have them, then!”

“God knows you’ve had evidence enough. A jury of his own stupid countrymen – ”

“Bar that appellashun!” shouts the man, who has demanded the additional evidence. “Just remember, Misther Calhoun, ye’re in Texas, and not Mississippi. Bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble, sharp as it is.”

“I don’t mean to offend any one,” says Calhoun, backing out of the dilemma into which his Irish antipathies had led him; “even an Englishman, if there’s one here.”

“Thare ye’re welcome – go on!” cries the mollified Milesian.

“Well, then, as I was saying, there’s been evidence enough – and more than enough, in my opinion. But if you want more, I can give it.”

“Give it – give it!” cry a score of responding voices; that keep up the demand, while Calhoun seems to hesitate.

“Gentlemen!” says he, squaring himself to the crowd, as if for a speech, “what I’ve got to say now I could have told you long ago. But I didn’t think it was needed. You all know what’s happened between this man and myself; and I had no wish to be thought revengeful. I’m not; and if it wasn’t that I’m sure he has done the deed – sure as the head’s on my body – ”

Calhoun speaks stammeringly, seeing that the phrase, involuntarily escaping from his lips, has produced a strange effect upon his auditory – as it has upon himself.

“If not sure – I – I should still say nothing of what I’ve seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and I saw nothing.”

“What did you hear, Mr Calhoun?” demands the Regulator Chief, resuming his judicial demeanour, for a time forgotten in the confusion of voting the verdict. “Your quarrel with the prisoner, of which I believe everybody has heard, can have nothing to do with your testimony here. Nobody’s going to accuse you of false swearing on that account. Please proceed, sir. What did you hear? And where, and when, did you hear it?”

“To begin, then, with the time. It was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn’t miss him till the morning. Last Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday night. Well?”

“I’d turned in myself; and thought Henry had done the same. But what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, I couldn’t get any sleep.

“I started up again; lit a cigar; and, after smoking it awhile in the room, I thought of taking a turn upon the top of the house.

“You know the old hacienda has a flat roof, I suppose? Well, I went up there to get cool; and continued to pull away at the weed.

“It must have been then about midnight, or maybe a little earlier. I can’t tell: for I’d been tossing about on my bed, and took no note of the time.

“Just as I had smoked to the end of my cigar, and was about to take a second out of my case, I heard voices. There were two of them.

“They were up the river, as I thought on the other side. They were a good way off, in the direction of the town.

“I mightn’t have been able to distinguish them, or tell one from ’tother, if they’d been talking in the ordinary way. But they weren’t. There was loud angry talk; and I could tell that two men were quarrelling.

“I supposed it was some drunken rowdies, going home from Oberdoffer’s tavern, and I should have thought no more about it. But as I listened, I recognised one of the voices; and then the other. The first was my cousin Henry’s – the second that of the man who is there – the man who has murdered him.”

“Please proceed, Mr Calhoun! Let us hear the whole of the evidence you have promised to produce. It will be time enough then to state your opinions.”

“Well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, I was no little surprised at hearing my cousin’s voice – supposing him asleep in his bed. So sure was I of its being him, that I didn’t think of going to his room, to see if he was there. I knew it was his voice; and I was quite as sure that the other was that of the horse-catcher.

“I thought it uncommonly queer, in Henry being out at such a late hour: as he was never much given to that sort of thing. But out he was. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.

“I listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but though I could distinguish the voices, I couldn’t make out anything that was said on either side. What I did hear was Henry calling him by some strong names, as if my cousin had been first insulted; and then I heard the Irishman threatening to make him rue it. Each loudly pronounced the other’s name; and that convinced me about its being them.

“I should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but I was in my slippers; and before I could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be all over.

“I waited for half an hour, for Henry to come home. He didn’t come; but, as I supposed he had gone back to Oberdoffer’s and fallen in with some of the fellows from the Fort, I concluded he might stay there a spell, and I went back to my bed.

“Now, gentlemen, I’ve told you all I know. My poor cousin never came back to Casa del Corvo – never more laid his side on a bed, – for that we found by going to his room next morning. His bed that night must have been somewhere upon the prairie, or in the chapparal; and there’s the only man who knows where.”

With a wave of his hand the speaker triumphantly indicated the accused – whose wild straining eyes told how unconscious he was of the terrible accusation, or of the vengeful looks with which, from all sides, he was now regarded.

Calhoun’s story was told with a circumstantiality, that went far to produce conviction of the prisoner’s guilt. The concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamourous demand for the execution to proceed.

“Hang! hang!” is the cry from fourscore voices.

The judge himself seems to waver. The minority has been diminished – no longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry. The more moderate are overborne by the inundation of vengeful voices.

The crowd sways to and fro – resembling a storm fast increasing to a tempest.

It soon comes to its height. A ruffian rushes towards the rope. Though none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of Calhoun – with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation. One of those “border ruffians” of Southern descent, ever ready by the stake of the philanthropist, or the martyr – such as have been late typified in the military murderers of Jamaica, who have disgraced the English name to the limits of all time.

He lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck of the condemned man – alike unconscious of trial and condemnation.

No one steps forward to oppose the act. The ruffian, bristling with bowie-knife and pistols, has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney – one of the ci-devant guards of the prisoner.

The spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. Most express a mute approval – some encouraging the executioners with earnest vociferations of “Up with him! Hang him!”

A few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner.

The rope is around his neck – the end with the noose upon it. The other is being swung over the sycamore.

“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”

Chapter 64

A Series of Interludes

“Soon the soul of Maurice Gerald must go back to its God!”

It was the thought of every actor in that tragedy among the trees. No one doubted that, in another moment, they would see his body hoisted into the air, and swinging from the branch of the sycamore.

There was an interlude, not provided for in the programme. A farce was being performed simultaneously; and, it might be said, on the same stage. For once the tragedy was more attractive, and the comedy was progressing without spectators.

Not the less earnest were the actors in it. There were only two – a man and a mare. Phelim was once more re-enacting the scenes that had caused surprise to Isidora.

Engrossed by the arguments of Calhoun – by the purposes of vengeance which his story was producing – the Regulators only turned their attention to the chief criminal. No one thought of his companion – whether he was, or was not, an accomplice. His presence was scarce perceived – all eyes being directed with angry intent upon the other.

Still less was it noticed, when the ruffians sprang forward, and commenced adjusting the rope. The Galwegian was then altogether neglected.

There appeared an opportunity of escape, and Phelim was not slow to take advantage of it.

Wriggling himself clear of his fastenings, he crawled off among the legs of the surging crowd.

No one seemed to see, or care about, his movements. Mad with excitement, they were pressing upon each other – the eyes of all turned upward to the gallows tree.

To have seen Phelim skulking off, it might have been supposed, that he was profiting by the chance offered for escape – saving his own life, without thinking of his master.

It is true he could have done nothing, and he knew it. He had exhausted his advocacy; and any further interference on his part would have been an idle effort, or only to aggravate the accusers. It was but slight disloyalty that he should think of saving himself – a mere instinct of self-preservation – to which he seemed yielding, as he stole off among the trees. So one would have conjectured.

But the conjecture would not have done justice to him of Connemara. In his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master – much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him. He knew he could do nothing of himself. His hope lay in summoning Zeb Stump, and it was to sound that signal – which had proved so effective before – that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and execution.

On getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether.

The other horses standing “hitched” to the twigs, formed a tolerably compact tier all round the edge of the timber. This aided in screening his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of the mare, without being seen by any one.

Just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary to carry out his design. The cactus branch had been dropped where he was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his captors. He could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end.

He had no knife – no weapon of any kind – wherewith he might procure another nopal.

He paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do. Only for an instant. There was no time to be lost. His master’s life was in imminent peril, menaced at every moment. No sacrifice would be too great to save him; and with this thought the faithful Phelim rushed towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem.

His fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that, when weighed against the life of his beloved master? With equal recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument of torture!

By this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger’s neck, carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure. The other end, leading over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded bullies – whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it. In their eyes and attitudes was an air of deadly determination. They only waited for the word.

Not that any one had the right to pronounce it. And just for this reason was it delayed. No one seemed willing to take the responsibility of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long account. Criminal as they might regard him – murderer as they believed him to be – all shied from doing the sheriff’s duty. Even Calhoun instinctively held back.

It was not for the want of will. There was no lack of that on the part of the ex-officer, or among the Regulators. They showed no sign of retreating from the step they had taken. The pause was simply owing to the informality of the proceedings. It was but the lull in the storm that precedes the grand crash.

It was a moment of deep solemnity – every one silent as the tomb. They were in the presence of death, and knew it, – death in its most hideous shape, and darkest guise. Most of them felt that they were abetting it. All believed it to be nigh.

With hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the tree-trunks around them. Surely the crisis had come?

It had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves decreed. Instead of seeing Maurice Gerald jerked into the air, far different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness, – one so ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings.

The old mare – that they knew to be Zeb Stump’s – appeared to have gone suddenly mad. She had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might. She had given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly responding to her screams!

Enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacalé hut. Not only was the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the condemned captive.

Nor was the change of a comical character. On the contrary, it was accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!

The Regulators rushed to their arms – some towards their horses.

“Indians!” was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din. Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a commotion – threatening to result in a stampede of the troop!

For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances.

Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them – using them by way of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.

There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror.

It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard – the wretched creature that had given them the cue.

Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the Connemara man had stolen off.

Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes. Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master.

A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy, – their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare.

But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.

Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design. The Regulators are still in the same temper.

The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary.

Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial.

They return to it with increased vindictiveness – as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations.

Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned – the terrible tableau is reconstructed.

Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:

“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”

Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.

How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows, – flashing out into the open sunlight.

“A woman! a beautiful woman!”

’Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.

Like a meteor she pauses through their midst – glides on without giving a glance on either side – without speech, without halt – till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”

They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues: —

“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel – condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My scorn upon you – not men, but murderers!”

“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad – Loo – mad! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away – this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”

“Father, it does concern me!”

“How? – how? – oh true – as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother.”

“I will not – cannot believe it. Never – never! There was no motive. O men! if you be men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then – then – ”

“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Ne’er a doubt about his being guilty. It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else. And it don’t look well, Miss Poindexter – excuse me for saying it; – but it don’t look just the thing, that you should be trying to screen him from his deserving.”

“No, that it don’t,” chime in several voices. “Justice must take its course!” shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.

“It must! – it must!” echoes the chorus. “We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”

“Come, Loo! ’Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!”

“No, father, I will not – I shall not – till you have promised – till these men promise – ”

“We can’t promise you anything, miss – however much we might like it. It ain’t a question for women, no how. There’s been a crime committed – a murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice. There’s no mercy for a murderer!”

“No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices. “Let him be hanged – hanged – hanged!”

The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Cassius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.

In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten, – that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.

The lady is led aside – dragged rather than led – by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her – wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

“Monsters! murderers!” are the phrases that fall from her lips.

Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd – beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear – heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold of her.

It scarce consoles him – that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!

Chapter 65

Still another Interlude

For a third time is the tableau reconstructed – spectators and actors in the dread drama taking their places as before.

The lazo is once more passed over the limb; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end – this time drawing it towards them till it becomes taut.

For the third time arises the reflection:

“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”

Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end. Even love has proved powerless to save him! Wha power on earth can be appealed to after this? None likely to avail.

But there appears no chance of succour – no time for it. There is no mercy in the stern looks of the Regulators – only impatience. The hangmen, too, appear in a hurry – as if they were in dread of another interruption. They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners. The physiognomy of either would give colour to the assumption, that they had been accustomed to the calling.

In less than sixty seconds they shall have finished the “job.”

“Now then, Bill! Are ye ready?” shouts one to the other – by the question proclaiming, that they no longer intend to wait for the word.

“All right!” responds Bill. “Up with the son of a skunk! Up with him!”

There is a pull upon the rope, but not sufficient to raise the body into an erect position. It tightens around the neck; lifts the head a little from the ground, but nothing more!

Only one of the hangmen has given his strength to the pull. “Haul, damn you!” cries Bill, astonished at the inaction of his assistant. “Why the hell don’t you haul?”

Bill’s back is turned towards an intruder, that, seen by the other, has hindered him from lending a hand. He stands as if suddenly transformed into stone!

“Come!” continues the chief executioner. “Let’s go at it again – both together. Yee – up! Up with him!”

“No ye don’t!” calls out a voice in the tones of a stentor; while a man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into the thick of the crowd.

“No ye don’t!” he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope. “Not yet a bit, as this coon kalkerlates. You, Bill Griffin; pull that piece o’ pleeted hoss-hair but the eighth o’ an inch tighter, and ye’ll git a blue pill in yer stummuk as won’t agree wi’ ye. Drop the rope, durn ye! Drop it!”

The screaming of Zeb Stump’s mare scarce created a more sudden diversion than the appearance of Zeb himself – for it was he who had hurried upon the ground.

He was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by many.

Among the last were Bill Griffin, and his fellow rope-holder. No longer holding it: for at the command to drop it, yielding to a quick perception of danger, both had let go; and the lazo lay loose along the sward.

“What durned tom-foolery’s this, boys?” continues the colossus, addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise. “Ye don’t mean hangin’, do ye?”

“We do,” answers a stern voice. “And why not?” asks another.

“Why not! Ye’d hang a fellur-citizen ’ithout trial, wud ye?”

“Not much of a fellow-citizen – so far as that goes. Besides, he’s had a trial – a fair trial.”

“I’deed. A human critter to be condemned wi’ his brain in a state o’ dulleerium! Sent out o’ the world ’ithout knowin’ that he’s in it! Ye call that a fair trial, do ye?”

“What matters it, if we know he’s guilty? We’re all satisfied about that.”

“The hell ye air! Wagh! I aint goin’ to waste words wi’ sech as you, Jim Stoddars. But for you, Sam Manly, an yerself, Mister Peintdexter – shurly ye aint agreed to this hyur proceeding which, in my opeenyun, ’ud be neyther more nor less ’n murder?”

“You haven’t heard all, Zeb Stump,” interposes the Regulator Chief, with the design to justify his acquiescence in the act. “There are facts – !”

“Facts be durned! An’ fancies, too! I don’t want to hear ’em. It’ll be time enuf for thet, when the thing kum to a reg’lar trial; the which shurly nob’dy hyur’ll objeck to – seein’ as thur aint the ghost o’ a chance for him to git off. Who air the individooal that objecks?”

“You take too much upon you, Zeb Stump. What is it your business, we’d like to know? The man that’s been murdered wasn’t your son; nor your brother, nor your cousin neither! If he had been, you’d be of a different way of thinking, I take it.”

It is Calhoun who has made this interpolation – spoken before with so much success to his scheme.

“I don’t see that it concerns you,” he continues, “what course we take in this matter.”

“But I do. It consarns me – fust, because this young fellur’s a friend o’ mine, though he air Irish, an a strenger; an secondly, because Zeb Stump aint a goin’ to stan’ by, an see foul play – even tho’ it be on the purayras o’ Texas.”

“Foul play be damned! There’s nothing of the sort. And as for standing by, we’ll see about that. Boys! you’re not going to be scared from your duty by such swagger as this? Let’s make a finish of what we’ve begun. The blood of a murdered man cries out to us. Lay hold of the rope!”

“Do; an by the eturnal! the fust that do ’ll drop it a leetle quicker than he grups it. Lay a claw on it – one o’ ye – if ye darr. Ye may hang this poor critter as high’s ye like; but not till ye’ve laid Zeb’lon Stump streetched dead upon the grass, wi’ some o’ ye alongside o’ him. Now then! Let me see the skunk thet’s goin’ to tech thet rope!”

Zeb’s speech is followed by a profound silence. The people keep their places – partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly from the respect due to his courage and generosity. Also, because there is still some doubt in the minds of the Regulators, both as to the expediency, and fairness, of the course which Calhoun is inciting them to take.

With a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has gained, and presses it.

“Gie the young fellur a fair trial,” urges he. “Let’s take him to the settlement, an hev’ him tried thur. Ye’ve got no clur proof, that he’s had any hand in the black bizness; and durn me! if I’d believe it unless I seed it wi’ my own eyes. I know how he feeled torst young Peintdexter. Instead o’ bein’ his enemy, thur aint a man on this ground hed more o’ a likin’ for him – tho’ he did hev a bit o’ shindy wi’ his precious cousin thur.”

“You are perhaps not aware, Mr Stump,” rejoins the Regulator Chief, in a calm voice, “of what we’ve just been hearing?”

“What hev ye been hearin’?”

“Evidence to the contrary of what you assert. We have proof, not only that there was bad blood between Gerald and young Poindexter, but that a quarrel took place on the very night – ”

“Who sez thet, Sam Manly?”

“I say it,” answers Calhoun, stepping a little forward, so as to be seen by Stump.

“O, you it air, Mister Cash Calhoun! You know thur war bad blood atween ’em? You seed the quarrel ye speak o’?”

“I haven’t said that I saw it, Zeb Stump. And what’s more I’m not going to stand any cross-questioning by you. I have given my evidence, to those who have the right to hear it; and that’s enough. I think, gentlemen, you’re satisfied as to the verdict. I don’t see why this old fool should interrupt – ”

“Ole fool!” echoes the hunter, with a screech; “Ole fool! Hell an herrikins! Ye call me an ole fool? By the eturnal God! ye’ll live to take back that speech, or my name aint Zeblun Stump, o’ Kaintucky. Ne’er a mind now; thur’s a time for everythin’, an yur time may come, Mister Cash Calhoun, sooner than ye surspecks it.”

“As for a quarrel atween Henry Peintdexter an the young fellur hyur,” continues Zeb, addressing himself to the Regulator Chief, “I don’t believe a word on’t; nor won’t, so long’s thur’s no better proof than his palaverin’. From what this chile knows, it don’t stan’ to reezun. Ye say ye’ve got new facks? So’ve I too. Facks I reck’n thet’ll go a good way torst explicatin o’ this mysteerus bizness, twisted up as it air.”

“What facts?” demands the Regulator Chief. “Let’s hear them, Stump.”

“Thur’s more than one. Fust place what do ye make o’ the young fellur bein’ wownded hisself? I don’t talk o’ them scratches ye see; I believe them’s done by coyoats that attackted him, arter they see’d he wur wownded. But look at his knee Somethin’ else than coyoats did that. What do you make o’ it, Sam Manly?”

“Well, that – some of the boys here think there’s been a struggle between him and – ”

“Atween him an who?” sharply interrogates Zeb.

“Why, the man that’s missing.”

“Yes, that’s he who we mean,” speaks one of the “boys” referred to. “We all know that Harry Poindexter wouldn’t a stood to be shot down like a calf. They’ve had a tussle, and a fall among the rocks. That’s what’s given him the swellin’ in the knee. Besides, there’s the mark of a blow upon his head – looks like it had been the butt of a pistol. As for the scratches, we can’t tell what’s made them. Thorns may be; or wolves if you like. That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won’t do for us.”

“What fellur air ye talkin’ o’? Ye mean Irish Pheelum? Where air he?”

“Stole away to save his carcass. We’ll find him, as soon as we’ve settled this business; and I guess a little hanging will draw the truth out of him.”

“If ye mean abeout the tiger, ye’ll draw no other truth out o’ him than hat ye’ve got a’ready. I see’d thet varmint myself, an war jest in time to save the young fellur from its claws. But thet aint the peint. Ye’ve had holt o’ the Irish, I ’spose. Did he tell ye o’ nothin’ else he seed hyur?”

“He had a yarn about Indians. Who believes it?”

“Wal; he tolt me the same story, and that looks like some truth in’t. Besides, he declurs they wur playin’ curds, an hyur’s the things themselves. I found ’em lying scattered about the floor o’ the shanty. Spanish curds they air.”

Zeb draws the pack out of his pocket, and hands it over to the Regulator Chief.

The cards, on examination, prove to be of Mexican manufacture – such as are used in the universal game of monté – the queen upon horseback “cavallo” – the spade represented by a sword “espada” – and the club “baston” symbolised by the huge paviour-like implement, seen in picture-books in the grasp of hairy Orson.

“Who ever heard of Comanches playing cards?” demands he, who has scouted the evidence about the Indians. “Damned ridiculous!”

“Ridiklus ye say!” interposes an old trapper who had been twelve months a prisoner among the Comanches. “Ridiklus it may be; but it’s true f’r all that. Many’s the game this coon’s seed them play, on a dressed burner hide for their table. That same Mexikin montay too. I reckon they’ve larned it from thar Mexikin captives; of the which they’ve got as good as three thousand in thar different tribes. Yes, sirree!” concludes the trapper. “The Keymanchees do play cards – sure as shootin’.”

Zeb Stump is rejoiced at this bit of evidence, which is more than he could have given himself. It strengthens the case for the accused. The fact, of there having been Indians in the neighbourhood, tends to alter the aspect of the affair in the minds of the Regulators – hitherto under the belief that the Comanches were marauding only on the other side of the settlement.

“Sartin sure,” continues Zeb, pressing the point in favour of an adjournment of the trial, “thur’s been Injuns hyur, or some thin’ durned like – Geesus Geehosofat! Whar’s she comin’ from?”

The clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, salutes the ear of everybody at the same instant of time.

No one needs to inquire, what has caused Stump to give utterance to that abrupt interrogatory. Along the top of the cliff, and close to its edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop. There is a woman – a lady – upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her – the string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away!

So wild is the gallop – so perilous from its proximity to the precipice – you might suppose the horse to have run away with his rider.

But no. You may tell that he has not, by the actions of the equestrian herself. She seems not satisfied with the pace; but with whip, spur, and voice keeps urging him to increase it!

This is plain to the spectators below; though they are puzzled and confused by her riding so close to the cliff.

They stand in silent astonishment. Not that they are ignorant of who it is. It would be strange if they were. That woman equestrian – man-seated in the saddle – once seen was never more to be forgotten.

She is recognised at the first glance. One and all know the reckless galloper to be the guide – from whom, scarce half-an-hour ago, they had parted upon the prairie.

Chapter 66

Chased by Comanches

It was Isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. What was bringing her back? And why was she riding at such a perilous pace?

To explain it, we must return to that dark reverie, from which she was startled by her encounter with the “Tejanos.”

While galloping away from the Alamo, she had not thought of looking back, to ascertain whether she was followed. Absorbed in schemes of vengeance, she had gone on – without even giving a glance behind.

It was but slight comfort to her to reflect: that Louise Poindexter had appeared equally determined upon parting from the jacalé. With a woman’s intuitive quickness, she suspected the cause; though she knew, too well, it was groundless.

Still, there was some pleasure in the thought: that her rival, ignorant of her happy fortune, was suffering like herself.

There was a hope, too, that the incident might produce estrangement in the heart of this proud Creole lady towards the man so condescendingly beloved; though it was faint, vague, scarce believed in by her who conceived it.

Taking her own heart as a standard, she was not one to lay much stress on the condescension of love: her own history was proof of its levelling power. Still was there the thought that her presence at the jacalé had given pain, and might result in disaster to the happiness of her hated rival.

Isidora had begun to dwell upon this with a sort of subdued pleasure; that continued unchecked, till the time of her rencontre with the Texans.

On turning back with these, her spirits underwent a change. The road to be taken by Louise, should have been the same as that, by which she had herself come. But no lady was upon it.

The Creole must have changed her mind, and stayed by the jacalé – was, perhaps, at that very moment performing the métier Isidora had so fondly traced out for herself?

The belief that she was about to bring shame upon the woman who had brought ruin upon her, was the thought that now consoled her.

The questions put by Poindexter, and his companions, sufficiently disclosed the situation. Still clearer was it made by the final interrogations of Calhoun; and, after her interrogators had passed away, she remained by the side of the thicket – half in doubt whether to ride on to the Leona, or go back and be the spectator of a scene, that, by her own contrivance, could scarce fail to be exciting.

She is upon the edge of the chapparal, just inside the shadow of the timber. She is astride her grey steed, that stands with spread nostril and dilated eye, gazing after the cavallada that has late parted from the spot – a single horseman in the rear of the rest. Her horse might wonder why he is being thus ridden about; but he is used to sudden changes in the will of his capricious rider.

She is looking in the same direction – towards the alhuehuete; – whose dark summit towers above the bluffs of the Alamo.

She sees the searchers descend; and, after them, the man who has so minutely questioned her. As his head sinks below the level of the plain, she fancies herself alone upon it.

In this fancy she is mistaken.

She remains irresolute for a time – ten – fifteen – twenty minutes.

Her thoughts are not to be envied. There is not much sweetness in the revenge, she believes herself instrumental in having accomplished. If she has caused humiliation to the woman she hates, along with it she may have brought ruin upon the man whom she loves? Despite all that has passed, she cannot help loving him!

“Santíssima Virgen!” she mutters with a fervent earnestness. “What have I done? If these men – Los Reguladores – the dreaded judges I’ve heard of – if they should find him guilty, where may it end? In his death! Mother of God! I do not desire that. Not by their hands – no! no! How wild their looks and gestures – stern – determined! And when I pointed out the way, how quickly they rode off, without further thought of me! Oh, they have made up their minds. Don Mauricio is to die! And he a stranger among them – so have I heard. Not of their country, or kindred; only of the same race. Alone, friendless, with many enemies. Santíssima! what am I thinking of? Is not he, who has just left me, that cousin of whom I’ve heard speak! Ay de mi! Now do I understand the cause of his questioning. His heart, like mine own – like mine own!”

She sits with her gaze bent over the open plain. The grey steed still frets under restraint, though the cavallada has long since passed out of sight. He but responds to the spirit of his rider; which he knows to be vacillating – chafing under some irresolution.

’Tis the horse that first discovers a danger, or something that scents of it. He proclaims it by a low tremulous neigh, as if to attract her attention; while his head, tossed back towards the chapparal, shows that the enemy is to be looked for in that direction.

Who, or what is it?

Warned by the behaviour of her steed, Isidora faces to the thicket, and scans the path by which she has lately passed through it. It is the road, or trail, leading to the Leona. ’Tis only open to the eye for a straight stretch of about two hundred yards. Beyond, it becomes screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously.

No one is seen upon it – nothing save two or three lean coyotés, that skulk under the shadow of the trees – scenting the shod tracks, in the hope of finding some scrap, that may have fallen from the hurrying horsemen.

It is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement. He sees them; but what of that? The prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither startling, nor rare. There is something else – something he has either scented, or heard.

Isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her. The howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in the joy of the daylight. She hears only this. Her thoughts again return to the “Tejanos” – especially to him who has last parted from her side. She is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation; when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse.

The animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air; snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than before!

This time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to be going along the road – though still hidden behind the trees. Their hoof-strokes are heard at the same time.

But not after. The strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise!

Isidora conjectures the former. She believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own.

She quiets him, and listens.

A humming is heard through the trees. Though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men’s voices – holding a conversation in a low muttered tone.

Presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent. The horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted – perhaps hesitating to advance.

Isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed. Some travellers, perhaps, en route for the Rio Grande – or, it may be, some stragglers from the Texan troop – who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. It is only natural – at a time, when Indians are known to be on the war-path.

Equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers – whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side – placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening.

Not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing towards her – not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket! And not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround!

She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution – perhaps of evil intent?

They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it? They may be riding to get round her – in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?

How is she to know that their intent is not hostile? She has enemies – one well remembered – Don Miguel Diaz. Besides, there are the Comanches – to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer en paz.

She begins to feel alarm. It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious. Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!

She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near. The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. She must soon be discovered.

At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse’s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.

Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards – beyond range of arrow, or bullet – then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing – whether friends, or to be feared.

If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the “Tejanos.”

She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself!

They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!

A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies – with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.

“Los Indios!” mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the alhuehueté.

A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. The glance tells her more, – that the pursuit is close and earnest – so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, do not yell!

Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!

Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. For years have they been en paz – both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink – just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of “navigators,” who have been spending their day at the beer-house.

Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it – with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to.

But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!

On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse, – all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!

She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless – silent as spectres!

Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one – and that one a woman!

There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.

She presses on for the alhuehuete.

Chapter 67

Los Indios!

The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.

“Dios me ampare!” (God preserve me.)

God preserve her! She will be too late!

The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!

Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then —

And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind – thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.

The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacalé.

With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the alhuehueté, she rides directly towards the bluff.

The change puzzles her pursuers – at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the “lay” of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.

The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape.

“Chingaro!” mutters he to himself, “if she go much farther, she’ll be over the precipice!”

His reflection is false. She goes farther, but not over the precipice. With another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and rides along the edge of it – so close as to attract the attention of the “Tejanos” below, and elicit from Zeb Stump that quaint exclamation – only heard upon extraordinary occasions —

“Geesus Geehosofat!”

As if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter – or rather to the interrogatory with which he has followed it up – comes the cry of the strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff.

“Los Indios! Los Indios!”

No one who has spent three days in Southern Texas could mistake the meaning of that phrase – whatever his native tongue. It is the alarm cry which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand miles of frontier, in three different languages – “Les Indiens! Los Indios! the Indians!”

Dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger.

To those who hear it at the jacalé it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians – as certain as if the fact had been announced in their own Saxon vernacular.

They have scarce time to translate it into this – even in thought – when the same voice a second time salutes their ears: – “Tejanos! Cavalleros! save me! save me! Los Indios! I am chased by a troop. They are behind me – close – close – ”

Her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly. It is no longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above.

She has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards, when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen, going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

Like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head. So eager is he to throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the fugitive has said – spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no stop, while calling out to the “Tejanos.” He may fancy it has been addressed to himself – a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he does not understand: for Isidora had spoken in English.

He is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen, – or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

He perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below.

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. In that glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun barrels!

His three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff – quite as quickly as they have been approaching it.

“’Tur a pity too,” says Zeb Stump, proceeding to reload his rifle. “If ’t hedn’t a been for the savin’ o’ her, I’d a let ’em come on down the gully. Ef we ked a captered them, we mout a got somethin’ out o’ ’em consarnin’ this queer case o’ ourn. Thur aint the smell o’ a chance now. It’s clur they’ve goed off; an by the time we git up yander, they’ll be hellurd.”

The sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger’s hut – a change squally sudden in the thoughts of those who compose it.

The majority who deemed Maurice Gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected.

Calhoun and his bullies are no longer masters of the situation; and on the motion of their chief the Regulator Jury is adjourned. The new programme is cast in double quick time. A score of words suffice to describe it. The accused is to be carried to the settlement – there to be tried according to the law of the land.

And now for the Indians – whose opportune appearance has caused this sudden change, both of sentiment and design. Are they to be pursued? That of course. But when? Upon the instant? Prudence says, no.

Only four have been seen. But these are not likely to be alone. They may be the rear-guard of four hundred?

“Let us wait till the woman comes down,” counsels one of the timid. “They have not followed her any farther. I think I can hear her riding this way through the gulley. Of course she knows it – as it was she who directed us.”

The suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground. They are not cowards. Still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild Indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in the way of trade.

The advice is adopted. They stand waiting for the approach of Isidora.

All are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the trees. There are those who have an apprehension: that along with the Mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of Comanches.

A few are otherwise occupied – Zeb Stump among the number. He takes the gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the thongs hitherto holding him too fast.

There is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part in the proceeding. Her part has been already played – perhaps too prominently. She shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous.

Where is the niece of Don Silvio Mortimez? She has not yet come upon the ground! The stroke of her horse’s hoof is no longer heard! There has been time – more than time – for her to have reached the jacalé!

Her non-appearance creates surprise – apprehension – alarm. There are men there who admire the Mexican maiden – it is not strange they should – some who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day.

Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? The interrogatory passes round. No one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer.

The Texans begin to feel something like shame. Their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, “Tejanos! Cavalleros!”

Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? Is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?

They listen with ears intent, – many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.

They listen in vain.

There is no sound of hoof – no voice of woman – nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side!

Can it be that she is taken?

Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel.

Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever – since it is directed against the hereditary foe.

The younger and more ardent – among whom are the admirers of the Mexican maiden – can bear the uncertainty no longer. They spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her – to save her, or perish in the attempt.

Who is to gainsay them? Her pursuers – her captors perhaps – may be the very men they have been in search of – the murderers of Henry Poindexter!

No one opposes their intent. They go off in search of Isidora – in pursuit of the prairie pirates.

Those who remain are but few in number; though Zeb Stump is among them.

The old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the Indians. He keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after the invalid prisoner – still unconscious – still guarded by the Regulators.

Zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour of distress. There are two others equally faithful. One a fair creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager interest that consumes her. The other, a rude, almost ludicrous individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his “masther.” The last is Phelim, who has just descended from his perch among the parasites of an umbrageous oak – where he has for some time stayed – a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring. The change of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that duty for which he came across the Atlantic.

No longer lies our scene upon the Alamo. In another hour the jacalé is deserted – perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over Maurice the mustanger.

Chapter 68

The Disappointed Campaigners

The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest – lasting only three or four days. It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of the West did not mean war – at least, on a grand scale. Their descent upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to take out their degree as braves, desirous of signalising the event by “raising” a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.

Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians. They are made on private account – often without the knowledge of the chief, or elders of the tribe – just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out an enemy’s craft, or capture his picket guard. These marauds are usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the event. Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a general thing, are averse to such filibustering[335] expeditions – deeming them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the community. Only when successful are they applauded.

On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white women and boys. The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks, had been recaptured.

The red-skinned filibusters[336], overtaken by a detachment of Mounted Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat into the fastnesses of the “Llano Estacado.”

To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have required a commissariat[337] less hastily established than that with which the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised them after due time and preparation.

On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their ordinary duties – each detachment to its own fort – to await further commands from the head-quarters of the “department.”

The troops belonging to Port Inge – entrusted with the guardianship of the country as far as the Rio Nueces – were surprised on getting back to their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong direction for an encounter with the Indians! Some of them were half mad with disappointment: for there were several – young Hancock among the number – who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though keenly desirous of doing so!

No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. But it must be remembered, that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes – rape, rapine, and murder.

To talk of their being the aborigines of the country – the real, but dispossessed, owners of the soil – is simple nonsense. This sophism[338], of the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of men. The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument – even with the narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.

Admit it – give the hunter his half-dozen square miles – for he will require that much to maintain him – leave him in undisputed possession to all eternity – and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to accommodate this whimsical theory of national right. Nay, I will go further, and risk reproach, by asserting: – that not only the savage, so called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed – whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the resources which Nature has placed within their limits.

The exploitation of Earth’s treasures is a question not confined to nations. It concerns the whole family of mankind.

In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine – not a thought of it. He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to communism.

It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on his preserves. No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.

But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. Our own story of Jamaica – by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages of history – has whitewashed these border filibusteros to the seeming purity of snow!

If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of red-skins. On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. They might yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without stain – without sharpening, too – from the military school of West Point.

It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same day – civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo – and reported: that no Indians had been there!

They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would have been received with incredulity – considering what had occurred.

The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles – an odd lot, as an auctioneer would describe it – wigs of horse-hair, cocks’ feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!

There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such incidents as the situation afforded.

Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. There were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the trite story of a party of white men “playing Indian”; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse – mad as a maniac!

There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners – of sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they had returned to dull quarters. The name of Isidora Covarubio do los Llanos – with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty – had become a theme of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.

The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo – the discovery of the mustanger upon his couch – the determination to hang him – the act delayed by the intervention of Louise Poindexter – the respite due to the courage of Zeb Stump – were all points of the most piquant interest – suggestive of the wildest conjectures.

Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.

“Murder,” said the philosophic Captain Sloman, “is a crime which, in my opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. I think, I know the fellow well enough to be sure about that.”

“You’ll admit,” rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, “that the circumstances are strong against him? Almost conclusive, I should say.”

Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman. He had an idea, that on one occasion the commissary’s niece – the belle of the Fort – had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.

“I consider it anything but conclusive,” replied Sloman.

“There’s no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been murdered. Every one believes that. Well; who else was likely to have done it? The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him and Gerald.”

“That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose,” interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons. “Besides, his own shindy with the same man is suggestive of suspicion – is it not?”

“And if there was a quarrel,” argued the officer of infantry, “what then? It don’t follow there was a murder.”

“Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?”

“Something of the sort is possible, and even probable. I will admit that much.”

“But what did they have a difficulty about?” asked Hancock. “I heard that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter – notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun. What could they have quarrelled about?”

“A singular interrogation on your part, Lieutenant Hancock!” answered the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. “As if men ever quarrelled about anything except – ”

“Except women,” interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.

“But which woman, I wonder? It could not be anything relating to young Poindexter’s sister?”

“Quién sabe?” answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Crossman. “A horse-catcher daring to set his thoughts on Miss Poindexter! Preposterous!”

“What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman! Don’t you know that love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of distinction. I don’t say that in this case there’s been anything of the kind. Miss Poindexter’s not the only woman that might have caused a quarrel between the two individuals in question. There are other damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about – to say nothing of our own fair following in the Fort; and why not – ”

“Captain Sloman,” petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles. “I must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately. The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the insinuation.”

“What insinuation, sir?”

“Do you suppose it likely that there’s one of them would condescend to speak to the person you’ve named?”

“Which? I’ve named two.”

“You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you. Our ladies will, no doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!”

“Maurice the mustanger may be the last – suspected, and that is all. He is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr Crossman. I’ve seen more of this young Irishman than you – enough to satisfy me that, so far as breeding goes, he may compare notes with the best of us. Our grand dames needn’t be scared at the thought of his acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don’t think they would shy from it – some of them at least – if it were offered them. It never has. So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. I have seen him in their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them as if fully sensible of his position. For that matter, I don’t think he cares a straw about one or other of them.”

“Indeed! How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his rivals!”

“Perhaps it is,” quietly remarked the captain of infantry.

“Who knows?” asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish conversation. “Who knows but the cause of quarrel – if there’s been one – might not be this splendid señorita so much talked about? I haven’t seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she’s just the sort to make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats.”

“It might be – who knows?” drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts turned in any other direction than towards the commissary’s quarters.

“They’ve got him in the guard-house,” remarked Hancock, stating a fact that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign. “His droll devil of a serving man is along with him. What’s more; the major has just issued an order to double the guard! What does it mean, Captain Sloman – you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs? Surely there’s no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his prison?”

“Not likely,” replied the infantry officer, “seeing that he hasn’t the slightest idea that he’s inside of one. I’ve just been to the guard-house to have a look at him. He’s mad as a March hare[339]; and wouldn’t know his own face in a looking-glass.”

“Mad! In what way?” asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger’s capture.

“A brain fever upon him – delirious?”

“Is that why the guards have been doubled? Devilish queer if it is. The major himself must have gone mad!”

“Maybe it’s the suggestion – command I should rather say – of the majoress. Ha! ha! ha!”

“But what does it mean? Is the old maje really afraid of his getting out of the guard-house?”

“No – not that, I fancy. More likely an apprehension of somebody else getting into it.”

“Ah! you mean, that – ”

“I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there’s more safety inside than out. Some queer characters are about; and there’s been talk of another Lynch trial. The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a respite; or there’s somebody hard at work in bringing about this state of public opinion. It’s lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his friend; and it’s but a continuation of his good luck that we’ve returned so opportunely. Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse empty – so far as its present occupants are concerned. Now, thank God! the poor fellow shall have a fair trial.”

“When is it to take place?”

“Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he’s being tried!”

“It may be weeks before that.”

“And it may be only days – hours. He don’t appear to be very bad – that is, bodily. It’s his mind that’s out of order – more, perhaps, from some strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has received. A day may make all the difference; and, from what I’ve just heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows a return to consciousness. They say, they won’t wait for him to recover from his wounds!”

“Maybe he’ll be able to tell a story that’ll clear him. I hope so.”

This was said by Hancock.

“I doubt it,” rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head. “Nous verrons!”

“I’m sure of it,” said Sloman. “Nos veremos!” he added, speaking in a tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was father to the thought.

Chapter 69

Mystery and Mourning

There is mourning in the mansion of Casa del Corvo, and mystery among the members of Woodley Poindexter’s family.

Though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some deep-seated cause.

They meet only at the hour of meals – then conversing only on such topics as cannot well be shunned.

There is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity.

The death – no longer doubted – of an only son – an only brother – unexpected and still unexplained – should account for the melancholy mien both of father and daughter.

It might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the cousin.

But there is something beyond this. Each appears to act with an irksome restraint in the presence of the others – even during the rare occasions, on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune!

Beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle.

The once proud planter stays within doors – pacing from room to room, or around, the enclosed corridor – bending beneath a weight of woe, that has broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart. Even strong paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans, oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his lips!

Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.

For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.

Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. There are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea – alone and in silent meditation.

There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon Earth – the loss of a beloved brother – the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense – perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.

Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. The last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer.

But the second – the supreme pain of all – is but strengthened and intensified by time!

She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison – the strong walls of a military guard-house.

It is not their strength that dismays her. On the contrary, she has fears for their weakness!

She has reasons for her apprehension. She has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. She has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude coadjutors – not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement – especially when proximate to a military post.

The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way.

The facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case – at least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him.

If the four horsemen seen were not Indians – and this has been clearly shown by the discovery of the disguises – it is not the less likely that they have had to do with the death of young Poindexter. Besides, there is nothing to connect them with the mustanger, any more than if they had been real Comanches.

Why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second time surging up?

There is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many people.

There are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause. A very few: perhaps only three individuals.

Two of them are Zeb Stump and Louise Poindexter; the third Captain Cassius Calhoun.

The old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some underhanded action – the actors being Miguel Diaz and his men, associated with a half-score of like characters of a different race – the “rowdies” of the settlement. Zeb has traced the action to its instigator – the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

He has communicated his discovery to the young Creole, who is equal to the understanding of it. It is the too clear comprehension of its truth that now inspires her with a keen solicitude.

Anxiously she awaits every word of news – watches the road leading from the Fort to Casa del Corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that way!

She dares not show herself at the prison. There are soldiers on guard, and spectators around it – a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity of those who have committed great crimes.

There is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one. The criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses.

The guard-house doors are at all hours besieged – to the great discomfort of the sentries – by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the delirious man. A lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes turned inquiringly upon her. Louise Poindexter cannot run the gauntlet of those looks without risk to her reputation.

Left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it. Watched by a father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation, equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the world – she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence.

She can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the Alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet time spent among the mezquite trees, the spot itself almost discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is now humiliated – disgraced – shut up within the walls of a gaol – perchance to be delivered from it only unto death!

To her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day, Zeb Stump made his appearance at Casa del Corro, bringing the intelligence; that the “hoss-sogers hed kum back to the Fort.”

There was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted. There was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin!

“Ee needn’t be uneezy ’beout thet ere ewent,” said Zeb, speaking with a confidence he had not shown for some time. “Thur’s no longer a danger o’ it comin’ to pass, Miss Lewaze. I’ve tuk preecaushins agin it.”

“Precautions! How, Zeb?”

“Wal; fust place, I’ve seed the major clost arter his comin’ back, an gied him a bit o’ my mind. I tolt him the hul story, as fur’s I know it myself. By good luck he ain’t agin the young fellur, but the tother way I reck’n. Wal, I tolt him o’ the goin’s on o’ the hul crew – Amerikins, Mexikins, an all o’ them – not forgettin’ thet ugly Spanyard o’ the name o’ Dee-ez, thet’s been one o’ the sarciest o’ the lot. The ree-sult’s been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun’ the prison, an’s goin’ to keep ’em doubled.”

“I am so glad! You think there is no longer any fear from that quarter?”

“If you mean the quarter o’ Mister Migooel Dee-ez, I kin swar to it. Afore he thinks o’ gittin’ any b’dy else out o’ a prison, he’s got to git hisself out.”

“What; Diaz in prison! How? When? Where?”

“You’ve asked three seprit questyuns, Miss Lewaze, all o’ a heep. Wal; I reck’n the conveenientest way to answer ’em ’ll be to take ’em backurds. An’ fust as to the whar. As to thet, thur’s but one prison in these parts, as ’ud be likely to hold him. Thet is the guard-house at the Fort. He’s thur.”

“Along with – ”

“I know who ye’re goin’ to name – the young fellur. Jest so. They’re in the same buildin’, tho’ not ’zackly in the same room. Thur’s a purtition atween ’em; tho’ for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they’re so inclined. Thur’s three others shet up along wi’ the Mexikin – his own cussed cummarades. The three ’ll have somethin’ to talk ’beout ’mong themselves, I reck’n.”

“This is good news, Zeb. You told me yesterday that Diaz was active in – ”

“Gittin’ hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in effectuatin’. He’s got hisself into the jug, or someb’y else hev did thet bizness for him.”

“But how – when – you’ve not told me?”

“Geehosophat! Miss Lewaze. Gi’ me a leetle time. I hain’t drew breath yit, since I kim in. Yur second questyun war when. It air eezy answered. ’Beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked up. I war at the shettin’ o’ the door ahint him, an kum straight custrut hyur arter it war done.”

“But you have not yet said why he is arrested.”

“I hain’t hed a chance. It air a longish story, an ’ll take a leetle time in the tellin’. Will ye listen to it now, or arter – ?”

“After what, Mr Stump?”

“Wal, Miss Lewaze, I only meened arter – arter – I git the ole mare put up. She air stannin’ thur, as if she’d like to chaw a yeer o’ corn, an somethin’ to wet it down. Both she ’nd me’s been on a longish tramp afore we got back to the Fort; which we did scace a hour ago.”

“Pardon me, dear Mr Stump, for not thinking of it. Pluto; take Mr Stump’s horse to the stable, and see that it is fed. Florinde! Florinde! What will you eat, Mr Stump?”

“Wal, as for thet, Miss Lewaze, thank ye all the same, but I ain’t so partikler sharp set. I war only thinkin’ o’ the maar. For myself, I ked go a kupple o’ hours longer ’ithout eetin’, but ef thur’s sech a thing as a smell o’ Monongaheely ’beout the place, it ’ud do this ole karkidge o’ mine a power o’ good.”

“Monongahela? plenty of it. Surely you will allow me to give you something better?”

“Better ’n Monongaheely!”

“Yes. Some sherry – champagne – brandy if you prefer it.”

“Let them drink brandy as like it, and kin’ git it drinkable. Thur may be some o’ it good enuf; an ef thur air, I’m shor it’ll be foun’ in the house o’ a Peintdexter. I only knows o’ the sort the sutler keeps up at the Fort. Ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet’s one. It ’ud rot the guts out o’ a alleygatur. No; darn thur French lickers; an specially thur brandy. Gi’ me the pure corn juice; an the best o’ all, thet as comes from Pittsburgh on the Monongaheely.”

“Florinde! Florinde!”

It was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted. The presence of Zeb Stump indicated the service for which she had been summoned. Without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what Zeb called the “pure corn juice,” but which was in reality the essence of rye – for from this grain is distilled the celebrated “Monongahela.”

Zeb was not slow to refresh himself. A full third of the contents of the decanter were soon put out of sight – the other two-thirds remaining for future potations that might be required in the course of the narration upon which he was about to enter.

Chapter 70

Go, Zeb, and God Speed You!

The old hunter never did things in a hurry. Even his style of drinking was not an exception; and although there was no time wasted, he quaffed the Monongahela in a formal leisurely manner.

The Creole, impatient to hear what he had to relate, did not wait for him to resume speech.

“Tell me, dear Zeb,” said she, after directing her maid to withdraw, “why have they arrested this Mexican – Miguel Diaz I mean? I think I know something of the man. I have reasons.”

“An’ you ain’t the only purson may hev reezuns for knowin’ him, Miss Lewaze. Yur brother – but never mind ’beout that – leastwise not now. What Zeb Stump do know, or strongly surspect, air, thet this same-mentioned Migooel Dee-ez hev had somethin’ to do wi’ – You know what I’m refarrin’ to?”

“Go on, Mr Stump!”

“Wal, the story air this. Arter we kim from the Alamo Crik, the fellurs that went in sarch o’ them Injuns, foun’ out they wan’t Injuns at all. Ye hev heern that yurself. From the fixins that war diskevered in the holler tree, it air clur that what we seed on the Bluff war a party o’ whites. I hed a surspishun o’t myself – soon as I seed them curds they’d left ahint ’em in the shanty.”

“It was the same, then, who visited the jacalé at night – the same Phalim saw?”

“Ne’er a doubt o’ it. Them same Mexikins.”

“What reason have you to think they were Mexicans?”

“The best o’ all reezuns. I foun’ ’em out to be; traced the hul kit o’ ’em to thur cache[340].”

The young Creole made no rejoinder. Zeb’s story promised a revelation that might be favourable to her hopes. She stood resignedly waiting for him to continue.

“Ye see, the curds, an also some words, the which the Irish war able to sort o’ pernounce, arter a fashun o’ his own, tolt me they must a been o’ the yeller-belly breed; an sartint ’bout that much, I war able to gie a tol’able guess as to whar they hed kim from. I know’d enuf o’ the Mexikins o’ these parts to think o’ four as answered thar descripshun to a T. As to the Injun duds, thar warn’t nuthin’ in them to bamboozle me. Arter this, I ked a gone straight to the hul four fellurs, an pinted ’em out for sartin. One o’ ’em, for sure sartin. On him I’d made my mark. I war confident o’ havin’ did thet.”

“Your mark! How, Zeb?”

“Ye remimber the shot I fired from the door o’ the shanty?”

“Oh, certainly! I did not see the Indians. I was under the trees at the time. I saw you discharge your rifle at something.”

“Wal, Miss Lewaze; this hyur coon don’t often dischurge thet thur weepun ’ithout drawin’ blood. I know’d I hut the skunk; but it war rayther fur for the carry o’ the piece, an I reckon’d the ball war a bit spent. F’r all that, I know’d it must a stung him. I seed him squirm to the shot, an I says to myself: Ef ther ain’t a hole through his hide somewhar, this coon won’t mind changin’ skins wi’ him. Wal, arter they kim home wi’ the story o’ whites instead o’ red-skins, I hed a tol’able clur idee o’ who the sham Injuns wur, an ked a laid my claws on ’em at any minnit. But I didn’t.”

“And why not, Mr Stump? Surely you haven’t allowed them to get away? They might be the very men who are guilty of my poor brother’s – ”

“That’s jest what this coon thort, an it war for that reezun I let ’em slide. There war another reezun besides. I didn’t much like goin’ fur from the Port, leest somethin’ ugly mout turn up in my absince. You unnerstan’? There war another reezun still for not prospectin’ arter them jest then. I wanted to make shur o’ my game.”

“And you have?”

“Shur as shootin’. I guessed thur wan’t goin’ to be any rain, an thurfor thur war no immeedyit hurry as to what I intended doin’. So I waited till the sogers shed get back, an I ked safely leave him in the guard-house. Soon as they kim in, I tuk the ole maar and rud out to the place whar our fellurs had struck upon the fixing. I eezy foun’ it by thur descripshun. Wal; as they’d only got that greenhorn, Spangler, to guide ’em, I war putty sure the sign hedn’t been more’n helf read; an that I’d get somethin’ out o’ it, beside what they’d brought away.”

“I wan’t disappinted. The durndest fool as ever set fut upon a purayra, mout a follered the back track o’ them make-believe Kimanchees. A storekeeper ked a traced it acrost the purayra, though it appears neyther Mister Spangler nor any o’ the others did. I foun’ it eezy as fallin’ off o’ a log, not ’ithstandin’ thet the sarchers had rud all over it. I tracked every hoss o’ the four counterfits to his own stable.”

“After that?”

“Arter doin’ thet I hed a word wi’ the major; an in helf an hour at the most the four beauties wur safe shot up in the guardhouse – the chief o’ ’em bein’ jugged fust, leest he mout get wind o’ what wur goin’ forrard, an sneak out o’ the way. I wan’t fur astray ’beout Mister Migooel Dee-ez bearin’ my mark. We foun’ the tar o’ a bullet through the fleshy part o’ his dexter wing; an thet explained why he wur so quick at lettin’ go his laryette[341].”

“It was he, then!” mechanically remarked Louise, as she stood reflecting.

“Very strange!” she continued, still muttering the words to herself. “He it was I saw in the chapparal glade! Yes, it must have been! And the woman – this Mexican – Isidora? Ah! There is some deep mystery in all this – some dark design! Who can unravel it?”

“Tell me, dear Zeb,” she asked, stepping closer to the old hunter, and speaking with a cartain degree of hesitancy. “That woman – the Mexican lady I mean – who – who was out there. Do you know if she has often visited him?”

“Him! Which him, Miss Lewaze?”

“Mr Gerald, I mean.”

“She mout, an she moutn’t – ’ithout my knowin’ eyther one or the tother. I ain’t often thur myself. The place air out o’ my usooal huntin’ ground, an I only go now an then for the sake o’ a change. The crik’s fust rate for both deer an gobbler. If ye ask my opeenyun, I’d say that thet ere gurl heven’t never been thur afore. Leestwise, I hain’t heern o’ it; an eft hed been so, I reckun Irish Pheelum ud a hed somethin’ to say abeout it. Besides, I hev other reezuns for thinkin’ so. I’ve only heern o’ one o’ the shemale sex bein’ on a visit to thet shanty.”

“Who?” quickly interrogated the Creole, the instant after regretting that she had asked the question – the colour coming to her cheeks, as she noticed the significant glance with which Zeb had accompanied his concluding remark.

“No matter,” she continued, without waiting for the answer.

“So, Zeb,” she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, “you think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to all of us, – these Mexicans?”

“To tell ye the truth, Miss Lewaze, I don’t know zackly what to think. It air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur purayras. Sometimes I hev the idea that the Mexikins must a did it; while at others, I’m in the opposite way o’ thinkin’, an thet some’dy else hev hed a han’ in the black bizness. I won’t say who.”

“Not him, Zeb; not him!”

“Not the mowstanger. No, neer a bit o’ thet. Spite o’ all that’s sayed agin him, I hain’t the leest surspishun o’ his innersense.”

“Oh! how is he to prove it? It is said, that the testimony is all against him! No one to speak a word in his behalf!”

“Wal, it ain’t so sartint as to thet. Keepin’ my eye upon the others, an his prison; I hain’t hed much chance o’ gettin’ abeout. Thur’s a opportunity now; an I mean to make use o’ it. The purayra’s a big book, Miss Peintdexter – a wonderful big book – for them as knows how to read the print o’t. If not much o’ a scholar otherways, Zeb’lon Stump hev larnt to do thet. Thur may be some testymoney that mout help him, scattered over the musquit grass – jest as I’ve heern a Methody preecher say, thur ‘war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin’ brutes.’ Eft air so, thur oughter be somethin’ o’ the kind scared up on the Alamo crik.”

“You think you might discover some traces?”

“Wal; I’m goin’ out to hev a look ’roun’ me – speecially at the place whur I foun’ the young fellur in the claws o’ the spotted painter. I oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun I’ve tolt ye. Thank the Awlmighty! thur’s been no wet – neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign’s been made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did yisterday – that is by them as knows how to read it. I must start straight away, Miss Lewaze. I jest runned down to tell ye what hed been done at the Fort. Thur’s no time to be throwed away. They let me in this mornin’ to see the young fellur; an I’m sartin his head air gettin’ clurrer. Soon as it air all right, the Reg’lators say, they’ll insist on the trial takin’ place. It may be in less’n three days; an I must git back afore it begins.”

“Go, Zeb, and God speed you on your generous errand! Come back with proofs of his innocence, and ever after I shall feel indebted to you for – for – more than life!”

Chapter 71

The Sorell Horse

Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.

He found the “critter” sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto had placed liberally before her.

Pluto himself was standing by her side.

Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil. He looked rather triste[342] than excited.

It might be easily explained. The loss of his young master – by Pluto much beloved – the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated – perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of Morinda – and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of Captain Cassius – for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion – amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance.

Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic. He was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.

Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.

It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare – to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws.

She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger.

“Ho! ho! Mass’ Tump!” interposed Pluto. “Why you be go ’way in dat big hurry? De poor ole ma’ she no half got u’m feed. Why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn? Ha! ha! It do her power o’ good.”

“Han’t got time, nigger. Goin’ off on a bit o’ a jurney. Got abeout a hunderd mile to make in less ’an a kupple o’ hours.”

“Ho! ho! Dat ere de fassest kind o’ trabbelin’. You ’m jokin’, Mass’ Tump?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Gorramity! Wa – dey do make won’full journey on dese hyur prairas. I reck’n dat ere hoss must a trabbled two hunner mile de odder night.”

“What hoss?”

“De ole sorrel dere – in dat furrest ’tand from de doos – Massa Cahoon hoss.”

“What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?”

“Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff. Beside, he wa so done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo’ gib um drink. Hee ’tagger like new-drop calf. Ho! ho! he wa broke down – he wa!”

“O’ what night air ye palaverin’, Plute?”

“Wha night? Le’ss see! Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed from de plantashun. Dat same night in de mornin’, ’bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings. I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight. Den I kum ’cross to de ’table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff – lookin’ like he’d swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin’ ’s if he jes finish a fo’ mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean.”

“Who had him out thet night?”

“Doan know, Mass’ Tump. Only dat nobody ’lowed to ride de sorrel ’cept Massa Cahoon hisself. Ho! ho! Ne’er a body ’lowed lay leg ober dat critter.”

“Why, wan’t it himself that tuk the anymal out?”

“Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor. Dis chile neider see de Cap’n take um out nor fotch um in.”

“If yur statement air true ’beout his bein’ in sech a sweat, someb’dy must a hed him out, an been ridin’ o’ him.”

“Ha! ha! Someb’dy muss, dat am certing.”

“Looke hyur, Plute! Ye ain’t a bad sort o’ a darkie, though your skin air o’ a sut colour. I reck’n you’re tellin’ the truth; an ye don’t know who rud out the sorrel that night. But who do ye think it war? I’m only axin’ because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o’ mine, an I don’t want his property to be abused – no more what belongs to Capen Calhoun. Some o’ the field niggers, I reck’n, hev stole the anymal out o’ the stable, an hev been ridin’ it all roun’ the country. That’s it, ain’t it?”

“Well, no, Mass’ Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it. De fiel’ hands not ’lowed inside hyur. Dey darn’t kum in to de ’table no how. ’Twan’t any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night.”

“Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out? Maybe the overseer? War it him d’ye think?”

“’Twan’t him needer.”

“Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o’ the hoss hisself? If so, thur’s an end o’ it. He hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him. It ain’t no bizness o’ myen.”

“Ho! ho! Nor myen, needer, Mass’ Tump. Wish I’d thought dat way dis mornin’.”

“Why do ye weesh that? What happened this mornin’ to change yur tune?”

“Ho! what happen dis mornin’? Dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin’. Ho! – ho! berry great misfortin’.”

“What war it?”

“Golly, Massa Tump, I’se got kicked – dis berry mornin’, jes ’bout an hour arter twelve o’clock in de day.”

“Kicked?”

“Dat I did shoo – all round de ’table.”

“Oh! by the hosses! Which o’ the brutes kicked ye?”

“Ho! – ho! you mistaken! Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all – ’cept little Spotty da, de which he doan’t own. I wa kicked by Mass’ Cahoon.”

“The hell ye wur! For what reezun? Ye must hev been misbehavin’ yurself, nigger?”

“Dis nigga wan’t mis-b’avin’ ’t all; not as he knows on. I only ask de cap’n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make ’im be tired down. He say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if I ebber ’peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip. He swa; oh! how he swa! Dis chile nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad – nebba, in all ’im life!”

“But whar’s he now? I don’t see him nowhar’ beout the premises; an I reck’n he ain’t rud out, seein’ as the sorrel’s hyur?”

“Golly, yes, Mass Tump; he jess am rode out at dis time. He ob late go berry much away from de house an tay long time.”

“A hossback?”

“Jess so. He go on de steel grey. Ha! – ha! he doan’ ride de sorrel much now. He hain’t mount ’im once since de night de ole hoss wa out – dat night we been ’peakin’ ’bout. Maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin’ den, an need long ’pell ob ress.”

“Look’ee hyur, Plute,” said Zeb, after standing silent for a second or two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation. “Arter all, I reck’n I’d better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o’ the corn. She’s got a long spell o’ travellin’ afore her; an she mout break down on the jurney. The more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an thurfor, I kalkerlate, I’d better gie the critter her time. While she’s munchin’ a mouthful, I ked do the same myself. ’Spose, then, you skoot acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain’t some chawin’ stuff thur – a bit o’ cold meat an a pone o’ corn bread ’ll do. Yur young mistress wanted me to hev somethin’ to eet; but I war skeert abeout delayin’, an refused. Now, while I’m waitin’ on the maar, I reck’n I ked pick a bone, – jest to pass the time.”

“Sartin’ ye cud, Mass Tump. I go fotch ’im in de hundreth part ob an instant.”

So saying the black-skinned Jehu started off across the patio, leaving Zeb Stump sole “master of the stole.”

The air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with Pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door.

It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it.

Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.

The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall – perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.

“Stan’ still, ye brute!” chided Zeb. “I don’t mean no harm to you, tho’ by yur looks I reck’n ye’re as vicious as yur master. Stan’ still, I say, an let’s hev a look at yur fut-gear!”

So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs.

It was unsuccessful. The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting – as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him.

“Durn your ugly karkidge!” cried Zeb, angrily venting the words. “Why don’t ye stan’ still? Who’s goin’ to hurt ye? Come, ole critter!” he continued coaxingly, “I only want to see how youv’e been shod.”

Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse.

“Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn’t expeck,” muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. “What’s to be did? It’ll never do to hev the nigger help me – nor yet see what I’m abeout – the which he will ef I don’t get quick through wi’ it. Dog-gone the hoss! How am I to git his feet up?”

For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience.

“Cuss the critter!” he again exclaimed. “I feel like knockin’ him over whar he stan’s. Ha! now I hev it, if the nigger will only gie time. I hope the wench will keep him waitin’. Durn ye! I’ll make ye stan’ still, or choke ye dead ef ye don’t. Wi’ this roun’ yur jugewlar, I reck’n ye won’t be so skittish.”

While speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and, throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it encircled the animal’s neck.

Then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring.

The horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with rage.

But his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself into terror. The rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of the change.

Zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast, commenced lifting his feet one after the other – scrutinising each, in great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care. He appeared to take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of the nails – in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or assist in a future identification.

On coming to the off hind foot – which he did last of the four – an exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise. It was caused by the sight of a broken shoe – nearly a quarter of which was missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail from the canker.

“Ef I’d know’d o’ you,” he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect shoe, “I mout a’ saved myself the trouble o’ examinin’ the tothers. Thur ain’t much chance o’ mistakin’ the print you’d be likely to leave ahint ye. To make shur, I’ll jest take ye along wi me.”

In conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife – the blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick – and, inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof.

Taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious pocket of his coat.

Then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel.

Pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of refreshments – including a tumbler of the Monongahela; and to these Zeb instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude that had occurred during the darkey’s absence.

The latter, however, did not fail to perceive that the sorrel was out of sorts: for the animal, on finding itself released, stood shivering in the stall, gazing around in a sort of woe-begone wonder after the rough treatment, to which he had been submitted.

“Gorramity!” exclaimed the black, “what am de matter wif de ole hoss? Ho! ho! he look like he wa afeerd ob you, Mass Tump!”

“Oh, ye-es!” drawled Zeb, with seeming carelessness. “I reck’n he air a bit afeerd. He war makin’ to get at my ole maar, so I gied him a larrup or two wi’ the eend o’ my trail rope. Thet’s what has rousted him.”

Pluto was perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and the subject was permitted to drop.

“Look hyur, Plute!” said Zeb, starting another. “Who does the shoein’ o’ yur cattle? Thars some o’ the hands air a smith, I reck’n?”

“Ho! ho! Dat dere am. Yella Jake he do shoein’. Fo what you ask, Mass Tump?”

“Wal; I war thinkin’ o’ havin’ a kupple o’ shoes put on the hind feet o’ the maar. I reck’n Jake ud do it for me.”

“Ho! ho! he do it wif a thousan’ welkim – dat he will, I’se shoo.”

“Questyun is, kin I spare the time to wait. How long do it take him to put on a kupple?”

“Lor, Mass Tamp, berry short while. Jake fust-rate han’ lit de bizness. Ebberybody say so.”

“He moutn’t have the mateerils riddy? It depends on whether he’s been shoein’ lately. How long’s it since he shod any o’ yourn?”

“More’n a week I blieb, Mass’ Zeb. Ho – ho! Do last war Missa Looey hoss – de beautiful ’potty dar. But dat won’t make no differens. I know he hab de fixins all ready. I knows it, kase he go for shoe de sorrel. De ole hoss hab one ob de hind shoe broke. He hab it so de lass ten day; an Mass Cahoon, he gib orders for it be remove. Ho – ho! dis berry mornin’ I hear um tell Jake.”

“Arter all,” rejoined Zeb, as if suddenly changing his mind, “I moutn’t hev the time to spare. I reck’n I’ll let the ole critter do ’ithout till I kum back. The tramp I’m goin’ on – most part o’ it – lies over grass purayra; an won’t hurt her.”

“No, I hevn’t time,” he added, after stepping outside and glancing up towards the sky. “I must be off from hyur in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Now, ole gal! you’ve got to stop yur munchin’ an take this bit o’ iron atwixt yur teeth. Open yur corn trap for it. That’s the putty pet!”

And so continuing to talk – now to Pluto, now to the mare – he once more adjusted the headstall; led the animal out; and, clambering into the saddle, rode thoughtfully away.

Chapter 72

Zeb Stump on the Trail

After getting clear of the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, the hunter headed his animal up stream – in the direction of the Port and town.

It was the former he intended to reach – which he did in a ride of less than a quarter of an hour.

Commonly it took him three to accomplish this distance; but on this occasion he was in an unusual state of excitement, and he made speed to correspond. The old mare could go fast enough when required – that is when Zeb required her and he had a mode of quickening her speed – known only to himself, and only employed upon extraordinary occasions. It simply consisted in drawing the bowie knife from his belt, and inserting about in inch of its blade into the mare’s hip, close to the termination of the spine.

The effect was like magic; or, if you prefer the figure – electricity. So spurred, Zeb’s “critter” could accomplish a mile in three minutes; and more than once had she been called upon to show this capability, when her owner was chased by Comanches.

On the present occasion there was no necessity for such excessive speed; and the Fort was reached after fifteen minutes’ sharp trotting.

On reaching it, Zeb slipped out of the saddle, and made his way to the quarters of the commandant; while the mare was left panting upon the parade ground.

The old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of Fort Inge. Looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entrée at all times, and could go in without countersign, or any of the other formalities usually demanded from a stranger. The sentry passed him, as a matter of course – the officer of the guard only exchanged with him a word of welcome; and the adjutant at once announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment.

From his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him.

“Ah! Mr Stump! Glad to see you so soon. Have you made any discovery in this queer affair? From your quick return, I can almost say you have. Something, I hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. Notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, I still adhere to my old opinion – that he’s innocent. What have you learnt?”

“Wal, Maje,” answered Zeb, without making other obeisance than the simple politeness of removing his hat; “what I’ve larnt aint much, tho’ enough to fetch me back to the Fort; where I didn’t intend to come, till I’d gone a bit o’ a jurney acrosst the purayras. I kim back hyur to hev a word wi’ yurself.”

“In welcome. What is it you have to say?”

“That ye’ll keep back this trial as long’s ye kin raisonably do so. I know thur’s a pressyur from the outside; but I know, too, that ye’ve got the power to resist it, an what’s more, Maje – yo’ve got the will.”

“I have. You speak quite truly about that, Mr Stump. And as to the power, I have that, too, in a certain sense. But, as you are aware, in our great republic, the military power must always be subservient to the civil – unless under martial-law, which God forbid should ever be required among us – even here in Texas. I can go so far as to hinder any open violation of the law; but I cannot go against the law itself.”

“T’ant the law I want ye to go agin. Nothin’ o’ the sort, Maje. Only them as air like to take it into thur own hands, an twist it abeout to squar it wi’ thur own purpisses. Thur’s them in this Settlement as ’ud do thet, ef they ain’t rustrained. One in espeecial ’ud like to do it; an I knows who thet one air – leestwise I hev a tolable clur guess o’ him.”

“Who?”

“Yur good to keep a seecret, Maje? I know ye air.”

“Mr Stump, what passes here is in confidence. You may speak your mind freely.”

“Then my mind air: thet the man who hez dud this murder ain’t Maurice the Mowstanger.”

“That’s my own belief. You know it already. Have you nothing more to communicate?”

“Wal, Maje, preehaps I ked communerkate a leetle more ef you insist upon it. But the time ain’t ripe for tellin’ ye what I’ve larnt – the which, arter all, only mounts to surspishuns. I may be wrong; an I’d rayther you’d let me keep ’em to myself till I hev made a short exkurshun acrost to the Nooeces. Arter thet, ye’ll be welkum to what I know now, besides what I may be able to gather off o’ the parayras.”

“So far as I am concerned, I’m quite contented to wait for your return; the more willingly that I know you are acting on the side of justice. But what would you have me do?”

“Keep back the trial, Maje – only that. The rest will be all right.”

“How long? You know that it must come on according to the usual process in the Criminal Court. The judge of this circuit will not be ruled by me, though he may yield a little to my advice. But there is a party, who are crying out for vengeance; and he may be ruled by them.”

“I know the party ye speak o’. I know their leader; an maybe, afore the trial air over, he may be the kriminal afore the bar.”

“Ah! you do not believe, then, that these Mexicans are the men!”

“Can’t tell, Maje, whether they air or ain’t. I do b’lieve thet they’ve hed a hand in the bizness; but I don’t b’lieve thet they’ve been the prime movers in’t. It’s him I want to diskiver. Kin ye promise me three days?”

“Three days! For what?”

“Afore the trial kims on.”

“Oh! I think there will be no difficulty about that. He is now a prisoner under military law. Even if the judge of the Supreme Court should require him to be delivered up inside that time, I can make objections that will delay his being taken from the guard-house. I shall undertake to do that.”

“Maje! ye’d make a man a’most contented to live under marshul law. No doubt thur air times when it air the best, tho’ we independent citizens don’t much like it. All I’ve got to say air, thet ef ye stop this trial for three days, or tharahout, preehaps the prisoner to kim afore the bar may be someb’y else than him who’s now in the guard-house – someb’y who jest at this mom’t hain’t the smallest serspishun o’ bein’ hisself surspected. Don’t ask me who. Only say ye’ll streetch a pint, an gi’ me three days?”

“I promise it, Mr Stump. Though I may risk my commission as an officer in the American army, I give you an officer’s promise, that for three days Maurice the Mustanger shall not go out of my guard-house. Innocent or guilty, for that time he shall be protected.”

“Yur the true grit, Maje; an dog-gone me, ef I don’t do my beest to show ye some day, thet I’m sensible o’t. I’ve nuthin’ more to say now, ’ceptin’ to axe thet ye’ll not tell out o’ doors what I’ve been tellin’ you. Thur’s them outside who, ef they only knew what this coon air arter, ’ud move both heving an airth to circumwent his intenshuns.”

“They’ll have no help from me – whoever it is you are speaking of. Mr Stump, you may rely upon my pledged word.”

“I know’t, Maje, I know’t. God bless ye for a good ’un. Yer the right sort for Texas!”

With this complimentary leave-taking the hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.

Once more mounting her, he rode rapidly away. Having cleared the parade ground, and afterwards the outskirts of the village, he returned on the same path that had conducted him from Casa Del Corvo.

On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare ’gainst the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.

He reached it, at a point where the chapparal impinged upon the prairie, and there reined up under the shade of a mezquit tree. He did not alight, nor show any sign of an intention to do so; but sate in the saddle, stooped forward, his eyes turned upon the ground, in that vacant gaze which denotes reflection.

“Dog-gone my cats!” he drawled out in slow soliloquy. “Thet ere sarkimstance are full o’ signiferkince. Calhoun’s hoss out the same night, an fetched home a’ sweetin’ all over. What ked that mean? Durn me, ef I don’t surspect the foul play hev kum from that quarter. I’ve thort so all along; only it air so ridiklous to serpose thet he shed a killed his own cousin. He’d do that, or any other villinous thing, ef there war a reezun for it. There ain’t – none as I kin think o’. Ef the property hed been a goin’ to the young un, then the thing mout a been intellygible enuf. But it want. Ole Peintdexter don’t own a acre o’ this hyur groun’; nor a nigger thet’s upon it. Thet I’m sartin’ ’beout. They all belong to that cuss arready; an why shed he want to get shot o’ the cousin? Thet’s whar this coon gets flummixed in his kalkerlations. Thar want no ill will atween ’em, as ever I heerd o’. Thur’s a state o’ feelin’ twixt him an the gurl, thet he don’t like, I know. But why shed it temp him to the killin’ o’ her brother?

“An’ then thur’s the mowstanger mixed in wi’ it, an that shindy ’beout which she tolt me herself; an the sham Injuns, an the Mexikin shemale wi’ the har upon her lip; an the hossman ’ithout a head, an hell knows what beside! Geesus Geehosofat! it ’ud puzzle the brain pan o’ a Looeyville lawyer!

“Wal – there’s no time to stan’ speklatin’ hyur. Wi’ this bit o’ iron to assiss me, I may chance upon somethin’ thet’ll gie a clue to a part o’ the bloody bizness, ef not to the hul o’ it; an fust, as to the direcshun in which I shed steer?”

He looked round, as if in search of some one to answer the interrogatory.

“It air no use beginnin’ neer the Fort or the town. The groun’ abeout both on ’em air paddled wi’ hoss tracks like a cattle pen. I’d best strike out into the purayra at onst, an take a track crossways o’ the Rio Grande route. By doin’ thet I may fluke on the futmark I’m in search o’. Yes – ye-es! thet’s the most sensiblest idee.”

As if fully satisfied on this score, he took up his bridle-rein, muttered some words to his mare, and commenced moving off along the edge of the chapparal.

Having advanced about a mile in the direction of the Nueces river, he abruptly changed his course; but with a coolness that told of a predetermined purpose.

It was now nearly due west, and at right angles to the different trails going towards the Rio Grande.

There was a simultaneous change in his bearing – in the expression of his features – and his attitude in the saddle. No longer looking listlessly around, he sate stooping forward, his eye carefully scanning the sward, over a wide space on both sides of the path he was pursuing.

He had ridden about a mile in the new direction, when something seen upon the ground caused him to start, and simultaneously pull upon the bridle-rein.

Nothing loth, the “critter” came to a stand; Zeb, at the same time, flinging himself out of the saddle.

Leaving the old mare to ruminate upon this eccentric proceeding, he advanced a pace or two, and dropped down upon his knees.

Then drawing the piece of curved iron out of his capacious pocket, he applied it to a hoof-print conspicuously outlined in the turf. It fitted.

“Fits!” he exclaimed, with a triumphant gesticulation, “Dog-goned if it don’t!”

“Tight as the skin o’ a tick!” he continued, after adjusting the broken shoe to the imperfect hoof-print, and taking it up again. “By the eturnal! that ere’s the track o’ a creetur – mayhap a murderer!”

Chapter 73

The Prairie Island

A herd of a hundred horses – or three times the number – pasturing upon a prairie, although a spectacle of the grandest kind furnished by the animal kingdom, is not one that would strike a Texan frontiersman as either strange, or curious. He would think it stranger to see a single horse in the same situation.

The former would simply be followed by the reflection: “A drove of mustangs.” The latter conducts to a different train of thought, in which there is an ambiguity. The solitary steed might be one of two things: either an exiled stallion, kicked out of his own cavallada, or a roadster strayed from some encampment of travellers.

The practised eye of the prairie-man would soon decide which.

If the horse browsed with a bit in his mouth, and a saddle on his shoulders, there would be no ambiguity – only the conjecture, as to how he had escaped from his rider.

If the rider were upon his back, and the horse still browsing, there would be no room for conjecture – only the reflection, that the former must be a lazy thick-headed fellow, not to alight and let his animal graze in a more commodious fashion.

If, however, the rider, instead of being suspected of having a thick head, was seen to have no head at all, then would there be cue for a thousand conjectures, not one of which might come within a thousand miles of the truth.

Such a horse; and just such a rider, were seen upon the prairies of South-Western Texas in the year of our Lord 1850 something. I am not certain as to the exact year – the unit of it – though I can with unquestionable certainty record the decade.

I can speak more precisely as to the place; though in this I must be allowed latitude. A circumference of twenty miles will include the different points where the spectral apparition made itself manifest to the eyes of men – both on prairie and in chapparal – in a district of country traversed by several northern tributaries of the Rio de Nueces, and some southern branches of the Rio Leona.

It was seen not only by many people; but at many different times. First, by the searchers for Henry Poindexter and his supposed murderer; second, by the servant of Maurice the mustanger; thirdly, by Cassius Calhoun, on his midnight exploration of the chapparal; fourthly, by the sham Indians on that same night: and, fifthly, by Zeb Stump on the night following.

But there were others who saw it elsewhere and on different occasions – hunters, herdsmen, and travellers – all alike awed, alike perplexed, by the apparition.

It had become the talk not only of the Leona settlement, but of others more distant. Its fame already reached on one side to the Rio Grande, and on the other was rapidly extending to the Sabine. No one doubted that such a thing had been seen. To have done so would have been to ignore the evidence of two hundred pairs of eyes, all belonging to men willing to make affidavit of the fact – for it could not be pronounced a fancy. No one denied that it had been seen. The only question was, how to account for a spectacle so peculiar, as to give the lie to all the known laws of creation.

At least half a score of theories were started – more or less feasible – more or less absurd. Some called it an “Indian dodge;” others believed it a “lay figure[343];” others that it was not that, but a real rider, only so disguised as to have his head under the serapé that shrouded his shoulders, with perhaps a pair of eye-holes through which he could see to guide his horse; while not a few pertinaciously adhered to the conjecture, started at a very early period, that the Headless Horseman was Lucifer himself!

In addition to the direct attempts at interpreting the abnormal phenomenon, there was a crowd of indirect conjectures relating to it. Some fancied that they could see the head, or the shape of it, down upon the breast, and under the blanket; others affirmed to having actually seen it carried in the rider’s hand; while others went still further, and alleged: that upon the head thus seen there was a hat – a black-glaze sombrero of the Mexican sort, with a band of gold bullion above the brim!

There were still further speculations, that related less to the apparition itself than to its connection with the other grand topic of the time – the murder of young Poindexter.

Most people believed there was some connection between the two mysteries; though no one could explain it. He, whom everybody believed, could have thrown some light upon the subject, was still ridden by the night-mare of delirium.

And for a whole week the guessing continued; during which the spectral rider was repeatedly seen; now going at a quick gallop, now moving in slow, tranquil pace, across the treeless prairie: his horse at one time halted and vaguely gazing around him; at another with teeth to the ground, industriously cropping the sweet gramma grass, that makes the pasturage of South-Western Texas (in my opinion) the finest in the world.

Rejecting many tales told of the Headless Horseman – most of them too grotesque to be recorded – one truthful episode must needs be given – since it forms an essential chapter of this strange history.

In the midst of the open, prairie there is a “motte” – a coppice, or clump of trees – of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. A prairie-man would call it an “island,” and with your eyes upon the vast verdant sea that surrounds it, you could not help being struck with the resemblance.

The aboriginal of America might not perceive it. It is a thought of the colonist transmitted to his descendants; who, although they may never have looked upon the great ocean, are nevertheless au fait[344] to its phraseology.

By the timber island in question – about two hundred yards from its edge – a horse is quietly pasturing. He is the same that carries the headless rider; and this weird equestrian is still bestriding him, with but little appearance of change, either in apparel or attitude, since first seen by the searchers. The striped blanket still hangs over his shoulders, cloaking the upper half of his person; while the armas-de-agua, strapped over his limbs, cover them from thigh to spur, concealing all but their outlines.

His body is bent a little forward, as if to ease the horse in getting his snout to the sward; which the long bridle-rein, surrendered to its full length, enables him to do, though still retained in hand, or resting over the “horn” of the saddle.

Those who asserted that they saw a head, only told the truth. There is a head; and, as also stated, with a hat upon it – a black sombrero, with bullion band as described.

The head rests against the left thigh, the chin being nearly down on a level with the rider’s knee. Being on the near side it can only be seen, when the spectator is on the same; and not always then, as it is at times concealed by a corner of the serapé.

At times too can a glimpse be obtained of the face. Its features are well formed, but wearing a sad expression; the lips of livid colour, slightly parted, showing a double row of white teeth, set in a grim ghastly smile.

Though there is no perceptible change in the personnel[345] of the Headless Horseman there is something new to be noted. Hitherto he has been seen going alone. Now he is in company.

It cannot be called agreeable; – consisting as it does of wolves – half a score of them squatting closely upon the plain, and at intervals loping around him.

By the horse they are certainly not liked; as is proved by the snorting and stamping of his hoof, when one of them ventures upon a too close proximity to his heels.

The rider seems more indifferent to a score of birds – large dark birds – that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. Even when one bolder than the rest has the audacity to alight upon him, he has made no attempt to disturb it, raising neither hand nor arm to drive it away!

Three times one of the birds has alighted thus – first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between – upon the spot where the head should be!

The bird does not stay upon its singular perch, or only for an instant. If the rider does not feel the indignity the steed does; and resists it by rearing upward, with a fierce neighing, that frights the vultures off – to return again only after a short interval of shyness.

His steed thus browsing, now in quiet, now disturbed by the too near approach of the wolves – anon by the bold behaviour of the birds – goes the Headless Horseman, step by step, and with long pauses of pasturing, around the prairie island.

Chapter 74

A Solitary Stalker

The singular spectacle described – extraordinary it might be termed – was too grave to appear grotesque. There was some thing about it that savoured of the outre-monde[346]. Human eyes could not have beholden it, without the shivering of a human frame, and the chilling of human blood.

Was it seen by human eyes in this fresh phase – with the wolves below, and the vultures above?

It was.

By one pair; and they belonging to the only man in all Texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery.

It was not yet altogether clear to him. There were points that still puzzled him. He but know it was neither a dummy, nor the Devil.

His knowledge did not except him from the universal feeling of dread. Despite the understanding of what the thing was, he shuddered as he gazed upon it.

He gazed upon it from the “shore” of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so.

And yet, with all his trembling and the desire to keep concealed, he was following it round and round, on the circumference of an inner circle, as if some magnetic power was constraining him to keep on the same radius, of which the point occupied by the Headless Horseman was a prolongation!

More than this. He had seen the latter before entering the island. He had seen him far off, and might easily have shunned him. But instead of doing so, he had immediately commenced making approach towards him!

He had continued it – using the timber as a screen, and acting as one who stalks the timid stag, with the difference of a heart-dread which no deer-stalker could ever know.

He had continued it; until the shelter of the motte gave him a momentary respite, not from fear, but the apprehension of a failure.

He had not ridden ten miles across the prairie without a design; and it was this that caused him to go so cautiously – guiding his horse over the softest turf, and through the selvedge of the chapparal – in such a way as neither to expose his person to view, nor cause a rustle among the branches, that might be heard to the distance of ten yards.

No one observing his manoeuvres as he moved amid the timber island, could have mistaken their meaning – at least so far as related to the object for which they were being made.

His eye was upon the Headless Horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter – by which he appeared to regulate his own.

At first, fear seemed to be his prevailing thought. After a time, it was succeeded by an impatience that partially emboldened him. The latter plainly sprang from his perceiving, that the Headless Horseman, instead of approaching the timber, still kept at a regular distance of two hundred yards from its edge.

That this chafed him was evident from a string of soliloquies, muttered half aloud. They were not free from blasphemy; but that was characteristic of the man who pronounced them.

“Damn the infernal brute! If he’d only come twenty yards nearer, I could fetch him. My gun won’t carry that distance. I’d miss him for sure, and then it’ll be all up. I may never get the chance again. Confound him! He’s all of twenty yards too far off.” As if the last was an ambiguity rather than a conviction, the speaker appeared to measure with his eye the space that separated him from the headless rider – all the while holding in hand a short Yäger rifle,[347] capped and cocked – ready for instant discharge.

“No use,” he continued, after a process of silent computation. “I might hit the beast with a spent ball, but only to scare without crippling him. I must have patience, and wait till he gets a little nearer. Damn them wolves! He might come in, if it wasn’t for them. So long as they’re about him, he’ll give the timber a wide berth. It’s the nature of these Texas howes – devil skin them!

“I wonder if coaxing would do any good?” he proceeded, after a pause. “Maybe the sound of a man’s voice would bring the animal to a stand? Doubtful. He’s not likely to ’ve heard much of that lately. I suppose it would only frighten him! The sight of my horse would be sure to do it, as it did before; though that was in the moonlight. Besides, he was chased by the howling staghound. No wonder his being wild, then, ridden as he is by hell knows what; for it can’t be – Bah! After all, there must be some trick in it; some damned infernal trick!”

For a while the speaker checked his horse with a tight rein. And, leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, continued to scan the strange shape that was slowly skirting the timber.

“It’s his horse – sure as shootin’! His saddle, serapé, and all. How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”

Another pause of reflection.

“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business. Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing lodged there, I’ve got to get it back. What a fool; to have bragged about it as I did! Curse the crooked luck!

“He won’t come nearer. He’s provokingly shy of the timber. Like all his breed, he knows he’s safest in the open ground.

“What’s to be done? See if I can call him up. May be he may like to hear a human voice. If it’ll only fetch him twenty yards nearer, I’ll be satisfied. Hanged if I don’t try.”

Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.

“Proh – proh – proshow! Come kindly! come, old horse!”

The invitation was extended to no purpose. The Texan steed did not seem to understand it; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him; for no sooner fell the “proh” upon his ear, than letting go the mouthful of grass already gathered, he tossed his head aloft with a snort that proclaimed far greater fear than that felt for either wolf or vulture!

A mustang, he knew that his greatest enemy was man – a man mounted upon a horse; and by this time his scent had disclosed to him the proximity of such a foe.

He stayed not to see what sort of man, or what kind of horse. His first instinct had told him that both were enemies.

As his rider by this time appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion, there was no tightening of the rein; and he was left free to follow his own course – which carried him straight off over the prairie.

A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.

Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman passing rapidly beyond reach – unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him.

Chapter 75

On the Trail

Zeb Stump stayed but a short while on the spot, where he had discovered the hoof-print with the broken shoe.

Six seconds sufficed for its identification; after which he rose to his feet, and continued along the trail of the horse that had made it.

He did not re-mount, but strode forward on foot; the old mare, obedient to a signal he had given her, keeping at a respectful distance behind him.

For more than a mile he moved on in this original fashion – now slowly, as the trail became indistinct – quickening his pace where the print of the imperfect shoe could be seen without difficulty.

Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic[348] history, long entombed beneath the ruins of a lost metropolis – whose characters appear grotesque to all except himself – so was it with Zeb Stump, as he strode on, translating the “sign” of the prairie.

Absorbed in the act, and the conjectures that accompanied it, he had no eyes for aught else. He glanced neither to the green savannah that stretched inimitably around, nor to the blue sky that spread specklessly above him. Alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention directed.

A sound – not a sight – startled him from his all-engrossing occupation. It was the report of a rifle; but so distant, as to appear but the detonation of a percussion-cap that had missed fire.

Instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes, but without unbending his body.

With a quick glance the horizon was swept, along the half dozen points whence the sound should have proceeded.

A spot of bluish smoke – still preserving its balloon shape – was slowly rolling up against the sky. A dark blotch beneath indicated the outlines of an “island” of timber.

So distant was the “motte,” the smoke, and the sound, that only the eye of an experienced prairie-man would have seen the first, or his ear heard the last, from the spot where Zeb Stump was standing.

But Zeb saw the one, and heard the other.

“Durned queery!” he muttered, still stooped in the attitude of a gardener dibbing in his young cabbage-plants.

“Dog-goned queery, to say the leest on’t. Who in ole Nick’s name kin be huntin’ out thur – whar theer ain’t game enuf to pay for the powder an shet? I’ve been to thet ere purayra island; an I know there ain’t nothin’ thur ’ceptin’ coyoats. What they get to live on, only the Eturnal[349] kin tell!”

“Wagh!” he went on, after a short silence. “Some storekeeper from the town, out on a exkurshun, as he’d call it, who’s proud o’ poppin’ away at them stinkin’ varmints, an ’ll go hum wi’ a story he’s been a huntin’ wolves! Wal. ’Tain’t no bizness o’ myen. Let yurd-stick hev his belly-ful o’ sport. Heigh! thur’s somethin’ comin’ this way. A hoss an somebody on his back – streakin’ it as if hell war arter him, wi’ a pitchfork o’ red-het lightnin’! What! As I live, it air the Headless! It is, by the jumpin’ Geehosophat!”

The observation of the old hunter was quite correct. There could be no mistake about the character of the cavalier, who, just clearing himself from the cloud of sulphureous smoke – now falling, dispersed over the prairie – came galloping on towards the spot where Zeb stood. It was the horseman without a head.

Nor could there be any doubt as to the direction he was taking – as straight towards Zeb as if he already saw, and was determined on coming up with him!

A braver man than the backwoodsman could not have been found within the confines of Texas. Cougar, or jaguar – bear, buffalo, or Red Indian – he could have encountered without quailing. Even a troop of Comanches might have come charging on, without causing him half the apprehension felt at sight of that solitary equestrian.

With all his experience of Nature in her most secret haunts – despite the stoicism derived from that experience – Zeb Stump was not altogether free from superstitious fancies. Who is?

With the courage to scorn a human foe – any enemy that might show itself in a natural shape, either of biped or quadruped – still was he not stern enough to defy the abnormal; and Bayard[350] himself would have quailed at sight of the cavalier who was advancing to the encounter – apparently determined upon its being deadly!

Zeb Stump not only quailed; but, trembling in his tall boots of alligator leather, sought concealment.

He did so, long before the Headless Horseman had got within hailing distance; or, as he supposed, within sight of him.

Some bushes growing close by gave him the chance of a hiding place; of which, with instinctive quickness, he availed himself.

The mare, standing saddled by his side, might still have betrayed him?

But, no. He had not gone to his knees, without thinking of that.

“Hunker down!” he cried, addressing himself to his dumb companion, who, if wanting speech, proved herself perfect in understanding. “Squat, ye ole critter; or by the Eturnal ye’ll be switched off into hell!”

As if dreading some such terrible catastrophe, the scraggy quadruped dropped down upon her fore knees; and then, lowering her hind quarters, laid herself along the grass, as though thinking her day’s work done – she was free to indulge in a fiesta.

Scarce had Zeb and his roadster composed themselves their new position, when the Headless Horseman came charging up.

He was going at full speed; and Zeb was but too well pleased to perceive that he was likely to continue it.

It was sheer chance that had conducted him that way; and not from having seen either the hunter or his sorry steed.

The former – if not the latter – was satisfied at being treated in that cavalier style; but, long before the Headless Horseman had passed out of sight, Zeb had taken his dimensions, and made himself acquainted with his character.

Though he might be a mystery to all the world beside, he was no longer so to Zebulon Stump.

As the horse shot past in fleet career, the skirt of the serapé, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump’s optics a form well known to him – in a dress he had seen before. It was a blouse of blue cottonade, box-plaited over the breast; and though its vivid colour was dashed with spots of garish red, the hunter was able to recognise it.

He was not so sure about the face seen low down upon the saddle, and resting against the rider’s leg.

There was nothing strange in his inability to recognise it.

The mother, who had oft looked fondly on that once fair countenance, would not have recognised it now.

Zeb Stump only did so by deduction. The horse, the saddle, the holsters, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers – even the hat upon the head – were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same – notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.

Zeb saw it by no uncertain glance. He was permitted a full, fair view of the ghastly spectacle.

The steed, though going at a gallop, passed within ten paces of him.

He made no attempt to interrupt the retreating rider – either by word or gesture. Only, as the form became unmasked before his eyes, and its real meaning flashed across his mind, he muttered, in a slow, sad tone:

“Gee-hos-o-phat! It air true, then! Poor young fellur – dead – dead!”

Chapter 76

Lost in the Chalk

Still continuing his fleet career, the Headless Horseman galloped on over the prairie – Zeb Stump following only with his eyes; and not until he had passed out of sight, behind some straggling groves of mezquite, did the backwoodsman abandon his kneeling position.

Then only for a second or two did he stand erect – taking council with himself as to what course he should pursue.

The episode – strange as unexpected – had caused some disarrangement in his ideas, and seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by?

By keeping to the former, he might find out much; but by changing to the latter he might learn more?

He might capture the Headless Horseman, and ascertain from him the why and wherefore of his wild wanderings?

While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie.

Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them.

Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw that which caused him to squat down again; and place himself, with more impressement than ever, under cover of the mezquites. The old mare, relishing the recumbent attitude, had still kept to it; and there was no necessity for re-disposing of her.

What Zeb now saw was a man on horseback – a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders.

He was still a long way off; and it was not likely he had seen the tall form of the hunter, standing shored up among the bushes – much less the mare, lying beneath them. He showed no signs of having done so.

On the contrary, he was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse.

There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider.

“Ho, ho!” muttered Zeb, on making this discovery; “I ain’t the only one who’s got a reezun for solvin’ this hyur myst’ry! Who the hell kin he be? I shed jest like to know that.”

Zeb had not long to wait for the gratification of his wish. As the trail was fresh, the strange horseman could take it up at a trot – in which pace he was approaching.

He was soon within identifying distance.

“Gee – hosophat!” muttered the backwoodsman; “I mout a know’d it wud be him; an ef I’m not mistook about it, hyurs goin’ to be a other chapter out o’ the same book – a other link as ’ll help me to kumplete the chain o’ evydince I’m in sarch for. Lay clost, ye critter! Ef ye make ere a stir – even to the shakin’ o’ them long lugs o’ yourn – I’ll cut yur darned throat.”

The last speech was an apostrophe to the “maar” – after which Zeb waxed silent, with his head among the spray of the acacias, and his eyes peering through the branches in acute scrutiny of him who was coming along.

This was a man, who, once seen, was not likely to be soon forgotten. Scarce thirty years old, he showed a countenance, scathed, less with care than the play of evil passions.

But there was care upon it now – a care that seemed to speak of apprehension – keen, prolonged, yet looking forward with a hope of being relieved from it.

Withal it was a handsome face: such as a gentleman need not have been ashamed of, but for that sinister expression that told of its belonging to a blackguard.

The dress – but why need we describe it? The blue cloth frock of semi-military cut – the forage cap – the belt sustaining a bowie-knife, with a brace of revolving pistols – all have been mentioned before as enveloping and equipping the person of Captain Cassius Calhoun.

It was he.

It was not the batterie of small arms that kept Zeb Stump from showing himself. He had no dread of an encounter with the ex-officer of Volunteers. Though he instinctively felt hostility, he had as yet given no reason to the latter for regarding him as an enemy. He remained in shadow, to have a better view of what was passing under the sunlight.

Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun trotted past.

Still closely keeping among the acacias, Zeb Stump looked after, till the same grove, that had concealed the former, interposed its verdant veil between him and the ex-captain of cavalry.

The backwoodsman’s brain having become the recipient of new thoughts, required a fresh exercise of its ingenuity.

If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless Horseman, it was redoubled now.

With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.

These consisted in taking hold of the bridle, and giving the old mare a kick; that caused her to start instantaneously to her feet.

Zeb stood by her side, intending to climb into the saddle and ride out into the open plain – as soon as Calhoun should be out of sight.

He had no thoughts of keeping the latter in view. He needed no such guidance. The two fresh trails would be sufficient for him; and he felt as sure of finding the direction in which both would lead, as if he had ridden alongside the horseman without a head, or him without a heart.

With this confidence he cleared out from among the acacias, and took the path just trodden by Calhoun.

For once in his life, Zeb Stump had made a mistake. On rounding the mezquite grove, behind which both had made disappearance, he discovered he had done so.

Beyond, extended a tract of chalk prairie; over which one of the horsemen appeared to have passed – him without the head.

Zeb guessed so, by seeing the other, at some distance before him, riding to and fro, in transverse stretches, like a pointer quartering the stubble in search of a partridge.

He too had lost the trail, and was endeavouring to recover it.

Crouching under cover of the mezquites, the hunter remained a silent spectator of his movements.

The attempt terminated in a failure. The chalk surface defied interpretation – at least by skill such as that of Cassius Calhoun.

After repeated quarterings he appeared to surrender his design; and, angrily plying the spur, galloped off in the direction of the Leona.

As soon as he was out of sight, Zeb also made an effort to take up the lost trail. But despite his superior attainments in the tracking craft, he was compelled to relinquish it.

A fervid sun was glaring down upon the chalk; and only the eye of a salamander could have withstood the reflection of its rays.

Dazed almost to blindness, the backwoodsman determined upon turning late back; and once more devoting his attention to the trail from which he had been for a time seduced.

He had learnt enough to know that this last promised a rich reward for its exploration.

It took him but a short time to regain it.

Nor did he lose any in following it up. He was too keenly impressed with its value; and with this idea urging him, he strode rapidly on, the mare following as before.

Once only did he make pause; at a point where the tracks of two horses converged with that he was following.

From this point the three coincided – at times parting and running parallel, for a score of yards or so, but again coming together and overlapping one another.

The horses were all shod – like that which carried the broken shoe – and the hunter only stopped to see what he could make out of the hoof marks. One was a “States horse;” the other a mustang – though a stallion of great size, and with a hoof almost as large as that of the American.

Zeb had his conjectures about both.

He did not stay to inquire which had gone first over the ground. That was as clear to him, as if he had been a spectator at their passing. The stallion had been in the lead, – how far Zeb could not exactly tell; but certainly some distance beyond that of companionship. The States horse had followed; and behind him, the roadster with the broken shoe – also an American.

All three had gone over the same ground, at separate times, and each by himself. This Zeb Stump could tell with as much ease and certainty, as one might read the index of a dial, or thermometer.

Whatever may have been in his thoughts, he said nothing, beyond giving utterance to the simple exclamation “Good!” and, with satisfaction stamped upon his features, he moved on, the old mare appearing to mock him by an imitative stride!

“Hyur they’ve seppurated,” he said, once again coming to a stop, and regarding the ground at his feet. “The stellyun an States hoss hev goed thegither – thet air they’ve tuk the same way. Broken-shoe hev strayed in a diffrent direkshun.”

“Wonder now what thet’s for?” he continued, after standing awhile to consider. “Durn me ef I iver seed sech perplexin’ sign! It ud puzzle ole Dan’l Boone[351] hisself.”

“Which on ’em shed I foller fust? Ef I go arter the two I know whar they’ll lead. They’re boun’ to kim up in thet puddle o’ blood. Let’s track up tother, and see whether he hev rud into the same procksimmuty! To the right abeout, ole gal, and keep clost ahint me – else ye may get lost in the chapparal, an the coyoats may make thur supper on yur tallow. Ho! ho! ho!”

With this apostrophe to his “critter,” ending in a laugh at the conceit of her “tallow,” the hunter turned off on the track of the third horse.

It led him along the edge of an extended tract of chapparal; which, following all three, he had approached at a point well known to him, as to the reader, – where it was parted by the open space already described.

The new trail skirted the timber only for a short distance. Two hundred yards from the embouchure of the avenue, it ran into it; and fifty paces further on Zeb came to a spot where the horse had stood tied to a tree.

Zeb saw that the animal had proceeded no further: for there was another set of tracks showing where it had returned to the prairie – though not by the same path.

The rider had gone beyond. The foot-marks of a man could be seen beyond – in the mud of a half-dry arroyo[352] – beside which the horse had been “hitched.”

Leaving his critter to occupy the “stall” where broken-shoe had for some time fretted himself, the old hunter glided off upon the footmarks of the dismounted rider.

He soon discovered two sets of them – one going – another coming back.

He followed the former.

He was not surprised at their bringing him out into the avenue – close to the pool of blood – by the coyotés long since licked dry.

He might have traced them right up to it, but for the hundreds of horse tracks that had trodden the ground like a sheep-pen.

But before going so far, he was stayed by the discovery of some fresh “sign” – too interesting to be carelessly examined. In a place where the underwood grew thick, he came upon a spot where a man had remained for some time. There was no turf, and the loose mould was baked hard and smooth, evidently by the sole of a boot or shoe.

There were prints of the same sole leading out towards the place of blood, and similar ones coming back again. But upon the branches of a tree between, Zeb Stump saw something that had escaped the eyes not only of the searchers, but of their guide Spangler – a scrap of paper, blackened and half-burnt – evidently the wadding of a discharged gun!

It was clinging to the twig of a locust-tree, impaled upon one of its spines!

The old hunter took it from the thorn to which, through rain and wind, it had adhered; spread it carefully across the palm of his horny hand; and read upon its smouched surface a name well known to him; which, with its concomitant title, bore the initials, “C.C.C.”

Chapter 77

Another Link

It was less surprise, than gratification, that showed itself on the countenance of Zeb Stump, as he deciphered the writing on the paper.

“That ere’s the backin’ o’ a letter,” muttered he. “Tells a goodish grist o’ story; more’n war wrote inside, I reck’n. Been used for the wad’ o’ a gun! Wal; sarves the cuss right, for rammin’ down a rifle ball wi’ a patchin’ o’ scurvy paper, i’stead o’ the proper an bessest thing, which air a bit o’ greased buckskin.”

“The writin’ air in a sheemale hand,” he continued, looking anew at the piece of paper. “Don’t signerfy for thet. It’s been sent to him all the same; an he’s hed it in purzeshun. It air somethin’ to be tuk care o’.”

So saying, he drew out a small skin wallet, which contained his tinder of “punk,” along with his flint and steel; and, after carefully stowing away the scrap of paper, he returned the sack to his pocket.

“Wal!” he went on in soliloquy, as he stood silently considering, “I kalkerlate as how this ole coon ’ll be able to unwind a good grist o’ this clue o’ mystery, tho’ thur be a bit o’ the thread broken hyur an thur, an a bit o’ a puzzle I can’t clurly understan’. The man who hev been murdered, whosomdiver he may be, war out thur by thet puddle o’ blood, an the man as did the deed, whosomdiver he be, war a stannin’ behint this locust-tree. But for them greenhorns, I mout a got more out o’ the sign. Now thur ain’t the ghost o’ a chance. They’ve tramped the hul place into a durnationed mess, cuvortin’ and caperin’ abeout.

“Wal, ’tair no use goin’ furrer thet way. The bessest thing now air to take the back track, if it air possable, an diskiver whar the hoss wi’ the broke shoe toted his rider arter he went back from this leetle bit o’ still-huntin’. Thurfor, ole Zeb’lon Stump, back ye go on the boot tracks!”

With this grotesque apostrophe to himself, he commenced retracing the footmarks that had guided him to the edge of the opening. Only in one or two places were the footprints at all distinct. But Zeb scarce cared for their guidance.

Having already noted that the man who made them had returned to the place where the horse had been left, he knew the back track would lead him there.

There was one place, however, where the two trails did not go over the same ground. There was a forking in the open list, through which the supposed murderer had made his way. It was caused by an obstruction, – a patch of impenetrable thicket. They met again, but not till that on which the hunter was returning straggled off into an open glade of considerable size.

Having become satisfied of this, Zeb looked around into the glade – for a time forsaking the footsteps of the pedestrian.

After a short examination, he observed a trail altogether distinct, and of a different character. It was a well-marked path entering the opening on one side, and going out on the other: in short, a cattle-track.

Zeb saw that several shod horses had passed along it, some days before: and it was this that caused him to come back and examine it.

He could tell to a day – to an hour – when the horses had passed; and from the sign itself. But the exercise of his ingenuity was not needed on this occasion. He knew that the hoof-prints were those of the horses ridden by Spangler and his party – after being detached from the main body of searchers who had gone home with the major.

He had heard the whole story of that collateral investigation – how Spangler and his comrades had traced Henry Poindexter’s horse to the place where the negro had caught it – on the outskirts of the plantation.

To an ordinary intellect this might have appeared satisfactory. Nothing more could be learnt by any one going over the ground again.

Zeb Stump did not seem to think so. As he stood looking along it, his attitude showed indecision.

“If I ked make shur o’ havin’ time,” he muttered, “I’d foller it fust. Jest as like as not I’ll find a fluke thur too. But thur’s no sartinty ’beout the time, an I’d better purceed to settle wi’ the anymal as cast the quarter shoe.”

He had turned to go out of the glade, when a thought once more stayed him.

“Arter all, it kin be eezy foun’ at any time. I kin guess whar it’ll lead, as sartint, as if I’d rud ’longside the skunk thet made it – straight custrut to the stable o’ Caser Corver.

“It’s a durned pity to drop this un, – now whiles I’m hyur upon the spot. It’ll gie me the makin’ o’ another ten-mile jurney, an thur moutn’t be time. Dog-goned ef I don’t try a leetle way along it. The ole maar kin wait till I kum back.”

Bracing himself for a new investigation, he started off upon the cattle-track, trodden by the horses of Spangler and his party.

To the hoof-marks of these he paid but slight attention; at times, none whatever. His eye only sought those of Henry Poindexter’s horse. Though the others were of an after time, and often destroyed the traces he was most anxious to examine, he had no difficulty in identifying the latter. As he would have himself said, any greenhorn could do that. The young planter’s horse had gone over the ground at a gallop. The trackers had ridden slowly.

As far as Zeb Stump could perceive, the latter had made neither halt nor deviation. The former had.

It was about three-quarters of a mile from the edge of the venue.

It was not a halt the galloping horse had made, but only a slight departure from his direct course; as if something he had seen – wolf, jaguar, cougar, or other beast of prey – had caused him to shy.

Beyond he had continued his career; rapid and reckless as ever.

Beyond the party along with Spangler had proceeded – without staying to inquire why the horse had shied from his track.

Zeb Stump was more inquisitive, and paused upon this spot.

It was a sterile tract, without herbage, and covered with shingle and sand. A huge tree overshadowed it, with limbs extending horizontally. One of these ran transversely to the path over which the horses had passed – so low that a horseman, to shun contact with it, would have to lower his head. At this branch Zeb Stump stood gazing. He observed an abrasion upon the bark; that, though very slight, must have been caused by contact with some substance, as hard, if not sounder, than itself.

“Thet’s been done by the skull o’ a human critter,” reasoned he – “a human critter, that must a been on the back o’ a hoss – this side the branch, an off on the t’other. No livin’ man ked a stud sech a cullizyun as thet, an kep his seat i’ the seddle.

“Hooraw!” he triumphantly exclaimed, after a cursory examination of the ground underneath the tree. “I thort so. Thur’s the impreshun o’ the throwed rider. An’ thur’s whar he hez creeped away. Now I’ve got a explication o’ thet big bump as hez been puzzlin’ me. I know’d it wan’t did by the claws o’ any varmint; an it didn’t look like the blow eyther o’ a stone or a stick. Thet ere’s the stick that hez gi’n it.”

With an elastic step – his countenance radiant of triumph – the old hunter strode away from the tree, no longer upon the cattle path, but that taken by the man who had been so violently dismounted.

To one unaccustomed to the chapparal, he might have appeared going without a guide, and upon a path never before pressed by human foot.

A portion of it perhaps had not. But Zeb was conducted by signs which, although obscure to the ordinary eye, were to him intelligible as the painted lettering upon a finger-post. The branch contorted to afford passage for a human form – the displaced tendrils of a creeping plant – the scratched surface of the earth – all told that a man had passed that way. The sign signified more – that the man was disabled – had been crawling – a cripple!

Zeb Stump continued on, till he had traced this cripple to the banks of a running stream.

It was not necessary for him to go further. He had made one more splice of the broken thread. Another, and his clue would be complete!

Chapter 78

A Horse-Swop

With an oath, a sullen look, and a brow black as disappointment could make it, Calhoun turned away from the edge of the chalk prairie, where he had lost the traces of the Headless Horseman.

“No use following further! No knowing where he’s gone now! No hope of finding him except by a fluke! If I go back to the creek I might see him again; but unless I get within range, it’ll end as it’s done before. The mustang stallion won’t let me come near him – as if the brute knows what I’m wanting!

“He’s even cunninger than the wild sort – trained to it, I suppose, by the mustanger himself. One fair shot – if I could only get that, I’d settle his courses.

“There appears no chance of stealing upon him; and as to riding him down, it can’t be done with a slow mule like this.

“The sorrel’s not much better as to speed, though he beats this brute in bottom. I’ll try him to-morrow, with the new shoe.

“If I could only get hold of something that’s fast enough to overtake the mustang! I’d put down handsomely for a horse that could do it.

“There must be one of the sort in the settlement. I’ll see when I get back. If there be, a couple of hundred, ay or three, won’t hinder me from having him.”

After he had made these mutterings Calhoun rode away from the chalk prairie, his dark countenance strangely contrasting with its snowy sheen. He went at a rapid rate; not sparing his horse, already jaded with a protracted journey – as could be told by his sweating coat, and the clots of half-coagulated blood, where the spur had been freely plied upon his flanks. Fresh drops soon appeared as he cantered somewhat heavily on – his head set for the hacienda of Casa del Corvo.

In less than an hour after, his rider was guiding him among the mezquites that skirted the plantation.

It was a path known to Calhoun. He had ridden over it before, though not upon the same horse. On crossing the bed of an arroyo – dry from a long continuance of drought – he was startled at beholding in the mud the tracks of another horse. One of them showed a broken shoe, an old hoof-print, nearly eight days old. He made no examination to ascertain the time. He knew it to an hour.

He bent over it, with a different thought – a feeling of surprise commingled with a touch of superstition. The track looked recent, as if made on the day before. There had been wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. Not one of these had wasted it. Even the angry elements appeared to have passed over without destroying it – as if to spare it for a testimony against the outraged laws of Nature – their God.

Calhoun dismounted, with the design to obliterate the track of the three-quarter shoe. Better for him to have spared himself the pains. The crease of his boot-heel crushing in the stiff mud was only an additional evidence as to who had ridden the broken-shoed horse. There was one coming close behind capable of collecting it.

Once more in his saddle, the ex-officer rode on – reflecting on his own astuteness.

His reflections had scarce reached the point of reverie, when the hoof-stroke of a horse – not his own – came suddenly within hearing. Not within sight: for the animal making them was still screened by the chapparal.

Plainly was it approaching; and, although at a slow pace, the measured tread told of its being guided, and not straying. It was a horse with a rider upon his back.

In another instant both were in view; and Calhoun saw before him Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she at the same instant catching sight of him!

It was a strange circumstance that these two should thus encounter one another – apparently by chance, though perhaps controlled by destiny. Stranger still the thought summoned up in the bosoms of both.

In Calhoun, Isidora saw the man who loved the woman she herself hated. In Isidora, Calhoun saw the woman who loved him he both hated and had determined to destroy.

This mutual knowledge they had derived partly from report, partly from observation, and partly from the suspicious circumstances under which more than once they had met. They were equally convinced of its truth. Each felt certain of the sinister entanglement of the other; while both believed their own to be unsuspected.

The situation was not calculated to create a friendly feeling between them. It is not natural that man, or woman, should like the admirer of a rival. They can only be friends at that point where jealousy prompts to the deadliest vengeance; and then it is but a sinister sympathy.

As yet no such had arisen between Cassius Calhoun and Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.

If it had been possible, both might have been willing to avoid the encounter. Isidora certainly was.

She had no predilection for the ex-officer of dragoons; and besides the knowledge that he was the lover of her rival, there was another thought that now rendered his presence, if not disagreeable, at least not desirable.

She remembered the chase of the sham Indians, and its ending. She knew that among the Texans there had been much conjecture as to her abrupt disappearance, after appealing to them for protection.

She had her own motive for that, which she did not intend to declare; and the man about meeting her might be inclined to ask questions on the subject.

She would have passed with a simple salutation – she could not give less than that. And perhaps he might have done the same; but for a thought which at that moment came into his mind, entirely unconnected with the reflections already there engendered.

It was not the lady herself who suggested the thought. Despite her splendid beauty, he had no admiration for her. In his breast, ruthless as it might have been, there was no space left for a second passion – not even a sensual one – for her thus encountered in the solitude of the chapparal, with Nature whispering wild, wicked suggestions.

It was no idea of this that caused him to rein up in the middle of the path; remove the cap from his crown; and, by a courtly salutation, invite a dialogue with Isidora.

So challenged, she could not avoid the conversation; that commenced upon the instant – Calhoun taking the initiative.

“Excuse me, señorita,” said he, his glance directed more upon her steed than herself; “I know it’s very rude thus to interrupt your ride; especially on the part of a stranger, as with sorrow I am compelled to call myself.”

“It needs no apology, señor. If I’m not mistaken, we have met before – upon the prairie, out near the Nueces.”

“True – true!” stammered Calhoun, not caring to dwell upon the remembrance. “It was not of that encounter I wished to speak; but what I saw afterwards, as you came galloping along the cliff. We all wondered what became of you.”

“There was not much cause for wonder, cavallero. The shot which some of your people fired from below, disembarrassed me of my pursuers. I saw that they had turned back, and simply continued my journey.”

Calhoun exhibited no chagrin at being thus baffled. The theme upon which he designed to direct his discourse had not yet turned up; and in it he might be more successful.

What it was might have been divined from his glance – half connoisseur, half horse-jockey – still directed toward the steed of Isidora.

“I do not say, señorita, that I was one of those who wondered at your sudden disappearance. I presumed you had your own reasons for not coming on to us; and, seeing you ride as you did, I felt no fear for your safety. It was your riding that astonished me, as it did all of my companions. Such a horse you had! He appeared to glide, rather than gallop! If I mistake not, it’s the same you are now astride of. Am I right, señora? Pardon me for asking such an insignificant question.”

“The same? Let me see? I make use of so many. I think I was riding this horse upon that day. Yes, yes; I am sure of it. I remember how the brute betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you! How?”

“Twice he did it. Once as you and your people were approaching. The second time, when the Indians – ay Dios! not Indians, as I’ve since heard – were coming through the chapparal.”

“But how?”

“By neighing. He should not have done it. He’s had training enough to know better than that. No matter. Once I get him back to the Rio Grande he shall stay there. I shan’t ride him again. He shall return to his Pastures.”

“Pardon me, señorita, for speaking to you on such a subject; but I can’t help thinking that it’s a pity.”

“What’s a pity?”

“That a steed so splendid as that should be so lightly discarded. I would give much to possess him.”

“You are jesting, cavallero. He is nothing beyond the common; perhaps a little pretty, and quick in his paces. My father has five thousand of his sort – many of them prettier, and, no doubt, some faster than he. He’s a good roadster; and that’s why I’m riding him now. If it weren’t that I’m on my way home to the Rio Grande, and the journey is still before me, you’d be welcome to have him, or anybody else who cared for him, as you seem to do. Be still, musteño mio! You see there’s somebody likes you better than I do.”

The last speech was addressed to the mustang, who, like its rider, appeared impatient for the conversation to come to a close.

Calhoun, however, seemed equally desirous of prolonging, or, at all events, bringing it to a different termination.

“Excuse me, señorita,” said he, assuming an air of businesslike earnestness, at the same time speaking apologetically; “if that be all the value you set upon the grey mustang, I should be only too glad to make an exchange with you. My horse, if not handsome, is estimated by our Texan dealers as a valuable animal. Though somewhat slow in his paces, I can promise that he will carry you safely to your home, and will serve you well afterwards.”

“What, señor!” exclaimed the lady, in evident astonishment, “exchange your grand American frison[353] for a Mexican mustang! The offer is too generous to appear other than a jest. You know that on the Rio Grande one of your horses equals in value at least three, sometimes six, of ours?”

Calhoun knew this well enough; but he knew also that the mustang ridden by Isidora would be to him worth a whole stableful of such brutes as that he was bestriding. He had been an eye-witness to its speed, besides having heard of it from others. It was the thing he stood in need of – the very thing. He would have given, not only his “grand frison” in exchange, but the full price of the mustang by way of “boot.”

Fortunately for him, there was no attempt at extortion. In the composition of the Mexican maiden, however much she might be given to equestrian tastes, there was not much of the “coper.” With five thousand horses in the paternal stables, or rather straying over the patrimonial plains, there was but slight motive for sharp practice; and why should she deny such trifling gratification, even though the man seeking it was a stranger – perhaps an enemy?

She did not.

“If you are in earnest, señor,” was her response, “you are welcome to what you want.”

“I am in earnest, señorita.”

“Take him, then!” said she, leaping out of her saddle, and commencing to undo the girths, “We cannot exchange saddles: yours would be a mile too big for me!”

Calhoun was too happy to find words for a rejoinder. He hastened to assist her in removing the saddle; after which he took off his own.

In less than five minutes the horses were exchanged – the saddles and bridles being retained by their respective owners.

To Isidora there was something ludicrous in the transference. She almost laughed while it was being carried on.

Calhoun looked upon it in a different light. There was a purpose present before his mind – one of the utmost importance.

They parted without much further speech – only the usual greetings of adieu – Isidora going off on the frison; while the ex-officer, mounted on the grey mustang, continued his course in the direction of Casa del Corvo.

Chapter 79

An Untiring Tracker

Zeb was not long in arriving at the spot where he had “hitched” his mare. The topography of the chapparal was familiar to him; and he crossed it by a less circuitous route than that taken by the cripple.

He once more threw himself upon the trail of the broken shoe, in full belief that it would fetch out not a hundred miles from Casa del Corvo.

It led him along a road running almost direct from one of the crossings of the Rio Grande to Fort Inge. The road was a half-mile in width – a thing not uncommon in Texas, where every traveller selects his own path, alone looking to the general direction.

Along one edge of it had gone the horse with the damaged shoe.

Not all the way to Fort Inge. When within four or five miles of the post, the trail struck off from the road, at an angle of just such degree as followed in a straight line would bring out by Poindexter’s plantation. So confident was Zeb of this, that he scarce deigned to keep his eye upon the ground; but rode forwards, as if a finger-post was constantly by his side.

He had long before given up following the trail afoot. Despite his professed contempt for “horse-fixings” – as he called riding – he had no objection to finish his journey in the saddle – fashed as he now was with the fatigue of protracted trailing over prairie and through chapparal. Now and then only did he cast a glance upon the ground – less to assure himself he was on the track of the broken shoe, than to notice whether something else might not be learnt from the sign, besides its mere direction.

There were stretches of the prairie where the turf, hard and dry, had taken no impression. An ordinary traveller might have supposed himself the first to pass over the ground. But Zeb Stump was not of this class; and although he could not always distinguish the hoof marks, he knew within an inch where they would again become visible – on the more moist and softer patches of the prairie.

If at any place conjecture misled him, it was only for a short distance, and he soon corrected himself by a traverse.

In this half-careless, half-cautious way, he had approached within a mile of Poindexter’s plantation. Over the tops of the mezquite trees the crenelled parapet was in sight; when something he saw upon the ground caused a sudden change in his demeanour. A change, too, in his attitude; for instead of remaining on the back of his mare, he flung himself out of the saddle; threw the bridle upon her neck; and, rapidly passing in front of her, commenced taking up the trail afoot.

The mare made no stop, but continued on after him – with an air of resignation, as though she was used to such eccentricities.

To an inexperienced eye there was nothing to account for this sudden dismounting. It occurred at a place where the turf appeared untrodden by man, or beast. Alone might it be inferred from Zeb’s speech, as he flung himself out of the saddle:

“His track! goin’ to hum!” were the words muttered in a slow, measured tone; after which, at a slower pace, the dismounted hunter kept on along the trail.

In a little time after it conducted him into the chapparal; and in less to a stop – sudden, as if the thorny thicket had been transformed into a chevaux-de-frise[354], impenetrable both to him and his “critter.”

It was not this. The path was still open before him – more open than ever. It was its openness that had furnished him with a cause for discontinuing his advance.

The path sloped down into a valley below – a depression in the prairie, along the concavity of which, at times, ran a tiny stream – ran arroyo. It was now dry, or only occupied by stagnant pools, at long distances apart. In the mud-covered channel was a man, with a horse close behind him – the latter led by the bridle.

There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of the horse; he was simply following the lead of his dismounted rider.

But the man – what was he doing? In his movements there was something peculiar – something that would have puzzled an uninitiated spectator.

It did not puzzle Zeb Stump; or but for a second of time.

Almost the instant his eye fell upon it, he read the meaning of the manoeuvre, and mutteringly pronounced it to himself.

“Oblitturatin’ the print o’ the broken shoe, or tryin’ to do thet same! ’Taint no use, Mister Cash Calhoun – no manner o’ use. Ye’ve made yur fut marks too deep to deceive me; an by the Eturnal I’ll foller them, though they shed conduck me into the fires o’ hell?”

As the backwoodsman terminated his blasphemous apostrophe, the man to whom it pointed, having finished his task of obscuration, once more leaped into his saddle, and hurried on.

On foot the tracker followed; though without showing any anxiety about keeping him in sight.

There was no need for that. The sleuth hound on a fresh slot could not be more sure of again viewing his victim, than was Zeb Stump of coming up with his. No chicanery of the chapparal – no twistings or doublings – could save Calhoun now.

The tracker advanced freely; not expecting to make halt again, till he should come within sight of Casa del Corvo.

Little blame to him that his reckoning proved wrong. Who could have foretold such an interruption as that occasioned by the encounter between Cassius Calhoun and Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Though at sight of it, taken by surprise – perhaps something more – Zeb did not allow his feelings to betray his presence near the spot.

On the contrary, it seemed to stimulate him to increased caution.

Turning noiselessly round, he whispered some cabalistic words into the care of his “critter;” and then stole silently forward under cover of the acacias.

Without remonstrance, or remark, the mare followed. He soon came to a fall stop – his animal doing the same, in imitation so exact as to appear its counterpart.

A thick growth of mezquite trees separated him from the two individuals, by this time engaged in a lively interchange of speech.

He could not see them, without exposing himself to the danger of being detected in his eaves-dropping; but he heard what they said all the same.

He kept his place – listening till the horse trade was concluded, and for some time after.

Only when they had separated, and both taken departure did he venture to come forth from his cover.

Standing upon the spot lately occupied by the “swoppers,” and looking “both ways at once,” he exclaimed —

“Geehosophat! thur’s a compack atween a he an’ she-devil; an’ durn’d ef I kin tell, which hez got the bessest o’ the bargin!”

Chapter 80

A Doorway Well Watched

It was some time before Zeb Stump sallied forth from the covert where he had been witness to the “horse swop.” Not till both the bargainers had ridden entirely out of sight. Then he went not after either; but stayed upon the spot, as if undecided which he should follow.

It was not exactly this that kept him to the place; but the necessity of taking what he was in the habit of calling a “good think.”

His thoughts were about the exchange of the horses: for he had heard the whole dialogue relating thereto, and the proposal coming from Calhoun. It was this that puzzled, or rather gave him reason for reflection. What could be the motive?

Zeb knew to be true what the Mexican had said: that the States horse was, in market value, worth far more than the mustang. He knew, moreover, that Cassius Calhoun was the last man to be “coped” in a horse trade. Why, then, had he done the “deal?”

The old hunter pulled off his felt hat; gave his hand a twist or two through his unkempt hair; transferred the caress to the grizzled beard upon his chin – all the while gazing upon the ground, as if the answer to his mental interrogatory was to spring out of the grass.

“Thur air but one explication o’t,” he at length muttered: “the grey’s the faster critter o’ the two – ne’er a doubt ’beout thet; an Mister Cash wants him for his fastness: else why the durnation shed he a gin a hoss thet ’ud sell for four o’ his sort in any part o’ Texas, an twicet thet number in Mexiko? I reck’n he’s bargained for the heels. Why? Durn me, ef I don’t suspect why. He wants – he – heigh – I hev it – somethin’ as kin kum up wi’ the Headless!

“Thet’s the very thing he’s arter – sure as my name’s Zeb’lon Stump. He’s tried the States hoss an foun’ him slow. Thet much I knowd myself. Now he thinks, wi’ the mowstang, he may hev a chance to overhaul the tother, ef he kin only find him agin; an for sartin he’ll go in sarch o’ him.

“He’s rad on now to Casser Corver – maybe to git a pick o’ somethin’ to eat. He won’t stay thur long. ’Fore many hours hev passed, somebody ’ll see him out hyur on the purayra; an thet somebody air boun’ to be Zeb’lon Stump.

“Come, ye critter!” he continued, turning to the mare, “ye thort ye wur a goin’ hum, did ye? Yur mistaken ’beout that. Ye’ve got to squat hyur for another hour or two – if not the hul o’ the night. Never mind, ole gurl! The grass don’t look so bad; an ye shell hev a chance to git yur snout to it. Thur now – eet your durned gut-full!”

While pronouncing this apostrophe, he drew the head-stall over the ears of his mare; and, chucking the bridle across the projecting tree of the saddle, permitted her to graze at will.

Having secured her in the chapparal where he had halted, he walked on – along the track taken by Calhoun.

Two hundred yards farther on, and the jungle terminated. Beyond stretched an open plain; and on its opposite side could be seen the hacienda of Casa del Corvo.

The figure of a horseman could be distinguished against its whitewashed façade – in another moment lost within the dark outline of the entrance.

Zeb knew who went in.

“From this place,” he muttered, “I kin see him kum out; an durn me, ef I don’t watch till he do kum out – ef it shed be till this time o’ the morrow. So hyur goes for a spell o’ patience.”

He first lowered himself to his knees. Then, “squirming” round till his back came in contact with the trunk of a honey-locust, he arranged himself into a sitting posture. This done, he drew from his capacious pocket a wallet, containing a “pone” of corn-bread, a large “hunk” of fried “hog-meat,” and a flask of liquor, whose perfume proclaimed it “Monongahela.”

Having eaten about half the bread, and a like quantity of the meat, he returned the remaining moieties to the wallet; which he suspended over head upon a branch. Then taking a satisfactory swig from the whiskey-flask, and igniting his pipe, he leant back against the locust – with arms folded over his breast, and eyes bent upon the gateway of Casa del Corvo.

In this way he kept watch for a period of full two hours; never changing the direction of his glance; or not long enough for any one to pass out unseen by him.

Forms came out, and went in – several of them – men and women. But even in the distance their scant light-coloured garments, and dusky complexions, told them to be only the domestics of the mansion. Besides, they were all on foot; and he, for whom Zeb was watching, should come on horseback – if at all.

His vigil was only interrupted by the going down of the sun; and then only to cause a change in his post of observation. When twilight began to fling its purple shadows over the plain, he rose to his feet; and, leisurely unfolding his tall figure, stood upright by the stem of the tree – as if this attitude was more favourable for “considering.”

“Thur’s jest a posserbillity the skunk mout sneak out i’ the night?” was his reflection. “Leastways afore the light o’ the mornin’; an I must make sure which way he takes purayra.

“’Taint no use my toatin’ the maar after me,” he continued, glancing in the direction where the animal had been left. “She’d only bother me. Beside, thur’s goin’ to be a clurrish sort o’ moonlight; an she mout be seen from the nigger quarter. She’ll be better hyur – both for grass and kiver.”

He went back to the mare; took off the saddle; fastened the trail-rope round her neck, tying the other end to a tree; and then, unstrapping his old blanket from the cantle, he threw it across his left arm, and walked off in the direction of Casa del Corvo.

He did not proceed pari passu[355]; but now quicker, and now more hesitatingly – timing himself, by the twilight – so that his approach might not be observed from the hacienda.

He had need of this caution: for the ground which he had to pass was like a level lawn, without copse or cover of any kind. Here and there stood a solitary tree – dwarf-oak or algarobia, but not close enough to shelter him from being seen through the windows – much less from the azotea.

Now and then he stopped altogether – to wait for the deepening of the twilight.

Working his way in this stealthy manner, he arrived within less than two hundred yards of the walls – just as the last trace of sunlight disappeared from the sky.

He had reached the goal of his journey – for that day – and the spot on which he was likely to pass the night.

A low stemless bush grew near; and, laying himself down behind it, he resumed the espionage, that could scarce be said to have been interrupted.

Throughout the live-long night Zeb Stump never closed both eyes at the same time. One was always on the watch; and the unflagging earnestness, with which he maintained it, proclaimed him to be acting under the influence of some motive beyond the common.

During the earlier hours he was not without sounds to cheer, or at least relieve, the monotony of his lonely vigil. There was the hum of voices from the slave cabins; with now and then a peal of laughter. But this was more suppressed than customary; nor was it accompanied by the clear strain of the violin, or the lively tink-a-tink of the banjo – sounds almost characteristic of the “negro-quarter,” at night.

The sombre silence that hung over the “big house” extended to the hearths of its sable retainers.

Before midnight the voices became hushed, and stillness reigned everywhere; broken only at intervals by the howl of a straying hound – uttered in response to the howl-bark of a coyoté taking care to keep far out upon the plain.

The watcher had spent a wearisome day, and could have slept – but for his thoughts. Once when these threatened to forsake him, and he was in danger of dozing, he started suddenly to his feet; took a turn or two over the sward; and, then lying down again, re-lit his pipe; stuck his head into the heart of the bush; and smoked away till the bowl was burnt empty.

During all this time, he kept his eyes upon the great gateway of the mansion; whose massive door – he could tell by the moonlight shining upon it – remained shut.

Again did he change his post of observation; the sun’s rising – as its setting had done – seeming to give him the cue.

As the first tint of dawn displayed itself on the horizon, he rose gently to his feet; clutched the blanket so as to bring its edges in contact across his breast; and, turning his back upon Casa del Corvo, walked slowly away – taking the same track by which he had approached it on the preceding night.

And again with unequal steps: at short intervals stopping and looking back – under his arm, or over his shoulder.

Nowhere did he make a prolonged pause; until reaching the locust-tree, under whose shade he had made his evening meal; and there, in the same identical attitude, he proceeded to break his fast.

The second half of the “pone” and the remaining moiety of the pork, soon disappeared between his teeth; after which followed the liquor that had been left in his flask.

He had refilled his pipe, and was about relighting it, when an object came before his eyes, that caused him hastily to return his flint and steel to the pouch from which he had taken them.

Through the blue mist of the morning the entrance of Casa del Corvo showed a darker disc. The door had been drawn open.

Almost at the same instant a horseman was seen to sally forth, mounted upon a small grey horse; and the door was at once closed behind him.

Zeb Stump made no note of this. He only looked to see what direction the early traveller would take.

Less than a score of seconds sufficed to satisfy him. The horse’s head and the face of the rider were turned towards himself.

He lost no time in trying to identify either. He did not doubt of its being the same man and horse, that had passed that spot on the evening before; and he was equally confident they were going to pass it again.

What he did was to shamble up to his mare; in some haste get her saddled and bridled; and then, having taken up his trail rope, lead her off into a cover – from which he could command a view of the chapparal path, without danger of being himself seen.

This done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed – whom he knew to be Captain Cassius Calhoun.

He waited still longer – until the latter had trotted past; until he had gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond.

Not till then did Zeb Stump clamber into his saddle; and, “prodding” his solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move on.

He went after Cassius Calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern about keeping the latter in sight!

He needed not this to guide him. The dew upon the grass was to him a spotless page – the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the lines of a printed book.

He could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop!

Chapter 81

Heads Down – Heels Up

Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house – except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang – Calhoun rode on across the prairie.

Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.

In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.

After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot – now and then increasing to a canter.

Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind – after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.

Before him was the object – still unseen – upon which his thoughts were straying.

What that object was he and only one other knew – that other Zeb Stump – though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.

The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman – in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.

Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.

The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.

There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. It might be there again?

This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening – where it was supposed the murder had been committed!

“Odd he should always make back there?” reflected Calhoun, as he pondered upon the circumstance. “Damned ugly odd it is! Looks as if he knew – . Bah! It’s only because the grass is better, and that pond by the side of it. Well! I hope he’s been thinking that way this morning. If so, there’ll be a chance of finding him. If not, I must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it – though it be in the daylight. Ugh!

“Pish! what’s there to fear – now that he’s safe in limbo? Nothing but the bit of lead; and it I must have, if I should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks. Holy Heaven! what’s that out yonder?”

These last six words were spoken aloud. All the rest had been a soliloquy in thought.

The speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain.

There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance – there was horror.

And no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify the stoutest heart.

The sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind the rider’s back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing. Before him, along the heaven’s edge, extended a belt of bluish mist – the exhalation arising out of the chapparal – now not far distant. The trees themselves were unseen – concealed under the film floating over them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height above their tops – gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky.

On this veil, or moving behind it – as in the transparencies of a stage scene – appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator incredulous, had he not beheld it before. It was that of the Headless Horseman.

But not as seen before – either by Calhoun himself, or any of the others. No. It was now altogether different. In shape the same; but in size it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions!

No longer a man, but a Colossus[356] – a giant. No longer a horse, but an animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk of a mastodon[357]!

Nor was this all of the new to be noted about the Headless Horseman. A still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more inexplicable, if that could possibly be. He was no longer walking upon the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an inverted position! The hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders – I had almost said head – of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon! The serapé shrouding them hung in the right direction – not as regarded the laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer. So, too, the bridle reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse. All draped upwards!

When first seen, the spectral form – now more spectre-like than ever – was going at a slow, leisurely walk. In this pace it for some time continued – Calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror.

All of a sudden it assumed a change. Its regular outlines became confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels against the sky!

The spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating!

Calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation.

As he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished him that a real horseman was near – if that could be called real, which had thrown such a frightful shadow.

“It’s the mirage!” he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give vent to his chagrin. “What a fool I’ve been to let it humbug me! There’s the damned thing that did it: the very thing I’m in search of. And so close too! If I’d known, I might have got hold of him before he saw me. Now for a chase; and, by God, I’ll grup him, if I have to gallop to the other end of Texas!”

Voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker’s earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full stretch across the prairie – their horses both to the prairie born – one closely pursuing the other – the pursued without a head; the pursuer with a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination.

The chase was not a long one – at least, so far as it led over the open prairie; and Calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect of a capture.

His horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to care for escaping. Certainly the grey steed gained ground – at length getting so close, that Calhoun made ready his rifle.

His intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the pursuit.

He would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss. But having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot.

While thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber.

This movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was left behind him.

He was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him – the place where blood had been spilt.

On any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the past – steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the future. The capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this fear – by removing the danger he dreaded.

Once more he had gained ground in the chase. The spread nostrils of his steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued. His rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the fingers of his right. He was searching for a spot to take aim at.

In another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a different direction!

The suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful “squeal” that accompanied it – appearing almost to speak of an unearthly intelligence – for the moment disconcerted Calhoun; as it did the horse he was riding.

The latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur, plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop.

And now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the thicket. The chase might there terminate, without the chased animal being either killed or captured.

Hitherto Calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed. He had not anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the shot.

By this time both were close in to the bushes – the Headless Horseman already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along his sides. Only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these was the gun levelled.

The sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull “thud” upon the turf.

With a bound and a roll – that brought it among the feet of Calhoun’s horse – it became stationary.

Stationary, but not still. It continued to oscillate from side to side, like a top before ceasing to spin.

The grey steed snorted, and reared back. His rider uttered a cry of intensified alarm.

And no wonder. If read in Shakespearean lore, he might have appropriately repeated the words “Shake not those gory locks”: for, on the ground beneath, was the head of a man – still sticking in its hat – whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still.

The face was toward Calhoun – upturned at just such an angle as to bring it full before him. The features were bloodstained, wan, and shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass; the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an expression of careless contentment.

All this saw Cassius Calhoun.

He saw it with fear and trembling. Not for the supernatural or unknown, but for the real and truly comprehended.

Short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head. Ere it had ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around; struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground!

No farther went he in pursuit of the Headless Horseman – still heard breaking through the bushes – but back – back to the prairie; and on, on, to Casa del Corvo!

Chapter 82

A Queer Parcel

The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste.

And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him.

He scarce deigned to look upon the “sign” left by Calhoun. It he could read out of the corner of his eye. As to following it, the old mare could have done that without him!

It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight. But by doing this, the latter might see him; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.

This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.

Advancing slowly and with caution – but with that constancy that ensures good speed – he arrived at length on the spot where the mirage had made itself manifest to Calhoun.

Zeb saw nothing of this. It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie – the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.

He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together – those that went after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun’s new horse – of which Zeb had already taken the measure.

About the tracks underneath he had no conjecture – at least as regarded their identification. These he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them.

“The skunk’s hed a find!” were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. “It don’t foller from thet,” he continued, in the same careless drawl, “thet he hez made a catch. An’ yit, who knows? Durn me, ef he moutn’t! Thur’s lots o’ chances for his doin’ it. The mowstang may a let him come clost up – seein’ as he’s ridin’ one o’ its own sort; an ef it dud – ay, ef it dud —

“What the durnation am I stannin’ hyur for? Thur ain’t no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin’. Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, ’ithout the ghost o’ a chance for gettin’ it.

“I must make a better rate o’ speed. Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can’t overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone. Now for a spell o’ yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi’ any o’ them, I reckon – thet air when ye’re pressed. Gee-up!”

Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot. He had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him.

“From the way his track runs,” was his reflection, “I kin tell pretty nigh whar it’s goin’ to fetch out. Everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur – never more to come back. Ah, wal! ef t’aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi’ the skunk as destroyed him. The Scripter[358] sez, ‘a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,’ an I reckin I’ll shet up somebody’s daylights, an spoil the use o’ thur ivories afore I hev done wi’ him. Somebody as don’t suspeeshun it neyther, an that same – . Heigh! Yonner he goes! An’ yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat! Full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin’ him!

“They aint comin’ this way, so ’tain’t no use in our squattin’, ole gurl. Stan’ steady for all that. He mout see us movin’.

“No fear. He’s too full o’ his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him. Ha! jest as I expected – into the openin’! Right down it, fast as heels kin carry ’em!

“Now, my maar, on we go agin!”

Another stage of trotting – with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap – brought Zeb to the timber.

Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it.

He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction.

He did not anticipate meeting any one – much less the man who soon after came in sight.

He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yäger rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.

He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane – in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired – returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!

“Comin’ back agin – an so soon!” he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. “Dog-goned queery thet air! Thur’s somethin’ amiss, more’n a miss, I reck’n. Ho, ho, ho! Goin’, too, as if hell war arter him! Maybe it’s the Headless hisself, and thur’s been a changin’ about in the chase – tit for tat! Darn me, ef it don’t look like it! I’d gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o’ a thing. He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!”

Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider – who promise soon to pass the spot.

And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!

“Geehosophat!” mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. “If hell ain’t arter, it’s inside o’ him! Durn me, ef thet face ain’t the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. I shed pity the wife as gets him. Poor Miss Peintdexter! I hope she’ll be able to steer clur o’ havin’ sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.

“What’s up anyhow? Thar don’t ’pear to be anythin’ arter him? An’ he still keeps on! Whar’s he boun’ for now? I must foller an see.

“To hum agin!” exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. “Hum agin, for sartin!

“Now, ole gurl!” he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, “You an me goes t’other way. We must find out what thet shot wur fired for.”

In ten minutes after, Zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of – disgust, even, in touching!

Not so the old hunter. In that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him – despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression – still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation.

He had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody!

Clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples – Zeb endeavoured to take it off. He did not succeed. The head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it!

Holding it in its natural position, Zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face.

“Lord, O Lordy!” he drawlingly exclaimed, “what a present to take back to his father, to say nothin’ o’ the sister! I don’t think I’ll take it. It air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it.

“No; durn me ef I do! What am I thinkin’ o’? Tho’ I don’t exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o’ evvydince, it may do somethin’ torst it. Durned queery witness it ’ll be to purduce in a coort o’ justis!”

Saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all.

Then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away.

Chapter 83

Limbs of the Law

On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!

This haste – that elsewhere would have been considered indecent – was thought nothing of in Texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours!

His enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it.

Among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: “that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance.”

The advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. The judge of the Supreme Court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at Fort Inge, had been appointed for that very week.

There was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of Maurice Gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time.

As no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question – the fifteenth of the month.

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and the Court had not yet arrived. For all that, a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!

It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.

When it rains, it rains. The adage is true in Texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers.

The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.

This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of the Emerald Isle. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!

It is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the Dublin[359] solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of Mr Oberdoffer’s hostelry, and making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.

Still greater the attorney’s astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration.

“Fwhat! the son of a Munsther Gerald accused of murdher! The heir of Castle Ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. Fwy, I’ve got the papers in my portmantyee here. Faugh-a-ballagh! Show me the way to him!”

Though the “Texan” Boniface[360] was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy[361], he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house.

If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison – as often as it seemed good to him.

Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege; at the same time placing him en rapport, in a friendly way, with the Texan “counsellor.”

The advent of the Irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the Port, the village, and throughout the settlement. The bar-room of the “Rough and Ready” was rife with conjecturers – quidnuncs[362] they could scarcely be called: since in Texas the genus does not exist.

A certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing – which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by “Old Duffer.”

For all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. With the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed – drawn from him in the first moments of surprise – he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide.

There was not much time for him to use his tongue. On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.

The rumour became rife that Maurice Gerald had told them a tale – a strange weird story – but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance.

There was one who knew it – one able to confirm it – Zeb Stump the hunter.

There may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel.

Zeb himself did not appear in their company. Only once had he been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone – both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business – in search of deer, “baar,” or “gobbler.”

Everybody was in error. Zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill.

It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air – a horseman without a head!

Chapter 84

An Affectionate Nephew

“Tried to-morrow – to-morrow, thank God! Not likely that anybody ’ll catch that cursed thing before then – to be hoped, never.

“It is all I’ve got to fear. I defy them to tell what’s happened without that. Hang me if I know myself! Enough only to – .

“Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger[363]!

“Queer, too, the fellow from San Antonio! Wonder who and what’s brought him? Somebody’s promised him his costs?

“Damn ’em! I don’t care, not the value of a red cent. They can make nothing out of it, but that Gerald did the deed. Everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. They’re bound to convict him.

“Zeb Stump don’t think it, the suspicious old snake! He’s nowhere to be found. Wonder where he has gone? On a hunt, they say. ’Tain’t likely, such time as this. What if he be hunting it? What if he should catch it?

“I’d try again myself, if there was time. There ain’t. Before to-morrow night it’ll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up – . Damn afterwards! The thing is to make sure now. Let the future look to itself. With one man hung for the murder, ’tain’t likely they’d care to accuse another. Even if something suspicious did turn up! they’d be shy to take hold of it. It would be like condemning themselves!

“I reckon, I’ve got all right with the Regulators. Sam Manley himself appears pretty well convinced. I knocked his doubts upon the head, when I told him what I’d heard that night. A little more than I did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. Damn!

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it – except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself.

“I don’t think anything has happened between them. She’s not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me – only gratitude. No, no, no! It can’t be. Gratitude don’t get out of its bed in the middle of the night – to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? She loves him – she loves him! Let her love and be damned! She shall never have him. She shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.

“She shall speak it, if she don’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything – . Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”

The soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by Cassius Calhoun.

It was Woodley Poindexter who interrupted it. Sad, silent, straying through the corridors of Casa del Corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew – more by chance than from any premeditated purpose.

“Want me! For what, nephew?”

There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter – before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!

True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him – his sister’s son.

But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.

“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.

It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.

Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation – as also the nature of the subject.

The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.

“About Loo? What of her?” he inquired, with assumed calmness.

“Well,” said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, “I – I – wanted – ”

“I’d rather,” put in the planter, taking advantage of the other’s hesitancy, “I’d rather not speak of her now.”

This was said almost supplicatingly.

“And why not now, uncle?” asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.

“You know my reasons, nephew?”

“Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing – supposed to be – After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again.”

“Never! we shall never see him again – living or dead. I have no longer a son?”

“You have a daughter; and she – ”

“Has disgraced me!”

“I don’t believe it, uncle – no.”

“What means those things I’ve heard – myself seen? What could have taken her there – twenty miles across the country – alone – in the hut of a common horse-trader – standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him – him, the murderer of my son – her own brother? O God!”

“Her own story explains the first – satisfactorily, as I think.”

Calhoun did not think so.

“The second is simple enough. Any woman would have done the same – a woman like Loo.”

“There is none like her. I, her father, say so. Oh! that I could think it is, as you say! My poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever – now that I have no son!”

“It is for her to find you a son – one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part – with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. I won’t talk to you in riddles, Uncle Woodley. You know what I mean; and how my mind’s made up about this matter. I want Loo!”

The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. He expected it. For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. It was evident he did not relish the proposed alliance.

This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate – in his own mind – and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.

Previous to the migration into Texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew.

Since coming to manhood, Calhoun had been a citizen of the state of Mississippi – more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of New Orleans. An occasional visit to the Louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin Louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals – each time protracting them to a longer stay.

There was then twelve months of campaigning in Mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love – the heart of his Creole cousin.

From that time his residence under his uncle’s roof had been more permanent. If not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail.

The planter, once rich, was now poor. Extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. With his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. Chance had made him so. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them.

In his native place, and among his old neighbours, Woodley Poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of being under his nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor.

It was only after the move into Texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee.

It grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of Calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of Louise.

The planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.

Calhoun’s quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle’s respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him.

There had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings – to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages, dislike the connection.

Alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside.

Indecision – perhaps more than the sorrow for his son’s loss dictated the character of his reply.

“If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean marriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now – while death is in our house! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement.”

“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage – that is, not now. Only something that will secure it – when the proper time arrives.”

“I do not understand you, Cash.”

“You’ll do that, if you only listen to me a minute.”

“Go on.”

“Well; what I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty – as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I’m damnably tired of it; and don’t intend to keep single any longer. I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no fluke, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When these bothers blow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing.”

The word “bothers,” with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!

The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused – almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.

It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.

He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.

“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”

“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”

“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced – against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”

“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement – in all Texas, for that matter.”

Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.

Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status – alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.

The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him – his own nephew – soliciting to become his son!

For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.

“Loo!”

“Father!”

“I come to ask a favour from you.”

“What is it, father?”

“You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for – more and better still, to marry you.”

“But I am not ready to marry him. No, father; I shall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sent you to make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies – and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!”

“Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that – ”

“That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”

Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was: —

“Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!”

Chapter 85

A Kind Cousin

Louise Poindexter made full use of the liberty allowed by her father. In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.

It was his third time of asking. Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.

It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple “No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple “Never!”

There was no prevarication about the speech – no apology for having made it.

Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly – in all probability – he expected it.

But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.

As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.

There was that in his eye which seemed to say: —

“In less than sixty seconds, you’ll change your tune.”

What he did say was: —

“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”

“I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?”

“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”

“Upon what?”

“Many things.”

“Name them!”

“Well, for one – the way I love you.”

She made no rejoinder.

“A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; “a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end only with my life. It could not end with yours.”

There was a pause, but still no reply.

“’Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day – ay, the same hour – I first saw you.

“I won’t say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my first visit to your father’s house – now six years ago – you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden – while dinner was being got ready.

“You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in beauty – as beautiful as you are at this moment.

“No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yet dissipation, has been able to efface.”

The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!

Still did she keep silence.

Calhoun continued: —

“Yes, Loo; it’s true as I tell you. I’ve tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.

“I won’t say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I’ve already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin – ah! you called me handsome cousin, Loo – from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate – ay, so much, that I could have killed you!”

“Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!”

“’Tis serious, nevertheless. I’ve been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not – as you have reason to know.”

“Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think – ”

“I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I’ll say it for you: ‘to think that you ever loved me.’ Those were the words upon your lips.

“I don’t say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: “I don’t accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”

“What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius, ’tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. Why not address yourself to them?”

“Why not?” he echoed, with bitter emphasis. “What an idle question!”

“I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid with you, Cassius. I do not – I cannot, love you.”

“You will not marry me then?”

“That, at least, is an idle question. I’ve said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient.”

“And I’ve said I love you. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there are others. Are you desirous of hearing them?”

As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.

“You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward. I’m not afraid to listen.”

“Indeed!” he rejoined, sneeringly. “You’re not afraid, ain’t you?”

“Not that I know of. What have I to fear?”

“I won’t say what you have; but what your father has.”

“Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his daughter; and now, alas, his only – . Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is this shadow hanging over him?”

“No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he’s no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you shouldn’t know anything about.”

“Oh! don’t I? You’re mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I’m aware that my father’s in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the house – your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics – has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master of me!”

Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.

He held a still stronger in his hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.

“Indeed!” he retorted, sneeringly. “Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness – or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial – ”

“Who?”

“How innocent you are!”

“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”

“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”

“Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were your protégée, or slave! I’m neither one, nor the other!”

Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.

“Pardieu!” she continued, “what is this threat? Tell me what you are going to do with me! I should like to know that.”

“You shall.”

“Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?”

“You would like the last, no doubt – provided your incarceration was to be in the company of – ”

“Go on, sir! What is to be my destiny? I’m impatient to have it declared.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow.”

“So soon? And where, may I ask?”

“In a court of justice.”

“How, sir?”

“By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury.”

“You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that I don’t like such pleasantries – ”

“Pleasantries indeed! I’m stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O’Hogerty, or whatever’s his name, will stand before the bar – accused of murdering your brother.”

“’Tis false! Maurice Gerald never – ”

“Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. It will be; and from your own lips will come the words that’ll prove it – to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury.”

The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself – a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.

It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.

“I know not what you mean,” she at length rejoined. “You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who – I know nothing – can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody.”

“Yes can you; a great deal more. It’s not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace – not only to his sister, but his family – he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded!

“All the world don’t know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting.”

“Two – who were they?”

The question was asked mechanically – almost with a tranquil coolness.

It was answered with equal sang froid.

“One was Cassius Calhoun – the other Louise Poindexter.” She did not start. She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. “Well!”

“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; “I suppose you understand me?”

“Not any more than ever.”

“You wish me to speak further?”

“As you please, sir.”

“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin – yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”

“Yes; I know that much.”

“You will not refuse me now?”

“Now more than ever!”

“Be it so! Before this time to-morrow – and, by Heaven! I mean it – before this time to-morrow, you shall stand in the witness-box?”

“Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!”

“You needn’t put yourself to the trouble. I’m not going to embarrass you any longer with my company – so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you’ll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you’ll give notice of it – in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I’ll sleep thinking of you.”

With these words of mockery upon his lips – almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them – Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.

Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.

Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.

Chapter 86

A Texan Court

It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.

Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf[364], does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.

The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs[365] of the morning.

Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.

Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.

This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.

The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the “Bloody Ground;” built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.

Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds – not a few of them traffickers[366] in human flesh!

There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling – adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up – whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.

Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo – the same with an augmentation of numbers.

The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women – the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle – their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle – seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of “carrioles” and “Jerseys.”

There is a spectacle – at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.

Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald – known as Maurice the mustanger.

Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim – neither much known in the neighbourhood.

The same Court – it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde – has been in session there before – has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men – thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers – with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!

It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.

It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.

All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.

Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest – friends and relatives of the man supposed to have been murdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.

But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances – independent of each other – have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done – as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.

They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.

Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.

There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side – soldiers and citizens – dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the “Oyez!” of the Court crier – grotesquely pronounced “O yes!” – determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: “May God have mercy on your soul!”

There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.

There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!

The Court is in session.

You have before your mind’s eye a large hall, with a raised daïs at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.

You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.

You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators – not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.

You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas – as unlike its homonym[367] in England as a bond of guerillas[368] to a brigade of Guardsmen.

There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided to sit under a tree!

And under a tree has it established itself – a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss – standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.

A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars[369], and another of lucifer-matches.[370]

Behind these paraphernalia sits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated – the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in his shirt-sleeves!

Instead of a wig, he wears his Panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed Havannah projecting from the other.

The remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling.

There are lawyers among them – attorneys, and counsellors, there called – with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his “deputy”; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.

A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half “squatted” or reclining along the grass.

It is the jury – an “institution” as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge – in England but too freely admitted.

Around the Texan judge and jury – close pressing upon the precincts of the Court – is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats – even under the oppressive heat; frocks of “copperas stripe” and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-blue cottonade; shirts of red flannel or unbleached “domestic”; dragoon[371], rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.

Here and there is seen a more regular costume – one more native to the country – the jaqueta[372] and calzoneros of the Mexican, with the broad sombrero shading his swarthy face of picaresque[373] expression.

Time was – and that not very long ago – when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.

But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge – Juez de Letras – was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could put onzas[374] in his pocket.

With all its rude irregularity – despite the absence of effete forms – of white ermine, and black silk – of uniformed alguazils[375], or bright-buttoned policemen – despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth – even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe – ay far safer – to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.

Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree – however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye – do not mistake them for a mob of your own “masses,” brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves – filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism – would that it choked you! – scorning all that is grand and progressive – revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.

I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself a citizen of this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship – that of choosing your parliamentary representative.

You fancy you have this right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.

Ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of Texas.

Nothing of the kind. They are “sovereign citizens” – the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle – almost without protest!

In most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. The gem is to be found in the centre at Port Inge.

In that now mustered the order is reversed. Outside is the elegance. The fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators.

It is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff’s officers in charge of him.

It was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; Miguel Diaz and his associates, as also Phelim O’Neal.

But in the course of a preliminary investigation the Mexican mustanger succeeded in proving an alibi, as did also his trio of companions. All four have been consequently discharged.

They acknowledged having disguised themselves as Indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less.

But they pretended it to have been a joke – a travestie[376]; and as there was proof of the others being at home – and Diaz dead drunk – on the night of Henry Poindexter’s disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry.

As to the Connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. If an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock.

Before the bar, then – if we may be permitted the figure of speech – there stands but one prisoner, Maurice Gerald – known to those gazing upon him as Maurice the mustanger.

Chapter 87

A False Witness

There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.

It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher.

All admitted him to be a fine young fellow – handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman – free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed.

But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into “small talk.”

In his actions there was observable a certain juste milieu[377]. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.

No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer “trade,” as that of catching wild horses – a calling not deemed the most reputable.

It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a “born gentleman” – a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.

There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where “born noblemen,” both of France and the “Faderland,” may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.

A fig for all patents of nobility – save those stamped by the true die of Nature!

Such is the sentiment of this far free land.

And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him – blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.

And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin – one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!

Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!

Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.

Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.

There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest – a gaze soft, but steadfast – in which fear and fondness seem strangely commingled.

There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of a calèche[378], is too fair to escape observation.

There are few who can interpret it.

But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed.

For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth.

That woman’s face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of the calèche; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end – even though it be death!

The trial begins.

There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.

After half a dozen draws, he takes the “weed” from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says —

“Gentlemen of the jury! We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered, – the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. It is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is yours to decide – after hearing the evidence to be laid before you – whether or not the accusation be sustained.”

The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality, – “Guilty, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.

Cassius Calhoun, and some “rowdies” around him, affect an incredulous sneer.

The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.

The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.

First called is Franz Oberdoffer.

After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the common routine of a Texan trial.

Oberdoffer’s evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left his house at a late hour – after midnight. He had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule – everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.

What had he carried off?

Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one – strapped, Mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle.

He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger’s belt. Gerald was dressed as he always went – in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.

He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse – which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his flask with Kirschenwasser[379]; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse – which he did for himself – he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn’t think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter’s plantation. He had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel – both by day and night – on foot as well as horseback – several times both ways.

Such are the main points of Oberdoffer’s evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner.

He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.

Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there – partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.

Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.

He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace – thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.

A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer’s evidence is exhausted.

On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry, – perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naïvely confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.

But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour – unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?

Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?

Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.

One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.

His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.

After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.

The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise – alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner – here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.

These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son – the defilement of a daughter!

A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age – of sad subdued aspect – whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.

But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained calèche, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.

Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.

Is she there of her own accord – by her own free will?

So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.

There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier’s voice, heard pronouncing the name —

“Louise Poindexter!”

Calhoun has kept his word.

Chapter 88

An Unwilling Witness

Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.

Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.

Without flinching – apparently without fear – she faces towards the Court.

All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration – that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!

One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.

It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.

Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention – he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin – as though with her eyes she would kill him.

Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.

“Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?”

The question is put by the State counsellor.

“At home, – in my father’s house.”

“May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?”

“I did.”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?”

“At the hour of midnight – if I rightly remember.”

“Were you alone?”

“Not all the time.”

“Part of it there was some one with you?”

“There was.”

“Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?”

“Certainly not.”

“May I ask the name of the individual?”

“There was more than one. My brother was there.”

“But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?”

“There was.”

“It is his name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it.”

“Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald.”

The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.

There is one on whom it produces a very different effect – the prisoner at the bar – who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!

“May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?”

“By appointment.”

“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it – in the execution of my duty: – What was the nature – the object I should rather term it – of this appointment?”

The witness hesitates to make answer.

Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies —

“Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved – whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”

“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”

“Quite true.”

The answer sends a thrill through the crowd – a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes the motive of the murder!

The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. There is a cry of “Hang – hang him!” and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, “Order in the Court!” cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.

“My brother did not follow him in anger,” pursues the witness, without being further questioned. “He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise.”

“I have something to say about that,” interposes Calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; “they quarrelled afterwards. I heard them, from where I was standing on the top of the house.”

“Mr Calhoun!” cries the judge rebukingly; “if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings.”

After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.

She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt!

The “chivalry” is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for the bonne fortune[380] of him who has been so daringly endorsed.

Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications.

Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry, “Hang!” – this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.

This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons – and even those of gentle strain in the carriages – seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner – all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain.

She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!

The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said aloud – insinuations against the accused – designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent.

Judge Roberts – the name of him who presides – is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!

And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!

This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word – some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative.

Thanks be to God, the spectators are not all of this mind. A few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.

There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.

Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.

Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.

Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak.

Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment – forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the Court!

The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for a coup de théâtre[381].

It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.

Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.

Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.

“Fellow citizens!” he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, “the law is bound to take its course – just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn’t hang a man without first hearing what he’s got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!”

“And hasn’t he done murder?” asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. “It’s only sarvin’ him, as he sarved young Poindexter.”

“There is no certainty about that. You’ve not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we’ve examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!” continues he, turning to the official; “call the witnesses for the defence.”

The crier obeys; and Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.

The story of the ci-devant stable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities – and in many parts altogether improbable – rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.

The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short – having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.

That other is next announced.

“Zebulon Stump!”

Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng – whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.

Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.

The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the “affidavit,” Zeb is directed to kiss.

He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.

Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.

The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.

After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unwonted agitation.

The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.

“Wal, Mister Judge!” says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know ’beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I’d preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi’ mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him.”

“Of what young fellow do you speak?” inquires the judge.

“The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan’s ’cused o’ killin’ young Peintdexter.”

“It would be somewhat irregular,” rejoins the judge – “After all, our object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven’t much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don’t object, let it be as you say.”

The “twelve,” speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and Zeb’s request is conceded nemine dissentiente[382].

Chapter 89

The Confession of the Accused

Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.

Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff’s officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.

It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto “chirping” among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation – as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his confession.

“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; “you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.

“First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial – which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable – my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.

“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”

The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.

“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself – which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.

“It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.

“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.

“But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”

Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.

“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship – I might say affection – on mine.

“Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation.”

“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. “Where did it take place?”

“About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed.”

The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.

It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!

“You mean the place where some blood was found?” doubtingly interrogates the judge.

“I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated.”

There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court – expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing – kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death – only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.

This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.

“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.

“Quite sure,” responds the accused. “Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one.”

“You saw the body?”

“I must take exception to this course of examination,” interposes the counsel for the accused. “It is quite irregular.”

“Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn’t be allowed,” adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney[383]. “The counsel for the prosecution wouldn’t be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination.”

“That’s the law here, too,” says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. “Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say.”

“I have spoken of a reconciliation,” resumes the accused, “and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.

“It has been made known to you how we parted – Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.

“On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wish him to know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night – as may be remembered by many of you – and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.

“The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.

“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer.”

“And the money with which you paid him?” asks the State prosecutor, “where did you get – ?”

“I protest against this!” interrupts the counsel for the accused.

“Bedarrah!” exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers[384], or rather duelling pistols, at the State counsellor; “if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye’d stand a nate chance of gettin’ conthradicted in a different style altogether!”

“Silence, gentlemen!” commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. “Let the accused continue his statement.”

“I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it – on the prairie, or under the roof of my jacalé. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as I desired.

“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal – where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.

“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.

“I had got round the corner – where the trace makes a sharp turn – and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.

“It might be somebody I wouldn’t care to encounter?

“That was the reflection I made; though I wasn’t much caring who. It was more from habit – by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians – that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.

“He did so shortly after.

“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself – only him.

“Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?

“Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.

“I was determined there should be no concealment – no cowardly shrinking on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others – not mine – not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”

Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.

Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.

It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.

She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with the abandon that love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!

If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason – by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!

Chapter 90

A Court Quickly Cleared

If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character.

It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share – more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion.

The thing is not so difficult of explanation. We know that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.

It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference.

Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart’s core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!

If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.

Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near Calhoun.

Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing!

The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands “Silence in the Court!” the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.

He continues his recital: —

“On seeing who it was, I rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him.

“There was light enough for him to see who I was; and he at once recognised me.

“Instead of the angry scene I expected – perhaps had reason to expect – I was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. His first words were to ask if I would forgive him for what he had said to me – at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner.

“Need I tell you that I took that hand? Or how heartily I pressed it? I knew it to be a true one; more than that, I had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother.

“It was the last time, but one, I ever grasped it alive. The last was shortly after – when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. I had no thought it was to be for ever.

“Gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? It was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial.

“We rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree.

“Cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange – the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. It consisted of our hats and cloaks.

“It was a whim of the moment suggested by myself – from a fashion I had been accustomed to among the Comanches. I gave Henry Poindexter my Mexican sombrero and striped blanket – taking his cloth cloak and Panama hat.

“We then parted – he riding away, myself remaining.

“I can give no reason why I stayed upon the spot; unless that I liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation – by me so little looked for and so much desired.

“I no longer cared for going on to the Alamo that night. I was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, I staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass.

“In three seconds I was asleep.

“It was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. Half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. I can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me – after the unpleasant excitement through which I had passed.

“My slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed.

“I could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. It was the report of a gun.

“I was not quite sure of its being this. I only fancied that it was.

“My horse seemed to know better than I. As I looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at!

“I sprang to my feet, and stood listening.

“But as I could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, I came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. The horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds – mysterious, because unexplained – often heard in the recesses of the chapparal.

“Dismissing the thing from my mind, I again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep.

“This time I was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak.

“It was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, I was about to continue my journey.

“But the shot seemed still ringing in my ears – even louder than I had heard it while half asleep!

“It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.

“Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.

“I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!

“I saw – ”

“The Headless Horseman!” exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.

“The Headless Horseman!” respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.

Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?

There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!

“Yonder he goes – yonder! yonder!”

“No, he’s coming this way! See! He’s making straight for the Fort!”

The latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.

Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.

The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.

There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.

Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general débandade[385], and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.

The latter has paused only for an instant – just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild “whigher,” he wheels round, and goes off at full speed – followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!

Chapter 91

A Chase through a Thicket

The chase leads straight across the prairie – towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.

Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line – one after another falling off, – as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.

But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.

The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.

The one coming after – but with a long interval between – is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.

It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.

The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.

The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death – as if some desperate necessity required it.

The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight – as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.

In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.

On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks – now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.

On go they, regardless of bush or brake – fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.

The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.

A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.

It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.

Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.

No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.

Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.

“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it – not three hundred yards behind me.

“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.

“By God! but there is a chance!”

At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.

He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the terrain, to see if it will suit.

At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.

Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.

On reflection the scheme is abandoned.

“It won’t do!” he mutters. “There’s too many of them fellows coming after – some that can track, too? They’d find his carcase, sure, – maybe hear the shot?

“No – no. It won’t do!”

He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind – only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above him!

“Yes – he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!”

Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above – were they gifted with the power of speech – could tell you so.

They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.

“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.

“What a fool I’ve been in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”

Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward – fast as the circuitous track will allow him.

Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt – surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.

The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!

He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.

His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.

At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.

His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle – with his head half buried among the bushes!

Calhoun sees that it is held there, and by the bridle-rein, – that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!

“Caught at last! Thank God – thank God!”

He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.

In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman – that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!

Chapter 92

A Reluctant Return

Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.

The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.

The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his “cavortings.”

After a brief struggle the animal is secured.

The captor utters an exclamation of joy.

It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.

What is this purpose?

It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.

After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.

A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serapé; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!

The arm is uplifted. The blow is not likely to be warded off.

For all that it is not struck. It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal – by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. The man is Zeb Stump.

“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it, durn ye!”

“What game?” rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. “What the devil are you talking about? This brute’s got caught by the bridle. I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat – so as to make sure of him.”

“Ah, thet’s what ye’re arter. Wal, I reck’n thur’s no need to cut the critter’s throat. We kin skewer it ’ithout thet sort o’ bloody bizness. It air the hoss’s throat ye mean, I s’pose?”

“Of course I mean the horse.”

“In coorse. As for the man, someb’y’s dud thet for him arready – if it be a man. What do you make o’ it, Mister Cash Calhoun?”

“Damned if I know what to make of it. I haven’t had time to get a good look at it. I’ve just this minute come up. By heaven!” he continues, feigning a grand surprise, “I believe it’s the body of a man; and dead!”

“Thet last air probibble enuf. ’Tain’t likely he’d be alive wi’ no head on his shoulders. Thar’s none under the blanket, is thar?”

“No; I think not. There cannot be?”

“Lift it a leetle, an see.”

“I don’t like touching it. It’s such a cursed queer-looking thing.”

“Durn it, ye wan’t so partickler a minnit ago. What’s kim over ye now?”

“Ah!” stammers Calhoun, “I was excited with chasing it. I’d got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers.”

“Never mind then,” interposes Zeb, – “I’ll make a inspecshun o’ it. Ye-es,” he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. “Ye-es, it’s the body o’ a man, an no mistake! Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o’ ven’son in a hard frost!”

“Hullo!” he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serapé, “it’s the body o’ the man whose murder’s bein’ tried – yur own cousin – young Peintdexter! It is, by the Eturnal God!”

“I believe you are right. By heaven it is he!”

“Geehosophat!” proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, “this air the mysteeriousest thing o’ all. Wal; I reck’n thur’s no use in our stayin’ hyur to spek’late upon it. Bessest thing we kin do ’s to take the body back, jest as it’s sot in the seddle – which it appears putty firm. I know the hoss too; an I reck’n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he’ll kum along ’ithout much coaxin’. Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know’d to him. Thur now! Don’t ye see it’s a preevious acquaintance o’ yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o’ late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin’ him. ’Tair some time since he’s hed a curry to his skin.”

While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact – then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.

“I thort so,” exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; “the stellyun’s boun to lead quietly enuf – so long as he’s in kumpny with the maar. ’T all events, ’twon’t be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin’ away. Now, Mister Calhoun,” he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; “don’t ye think we’d better start right away? The trial may still be goin’ on; an’, ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck’n thet we’ve got a witness hyur, as ’ll do somethin’ torst illoocidatin’ the case – either to the hangin’ the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin’ him althogither o’ the churge. Wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?”

“Oh, certainly. As you say, there’s no reason for our remaining here.”

Zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. The latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company.

Calhoun rides slowly – a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear.

At a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back.

His countenance betrays terrible agitation. Zeb Stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped.

He pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation.

He observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause.

Without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant’s notice to be carried to his cheek. In this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. There is no remark made. None is needed. Zeb’s gesture is sufficient. It plainly says: – “Go back if ye dare!”

The latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on.

But no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. Without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind – with which his compagnon du voyage is compelled to put up.

The cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal.

It approaches the open prairie.

At length the sky line comes in sight.

Something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress Calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering.

Dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. Shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? Or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him?

He would give all he owns in the world – all that he ever hopes to own – even Louise Poindexter herself – to be relieved of the hated presence of Zeb Stump – to be left for ten minutes alone with the Headless Horseman!

It is not to be. The sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. Though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards him as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back!

After all, what can Zeb Stump say, or do? There is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him?

And after all, there may be nothing to be known?

It is evident that Zeb is suspicious. But what of that? Only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. Unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? One against ten. In all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal?

Influenced by this hope, Calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie – close followed by Zeb Stump on his critter – the dead body of Henry Poindexter bringing up the rear!

Chapter 93

A Body Beheaded

Forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators – abandoned, by one-half of the jury – the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted.

There is no adjournment of the Court – only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to.

The interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree.

There is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. That is furnished by the incident that has just transpired – strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age.

The spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase.

They are in hopes that the Headless Horseman will be captured. They believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder.

There is one among them who could explain the first – though ignorant of the last. The accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession.

Under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence.

After a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads – as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit.

All bring back the same story. None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. His entity remains mythical as ever!

It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him.

No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on? Perhaps they may have been successful?

All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back – with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.

An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them – either with or without the wished-for captive.

Is the trial to be further postponed?

The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.

There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.

There are paid claquers[386] in the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre. The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!

The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial – as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.

So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.

The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.

“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?”

“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”

“Asleep?”

“Yes; in the sleep of death.”

“Dead?”

“More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”

“What! His head cut off?”

“Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face – with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!

“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.

“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour – the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.

“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.

“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”

A sensation of horror runs through the auditory – accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.

“Did you know the man?”

“Alas! yes.”

“Without seeing his face?”

“It did not need that. The dress told who it was – too truly.”

“What dress?”

“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”

A groan is again heard – rising above the hum of the excited hearers.

“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”

“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.

“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the beheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere – in addition to that made by the knife.

“It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood.

“On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body.”

“In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?”

“Most certainly it was. If not instantaneous, in a few minutes – perhaps seconds.”

“The head was cut off, you say. Was it quite severed from the body?”

“Quite; though it was lying close up – as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment.”

“Was it a clean out – as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?”

“It was.”

“What sort of weapon would you say?”

“It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade.”

“Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?”

“There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered.”

“Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?”

“Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect. I could scarce think it real.

“When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.

“But then there was his scalp untouched – even the hat still upon his head!”

“You changed your mind about its being Indians?”

“I did.”

“Who did you then think it might be?”

“At the time I did not think of any one. I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy – either here or elsewhere. I have since had my suspicions. I have them now.”

“State them.”

“I object to the line of examination,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “We don’t want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner’s suspicions. Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with his very plausible tale?”

“Let him proceed, then,” directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.

“State how you yourself acted,” pursues the examiner. “What did you do, after making the observations you have described?”

“For some time I scarce knew what to do – I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot – the same I had heard.

“But who could have fired it? Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.

“I thought of some prairie-pirate, who might have intended plunder. But this was equally improbable. My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. That would have been taken. It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!

“I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.

“I never had.

“Besides, why had the head been cut off?

“It was this that filled me with astonishment – with horror.

“Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.

“To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.

“Then I thought of galloping back to the Fort, and getting assistance to carry it to Casa del Corvo.

“But if I left it in the chapparal, the coyotés might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. Already the vultures were above – taking their early flight. They appeared to have espied it.

“Mutilated as was the young man’s form, I could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. I thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it – in tears.”

Chapter 94

The Mystery Made Clear

The accused pauses in his recital. No one offers any observation – either to interrupt, or hurry him on.

There is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention.

Judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes – many with mouths agape – are attentively turned upon the prisoner.

Amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed.

“My next idea was to cover the body with the cloak – as well as the serapé still around the shoulders. By so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards – at least till we could get back to fetch it away.

“I had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself – one that appeared in every way better.

“Instead of returning to the Port alone, I should take the body along with me. I fancied I could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo.

“I led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when I perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. It was that lately ridden by him who was now no more.

“The animal was near by, browsing upon the grass – as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it.

“As the bridle trailed upon the ground, I had no difficulty in catching hold of it. There was more in getting the horse to stand still – especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground.

“Holding the reins between my teeth, I lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle.

“I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.

“Besides, the horse became greatly excited, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.

“After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.

“I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me – one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos[387] of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas[388], his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home – strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.

“Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?

“I made the attempt – first trying to set him on his own horse.

“But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.

“There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.

“I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.

“In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect, – in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.

“To make it thoroughly secure, I cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind.

“A separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about.

“The head still remained to be dealt with. It too must be taken along.

“On lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, I found that this could not be done. It was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it – close as the skin itself.

“Having no fear that they would fall apart, I tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle.

“This completed my preparations for the journey.

“I mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me – he was accustomed to do so without leading – I started to ride back to the settlement.

“In less than five minutes after, I was knocked out of my saddle – and my senses at the same time.

“But for that circumstance I should not be standing here, – at all events, not in the unpleasant position I now hold.”

“Knocked out of your saddle!” exclaims the judge. “How was that?”

“A simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. On mounting the strange horse I neglected to take hold of the bridle. Accustomed to guide my own – often with only my voice and knees – I had grown regardless of the reins. I did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed.

“The horse I was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where I had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop.

“I need not say something; for I knew what it was. He had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man.

“I clutched at the bridle; but, before I could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed.

“At first I was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. I supposed I should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand.

“But I soon found this could not be so easily done. They had strayed forward, almost to the animal’s ears; and I could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck.

“While endeavouring to secure the bridle, I took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. It was only when I felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that I discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal.

“After that I had no time to make observations – no chance even to look after the lost reins. I was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle.

“I managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches.

“But there was one I could not avoid – the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. It was low down – on a level with my breast – and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it.

“Where he went afterwards I do not attempt to say. You all know that – I believe, better than I. I can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which I knew anything about till two hours afterwards.

“When my senses came back to me, I saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. I could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting.

“The sight of them, as well as my thirst – that was beginning to grow painful – prompted me to move away from the place.

“On rising to my feet, I discovered that I could not walk. Worse still, I was scarce able to stand.

“To stay on that spot was to perish – at least I so thought at the time.

“Urged by the thought, I exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water.

“I knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling, – partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket – I succeeded in reaching it.

“Having satisfied my thirst, I felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep.

“I awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotés.

“There were at least two score of them; and although at first I had no fear – knowing their cowardly nature – I was soon brought to a different way of thinking.

“They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.

“After a time they did so – clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.

“I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.

“With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.

“For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.

“I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God.”

On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.

Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.

“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade – one ofttimes more faithful than man himself – my staghound, Tara.

“The dog had been straying – perhaps in search of me – though I’ve since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.

“The coyotes scattered at his approach; and I was saved from a fearful fate – I may say, out of the jaws of death.

“I had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness – whichever it may have been.

“On awaking I was able to reflect. I knew that the dog must have come from my jacalé; which I also knew to be several miles distant. He had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, Phelim.

“The man should still be there; and I bethought me of sending him a message – the staghound to be its bearer.

“I wrote some words on a card, which I chanced to have about me.

“I was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what I had written upon it.

“There would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood.

“Wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, I attached it to Tara’s neck.

“With some difficulty I succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. But he did so at length; and, as I had hoped, to go home to the hut.

“It appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday I was made acquainted with the result.

“Shortly after the dog took his departure, I once more fell asleep – again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy – one more terrible than I had yet encountered.

“It was a jaguar.

“A conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, I am unable to tell. I leave that to my brave rescuer, Zeb Stump; who, I hope, will soon return to give an account of it – with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves.

“All I can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams – painful phantasmagoria – mingled with pleasant visions – ah! some that were celestial – until the day before yesterday, when I awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison – with a charge of murder hanging over my head!

“Gentlemen of the jury! I have done.”

“Si non vero e ben trovato[389],” is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital.

They may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it – one and all of them.

And not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. The tale is too simple – too circumstantial – to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies.

It is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. So think the majority of those to whom it has been told.

His confession – irregular as it may have been – has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered.

Still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him.

Where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. Where is Zeb Stump?

Five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. Five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter – with or without Cassius Calhoun – with or without the Headless Horse, man – now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended.

It is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability – much less to pronounce it impossible. They are Texans of the south-west – denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the “Staked Plain,” from which springs the lovely Leona, and where the river of Nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams.

They are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks – or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance – unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyoté; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of Egypt!

But few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the Texan climate – that section of it close to the Sierra Madre[390] – and more especially among the spurs of the Llano Estacado.

Should the Headless Horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of Henry Poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. If there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed.

Their impatience may be traced to a different cause – a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief.

It is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground – every woman as well – chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree.

Under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line – where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald.

Chapter 95

The Last Witness

The watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence.

The latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation – when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. Then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view.

Thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. Its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone.

This time the tale is true. There are shadows upon the skyline – shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion.

A wild shout – the old Saxon “huzza,” swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree!

Two of them are easily recognised, as Zeb Stump and Cassius Calhoun. The third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken.

The first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant – when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings.

Though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe.

The shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence – unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud.

Many go forward to meet the approaching cortège; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground.

The trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them.

Two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle.

Calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. In the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. All eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the Headless Horseman.

Zeb Stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree – into the presence of the Court.

“Now, judge!” says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, “an’ you twelve o’ the jury! hyur’s a witness as air likely to let a glimp o’ daylight into yur dulliberashuns. What say ye to examinin’ him?”

An exclamation is heard, followed by the words, “O God, it is he!” A tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the Headless Horseman. It is his father!

A cry proceeds from a more distant point – a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. It is his sister!

After a time, Woodley Poindexter is led away – unresisting, – apparently unconscious of what is going on around him.

He is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant – his daughter.

But the carriage keeps its place. She who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the Court has declared its sentence – ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end!

Zeb Stump is officially directed to take his place in the “witness-box.”

By order of the judge, the examination proceeds – under direction of the counsel for the accused.

Many formalities are dispensed with. The old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases – as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law!

After the following fashion does Zeb proceed: —

“Fust heerd o’ this ugly bizness on the second day arter young Peint war missin’. Heerd on it as I war reeturnin’ from a huntin’ spell down the river. Heerd thar wur a suspeeshun ’beout the mowstanger hevin’ kermitted the murder. Knowd he wan’t the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. He wan’t at home, though his man Pheelum war; so skeeart ’beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o’ anythin’.

“Wal, whiles we war palaverin’, in kim the dog, wi’ somethin’ tied roun’ his neck – the which, on bein’ ’zamined, proved to be the mowstanger’s curd. Thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which I seed to be blood.

“Them words tolt to whosomedever shed read ’em, whar the young fellur war to be foun’.

“I went thar, takin’ the other two – thet air Pheelum an the houn’ – along wi’ me.

“We got to the groun’ jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin’ his guts clawed out by one o’ them ere spotted painters – the Mexikins call tigers – tho’ I’ve heern the young fellur hisself gie ’em the name o’ Jug-wars.

“I put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o’ it.

“Wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. We hed to toat him thar on a sort o’ streetcher; seein’ as he wan’t able to make trades o’ hisself. Beside, he wur as much out o’ his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin’ time.

“We got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun’ him.”

The witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacalé. Would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? He resolves to be reticent.

This does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him.

It results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred – up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house.

“Now,” says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, “since ye’ve made me tell all I know ’beout thet part o’ the bizness, thur’s somethin’ ye haint thought o’ askin’, an the which this child’s boun’ to make a clean breast o’.”

“Proceed, Mr Stump!” says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.

“Wal, what I’m goin’ to say now haint so much to do wi’ the prisoner at the bar, as wi’ a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin’ in his place. I won’t say who thet man air. I’ll tell ye what I know, an hev foun’ out, an then you o’ the jury may reckon it up for yurselves.”

The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath – as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.

No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.

“Wal, fellur citizens!” continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, “arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under – struck down in his tracks – wiped out o’ the world.

“I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan’t, an kedn’t be, the mowstanger – Maurice Gerald.

“Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it’s done the rest o’ ye – them as haint made up thur minds ’ithout reflekshun.

“Wal; thinkin’ as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain’t goin’ to say thet appearances wan’t agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.

“For all thet, I wan’t goin’ to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.

“I knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin’ to the place, an hoss tracks goin’ from it; an damn ’em! thur wur too many o’ ’em, goin’ everywhur – else the thing mout a been eezy enough.

“But thar wur one partickler set I’d got a down upon; an them I detarmined to foller up to the eend o’ creashun.

“They war the footmarks o’ an Amerikin hoss, hevin’ three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi’ a bit broken off the eend o’ it. This hyur’s the eyedentikul piece o’ iron!”

The witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. In the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete.

He holds it on high – enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is.

“Now, Mr Judge,” he continues, “an’ you o’ the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. He went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o’ it. He went right upon the track o’ both, an stopped short o’ the place whur the crime wur committed.

“But the man that rud him didn’t stop short. He kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. It war the third hoss – him wi’ the broken shoe – thet carried the murderer!”

“Go on, Mr Stump!” directs the judge. “Explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement.”

“What I mean, judge, air jest this. The man I’m speakin’ o’ tuk stan’ in the thicket, from which stan’ he fired the shet thet killed poor young Peintdexter.”

“What man? Who was it? His name! Give his name!” simultaneously interrogate twenty voices.

“I reckon yu’ll find it thar.”

“Where?”

“Whar! In thet thur body as sits ’ithout a head, lookin’ dumbly down on ye!

“Ye kin all see,” continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, “ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o’ the striped blanket. Thur’s a hole in the centre o’ it. Ahint that hole I reck’n thur’ll be another, in the young fellur’s karkidge. Thar don’t appear any to match it at the back. Thurfor I konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o’ him. S’posin’ we strip off his duds, an see!”

There is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. Two or three of the spectators – Sam Manly one of them – step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serapé.

As at the inauguration of a statue – whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration – the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the Texan tree, while the serapé is being raised from the shoulders of the Headless Horseman.

It is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. These are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage.

It is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue cottonade – box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat.

The limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. But only the thighs can be seen – the lower extremities being concealed by the “water-guards” of spotted skin tightly stretched over them.

Around the waist – twice twined around it – is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse’s hair. Before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. By it is the body retained in its upright attitude. It is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing – surcingle fashion – under the belly of the horse.

Everything as the accused has stated – all except the head.

Where is this?

The spectators do not stay to inquire. Guided by the speech of Zeb Stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it.

Two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen.

It is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. These have saturated the soft cottonade – now seemingly desiccated.

The other shot-hole shows no similar signs. It is a clear round cut in the cloth – about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. There is no blood stain around it.

“It,” says Zeb Stump, pointing to the smaller, “it signifies nothin’. It’s the bullet I fired myself out o’ the gully; the same I’ve ben tellin’ ye o’. Ye obsarve thar’s no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. The other air different. It wur the shot as settled him; an ef I ain’t dog-gonedly mistaken, ye’ll find the bit o’ lead still inside o’ the corp. Suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!”

The proposal meets with no opposition. On the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as Zeb has suggested.

The stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle.

It feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking, – the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. The lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy!

With respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. The operators stoop silently over it – Sam Manly acting as the chief.

Directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound – that with the circle of extravasated blood.

The dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath.

In the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. Something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe – the point of a bowie-knife. It has the feel of a leaden bullet. It is one!

It is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury.

Despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel – despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib – there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters C.C.

Oh! those tell-tale initials! There are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. Some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet – when the killing of the jaguar was contested!

He who made that boast has now reason to regret it!

“But where is he?”

The question is beginning to be asked.

“What’s your explanation, Mr Stump?” is another question put by the counsel for the accused.

“Don’t need much, I reck’n,” is the reply. “He’d be a durnationed greenhorn as can’t see, clur as the light o’ day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet.”

“By whom fired, do you think?”

“Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar’s no chance o’ mistakin’ who it kums from. Thar’s only the ineeshuls thur; but they’re plain enuf, I reck’n, an speak for theirselves.”

“I see nothing in all this,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “There’s a marked bullet, it is true – with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his – as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn’t be the first time that a murder has been committed – by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning – a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?”

“Besides,” continues the specious pleader, “where is the motive for a murder such as this would be – supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don’t suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime.”

“Ain’t thar though?” asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer’s speech. “What do ye call this?”

Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper – crumpled – scorched along the edges – and blackened as with gunpowder.

“This I foun’,” says he, surrendering it to the jury, “stuck fast on the thorn o’ a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o’ the barrel o’ a gun. It kim out o’ the same gun as discharged thet bullet – to which it hed served for waddin’. As this chile takes it, it’s bin the backin’ o’ a letter. Thur’s a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi’ the ineeshuls on the bit o’ lead. The jury kin read the name for tharselves.”

The foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud: —

Captain Cassius Calhoun!

Chapter 96

Stole Away!

The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.

It is accompanied by a cry – sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.

It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.

Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.

After a short time spent in examining the envelope – passed from hand to hand among the jurymen – the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.

He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions – those that originally prompted him to seek for “sign” upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught – giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.

This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.

But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.

They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped – themselves along with it; and – swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit – revenge, proceeding from self-reproach – they call loudly for a change in the programme.

The Court is assailed with the cries: —

“Let the Irishman go – he is innocent! We don’t want any farther evidence. We’re convinced of it. Let him go free!”

Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.

It is followed by other speeches equally earnest: —

“Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It’s he that’s done the deed! That’s why he’s shown so bitter against the other! If he’s innocent, he’ll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we’re waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man’s been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!”

The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.

The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.

The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.

There is only one pair that looks in the right direction – those of Zeb Stump.

The ci-devant witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare – still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.

With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare’s back, and spurs her from under the tree.

At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.

Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate – making for a particular quarter of the cavallada.

“’Tis he! ’Tis Calhoun!” cries the voice of one who has recognised him.

“Trying to steal off!” proclaims another.

“Follow him!” shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. “Follow, and bring him back!”

There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed – by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.

Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his – a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.

It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.

From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal – the “hue and cry.”

Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal’s back.

Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie – going off at a gallop.

Fifty horses are soon laid along his track – their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.

“Bring him back – dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase, – supposed to have been spoken by the major.

No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this – coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.

Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative – a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!

Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista[391]; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer’s bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger’s pistol pointed at his head!

He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace – at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.

It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following – within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries – one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.

He has.

He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.

True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?

Is this the thought that sustains him?

It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket – with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit – Zeb Stump at their head!

No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.

What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?

Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?

Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.

There is a still farther beyond – a border. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.

There are, indeed, two borders. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice – often does – by an adroit migration from one to the other – a mere change of residence and nationality.

But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.

Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the other border – that beyond which roams the savage Comanche – the Ishmaelite of the prairies – whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man’s blood!

In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality – perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!

It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the Llano Estacado.

He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.

He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him – the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation – more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved – perhaps never to be seen again!

But he has no time to think even of her. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind – fast travelling upon his tracks!

The murderer makes haste – all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang – swift as the steeds of Arabia[392], from which it can claim descent.

Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles – most of them going at a gallop.

But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race – tough as terriers – it will go fifty – if need be a hundred – without staggering in its tracks.

What a stroke of good fortune – that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.

He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.

He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.

Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.

Who, then, can come up with him?

He congratulates himself on the chance that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!

And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

Chapter 97

The Chase of the Assassin

Will God permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?

These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.

They are answered by an instinct of justice – the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.

The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen – soldiers and civilians – spring forward in the pursuit.

The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.

The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.

The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider – as all know – his own.

At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad “whigher!”

Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. A single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.

He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders.

After a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off.

The spectators stand gazing after. There is no longer a doubt as to the result. The wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. God has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where he so late stood a too willing witness!

And the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is the instrument chosen to carry out the Divine decree!

Even the rude Regulators – with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of Divine interference – cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice.

One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.

After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view.

There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a calèche – her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.

It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer – tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: “God have mercy on the guilty man!”

Delayed a little at mounting – and more in procuring the lazo – Maurice Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. On clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead – a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.

He thinks nothing of this. Confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear.

And the blood-bay answers his expectations. As if joyed at being relieved from his inert load – to him an incubus inexplicable – and inspired by the pressure of his master’s knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf – in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.

He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the “field.”

Still on, over the rolling ridges – across the stream-beds between – on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him – as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider.

There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view – a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds – an old mustang mare.

Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs – the keen blade of a bowie-knife.

It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion.

Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. Nor does Zeb expect it. He but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful.

There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. He beholds him with “beard upon the shoulder.” It is he who is pursued.

Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger – the man he would have devoted – was so near devoting – to the most disgraceful of deaths!

He sees this man coming after – his own conscience tells him – as an avenger!

Is it the hand of God that directs this enemy on his track? He trembles as he asks himself the question. From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!

A cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive. He feels as if he were fighting against Fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest!

He sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no longer believing that speed can avail him!

His flight is now merely mechanical – his mind taking no part in the performance.

His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death – not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.

The sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he struggles on towards it.

An opening presents itself. He enters it; and continues his gallop for a half mile further.

He arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy timber. Beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight of his pursuer.

He knows the place, but too well. It has been fatal to him before. Is it to prove so again?

It is. He feels that it is, and rides irresolutely. He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!

He is too late for turning the corner, – too late to seek concealment in the thicket, – and with a cry he reins up.

It is a cry partly of despair, partly of fierce defiance – like the scream of a chased jaguar under bay of the bloodhounds.

It is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver.

But the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a hishing sound – as from the winding of a sling – and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air!

Calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke. It is darting straight towards him!

He has no time to draw trigger for a second shot – no time even to avoid the lazo’s loop. Before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, “Surrender, you assassin!” he sees the red stallion turn tail towards him; and, in the next instant, experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold!

Beyond this he feels, hears, and sees nothing more.

He has been jerked out of his saddle; and the shock received in his collision with the hard turf has knocked the breath out of his body, as well as the sense out of his soul!

Chapter 98

Not Dead yet

The assassin lies stretched along the earth – his arms embraced by the raw-hide rope – to all appearance dead.

But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint – it may be a feint – and to make sure it is not the latter, he remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain.

The blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a tree – ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest sign.

It is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of Tamaulipas[393] and Texas.

Oft – too oft – has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene – with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak!

Even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report of the pistol, are hovering in the air – their naked necks elongated in eager anticipation of a feast!

One touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would give them what they want.

“It would serve the scoundrel right,” mutters the mustanger to himself. “Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head! There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell, – or himself, if he be still alive.

“I have my own thoughts about it. I know that he loves her; and it may be that the brother stood in his way.

“But how, and why? That is the question that requires an answer. Perhaps it can only be answered by God and himself?”

“Yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur,” interposes a voice breaking in on the soliloquy. “Thur’s one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as well as eyther o’ them ye’ve made mention o’; and thet individooal air ole Zeb Stump, at your sarvice. But ’taint the time to talk o’ sech things now; not hyur ain’t the place neythur. We must take him back unner the live oak, whar he’ll git treated accordin’ to his desarvins. Durn his ugly picter! It would sarve him right to make it uglier by draggin’ him a spell at the eend o’ yur trail-rope.

“Never mind beout that. We needn’t volunteer to be Henry Peintdexter’s ’vengers. From what they know now, I reck’n that kin be trusted to the Regulators.”

“How are we to get him back? His horse has galloped away!”

“No difeequilty beout that, Mister Gerald. He’s only fainted a bit; or maybe, playin’ possum. In eyther case, I’ll soon roust him. If he ain’t able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur’s the critter as ’ll carry him. I’m sick o’ the seddle myself, an I reck’n the ole gal’s a leetle bit sick o’ me – leestwise o’ the spur I’ve been a prickin’ into her. I’ve made up my mind to go back on Shanks’s maar, an as for Mister Cash Calhoun, he’s welkim to hev my seat for the reeturn jerney. Ef he don’t stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack him acrost the crupper, like a side o’ dead buck-meat. Yo-ho! he begins to show sign! He’ll soon rekiver his senses – all seven o’ ’em, I reck’n – an then he kin mount the maar o’ hisself.

“Yee-up, ole hoss!” continues Zeb, grasping Calhoun by the collar of his coat, and giving him a vigorous shake. “Yee-up, I say; an kum along wi’ us! Ye’re wanted. Thar’s somebody desirin’ to have a talk wi’ you!”

“Who? where?” inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and staring unsteadily around him. “Who wants me?”

“Wal; I do for one; an – ”

“Ah! you it is, Zeb Stump! and – and – ?”

“An’ that air’s Mister Maurice Gerald the mowstanger. You’ve seed him afore, I reck’n? He wants ye for two. Beside, thar’s a good grist o’ others as ud like to see ye agin – back thar by the Port. So ye’d best get upon yur legs, an’ go along wi’ us.”

The wretched man rises to his feet. In so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo.

“My horse?” he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. “Where is my horse?”

“Ole Nick only knows whar he air by this time. Like enuf gone back to the Grand, whar he kim from. Arter the gallupin ye’ve gi’n him, I reck’n he air sick o’ the swop; an’s goed off to take a spell o’ rest on his native pasters.”

Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment. The swop! Even this, too, is known to him!

“Now, then,” pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience. “’Twon’t do to keep the Court a-waitin’. Are ye riddy?”

“Ready for what?”

“Fust an foremost, to go back along wi’ me an Mister Gerald. Second an second-most, to stan’ yur trial.”

“Trial! I stand trial!”

“You, Mister Cash Calhoun.”

“On what charge?”

“The churge o’ killin’ Henry Peintdexter – yur own cousin.”

“It’s a lie! A damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it – !”

“Shet up yur head!” cries Zeb, with an authoritative gesture. “Ye’re only wastin’ breath. Ef this chile ain’t mistook about it, ye’ll need all ye’ve got afore long. Kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi’ us! The judge air awaitin’; the jury air awaitin’; an justice air waitin’, too – in the shape o’ three score Reg’lators.”

“I’m not going back,” doggedly responds Calhoun. “By what authority do you command me? You have no warrant?”

“Hain’t I, though?” interrupts Zeb. “What d’ye call this?” he adds, pointing to his rifle. “Thur’s my warrant, by the grace o’ God; an by thet same, this chile air a goin’ to execute it. So no more o’ yur durned palaver: for I ain’t the sort to stan’ it. Take yur choice, Mister Cash Calhoun. Mount thet old maar o’ mine, an kum along quickly; or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o’ merchandice: for back yur boun’ to go – I swar it by the Eturnal!”

Calhoun makes no reply. He glances at Stump – at Gerald – despairingly around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the breast-pocket of his coat – the counterpart of that shaken out of his hand, as the rope settled around him.

He makes an effort to reach the pistol – feeble, because only half resolved.

He is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of Zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level.

“Quick!” exclaims the hunter. “Mount, Mister Calhoun! Thur’s the maar awaitin’ for ye. Inter the seddle, I say!”

Like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman. He does so, from a consciousness that there is death – certain death – in disobeying them.

Mechanically he mounts the mare; and, without resistance, suffers her to be led away from the spot.

Zeb, afoot, strides on in advance.

The mare, at bridle-length, follows upon his tracks.

The mustanger rides reflectingly behind; thinking less of him held at the end of his lazo, than of her, who by a generous self-sacrifice, has that day riveted around his heart a golden chain – only by death to be undone!

Chapter 99

Attempted Murder and Suicide

After its second involuntary recess – less prolonged than the first – the Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.

It is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the space canopied by the tree.

From the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed to a lurid red – as if there was anger in the sky!

It is but an accident of the atmosphere – the portent of an approaching storm.

For all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances.

It would seem as if Heaven’s wrath was acting in concert with the passions of Earth!

Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. He has been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses.

In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar!

This is the only change observable.

The judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before; though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the accused.

His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered.

It has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt. The evidence is already before them; and though entirely circumstantial – as in most cases of murder – the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive and complete.

There is but one missing link – if link it may be called – the motive.

The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body. The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that Henry Poindexter’s death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after his receiving the shot.

Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?

No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. No one expects him to do so – save to his Maker.

Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.

The trial has come to a close; the verdict Guilty has been given; and the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black cap – that dread emblem of death – preparatory to pronouncing the sentence.

In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for sentence.

He starts at the invitation – falling, as it does, like a death-knell upon his ear.

He looks wildly around. Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.

There is not even pity. All appear to frown upon him.

His confederates – those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him – are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. They have shrunk out of sight – before the majesty of the law, and the damning evidence of his guilt.

Despite his social standing – and the wealth to sustain it – he sees himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin in Texas!

His demeanour is completely changed. In place of that high haughty air – oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism – he looks cowed and craven.

And not strange that he should.

He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin – on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to contemplate.

To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.

All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes – sunken as they are in the midst of two livid circles. He has the air of one on the eve of making confession.

Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? Is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it?

The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him.

There is silence even among the cicadas.

It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?

“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”

“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”

Not during all the day – despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises – have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.

“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter – shot him dead in the chapparal.”

The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.

Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it – proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man – once more in their midst.

Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.

“I know that I’ve got to die,” proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. “You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.

“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.”

A new “sensation” makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.

No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.

“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”

The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.

“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”

The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him – still solemnly austere.

“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t – that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I see standing before me.”

In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.

“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.

“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.

“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot – meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serapé still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”

The “sensation” again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts – the latter prolonged into cries of retribution – mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.

There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.

“Now!” cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”

There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech – the last of Calhoun’s life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.

While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.

The spectators have just time to see the pistol – as it glints under the slanting sunbeams – when two shots are heard in quick succession.

With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!

One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger, – the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!

Chapter 100

Joy

Joy!

There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.

Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the subdued happiness that succeeded? Not I. Not you, if you speak truly.

The passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly Puritan standard. Still is it according to the dictates of Nature – universal and irresistible – telling us that father, mother, sister, and brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only exceeded – sometimes scarce equalled – by the love of self.

Do not reproach the young Creole, because this passion was paramount in her soul. Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. Nor, that her happiness was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her lover’s life had been preserved – as it might seem miraculously.

The aim of the assassin had been true enough. He must have felt sure of it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the bullet that had lodged in his brain. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a gage d’amour[394] – the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place – turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet[395]!

Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing too close to the spot.

Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.

The stunning shock – with the mental and corporeal excitement – long sustained – did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.

But no longer lay his body in danger – in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures, – in a hut, where he was but ill attended – in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.

When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman – the loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like – by name Louise Poindexter.

There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own father. The spirit of the aristocratic planter – steeped in sorrow, and humiliated by misfortune – had become purged of its false pride; though it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance, which, instead of a “nobody,” gave him a nobleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald – erst known as Maurice the mustanger!

In Texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care to carry it. But, by a bit of good fortune – not always attendant on an Irish baronetcy – it carried along with it an endowment – ample enough to clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Cassius Calhoun, and claimed by his nearest of kin.

This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun’s death, it was discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict[396]; and there was a young scion[397] of his stock – living in New Orleans – who had the legal right to say he was his son!

It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement, became the husband of the fair Creole.

After a visit to his native land – including the European tour – which was also that of his honeymoon – Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations, once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.

The “blue-eyed colleen” of Castle Ballagh must have been a myth – having existence only in the erratic fancy of Phelim. Or it may have been the bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming – by absence, oft fatal to such tender plants of passion?

Whether or no, Louise Poindexter – Lady Gerald she must now be called – during her sojourn in the Emerald Isle saw nothing to excite her to jealousy.

Only once again did this fell passion take possession of her spirit; and then only in the shape of a shadow soon to pass away.

It was one day when her husband came home to the hacienda – bearing in his arms the body of a beautiful woman!

Not yet dead; though the blood streaming from a wound in her bared bosom showed she had not long to live.

To the question, “Who has done this?” she was only able to answer, “Diaz – Diaz!”

It was the last utterance of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos!

As the spirit of the unhappy señorita passed into eternity, along with it went all rancour from that of her more fortunate rival. There can be no jealousy of the dead. That of Lady Gerald was at rest, and for ever.

It was succeeded by a strong sympathy for the ill-fated Isidora; whose story she now better comprehended. She even assisted her lord in the saddling of his red-bay steed, and encouraged him in the pursuit of the assassin.

She joyed to see the latter led back at the end of a lazo – held in the hand of her husband; and refused to interfere, when a band of Regulators, called hastily together, dealt out summary chastisement – by hanging him to a tree!

It was not cruelty – only a crude kind of justice: – “an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.”

And what a poor compensation it seemed, to those who had taken part in exacting it!

As they stood gazing upon the remains of the villain, and his victim – the swarth ruffian dangling from the branch above, and the fair form lying underneath – the hearts of the Texans were touched – as perhaps they had never been before.

There was a strange thought passing through their minds; a sadness independent of that caused by the spectacle of a murder. It was regret at having so hastily despatched the assassin!

Beautiful, even in death, was Isidora. Such features as she possessed, owe not everything to the light of life. That voluptuous shape – the true form divine – may be admired in the cold statue.

Men stood gazing upon her dead body – long gazing – loth to go away – at length going with thoughts not altogether sacred!

In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the moral, it is oft the restorer. Nowhere has it effected greater changes than in Texas – during the last decade – and especially in the settlements of the Nueces and Leona.

Plantations have sprung up, where late the chapparal thickly covered the earth; and cities stand, where the wild steed once roamed over a pathless prairie.

There are new names for men, places, and things.

For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient hacienda – still known as Casa del Corvo.

Once there, you would become the recipient of a hospitality, unequalled in European lands.

You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for your hostess one of its most beautiful women – both still this side of middle life.

Residing under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of aristocratic air and venerable aspect – withal chatty and cheerful – who would conduct you around the corrales, show you the stock, and never tire of talking about the hundreds – ay thousands – of horses and horned cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.

You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more especially of his beautiful daughter – the mistress of the mansion – and the half-dozen pretty prattlers who cling to his skirts, and call him their “dear grandpa.”

Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other individuals attached to the establishment.

One is the groom of the “stole,” – by name Phelim O’Neal – who has full charge of the horses. The other a coachman of sable skin, yclept Pluto Poindexter; who would scorn to look at a horse except when perched upon the “box,” and after having the “ribbons” deftly delivered into his hands.

Since we last saw him, the gay Pluto has become tamed down to a staid and sober Benedict – black though he be.

Florinda – now the better half of his life – has effected the transformation.

There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot fail to become acquainted. You will hear it mentioned, almost every time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of a rifle that rarely misses its aim.

During the course of the meal – but much more over the wine – you will hear talk of “Zeb Stump the hunter.”

You may not often see him. He will be gone from the hacienda, before you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired. But the huge gobbler seen in the “smoke-house,” and the haunch of venison hanging by its side, are evidence he has been there.

While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story connected with the place – now almost reduced to a legend.

The domestics will tell it you, but only in whispers: since they know that it is a theme tabooed by the master and mistress of the mansion, in whom it excites sad souvenirs[398].

It is the story of the Headless Horseman.

The Maroon

Volume I

Chapter 1

A Jamaica Sugar Estate

A sugar estate, and one of the finest in the “land of springs,” is that of “Mount Welcome.”

It is situated about ten miles from Montego Bay[399], in a broad valley, between two rounded ridges. These ridges, after running parallel for more than a mile, and gradually increasing in elevation, at length converge with an inward sweep – at their point of convergence, rising abruptly into a stupendous hill, that fairly merits the name which it bears upon the estate – the “mountain.”

Both the ridges are wooded almost down to their bases; the woods, which consist of shining pimento trees, ending on each side in groves and island copses, pleasantly interspersed over a park-like greensward.

The “great house” or “buff” of the estate stands under the foot of the mountain, just at the point of union between the two ridges – where a natural table or platform, elevated several feet above the level of the valley, had offered a tempting site to the builder.

In architectural style it is not very different from other houses of its kind, the well-known planter’s dwelling of the West Indies[400]. One storey – the lower one, of course – is of strong stone mason-work; the second and only other being simply a wooden “frame” roofed with “shingles.”

The side and end walls of this second story cannot with propriety be termed walls: since most part of them are occupied by a continuous line of Venetian shutters – the “jalousies” of Jamaica[401].

These impart a singular cage-like appearance to the house, at the same time contributing to its coolness – a quality of primary importance in a tropical climate.

Outside in the front centre a flight of broad stone steps, resting upon arched mason-work, and bordered by strong iron balustrades, conducts to the level of the second storey – the real dwelling-house: since the ground-floor is entirely occupied by store-rooms and other “offices.”

The entrance door is from the landing of the aforesaid escalier[402], and conducts at once into the “hall” – a spacious apartment, of crucifix-shape, running clear across the building from side to side, and end to end. The current of air admitted by the open jalousies, passing constantly through this apartment, renders it at all times delightfully cool; while the lattice-work serves to mellow the glare of light, which, under the sky of the tropics, is almost as disagreeable as the heat. An uncarpeted floor, composed of the hardest sorts of native wood, and subjected to a diurnal polish, contributes to increase the coolness.

This great hall is the principal apartment of the dwelling. It is dining and drawing-room in one – where side-boards and cheffoniers[403] may be seen in juxta-position with lounge chairs, fauteuils[404], and ottomans[405] – a grand chandelier in the centre extending its branches over all.

The bed-chambers occupy the square spaces to one side of the cross; and these also have their jalousied windows to admit the air, and exclude, as much as possible, the sultry rays of the sun.

In Mount Welcome House, as in all other country mansions of Jamaica, a stranger would remark a want of correspondence between the dwelling itself and the furniture which it contains. The former might be regarded as slight, and even flimsy. But it is this very character which renders it appropriate to the climate, and hence the absence of substantiality or costliness in the style and materials of the building.

The furniture, on the other hand – the solid tables of mahogany, and other ornamental woods – the shining carved side-boards – the profuse show of silver and cut glass that rests upon them – the elegant couches and chairs – the glittering lamps and candelabras – all combine to prove that the quasi[406] meanness of the Jamaica planter’s establishment extends no farther than to the walls of his house. If the case be a cheap one, the jewels contained in it are of the costliest kind.

Outside, the great house of Mount Welcome looks grand enough. Its broad façade, in which the deep green of the jalousies contrasts pleasantly with the white of the surrounding walls – the massive stone stairway in front – the wooded mountain sweeping up and forming a background of variegated green – the noble avenue of nearly a mile in length, with its double rows of tamarinds and cocoa-palms, leading up in front from the lower end of the valley – all contribute to produce a picture of almost palatial grandeur.

Nor does a nearer view detract from the splendour of this picture. The platform on which the house is built affords space for a large garden and shrubbery, extending rearward to the mountain-foot, from which they are separated by a high wall of stone.

The mountain is a conspicuous feature of the landscape. Not so much from its height: for there are others of equal elevation near to it; and further off, though still within sight, many still higher. Even the famed “Blue Peak” is visible, towering hundreds of feet above the surrounding summits.

Nor is it conspicuous from being isolated. On the contrary, it is only a spur of that vast elevated chain of hills, that, separated by deep gorge-like valleys, and soaring thousands of feet above the level of the Caribbean Sea[407], are known as the “Blue Mountains[408] of Jamaica.”

Covering almost the entire area of the island – which is thus broken into an endless succession of gigantic corrugations – Jamaica presents a surface rough and irregular as the crumplings upon a cabbage-leaf; and “land of mountains” would be a title as appropriate as its ancient Indian appellation, “the land of fountains.”

The hill which overlooks the estate of Mount Welcome is less than two thousand feet above sea-level; but what renders it remarkable is the geometrical regularity of its outlines, and, still more, its singularly-shaped summit.

Viewed from the valley below, it presents the appearance of an exact and somewhat acute cone, up to within about fifty yards of its top. There the sloping outline ends – the line on each side thence trending vertically, and abruptly terminating in a square table-top, forty or fifty feet in diameter. In general appearance, this truncated summit is not unlike that of the famed “Cofre di Peroté[409]” of Mexico.

The sloping sides of the mountain are densely wooded, especially that fronting the valley of Mount Welcome – towards which is presented a broad frowning façade, thickly clothed with a forest that appears primeval.

Alone at its top is it treeless – bare and bald as the crown of a Franciscan[410] friar. There stands the square coffer-like summit, a mass of solid rock, which repels the approach of the vegetable giants that crowd closely around its base, some of them stretching out their huge arms as if to strangle or embrace it.

One tree alone has succeeded in scaling its steep rampart-like wall. A noble palm – the areca – has accomplished this feat, and stands conspicuously upon the table-top, its plumed leaves waving haughtily aloft, like a triumphal banner planted upon the parapet of some conquered castle.

This summit rock presents a singular appearance. Its seamed and scarred surface is mottled with a dark glaze, which during the sunlight, and even under the mellower beams of the moon, gives forth a coruscation, as if the light were reflected from scale armour.

To the denizens of the valley below it is known as the Jumbé Rock – a name characteristic of the superstitious ideas attached to it. Though constantly before their eyes, and accessible by an hour’s climbing up the forest path, there is not a negro on the estate of Mount Welcome, nor on any other for miles around, that would venture alone to visit the Jumbé rock; and to most, if not all of them, the top of this mountain is as much of a terra incognita[411] as the summit of Chimborazo[412]!

I am speaking of a period more than half a century ago. At that time the terror, that was attached to the Jumbé Rock, did not altogether owe its origin to a mere superstition. It had been partly inspired by the remembrance of a horrid history. The rock had been the scene of an execution, which for cruel and cold-blooded barbarity rather deserves to be called a crime.

That table-summit, like the blood-stained temples of the Montezumas[413], had been used as an altar, upon which a human sacrifice had been offered up. Not in times long past, neither by the sanguinary priesthood of Azteca, but by men of white skin and European race – their victim a black and an African.

This incident, illustrating Jamaica justice during the dark days of slavery, deserves to be given in detail.

Chapter 2

The Myal-Man

[414]

In the West Indies, a few years previous to the Emancipation[415], there was much agitation on the subject of Obeah-[416]ism.

The practice of this horrid art had become appallingly common – so common that upon almost every extensive estate in the island there was a “professor” of it; in other words, an “Obeah-man.” “Professor,” though often used in speaking of these charlatans, is not a correct title. To have professed it – at least in the hearing of the whites – would have been attended with peril: since it was punishable by the death penalty. Practitioner is a more appropriate appellation.

These mysterious doctors were almost always men – very rarely women – and usually natives of Africa. Universally were they persons of advanced age and hideous aspect: the uglier the more successful in the pursuit of their criminal calling.

There was a class of them distinguished as “myal-men,” whose chief distinction consisted in their being able to restore life to a dead body.

Such was the belief of their ignorant fellow slaves, who little suspected that the defunct subject had been all the while only dormant, his death-like slumber secretly brought about by the myal-man himself, assisted by a prescription of the branched “calalue” – a species of caladium[417].

I cannot here enter into an explanation of the mysteries of Obi, which are simple enough when understood. I have met it in every land where it has been my lot to travel; and although it holds a more conspicuous place in the social life of the savage, it is also found in the bye-lanes of civilisation.

The reader, who may have been mystified about its meaning, will perhaps understand what it is, when I tell him that the obeah-man of the West Indies is simply the counterpart of the “medicine man” of the North-American Indians, the “piuche[418]” of the South, the “rain-maker” of the Cape[419], the “fetish[420] man” of the Guinea[421] coast, and known by as many other titles as there are tribes of uncivilised men.

It is the first dawning of religion on the soul of the savage; but even when its malignant spirit has become changed to a purer aspiration after eternal life, it still lingers amidst the haunts of ignorance, its original form almost unaltered – witchcraft.

To the statement above made – that on every large plantation there was an obeah-man – the estate of Mount Welcome was no exception. It, too, was blessed, or rather cursed, by a follower of the art, an old Coromantee[422] negro – Chakra by name – a man whose fell and ferocious aspect could not have failed to make him one of the most popular of its practitioners.

Such, to his misfortune, had he become.

He had long been suspected of having poisoned his master, the former owner of the estate, who had made an abrupt and mysterious exit from the world. The fate of this man, however, was not much lamented, as he bore the reputation of being a cruel slave-master. The present proprietor of Mount Welcome had least reason to regret it: since it gave him possession of an estate he had long coveted.

It was greater chagrin to him, that since entering upon the enjoyment of the property, several of his most valuable slaves had terminated their existence suddenly, and in a manner which could only be accounted for by the supposition that Obi had accomplished their destruction.

Chakra, the myal-man, was suspected of causing their deaths. He was arraigned and brought to trial.

His judges were three – three justices of the neighbourhood – for that number was sufficient to pass the death-sentence upon a slave. The president of the court was the man’s own master – Loftus Vaughan, Esquire, proprietor of Mount Welcome, and custos rotulorum[423] of the precinct.

The substance of the crime charged against Chakra was “practising the arts of Obi.” The charge had no reference to the death of his former master.

The proofs were not very clear; but were deemed sufficiently so by the court to warrant a conviction.

Strange to say that of the three justices, the man’s own master – the president of the court – appeared the most anxious to bring the trial to this termination. So anxious indeed, that he used every effort to overrule the opinions of the other two: his superior position as custos giving him a certain power of controlling the decision. One of them had actually pronounced in favour of an acquittal; but after a whispering consultation with the custos, he retracted his former opinion, and gave his vote for the verdict.

There was a rumour at the time, that Loftus Vaughan, in this trial, was actuated by meaner motives than either a stern love of justice, or the desire to put down the practice of Obi. There was a whisper abroad of some secrets – family secrets – with which the Coromantee had become acquainted; some strange transaction, of which he was the sole living witness; and of such a character, that even the testimony of a negro would have been an inconvenience; and it was suspected that this, and not obeah-ism, was the crime for which Chakra had to answer with his life.

Whether this was true or not, the Coromantee was condemned to die.

The trial was not more irregular than the mode of execution, which these irresponsible justices thought fit to decree. It was almost as whimsical as it was cruel towards the wretched criminal.

He was to be taken to the top of the Jumbé rock, chained to the palm-tree, and there left to perish!

It may be asked why this singular mode of execution was selected. Why was he not hanged upon the scaffold, or burnt at the stake – a custom not unusual with condemned criminals of his kind?

The answer is easy. As already stated, at this particular period, much unpleasant feeling prevailed on the subject of obeah-ism. In almost every district mysterious deaths had occurred, and were occurring – not only of black slaves, but of white masters, and even mistresses – all attributed to the baneful influence of Obi.

The African demon was ubiquitous, but invisible. Everywhere could be witnessed his skeleton hand upon the wall, but nowhere himself. It had become necessary to make a conspicuous example of his worshippers. The voice of all planterdom called for it; and the myal-man, Chakra, was selected for that example – in the belief that his fearful fate would terrify the votaries of the vile superstition to their very hearts’ core.

The Jumbé rock suggested itself as the most appropriate place for the execution of the Coromantee. The terrors with which the place was already invested – added to those now to be inspired by the fearful form of punishment of which it was to be the scene – would exert a beneficial effect on the superstitious understandings of the slaves, and for ever destroy their belief in Obeah and Obboney.

Under this belief was the myal-man escorted up to the summit of the Jumbé rock; and, like a modern Prometheus[424], chained there.

No guards were placed near him – none were required to stay by the spot. His chains, and the terror inspired by the act, were deemed sufficient to prevent any interference with his fate.

In a few days, thirst and hunger, aided by the vultures, would perform the final and fatal ceremony – as surely as the rope of the hangman, or the axe of the executioner.

It was long before Loftus Vaughan ascended the mountain to ascertain the fate of the unfortunate negro, his ci-devant slave. When, stimulated by curiosity, and, perhaps, a motive still stronger – he, at length, climbed to the top of the Jumbé rock, his hopes and expectations were alike confirmed. A skeleton, picked clean by the John-crows, hung suspended to the stem of the tree!

A rusty chain, warped around the bones, kept the skeleton in place.

Loftus Vaughan had no inclination to dwell long upon the spot. To him the sight was fearful. One glance, and he hurried away; but far more fearful – far more terrifying – was that which he saw, or fancied he saw, in passing homeward down the forest path – either the ghost of the myal-man, or the man himself!

Chapter 3

A Jamaica Déjeuner

[425]

On a tranquil morning in the fair month of May – fair in Jamaica, as elsewhere on the earth – a large bell ringing in the great hall of Mount Welcome announced the hour of breakfast.

As yet there were no guests around the table, nor in the hall – only the black and coloured domestics, who, to the number of half-a-dozen, had just come up from the kitchen with trays and dishes containing the viands that were to compose the meal.

Though but two chairs were placed by the table – and the disposition of the plates, knives, and forks indicated that it had been set for only that number of guests – the profusion of dishes, thickly covering the snow-white damask cloth, might have led to the belief that a large party was expected.

It was emphatically a déjeuner à la fourchette. There were cutlets plain, and with sauce piquante, cavished fish, entrées[426] of devilled fowl and duck, broiled salmon, and the like. These hors d’oeuvres were placed around the table, while a cold ham on one dish, and a tongue on another, occupied the centre.

Of “bread kind” there were mealy yams – some mashed with milk and butter, and dished up in shapes – roast plantains, hot rolls, toast, cassada cakes, and sweet potatoes.

But that a splendid silver tea-service, and a large glittering urn were conspicuous, the spread might have been mistaken for a dinner, rather than the matutinal meal. The hour – nine o’clock a.m. – also precluded the idea of its being dinner.

Whoever were to be the guests at this table, it was intended they should fair sumptuously. So did they every day of their lives; for there was nothing occasional in that morning’s meal. Both the style and the profuseness were of diurnal occurrence – the mode of Jamaica.

Soon after the tones of the bell had ceased to vibrate through the hall, they for whom the summons was intended made their appearance – entering from opposite sides, not together, but one coming in a little before the other.

The first was a gentleman of somewhat over middle age, of a hale complexion, and fall, portly form.

He was dressed in a suit of nankeens – jacket and trousers, both of ample make – the former open in front, and displaying a shirt bosom of finest white linen, the broad plaits of which were uncovered by any vest. A wide turn-down collar was folded back, exhibiting a full development of throat – which, with the broad jaws of ruddy hue, appeared clean and freshly shaven.

From a fob in the waistband of his trousers hung a massive gold chain, with a bunch of seals and watch-keys at one end; while at the other was an immense chronometer watch of the old-fashioned “guinea gold,” with white dial, upon which the black figures were conspicuously painted. The watch itself could be seen; as, on entering, the wearer had drawn it out of its fob with a view of ascertaining whether his servants were punctual to the minute: for the gentleman in question was a very martinet in such matters.

Loftus Vaughan, Esquire, proprietor of Mount Welcome, – Justice of the Peace, and Custos Rotulorum, – was the man thus characterised.

After casting a scrutinising glance at the display of viands, and apparently satisfied with what he saw, the master of Mount Welcome seated himself before the table, his face beaming with a smile of pleasant anticipation.

He had scarce taken his seat when a fair apparition appeared entering from the further end of the hall – a young virgin-like creature, looking as fresh and roseate as the first rays of the Aurora.

She was habited in a dress, or rather an undress, of purest white: a morning wrapper of fine lawn, that, fitting closely behind, displayed the waving contour of her back. In front, the dress fell in loose folds – scarce, however, concealing the full, bold outlines of her bosom; and then draped gracefully downward, so low as to leave nothing visible but the tips of a pair of tiny satin slippers, alternately showing themselves like white mice as the young girl glided over the polished surface of the floor.

Her throat, full and finely rounded, was encircled with a string of amber beads; and a crimson blossom – the beautiful bell of the Quamoclit[427] – glittered amidst the ample folds of her hair. This, of a rich chestnut colour, was parted on her forehead, and carried in a curving sweep over cheeks that rivalled the radiance of the flower.

It would have required an experienced eye – one well acquainted with the physiological characteristics of race – to have told that that young girl was not of the purest Caucasian blood. And yet the slight undulation of the hair; a rotund rather than an oval face; eyes of darkest umber, with a light gleaming perpetually in the pupils; a singular picturelike expression in the colouring of the cheeks – were all characteristics, that proclaimed the presence of the sang-mêlée[428].

Slight indeed was the taint; and it seems like profanation to employ the phrase, when speaking of a creature so beautifully fair – for beautifully fair was the daughter of Loftus Vaughan. She was his only daughter – the only member of his family: for the proprietor of Mount Welcome was a widower.

On entering the hall, the young girl did not proceed directly to seat herself; but, gliding behind the chair occupied by her father, she flung her arms around his neck, and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead.

It was her usual matutinal salute; and proved that, on that morning they had met for the first time.

Not that it was the first appearance of either: for both had been much earlier abroad – up with the sun, indeed, as is the universal custom in Jamaica.

Mr Vaughan had entered the hall from the front door, and the broad-brimmed Leghorn hat, and cane carried in his hand, told that he had been out for a walk – perhaps to inspect the labour going on at the “works,” or ascertain the progress made in the cultivation of his extensive cane-fields.

His daughter, on the contrary, might have been seen entering the house some half-hour before, in riding costume – hat, habit, and whip – proving that her morning exercise had been taken on horseback.

After saluting her father as described, the young girl took her seat in front of the coffee urn, and commenced performing the duties of the table.

In this she was assisted by a girl apparently of her own age, but of widely-different appearance. Her waiting-maid it was, who, having entered at the same time, had taken her station behind the chair of her mistress.

There was something strikingly peculiar in the aspect of this personage – as well in her figure as in the colour of her skin. She was of that slender classic shape which we find in antique sculptures – like the forms of the Hindoo[429] women known in England as “ayahs” and differing altogether from the negro outline. Her complexion, too, was not that of a negress – still less of a mulatta or quadroon[430]. It was an admixture of black and red, resulting in a chestnut or mahogany colour; which, with the deep damask[431] tincture upon her cheeks, produced an impression not unpleasing.

Nor were the features at all of a negro type. On the contrary, far removed from it. The lips were thin, the face oval, and the nose of an aquiline shape – such features as may be traced on Egyptian sculptured stones, or may be seen in living forms in the lands of the Arab.

Her hair was not woolly, though it differed altogether from the hair of a European. It was straight, and jet-black, yet scarcely reaching to her shoulders. Not that it had been shortened by the scissors: for it appeared to be at its fullest growth; and, hanging, as it did, loosely over her ears, it imparted a youthful appearance to the brown-skinned damsel.

The girl was far from ill-looking; and, to an eye accustomed to her “style,” she may have appeared even handsome. Her elegant shape, exposed by the extreme scantiness of her costume – a sleeveless robe, with a Madras[432] kerchief worn à la toque[433] upon her head – her graceful attitudes, which seemed natural to her, either when in motion or standing poised behind the chair of her mistress; the quick glance of her fine, fiery eyes; and the pearl-like whiteness of her teeth; all contributed to make up a picture that was far from commonplace.

This young girl was a slave – the slave Yola.

Chapter 4

Two Letters

Instead of standing in the middle of the floor, the breakfast table had been placed close to the front window – in order that, with the jalousies thrown open, the fresh air might be more freely felt, while at the same time a view could be obtained of the landscape outside. A splendid view it was, comprising the valley with its long palm-shaded avenue, a reach of the Montego river, the roofs and spires of the town, the shipping in the bay and roadstead, the bay itself, and the blue Caribbean beyond.

Striking as was this landscape, Mr Vaughan just then showed no inclination to look upon it. He was too busily occupied with the rich viands upon the table; and when he at length found time to glance over the window-sill, his glance extended no further than to the negro “gang” at work among the canes – to see if his drivers were doing their duty.

The eyes of Miss Vaughan were oftener directed to the outside view. It was at this hour that one of the servants usually returned from Montego Bay, bringing the letters from the post-office. There was nothing in her manner that betrayed any particular anxiety about his arrival; but simply that lively interest which young ladies in all countries feel when expecting the postman – hoping for one of those little letters of twelve sheets with closely-written and crossed lines, most difficult to decipher, and yet to them more interesting than even the pages of the newest novel.

Very soon a dark object, of rudely Centaurean form, appeared coming along the avenue; and, shortly after, an imp-like negro lad upon the back of a rough pony galloped up to the front entrance. This was Quashie – the post-boy, of Mount Welcome.

If Miss Vaughan expected a billet, she was doomed to disappointment. There were only two letters in the bag, with a newspaper; and all three were for the Custos himself.

All bore the English post-mark; and the superscription of one of the letters was by him at once recognised – a pleasant smile stealing over his features as he broke open the seal.

A few moments sufficed to make him master of its contents, when the smile increased to a look of vivid gratification; and, rising from his chair, he paced for some time back and forward, snapping his fingers, and ejaculating, “Good – good! I thought so!”

His daughter regarded this behaviour with surprise. Gravity was her father’s habit, at times amounting to austerity. Such an exhibition of gaiety was rare with Loftus Vaughan.

“Some pleasing news, papa?”

“Yes, you little rogue; very.”

“May I not hear it?”

“Yes – no – no – not yet a while.”

“Papa! It is cruel of you to keep it from me. I promise I shall share your joy.”

“Ah! you will when you hear the news – that is, if you’re not a little simpleton, Kate.”

“I a simpleton, papa? I shall not be called so.”

“Why, you’ll be a simpleton if you don’t be joyful – when you – never mind, child – I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by. Good, good!” continued he, in a state of ecstatic frenzy. “I thought so – I knew he would come.”

“Then you expect some one, papa?”

“I do. Guess who it is!”

“How could I? You know I am unacquainted with your English friends.”

“Not with their names? You have heard their names, and seen letters from some of them?”

“Oh, yes, I often hear you speak of one – Mr Smythje. A very odd name it is! I wouldn’t be called Smythje for the world.”

“Ta, ta, child! Smythje is a very pretty name, especially with Montagu before it. Montagu is magnificent. Besides, Mr Smythje is the owner of Montagu Castle.”

“Oh, papa! how can that make his name sound any better? Is it he whom you expect?”

“Yes, dear. He writes to say that he will come by the next ship – the Sea Nymph she is called. She was to sail a week after the letter was written, so that we may look out for his arrival in a few days. Gad! I must prepare for him. You know Montagu Castle is out of repair. He is to be my guest; and, hark you, Catherine!” continued the planter, once more seating himself at the table, and bending towards his daughter, so that his sotto voce might not be overheard by the domestics, “you must do your best to entertain this young stranger. He is said to be an accomplished gentleman, and I know he is a rich one. It is to my interest to be friendly with him,” added Mr Vaughan, in a still lower tone of voice, and as if in soliloquy, but loud enough for his daughter to hear what was said.

“Dear papa!” was the reply, “how could I be otherwise than polite to him? If only for your sake – ”

“If only for your own,” said the father, interrupting her, and accompanying the remark with a sly look and laugh. “But, dear Catherine,” continued he, “we shall find time to talk of this again. I must read the other letter. Who on earth can it be from? Egad! I never saw the writing before.”

The announcement of the projected visit of Mr Montagu Smythje, with the trumpet-like flourish of his many accomplishments – which Kate Vaughan had not now listened to for the first time – appeared to produce in the heart of the young lady no very vivid emotions of pleasure. She received it with perfect indifference, not seeming to care much one way or the other. If there was a balance, it was rather against him: for it so chanced that much of what she had heard in relation to this gentleman was not at all calculated to prepossess her in his favour.

She had heard that he was an exquisite – a fop, in fact – perhaps of all other characters the one most repulsive to a young Creole: for, notwithstanding the natural disposition of these to become enamoured of fine personal appearance, it must be accompanied by certain qualities of mind, if not of the highest morality, or even intellectuality, yet differing altogether from the frivolous accomplishments of mere dandyism[434].

Nature, that inspires the creole maiden to give her whole heart away and without any reserve, has also taught her to bestow it with judgment. Instinct warns her not to lay her precious offering upon an altar unworthy of the sacrifice.

There was another circumstance calculated to beget within the heart of Kate Vaughan a certain feeling of repulsion towards the lord of Montagu Castle; and that was the conduct of her own father in regard to this matter. From time to time – when speaking of Mr Montagu Smythje – he had made use of certain expressions and innuendoes, which, though couched in ambiguous language, his daughter very easily comprehended.

The heart of woman is quick, as it is subtle, in the understanding of all that relates to the disposal of itself; and this even at the earliest age of maidenhood. It is prone to repel any effort to guide it from its natural inclinings, or rob it of its right to choose.

Mr Vaughan, in his ignorance of these rather recondite truths, was erecting a barrier to his own designs, all the while that he fancied he was successfully clearing the track of presumptive obstructions, and making the path smooth and easy.

At match-making he was likely to prove a bungler: for it was evident that match-making was in his mind.

“Never saw the handwriting before,” said he, in repetition, as he broke open the seal of the second epistle.

If the contents of the first had filled him with joy, those of the second produced an effect directly the opposite.

“’Sdeath!” exclaimed he, crushing the letter, as he finished reading it, and once more nervously springing to his feet. “Dead or living, that ill-starred brother of mine seems as if created to be a curse to me! While alive, always wanting money; and now that he is dead sending his son – a never-do-well, like himself – to trouble, and, perhaps, disgrace me.”

“Dear father!” said the young girl, startled more by his wild demeanour than what he was saying – for the words were muttered in a low voice, and rather in soliloquy – “has the other letter brought unpleasant news?”

“Ah! that it has. You may read for yourself.”

And once more seating himself, he tossed the unwelcome epistle across the table, and recommenced eating with apparent voracity – as if by that means to tranquillise his perturbed spirit.

Kate took up the rejected letter; and, smoothing out the paper, ran her eye over the contents.

The perusal did not require much time: for considering that the letter had made such a long journey, its contents were of the shortest: —

London, June 10, 18 – .

“Dear Uncle,

“I have to announce to you the melancholy intelligence that your brother, my dear father, is no more. His last words were, that I should go over to you: and, acting in accordance with his wish, I have taken passage for Jamaica. The ship is the Sea Nymph, and is to sail upon the 18th instant. I do not know how long we shall be at sea, but I hope it will prove a short voyage: as poor father’s effects were all taken by the sheriffs officer, and I am compelled, for want of money, to take passage in the steerage, which I have been told is anything but a luxurious mode of travelling. But I am young and strong, and no doubt shall be able to endure it.

“Yours affectionately,

“Herbert Vaughan.”

Whatever effect the reading of the letter may have had upon Kate Vaughan, it certainly did not produce indignation. On the contrary, an expression of sympathy stole over her face as she mastered the contents or the epistle; and on finishing it, the phrase, “poor fellow!” dropped as if involuntarily, and just audibly, from her lips.

Not that she knew anything of Herbert Vaughan, more than the name, and that he was her cousin; but the word cousin has an attractive sound, especially in the ears of young people, equalling in interest – at times even surpassing – that of sister or brother.

Though uttered, as we have said, in a tone almost inaudible, the words reached the ears of her father.

“Poor fellow!” he repeated, turning sharply to his daughter, and regarding her with a glance of displeasure, “I am surprised, Kate, to hear you speak in that strain of one you know nothing about – one who has done nothing to deserve your compassion. An idle, good-for-nothing fellow – just as his father was before him. And only to think of it – coming over here a steerage passenger, in the very same ship with Mr Montagu Smythje! ’Sdeath! What a disgrace! Mr Smythje will be certain to know who he is – though he is not likely to associate with such canaille[435]. He cannot fail to notice the fellow, however; and when he sees him here, will be sure to remember him. Ah! I must take some steps to prevent that. Poor fellow, indeed! Yes, poor enough, but not in that sense. Like his father, I suppose, who fiddled his life away among paint-brushes and palettes instead of following some profitable employment, and all for the sake of being called an artist! Poor fiddlestick! Bah! Don’t let me hear you talk in that strain again!”

And as Mr Vaughan ended his ill-natured harangue, he tore the wrapper off the newspaper, and endeavoured, among its contents, to distract his mind from dwelling longer on the unpleasant theme either of the epistle, or him who had written it.

The young girl, abashed and disconcerted by the unusual violence of the rebuke, sat with downcast eyes, and without making any reply. The red colour had deepened upon her cheeks, and mounted to her forehead; but, notwithstanding the outrage done to her feelings, it was easy to see that the sympathy she had expressed, for her poor but unknown cousin, was felt as sensibly as ever.

So far from having stifled or extinguished it, the behaviour of her father was more likely to have given it increase and strength: for the adage of the “stolen waters” is still true; and the forbidden fruit is as tempting now as upon the morning of creation. As it was in the beginning, so will it ever be.

Chapter 5

The Slaver

[436]

A hot West Indian sun was rapidly declining towards the Caribbean Sea – as if hastening to cool his fiery orb in the blue water – when a ship, that had rounded Pedro Point, in the Island of Jamaica, was seen standing eastward for Montego Bay.

She was a three-masted vessel – a barque – as could be told by the lateen rig of her mizen-mast – and apparently of some three or four hundred tons burden.

As she was running under one of the gentlest of breezes, all her canvas was spread; and the weather-worn appearance of her sails denoted that she was making land at the termination of a long ocean voyage. This was further manifest by the faded paint upon her sides, and the dark, dirt-coloured blotches that marked the position of her hawse-holes and scuppers.

Besides the private ensign that streamed, pennon-like from her peak, another trailed over her taffrail; which, unfolded by the motion of the vessel, displayed a blue starry field with white and crimson stripes. In this case the flag was appropriate – that is, in its stripes and their colour. Though justly vaunted as the flag of the free, here was it covering a cargo of slaves: the ship was a slaver.

After getting fairly inside the bay, but still at a long distance from the town, she was observed suddenly to tack; and, instead of continuing on towards the harbour, head for a point on the southern side, where the shore was uninhabited and solitary.

On arriving within a mile of the land she took in sail, until every inch of canvas was furled upon her yards. Then the sharp rattling of the chain, as it dragged through the iron ring of the hawse-hole, announced the dropping of an anchor.

In a few moments after the ship swung round; and, drifting till the chain cable became taut, lay motionless upon the water.

The object for which the slaver had thus anchored short of the harbour will be learnt by our going aboard of her – though this was a privilege not granted to the idle or curious. Only the initiated were permitted to witness the spectacle of which her decks now became the theatre: only those who had an interest in the disposal of her cargo.

Viewed from a distance, the slaver lay apparently inert; but for all that a scene of active life was passing upon her deck – a scene of rare and painful interest.

She carried a cargo of two hundred human beings – “bales,” according to the phraseology of the slave-trader. These bales were not exactly alike. It was, as her skipper jocularly styled it, an “assorted cargo” – that is, one shipped on different points of the African coast, and, consequently, embracing many distinct varieties of the Ethiopian race. There was the tawny, but intelligent Mandingo, and by his side the Jolof of ebon hue. There the fierce and warlike Coromantee, alongside the docile and submissive Pawpaw; the yellow Ebo, with the visage of a baboon, wretched and desponding, face to face with the cannibal[437] Moco, or chained wrist to wrist with the light-hearted native of Congo and Angola.

None, however, appeared of light heart on board the slaver. The horrors of the “middle passage” had equally affected them all, until the dancing Congese, and the Lucumi[438], prone to suicide, seemed equally to suffer from dejection. The bright picture that now presented itself before their eyes – a landscape gleaming with all the gay colours of tropical vegetation – was viewed by them with very different emotions. Some seemed to regard it with indifference; others it reminded of their own African homes, from which they had been dragged by rude and ruffian men; while not a few gazed upon the scene with feelings of keen apprehension – believing it to be the dreaded Koomi[439], the land of the gigantic cannibals – and that they had been brought thither to be eaten!

Reflection might have convinced them that this would scarcely be the intention of the Tobon-doo – those white tyrants who had carried them across the ocean. The hard, unhusked rice, and coarse maize corn – their only food during the voyage – were not viands likely to fatten them for the feast of Anthropophagi[440]; and their once smooth and shining skins now exhibited a dry, shrivelled appearance, from the surface coating of dandruff, and the scars of the hideous cra-cra[441].

The blacks among them, by the hardships of that fearful voyage, had turned ashy grey and the yellows of a sickly and bilious hue. Males and females – for there were many of the latter – appeared to have been alike the objects of ill-usage, the victims of a starved stomach and a stifled atmosphere.

Some half-dozen of the latter – seen in the precincts of the cabin – presented a different aspect. These were young girls, picked from the common crowd on account of the superiority of their personal charms; and the flaunting vestments that adorned their bodies – contrasting with the complete nudity of their fellow-voyagers – told too plainly why they had been thus distinguished. A horrid contrast – wantonness in the midst of woe!

On the quarter-deck stood the slave-skipper – a tall, lathy individual of sallow hue – and, beside him, his mate – a dark-bearded ruffian; while a score of like stamp, but lower grade, acting under their orders, were distributed in different parts of the ship.

These last, as they tramped to and fro over the deck, might be heard at intervals giving utterance to profane oaths – as often laying violent hands upon one or other of their unfortunate captives – apparently out of the sheer wantonness of cruelty!

Immediately after the anchor had been dropped, and the ropes belayed and coiled in their places, a new scene of this disgusting drama was entered upon. The living “bales,” hitherto restrained below, were now ordered, or rather driven, upon deck – not all at once, but in lots of three or four at a time. Each individual, as he came up the hatchway, was rudely seized by a sailor, who stood by with a soft brush in his hand and a pail at his feet; the latter containing a black composition of gunpowder, lemon-juice, and palm-oil. Of this mixture the unresisting captive received a coating; which, by the hand of another sailor, was rubbed into the skin, and then polished with a “dandybrush,” until the sable epidermis glistened like a newly-blacked boot.

A strange operation it might have appeared to those who saw it, had they not been initiated into its object and meaning. But to the spectators there present it was no uncommon sight. It was not the first time those unfeeling men had assisted at the spectacle of black bales being made ready for the market!

One after another were the dark-skinned victims of human cupidity brought from below, and submitted to this demoniac anointment – to which one and all yielded with an appearance of patient resignation, like sheep under the hands of the shearer.

In the looks of many of them could be detected the traces of that apprehension felt in the first hours of their captivity, and which had not yet forsaken them. Might not this process be a prelude to some fearful sacrifice?

Even the females were not exempted from this disgusting desecration of God’s image; and they too, one after another, were passed through the hands of the rough operators, with an accompaniment of brutal jests, and peals of ribald laughter!

Chapter 6

Jowler and Jessuron

Almost on the same instant that the slave-barque had dropped anchor, a small boat shot out from the silent shore; which, as soon as it had got fairly clear of the land, could be seen to be steering in the direction of the newly-anchored vessel.

There were three men in the boat – two of whom were plying the oars. These were both black men – naked, with the exception of dirty white trousers covering their limbs, and coarse palm-leaf hats upon their heads.

The third occupant of the skiff – for such was the character of the boat – was a white, or more properly, a whitish man. He was seated in the stern-sheets, with a tiller-rope in each hand; and steering the craft – as his elbows held a-kimbo, and the occasional motion of his arms testified. He bore not the slightest resemblance to the oarsmen, either in the colour of his skin, or the costume that covered it. Indeed, it would not have been easy to have found his counterpart anywhere either on land or at sea.

He appeared to be about sixty years old – he might have been more or less – and had once been white; but long exposure to a West Indian sun, combined with the numerous dirt-bedaubed creases and furrows in his skin, had darkened his complexion to the hue of leaf-tobacco.

His features, naturally of an angular shape, had become so narrowed and sharpened by age as to leave scarce anything in front; and to get a view of his face it was necessary to step to one side, and scan it en profil.[442]

Thus viewed, there was breadth enough, and features of the most prominent character – including a nose like the claw of a lobster – a sharp, projecting chin – with a deep embayment between, marking the locality of the lips: the outline of all suggesting a great resemblance to the profile of a parrot, but still greater to that of a Jew – for such, in reality was its type.

When the mouth was opened in a smile – a rare occurrence, however – only two teeth could be detected within, standing far apart, like two sentinels guarding the approach to the dark cavern within.

This singular countenance was lighted up by a pair of black, watery orbs, that glistened like the eyes of an otter; and eternally glistened, except when their owner was asleep – a condition in which it was said he was rarely or never caught.

The natural blackness of his eyes was rendered deeper by contrast with long white eyebrows running more than half-way around them, and meeting over the narrow ridge of the nose. Hair upon the head there was none – that is, none that was visible – a skull-cap of whitish cotton-stuff covering the whole crown, and coming down over both ears. Over this was a white beaver hat, whose worn nap and broken edges told of long service.

A pair of large green goggles, resting on the humped bridge of his nose, protected his eyes from the sun; though they might, perhaps, have been worn for another purpose – to conceal the villainous expression of the orbs that sparkled beneath them.

A sky-blue cloth coat, whitened by long wear, with metal buttons, once bright, now changed to the hue of bronze; small-clothes of buff kerseymere glistening with grease; long stockings, and tarnished top-boots, made up the costume of this unique individual. A large blue cotton umbrella rested across his knees, as both hands were occupied in steering the skiff.

The portrait here given – or, perhaps, it should be styled profile – is that of Jacob Jessuron, the slave-merchant; an Israelite of Germanic breed[443], but one in whom – it would not have been truth to say – there was “no guile.”

The two oarsmen were simply his slaves.

The little craft had put out from the shore – from a secluded spot at a distance from the town, but still within view of it. It was evidently making for the newly-anchored barque; and evidently rowed at its best speed. Indeed, the steersman appeared to be urging his blacks to the exertion of their utmost strength. From time to time he was seen to twist his body half round and look towards the town – as though he expected or dreaded to see a rival boat coming from that quarter, and was desirous to reach the barque ahead of her.

If such was his design it proved successful. Although his little skiff was a considerable time in traversing the distance from shore to ship – a distance of at least a mile – he arrived at the point of his destination without any other boat making its appearance.

“Sheep ahoy!” shouted he, as the skiff was pulled up under the larboard quarter of the barque.

“Ay, ay!” responded a voice from above. “Ish that Captain Showler I hearsh?”

“Hilloo! who’s there?” interrogated some one on the quarter-deck; and the moment after, the sallow face of Captain Aminadab Jowler presented itself at the gangway.

“Ah! Mister Jessuron, that you, eh? Determined to have fust peep at my blackeys? Well! fust kim, fust served; that’s my rule. Glad to see you, old fellow. How’d deo?”

“Fusht-rate! – fusht-rate! I hopsh you’re the same yourshelf, Captain Showler. How ish you for cargo?”

“Fine, old boy! got a prime lot this time. All sizes, colours, and sexes, too; ha! ha! You can pick and choose to suit yourself, I reckin. Come! climb aboard, and squint your eye over ’em!”

The slave-merchant, thus invited, caught hold of the rope-ladder let down for his accommodation; and scrambling up the ship’s side with the agility of an old ape, stepped upon the deck of the slaver.

After some moments spent in handshaking and other forms of gratulation; proving that the trader and merchant were old friends – and as thick as two thieves could possibly be – the latter fixed the goggles more firmly on the ridge of his nose, and commenced his inspection of the “cargo.”

Chapter 7

The Foolah Prince

On the quarter-deck of the slaver, and near the “companion,” stood a man of unique appearance – differing not only from the whites who composed the crew, but also from the blacks and browns who constituted the cargo.

His costume, attitude, and some, other trivial circumstances, proclaimed him as belonging neither to one nor the other.

He had just stepped up from the cabin, and was lingering upon the quarter-deck.

Having the entrée of the first, and the privilege of remaining upon the second, he could not be one of the “bales” of this human merchandise; and yet both costume and complexion forbade the supposition that he was of the slaver’s crew. Both denoted an African origin – though his features were not of a marked African type. Rather were they Asiatic, or, more correctly, Arabian; but, in some respects, differing also from Arab features. In truth, they were almost European; but the complexion again negatived the idea that the individual in question belonged to any of the nationalities of Europe. His hue was that of a light Florentine[444] bronze, with a tinge of chestnut.

He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years of age; with a person well proportioned, and possessing the following characteristics: – A fine arched eyebrow, spanning an eye full and rotund; a nose slightly aquiline; thin, well-modelled lips; white teeth – whiter from contrast with the dark shading on the upper lip – and over all an ample chevelure of jet-black hair, slightly curling, but not at all woolly.

In nothing did he differ more, from the dark-skinned helots of the hold, than in his costume. While none of these had any clothing upon their bodies, or next to none, he, on the contrary, was splendidly apparelled – his face, throat, arms, and limbs, from the knee to the ankle, being the only parts not covered by a garment.

A sort of sleeveless tunic of yellow satin, with a skirt that just reached below his knees, was bound around his waist by a scarf of crimson China crape, the ends of which, hanging still lower, were adorned with a fringe-work of gold. Over the left shoulder rested loosely another scarf of blue burnous[445] cloth, concealing the arm over which it hung; while half hidden beneath its draping could be perceived a scimitar in its richly-chased scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory. A turban on the head, and sandals of Kordofan[446] leather upon the feet, completed his costume.

Notwithstanding the Asiatic character of the dress, and the resemblance of the wearer to those East Indians[447] known as Lascars[448], he was a true African – though not of that type which we usually associate with the word, and which suggests a certain negroism of features. He was one of a people entirely distinct from the negro – the great nation of the Foolahs[449] (Fellattas) – that race of shepherd warriors whose country extends from the confines of Darfur[450] to the shores of the Atlantic – the lords of Sockatoo and Timbuctoo[451] – those fanatic followers of the false prophet[452] who conspired the death of Laing[453], and murdered Mungo Park[454] upon the Quorra[455]. Of such race was the individual who stood on the quarter-deck of the slaver.

He was not alone. Three or four others were around him, who also differed from the wretched creatures in the hold. But their dresses of more common material, as well as other circumstances, told that they were his inferiors in rank – in short, his attendants.

The humble mien with which they regarded him, and the watchful attention to his every look and gesture, proclaimed the habitual obedience to which they were accustomed; while the turbans which they wore, and their mode of salutation – the salaam – told of an obeisance Oriental and slavish.

To the richness of the young man’s attire was added a certain haughtiness of mien that proclaimed him a person of rank – perhaps the chieftain of some African tribe.

And such, in reality, he was – a Foolah prince, from the banks of the Senegal.

There, neither his presence nor appearance would have attracted more than passing observation; but here, on the western side of the Atlantic, on board a slave-ship, both required explanation.

It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen “between decks” – doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary.

How, then, was his presence on board the slave-barque to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him?

Such, though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant, as, returning from the fore-deck, after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Fellatta.

“Blesh my shtars, Captain Showler!” cried he, holding up both hands, and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. “Blesh my shtars!” he repeated; “what ish all thish? S’help my Gott! theesh fellows are not shlaves, are they?”

“No, Mister Jessuron, no. They ain’t slaves, not all on ’em ain’t. That ’ere fine fellow, in silk and satin, air a owner o’ slaves hisself. He air a prince.”

“What dosh you say, Captin Showler? a prinshe?”

“Ye ain’t ’stonished at that, air ye? ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve had an African prince for a passenger. This yeer’s his Royal Highness the Prince Cingües, son o’ the Grand Sultan of Foota-toro. The other fellows you see thar by him are his attendants – courteers as waits on him. That with the yellow turban’s ‘gold stick;’ him in blue ’s ‘silver stick;’ an’ t’other fellow’s ‘groom o’ the chamber,’ I s’pose.”

“Sultan of Foota-toro!” exclaimed the slave-merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise; “King of the Cannibal Islandsh! Aha, a good shoke, Captain Showler! But, serious, mine friend, what for hash you tricked them out in this way? They won’t fetch a joey more in the market for all theesh fine feathers.”

“Seerus, Mister Jessuron, they’re not for the market. I sw’ar to ye the fellur’s a real Afrikin prince.”

“African fiddleshtick!” echoed the slave-merchant with an incredulous shrug. “Come, worthy captin, what’sh the mashquerade about?”

“Not a bit of that, ole fellur! ’Sure ye the nigger’s a prince, and my passenger – nothing more or less.”

“S’help you gott, ish it so?”

“So help me that!” emphatically replied the skipper. “It’s just as I’ve told ye, Mister Jessuron.”

“Blesh my soul! – a passenger, you shay?”

“Yes; and he’s paid his passage, too – like a prince, as he is.”

“But what’s hish business here in Shamaica?”

“Ah! that’s altogether a kewrious story, Mister Jessuron. You’ll hardly guess his bizness, I reckon?”

“Lesh hear it, friend Showler.”

“Well, then, the story air this: ’Bout twelve months ago an army o’ Mandingoes attacked the town of Old Foota-toro, and, ’mong other plunder, carried off one o’ his daughters – own sister to the young fellur you see there. They sold her to a West India trader; who, in course, brought the girl over here to some o’ the islands; which one ain’t known. Old Foota-toro, like the rest o’ ’em, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place; and as he’s half beside himself ’bout the loss of this gurl – she war his favourite, and a sort of a court belle among ’em – he’s sent the brother to search her out, and get her back from whoever hez purchased her on this side. There’s the hul story for you.”

The expression that had been gathering on the countenance of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale – something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time, he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving, as much as possible, the rigidity of his features.

“Blesh my soul!” he exclaimed, as the skipper had concluded. “Ash I live, a wonderful shtory! But how ish he ever to find hish sister? He might ash well look for a needle in a hayshtack.”

“Wall, that’s true enough,” replied the slave-skipper. “As for that,” added he, with an air of stoical indifference, “’taint no business o’ mine. My affair hez been to carry the young fellur acrost the Atlantic; an’ I’m willin’ to take him back on the same tarms, and at the same price, if he kin pay it.”

“Did he pay you a goodsh price?” inquired the Jew, with evident interest in the answer.

“He paid like a prince, as I’ve told you. D’ye see that batch o’ yellow Mandingoes by the windlass yonder?”

“Yesh-yesh!”

“Forty there air – all told.”

“Wen?”

“Twenty on ’em I’m to have for fetchin’ him acrost. Cheap enough, ain’t it?”

“Dirt sheep, friend Showler. The other twenty?”

“They are hisn. He’s brought ’em with him to swop for the sister – when he finds her.”

“Ah, yesh! if he finds the girl.”

“In coorse, if he finds her.”

“Ach!” exclaimed the Jew, with a significant shrug of his shoulders; “that will not be an easy bishness, Captin Showler.”

“By Christopher Columbus, old fellow!” said the trader, apparently struck with an idea; “now I think of it, you might gie him some help in the findin’ o’ her. I know no man more likely than yourself to be able to pilot him. You know everybody in the island, I reckon. No doubt he will pay you well for your trouble. I’m rayther anxious he should succeed. King Foota-toro is one of my best sources of supply; and if the gurl could be found and took back, I know the old nigger would do the handsome to me on my next trip to the coast.”

“Well, worthy captin, I don’t know that there’s any hope, and won’t hold out any to hish royal highnesh the prince. I’m not as able to get about ash I ushed to was; but I’ll try my besht for you. As you shay, I might do something towardsh putting him in the way. Well, we’ll talk it over; but let ush first settle our other bishness, or all the world will be aboard. Twenty, you shay, are his?”

“Twenty of them ’ere Mandingoes.”

“Hash he anything besides?”

“In cash? no, not a red cent. Men and women are the dollars of his country. He hez the four attendants, you see. They air his slaves like the others.”

“Twenty-four, then, in all. Blesh my soul! What a lucky fellow ish this prinsh. Maybe I can do something for him; but we can talk it over in the cabin, and I’m ready for something to drink, worthy Showler.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as, on turning round, he perceived the group of girls before mentioned. “Blesh my soul! Some likely wenches. Just the sort for chambermaids,” added he, with a villainously significant look. “How many of that kind hash you got, good Showler?”

“About a dozen,” jocularly responded the skipper; “some splendid breeders among ’em, if you want any for that bizness.”

“I may – I may. Gad! it’s a valuable cargo – one thing with another! Well, let ush go below,” added he, turning towards the companion. “What’s in your locker? I musht have a drink before I can do bishness. Likely wenches! Gad – a valuable cargo!”

Smacking his lips, and snapping his fingers as he talked, the old reprobate descended the companion stairway – the captain of the slaver following close behind him.

We know not, except by implication, the details of the bargaining that took place below. The negotiation was a secret one – as became the nature of any transaction between two such characters as a slave-dealer and a slave-stealer.

It resulted, however, in the purchase of the whole cargo; and in so short a time, that just as the sun sank into the sea, the gig, cutter, and long-boat of the slaver were lowered into the water; and, under the darkness of night, the “bales” were transported to the shore, and landed in the little cove whence the skiff of the slave-merchant had put out.

Amongst them were the twenty Mandingoes, the attendants of the prince, and the “wenches,” designed for improving the breed on Jessuron’s plantation: for the slave-merchant was also a land-proprietor and planter.

The skiff was seen returning to the shore, a cable’s-length in the wake of the other boats. Now, however, a fourth personage appeared in it, seated in the stern, face to face with the owner. The gaily-coloured costume, even in the darkness, shining over the calm shadowy surface of the sea, rendered it easy to recognise this individual as the Foolah prince. The wolf and the lamb were sailing in the same boat.

Chapter 8

A Handsome Offer

On the day after the slave-ship had landed her cargo, and at an early hour in the morning, Mr Vaughan, looking from the front window of his house, perceived a solitary horseman approaching by the long avenue.

As the stranger drew nearer, the animal he bestrode appeared gradually to transform itself into a mule; and the rider was seen to be an old gentleman in a blue coat, with metal buttons, and ample outside pockets – under which were breeches and top-boots, both sullied by long wear. A damaged brown beaver hat upon his head, with the edge of a white cotton skull-cap showing beneath it – green goggles upon the nose – and a large blue umbrella, instead of a whip, grasped in the right hand – enabled Mr Vaughan to identify one of his nearest neighbours: the penn-keeper Jacob Jessuron, who, among other live stock, was also known as an extensive speculator in slaves.

“The old Jew!” muttered Mr Vaughan, with an accent that betokened a certain degree of discontent. “What can he want at this early hour? Some slave stock for sale, I suppose? That looked like a trader I saw yesterday in the offing; and he’s sure to have had a lot or two out of her. Well, he won’t find a market here. Fortunately, I’m stocked. Morning, Mr Jessuron!” continued he, hailing his visitor as the latter dismounted by the bottom of the stairway. “As usual, you are early abroad. Business, eh?”

“Ach, yesh, Mishter Vochan! Bishness must be minded. A poor man like me can’t afford to shleep late theesh hard times!”

“Ha! ha! Poor man, indeed! That’s a capital joke, Mr Jessuron! Come in. Have you breakfasted?”

“Yesh, thanks, Mishter Vochan,” replied the Jew, as he climbed up the steps. “I always breakfasht at six.”

“Oh, that is early! A glass of swizzle, then?”

“Thanks, Mishter Vochan; you ish very kind. A glash of shwizzell will be better ash anything else. Itsh warm thish morning.” The swizzle, a mixture of rum, sugar, water, and lime-juice, was found in a large punch-bowl that stood upon the sideboard, with a silver ladle resting across the rim, and glasses set around it. This is a standing drink in the dwelling of a Jamaica planter – a fountain that may be said never to go dry, or, at all events, renewed as soon as exhausted.

Stepping up to the sideboard, where he was attended to by a black butler, the penn-keeper briskly quaffed off a tumbler of the swizzle; and then smacking his lips, and adding the observation, “’Tish goot!” he returned towards the window, where a chair had been placed for him beside the one already occupied by his host.

The visitor removed his beaver hat, though the white skull-cap – not over clean – was still permitted to keep its place upon his head.

Mr Vaughan was a man possessed of considerable courtesy, or at least, an affectation of it. He remained silent, therefore, politely waiting for his guest to initiate the conversation.

“Well, Mishter Vochan,” began the Jew, “I hash come over to see you on a shmall bishness – a very shmall bishness it is, shcarcely worth troubling you about.”

Here the speaker hesitated, as if to put some proposition into shape.

“Some black stock for sale, eh? I think I’ve heard that a cargo came in yesterday. You got part, I suppose?”

“Yesh, yesh, I bought a shmall lot, a very shmall lot. I hadn’t the monish to buy more. S’help me gott! the shlaves ish getting so dear ash I can’t afford to buy. This talk about shtoppin’ the trade ish like to ruin ush all. Don’t you think so, Mishter Vochan?”

“Oh, as for that, you needn’t fear. If the British Government should pass the bill, the law will be only a dead letter. They could never guard the whole of the African coast – no, nor that of Jamaica neither. I think, Mr Jessuron, you would still contrive to land a few bales, eh?”

“Ach, no, Mishter Vochan! dear, oh dear, no! I shouldn’t venture againsht the laws. If the trade ish to be stop, I musht give up the bishness. Slaves would be too dear for a poor Jewsh man like me to deal in: s’help me, yesh! they’re too dear ash it ish.”

“Oh, that’s all nonsense about their getting dearer! It’s very well for you to talk so, Mr Jessuron: you have some to sell, I presume?”

“Not now, Mishter Vochan, not now. Posshible, I may have a shmall lot to dishpose of in a day or two; but joosht now, I haven’t a shingle head ready for the market. Thish morning I want to buy, instead of shell.”

“To buy! From me, do you mean?”

“Yesh, Mishter Vochan, if you’re disposed to shell.”

“Come, that’s something new, neighbour Jessuron! I know you’re always ready for a trade; but this is the first time I ever heard of you buying slaves on a plantation.”

“Well, the truth ish, Mishter Vochan, I hash a cushtomer, who wants a likely wench for waiting at hish table. Theresh none among my shtock, he thinks good enough for hish purposh. I wash thinking you hash got one, if you could shpare her, that would suit him nishely.”

“Which do you mean?”

“I mean that young Foolah wench ash I sold you lasht year – joosh after crop time.”

“Oh! the girl Yola?”

“Yesh, I think that wosh her name. Ash you had her dirt sheep, I don’t mind giving you shomething on your bargain – shay ten pounds currenshy?”

“Poh, poh, poh!” replied the planter, with a deprecating shrug. “That would never do – even if I meant to sell the girl. But I have no wish to part with her.”

“Shay twenty, then?”

“Nor twice twenty, neighbour. I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, take less than two hundred pounds for that girl. She has turned out a most valuable servant – ”

“Two hunder poundsh!” interrupted the Jew, starting up in his chair. “Och! Mishter Vochan, theresh not a black wench in the island worth half the monish. Two hunder poundsh! Blesh my soul, that ish a prishe! I wish I could shell some of my shtock at that prishe! I’d be glad to give any two I hash for two hunder poundsh.”

“Why, Mr Jessuron! I thought you said just now slaves were getting very dear?”

“Dear, yesh; but that is doublish dear. S’help me gott! You don’t mean it, Mishter Vochan?”

“But I do mean it; and even if you were to offer me two hundred – ”

“Don’t shay more about it,” said the slave-merchant, hurriedly interrupting the hypothetical speech; “don’t shay more; I agreesh to give it. Two hunder poundsh! – blesh my shtars! it’ll make a bankrup’ of me.”

“No, it will not do that: since I cannot agree to take it.”

“Not take two hunder poundsh?”

“No – nor twice that sum.”

“Gott help ush, Mishter Vochan; you ish shurely shokin? Why will you not take two hunder? I hash the monish in my pocket.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, neighbour; but the fact is, I could not sell the girl Yola at any price, without the consent of my daughter – to whom I have given her.”

“Mish Vochan?”

“Yes – she is her maid; and I know that my daughter is very fond of her. It is not likely she would consent to the girl’s being sold.”

“But, Mishter Vochan! you shurely don’t let your daughter shtand between you and a good bargain? Two hunder poundsh is big monish – big monish, Cushtos. The wench ish not worth half ash much, and, for myshelf, I wouldn’t give half; but I don’t want to dishappoint a good cushtomer, who’sh not so particular ash to prishe.”

“Your customer fancies the girl, eh?” said Mr Vaughan, glancing significantly at his guest. “She is very good-looking – no wonder. But, if that be the reason for his wanting to buy her, I may as well tell you, I should myself not be inclined to part with her; and, as for my daughter, if she suspected such a purpose, all the money you have got, Mr Jessuron, wouldn’t reach the price of Yola.”

“S’help me gott, Mishter Vochan, you’re mishtaken! The cushtomer I speak of never shet hish eyes on the wench. Itsh only a waiting-maid he wants for hish table; and I thought of her, ash she’sh joost what he deshcribes. How do you know that Mish Vochan might not conshent to let her go? I promish to get her another young girl ash goot or better ash Yola.”

“Well,” replied the planter, after a moment’s reflection, and apparently tempted by the handsome offer, “since you seem so determined upon buying the wench, I’ll consult my daughter about it. But I can hold out very little hope of success. I know that she likes this young Foolah. I have heard that the girl was some king’s daughter in her own country; and I am as good as certain Kate won’t consent to her being sold.”

“Not if you wished it, Mishter Vochan?”

“Oh, if I insisted upon it, of course; but I gave my daughter a promise not to part with the girl against her wish, and I never break my word, Mr Jessuron – not to my own child.”

With this rather affected profession, the planter walked out of the room, leaving the slave-merchant to his reflections.

“May the diffel strike me dead if that man ishn’t mad!” soliloquised the Jew, when left to himself; “shtark shtarin mad! refuse two hunder poundsh for a she wench ash brown ash a cocoa-nut! Blesh my shtars!”

“As I told you, Mr Jessuron,” said the planter, re-entering the hall, “my daughter is inexorable. Yola cannot be sold.”

“Good morning, Mishter Vochan,” said the slave-merchant, taking up his hat and umbrella, and making for the door. “Good morning, shir: I hash no other bishness to-day.”

Then, putting on his hat and grasping his umbrella, with an air of spitefulness he was unable to conceal, he hurried down the stone steps, scrambled upon the back of his mule, and rode away in sullen silence.

“Unusually free with his money this morning,” said the planter, looking after him. “Some shabby scheme, I have no doubt. Well, I suppose I have thwarted it; besides, I am glad of an opportunity of disobliging the old curmudgeon: many’s the time he has done as much for me!”

Chapter 9

Judith Jessuron

In the most unamiable of tempers did the slave-speculator ride back down the avenue. So out of sorts was he at the result of his interview, that he did not think of unfolding his blue umbrella to protect himself from the hot rays of the sun, now striking vertically downward. On the contrary, he used the parapluie[456] for a very different purpose – every now and then belabouring the ribs of his mule with it: as if to rid himself of his spleen by venting it on the innocent mongrel.

Nor did he go in silence, although he was alone. In a kind of involuntary soliloquy he kept muttering, as he rode on, long strings of phrases denunciatory of the host whose roof he had just quitted.

The daughter, too, of that host came in for a share of his muttered denunciations, which at times, assumed the form of a menace.

Part of what he said was spoken distinctly and with emphasis: —

“The dusht off my shoosh, Loftish Vochan – I flingsh it back to you! Gott for damsch! there wash a time when you would be glad for my two hunder poundsh. Not for any monish? Bosh! Grand lady, Mish Kate – Mish Quasheby! Ha! I knowsh a thing – I knowsh a leetle thing. Some day, may be, yourshelf sell for lesh ash two hunder poundsh. Ach! I not grudgsh twice the monish to see that day!

“The dusht off my shoosh to both of yoush!” he repeated, as he cleared the gate-entrance. “I’sh off your grounds, now; and, if I hash you here, I shay you something of my mind – something ash make you sell your wench for lesh ash two hunder poundsh! I do so, some time, pleash gott! Ach!”

Uttering this last exclamation with a prolonged aspirate, he raised himself erect in his stirrups; and, half turning his mule, shook his umbrella in a threatening manner towards Mount Welcome – his eye accompanying the action with a glance that expressed some secret but vindictive determination.

As he faced back into the road, another personage appeared upon the scene – a female equestrian, who, trotting briskly up, turned her horse, and rode along by his side.

She was a young girl, or, rather a young woman – a bright, beautiful creature – who appeared an angel by the side of that demonlike old man.

She had evidently been waiting for him at the turning of the road; and the air of easy familiarity, with the absence of any salutation as they met, told that they had not long been separated.

Who was this charming equestrian?

A stranger would have asked this question, while his eye rested upon the object of it with mingled feelings of wonder and admiration: admiration at such rare beauty – wonder at beholding it in such rude companionship!

It was a beauty that need not be painted in detail. The forehead of noble arch; the scimitar-shaped eyebrows of ebon blackness; the dark-brown flashing pupils; the piquant prominence of the nose, with its spiral curving nostrils; were all characteristics of Hebraic[457] beauty – a shrine before which both Moslem and Christian have ofttimes bent the knee in humblest adoration.

Twenty cycles have rolled past – twenty centuries of outrage, calumny, and wrong – housed in low haunts – pillaged and persecuted – oft driven to desperation – rendered roofless and homeless – still, amid all, and in spite of all, lovely are Judah[458]’s dark-eyed daughters – fair as when they danced to the music of cymbal and timbrel, or, to the accompaniment of the golden-stringed harp, sang the lays of a happier time.

Here, in a new world, and canopied under an occidental sky, had sprung up a very type of Jewish beauty: for never was daughter of Judah lovelier than the daughter of Jacob Jessuron – she who was now riding by his side.

A singular contrast did they present as they rode together – this fair maid and that harsh-featured, ugly old man – unlike as the rose to its parent thorn.

Sad are we to say, that the contrast was only physical morally, it was “like father like daughter.” In external form, Judith Jessuron was an angel; in spirit – and we say it with regret – she was the child of her father – devilish as he.

“A failure?” said this fair she, taking the initiative. “Pah! I needn’t have asked you: it’s clear enough from your looks – though, certes, that beautiful countenance of yours is not a very legible index to your thoughts. What says Vanity Vaughan? Will he sell the girl?”

“No.”

“As I expected.”

“S’help me, he won’t!”

“How much did you bid for her?”

“Och! I’sh ashamed to tell you, Shoodith.”

“Come, old rabbi[459], you needn’t be backward before me. How much?”

“Two hunder poundsh.”

“Two hundred pounds! Well, that is a high figure! If what you’ve told me be true, his own daughter isn’t worth so much. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Hush, Shoodith, dear! Don’t shpeak of that – for your life don’t shpeak of it. You may shpoil some plansh I hash about her.”

“Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet – have I?”

“No, no! You hash been a good shild, my daughter! – a good shild, s’help me gott, you hash.”

“But tell me; why would the Custos not sell? He likes money almost as well as yourself. Two hundred pounds is a large price for this copper-coloured wench – quite double what she’s worth.”

“Ach, Shoodith dear, it wash not Vochan hishelf that refused it.”

“Who then?”

“Thish very daughter you speaksh of.”

“She!” exclaimed the young Jewess, with a curl of the lip, and a contemptuous twist of her beautiful nostril, that all at once changed her beauty into very ugliness. “She, you say? I wonder what next! The conceited mustee – herself no better than a slave!”

“Shtop – shtop, Shoodith,” interrupted the Jew, with a look of uneasiness. “Keep that to yourshelf, my shild. Shay no more about it – at leasht, not now, not now. The trees may have earsh.”

The burst of angry passion hindered the fair “Shoodith” from making rejoinder, and for some moments father and daughter rode on in silence.

The latter was the first to re-commence the conversation.

“You are foolish, good father,” said she; “absurdly foolish.”

“Why, Shoodith?”

“Why? In offering to buy this girl at all.”

“Ay – what would you shay?” inquired the old Jew, as if the interrogatory had been an echo to his own thoughts. “What would you shay?”

“I would say that you are silly, old rabbi Jacob; and that’s what I do say.”

“Blesh my shoul! What dosh you mean, Shoodith?”

“Why, dear and worthy papa, you’re not always so dull of comprehension. Answer me: what do you want the Foolah for?”

“Och! you know what I wants her for, Thish prinshe will give hish twenty Mandingoes for her. There ish no doubt but that she’s his sister. Twenty good shtrong Mandingoes, worth twenty hunder poundsh. Blesh my soul! it’sh a fortune?”

“Well; and if it is a fortune, what then?”

“If it ish? By our fathers! you talk of twenty hunder poundsh ash if monish was dirt.”

“My worthy parent, you misunderstand me.”

“Mishunderstand you, Shoodith?”

“You do. I have more respect for twenty hundred pounds than you give me credit for. So much, as that I advise you to get it.”

“Get it! why, daughter, that ish shoosht what I am trying to do.”

“Ay, and you’ve gone about it in such a foolish fashion, that you run a great risk of losing it.”

“And how would you have me go about it, mine Shoodith?”

“By taking it.”

The slave-merchant suddenly jerked upon the bridle, and pulled his mule to a stand – as he did so darting towards his daughter a look half-puzzled, half-penetrating.

“Good father Jacob,” continued she, halting at the same time, “you are not wont to be so dull-witted. While waiting for you at the gate of this pompous sugar-planter, I could not help reflecting; and my reflections led me to ask the question: what on earth had taken you to his house?”

“And what answer did you find, Shoodith?”

“Oh, not much; only that you went upon a very idle errand.”

“Yesh, it hash been an idle errand: I did not get what I went for.”

“And what matters if you didn’t?”

“Mattersh it? Twenty Mandingoes mattersh a great deal – twenty hunder poundsh currenshy. That ish what it mattersh, Shoodith mine darling!”

“Not the paring of a Mandingo’s toe-nail, my paternal friend.”

“Hach! what shay you, mine wise Shoodith?”

“What say I? Simply, that these Mandingoes might as well have been yours without all this trouble. They may be yet – ay, and their master too, if you desire to have a prince for your slave. I do.”

“Speak out, Shoodith; I don’t understand you.”

“You will presently. Didn’t you say, just now, that Captain Jowler has reasons for not coming ashore?”

“Captain Showler! He would rather land in the Cannibal Islands than in Montego Bay. Well, Shoodith?”

“Rabbi Jessuron, you weary my patience. For the Foolah prince – as you say he is – you are answerable only to Captain Jowler. Captain Jowler comes not ashore.”

“True – it ish true,” assented the Jew, with a gesture that signified his comprehension of these preliminary premises.

“Who, then, is to hinder you from doing as you please in the matter of these Mandingoes?”

“Wonderful Shoodith!” exclaimed the father, throwing up his arms, and turning upon his daughter a look of enthusiastic admiration. “Wonderful Shoodith! Joosh the very thing! – blesh my soul! – and I never thought of it!”

“Well, father; luckily it’s not too late. I have been thinking of it. I knew very well that Kate Vaughan would not part with the girl Yola. I told you she wouldn’t; but, by the bye, I hope you’ve said nothing of what you wanted her for? If you have – ”

“Not a word, Shoodith! not a word!”

“Then no one need be a word the wiser. As to Captain Jowler – ”

“Showler daren’t show hish face in the Bay: that’sh why he landed hish cargo on the coast. Besides, there wash an understanding between him and me. He doeshn’t care what ish done with the prinshe – not he. Anyhow, he’ll be gone away in twenty-four hours.”

“Then in twenty-four hours the Mandingoes may be yours – prince, attendants, and all. But time is precious, papa. We had better hasten home at once, and strip his royal highness of those fine feathers before some of our curious neighbours come in and see them. People will talk scandal, you know. As for our worthy overseer – ”

“Ah, Ravener! he knowsh all about it. I wash obliged to tell him ash we landed.”

“Of course you were; and it will cost you a Mandingo or two to keep his tongue tied: that it will. For the rest, there need be no difficulty. It won’t matter what these savages may say for themselves. Fortunately, there’s no scandal in a black man’s tongue.”

“Wonderful Shoodith!” again exclaimed the admiring parent. “My precious daughter, you are worth your weight in golden guinish! Twenty-four shlaves for nothing, and one of them a born prinshe! Two thousand currenshy! Blesh my soul! It ish a shplendid profit – worth a whole year’s buyin’ and shellin’.” And with this honest reflection, the slave-merchant hammered his mule into a trot, and followed his “precious Shoodith” – who had already given the whip to her horse, and was riding rapidly homeward.

Chapter 10

The Sea Nymph

On the third day after the slaver had cast anchor in the Bay of Montego, a large square-rigged vessel made her appearance in the offing; and, heading shoreward, with all sail set, stood boldly in for the harbour. The Union Jack of England, spread to the breeze, floated freely above her taffrail; and various boxes, bales, trunks, and portmanteaus, that could be seen on her deck – brought up for debarkation – as well as the frank, manly countenances of the sailors who composed her crew, proclaimed the ship to be an honest trader. The lettering upon her stern told that she was the “Sea Nymph, of Liverpool.”

Though freighted with a cargo of merchandise, and in reality a merchantman, the presence on board of several individuals in the costume of landsmen, denoted that the Sea Nymph also accommodated passengers.

The majority of these were West India planters, with their families, returning from a visit to the mother country – their sons, perhaps, after graduating at an English university, and their daughters on having received their final polish at some fashionable metropolitan seminary.

Here and there an “attorney” – a constituent element of West Indian society, though not necessarily, as the title suggests, a real limb of the law. Of the latter there might have been one or two, with a like number of unpractised disciples of Aesculapius[460]; both lawyer and doctor bent on seeking fortune – and with fair prospects of finding it in a land notorious for crime as unwholesome in clime. These, with a sprinkling of nondescripts, made up the list of the Sea Nymph’s cabin-passengers.

Among these nondescripts was one of peculiarities sufficiently distinctive to attract attention. A single glance at this personage satisfied you that you looked upon a London Cockney, at the same time a West-End exquisite of the very purest water. He was a young man who had just passed the twenty-first anniversary of his birth; although the indulgence of youthful dissipation had already brushed the freshness from his features, giving them the stamp of greater age. In complexion he was fair – pre-eminently so – with hair of a light yellowish hue, that presented the appearance of having been artificially curled, and slightly darkened by the application of some perfumed oil. The whiskers and moustache were nearly of the same colour; both evidently cultivated with an elaborate assiduity, that proclaimed excessive conceit in them on the part of their owner.

The eyebrows were also of the lightest shade; but the hue of the eyes was not so easily told: since one of them was kept habitually closed; while a glancing lens, in a frame of tortoise-shell, hindered a fair view of the other. Through the glass, however, it appeared of a greenish grey, and decidedly “piggish.”

The features of this individual were regular enough, though without any striking character; and of a cast rather effeminate than vulgar. Their prevailing expression was that of a certain superciliousness, at times extending to an affectation of sardonism[461].

The dress of the young man was in correspondence with the foppery exhibited in the perfumed locks and eye-glass. It consisted of a surtout of broadcloth, of a very light drab, with a cape that scarce covered the shoulders; a white beaver hat; vest and pants of spotless huff kerseymere[462]; kid gloves on his hands; and boots, blight as lacquer could make them, on his feet. These items of apparel, made in a style of fashion and worn with an air of savoir faire[463], loudly proclaimed the London fop of the time.

The affected drawl in which the gentleman spoke, whenever he condescended to hold communion with his fellow-passengers, confirmed this character.

Notwithstanding a certain ill-disguised contempt with which he was regarded by some of his fellow-voyagers, not a few treated him with marked deference; and the obeisance paid him by the steward and cabin boys of the Sea Nymph gave evidence of his capability to bestow a liberal largess. And such capability did he possess: for Mr Montagu Smythje, the individual in question, was a youth of good family and fortune – the latter consisting of a magnificent sugar estate in Jamaica, left him by a deceased relative, to visit which was the object of his voyage.

The estate he had never seen, as this was his first trip across the Atlantic; but he had no reason to doubt the existence of the property. The handsome income which it had afforded him, during several years of his minority, and which had enabled him to live in magnificent style in the most fashionable circles of London society, was a substantial proof that Montagu Castle – such was the name of the estate – was something more than a castle in the air. During his minority, the estate had been managed by a trustee resident in the island: one Mr Vaughan, himself a sugar-planter, whose plantation adjoined that of Montagu Castle.

Mr Smythje had not come over the water with any intention of settling upon his Jamaica estate. “Such an ideaw,” to use his own phraseology, “nevwaw entawed ma bwain. To exchange London and its pwesyaws for a wesidence among those haw-ed niggaws – deaw, no – I could nevwaw think of such a voluntawy banishment; that would be a baw – a decided baw!” “A meaw twip to see something of the twopics, of which I’ve heard such extwaor’nary stowies – have a look at my sugaw plantation and the dem’d niggaws – besides, I have a stwong desire to take a squint at these Queeole queetyaws, who are said to be so doocèd pwetty. Haw! haw!”

After such fashion did Mr Montagu Smythje explain the purpose of his voyage to such of his fellow-passengers as chanced to take an interest in it.

There were but few travellers in the steerage of the Sea Nymph. They who are compelled to adopt that irksome mode of voyaging across the Atlantic have but little errand to the West Indies, or elsewhere to tropical lands – where labour is monopolised by the thews and sinews of the slave. Only three or four of this class had found accommodation on board the Sea Nymph; and yet among these humble voyagers was one destined to play a conspicuous part in our story.

The individual in question was a young man, in appearance of the same age as Mr Montagu Smythje, though differing from the latter in almost everything else. In stature he was what is termed “middle height,” with limbs well set and rounded, denoting activity and strength. His complexion, though not what is termed brunette, was dark for a native of Britain, though such was he.

His features were nobly defined; and his whole countenance sufficiently striking to attract the attention of even an indifferent observer. Dark-brown eyes, and hair of like colour, curling jauntily over his cheeks, were characteristic points of gracefulness; and, take him all in all, he was what might justly be pronounced a handsome young fellow.

The garments he wore were his best – put on for the first time during the voyage, and for the grand occasion of landing. A dark blue tunic frock, faced with black braid, skirting down over a pair of close-fitting tights, and Hessian boots, gave him rather a distingué[464] air, notwithstanding a little threadbarishness apparent along the seams.

The occupation in which the young man was engaged betrayed a certain degree of refinement. Standing near the windlass, in the blank leaf of a book, which appeared to be his journal, he was sketching the harbour into which the ship was about to enter; and the drawing exhibited no inconsiderable degree of artistic skill.

For all that, the sketcher was not a professional artist. Professionally, indeed, and to his misfortune, he was nothing. A poor scholar – without trick or trade by which he might earn a livelihood – he had come out to the West Indies, as young men go to other colonies, with that sort of indefinite hope, that Fortune, in some way or other, might prove kinder abroad than she had been at home.

Whatever hopes of success the young colonist may have entertained, they were evidently neither sanguine nor continuous. Though naturally of a cheerful spirit, as his countenance indicated, a close observer might have detected a shadow stealing over it at intervals.

As the ship drew near to the shore, he closed the book, and stood scanning the gorgeous picture of tropical scenery, now, for the first time, disclosed to his eyes.

Despite the pleasant emotions which so fair a scene was calculated to call forth, his countenance betrayed anxiety – perhaps a doubt as to whether a welcome awaited him in that lovely land upon which he was looking.

Only a few moments had he been thus occupied, when a strange voice falling upon his ear caused him to turn towards the speaker – in whom he recognised the distinguished cabin-passenger, Mr Montagu Smythje.

As this gentleman had voyaged all the way from Liverpool to Jamaica without once venturing to set his foot across the line which separates the sacred precincts of the quarter from the more plebeian for’ard deck, his presence by the windlass might have been matter of surprise.

A circumstance, however, explained it. It was the last hour of the voyage. The Sea Nymph was just heading into the harbour; and the passengers of all degrees had rushed forward, in order to obtain a better view of the glorious landscape unfolding itself before their eyes. Notwithstanding his often-expressed antipathy to the “abom’nable smell of taw” it was but natural that Mr Smythje should yield to the general curiosity, and go forward among the rest.

Having gained an elevated stand-point upon the top of the windlass, he had adjusted the glass to his eye, and commenced ogling the landscape, now near enough for its details to be distinguished.

Not for long, however, did Mr Smythje remain silent. He was not one of a saturnine habit. The fair scene was inspiring him with a poetical fervour, which soon found expression in characteristic speech.

“Dooced pwetty, ’pon honaw!” he exclaimed; “would make a spwendid dwop-scene faw a theataw! Dawnt yaw think so, ma good fwend?”

The person thus appealed to chanced to be the young steerage passenger; who, during the long voyage, had abstained from going abaft of the main-mast with as much scrupulousness as Mr Smythje had observed about venturing forward. Hence it was that the voice of the exquisite was as strange to him, as if he had never set eyes on that illustrious, personage.

On perceiving that the speech was meant for himself, he was at first a little nettled at its patronising tone; but the feeling of irritation soon passed away, and he fixed his eyes upon the speaker, with a good-humoured, though somewhat contemptuous expression.

“Aw – haw – it is yaw, my young fellaw,” continued the exquisite, now for the first time perceiving to whom he had made his appeal. “Aw, indeed! I’ve often observed yaw from the quawter-deck. Ba Jawve! yes – a veway stwange individwal! – incompwehensibly stwange! May I ask – pawdon the liberty – what is bwinging yaw out heaw – to Jamaica, I mean?”

“That,” replied the steerage passenger, again somewhat nettled at the rather free style of interrogation, “which is bringing yourself – the good ship Sea Nymph.”

“Aw, haw! indeed! Good – veway good! But, my deaw sir, that is not what I meant.”

“No?”

“No, I ashaw yaw. I meant what bisness bwings yaw heaw. P’waps you have some pwofession?”

“No, not any,” replied the young man, checking his inclination to retaliate the impertinent style of his interrogator.

“A twade, then?”

“I am sorry to say I have not even a trade.”

“No pwofession! no twade! what the dooce daw yaw intend dawing in Jamaica? P’waps yaw expect the situation of book-keepaw on a pwantation, or niggaw-dwivaw. Neithaw, I believe, requiaws much expewience, as I am told the book-keepaw has pwositively no books to keep – haw! haw! and shawly any fellaw, howevaw ignowant, may dwive a niggaw. Is that yaw expectation, my worthy fwend?”

“I have no expectation, one way or another,” replied the young man, in a tone of careless indifference. “As to the business I may follow out here in Jamaica, that, I suppose, will depend on the will of another.”

“Anothaw! aw! – who, pway?”

“My uncle.”

“Aw, indeed! yaw have an uncle in Jamaica, then?”

“I have – if he be still alive.”

“Aw – haw! yaw are not shaw of that intewesting fact? P’waps yaw’ve not heard from him wately?”

“Not for years,” replied the young steerage passenger, his poor prospects now having caused him to relinquish the satirical tone which he had assumed. “Not for years,” repeated he, “though I’ve written to him to say that I should come by this ship.”

“Veway stwange! And pway, may I ask what bisness yaw uncle follows?”

“He is a planter, I believe.”

“A sugaw plantaw?”

“Yes – he was so when we last heard from him.”

“Aw, then, p’waps he is wich – a pwopwietor? In that case he may find something faw yaw to daw, bettaw than niggaw-dwiving. Make yaw his ovawseeaw. May I know yaw name?”

“Quite welcome to it. Vaughan is my name.”

“Vawrn!” repeated the exquisite, in a tone that betrayed some newly-awakened interest; “Vawn, did I understand yaw to say?”

“Herbert Vaughan,” replied the young man, with firmer emphasis.

“And yaw uncle’s name?”

“He is also called Vaughan. He is my father’s brother – or rather was – my father is dead.”

“Not Woftus Vawn, Esquire, of Mount Welcome?”

“Yes, Loftus Vaughan; my uncle is so called, and Mount Welcome is, I believe, the name of his estate.”

“Veway stwange! incompwehensibly stwange! D’yaw know, my young fellaw, that yaw and I appeaw to be making faw the same pawt. Woftus Vawn, of Mount Welcome, is the twustwee of my own pwoperty – the veway person to whom I am consigned. Deaw me! how dooced stwange if yaw and I should yet be guests undaw the same woof!”

The remark was accompanied by a supercilious glance, that did not escape the observation of the young steerage passenger. It was this glance that gave the true signification to the words, which Herbert Vaughan interpreted as an insult.

He was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, when the exquisite turned abruptly away – as he parted drawling out some words of leave-taking, with the presumptive conjecture that they might meet again.

Herbert Vaughan stood for a moment looking after him, an expression of high contempt curling upon his lip. Only for a short while, however, did this show itself; and then, his countenance resuming its habitual expression of good-nature, he descended into the steerage, to prepare his somewhat scanty baggage for the debarkation.

Chapter 11

Loftus Vaughan on the Look-Out

Every day, after that on which he had received the two English letters – and almost every hour during daylight – might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay.

The object of this telescopic observation was, that he might descry the Sea Nymph before she had entered the harbour: in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished Smythje on the moment of his landing.

At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day, and almost to an hour. Though the letter of advice had been written several days before that on which the Sea Nymph was to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves; and the ship which carried Montagu Smythje might arrive at any hour.

That some distinguished guest was expected, was a fact that had become well-known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article or articles of costly furniture brought home from the “Bay”; and the chambers of the “great house” were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house-wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries – an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica – while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that, perhaps, had never felt such impedimenta[465] before, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them.

It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr Montagu Smythje, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous look-out would have been kept, and no such preparations made to do him honour on his arrival.

Neither do Mr Vaughan’s motives require explanation: the reader will ere this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr Montagu Smythje was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but highly desirable, specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property, as Mr Vaughan well knew: for the worthy planter was not only Custos Rotulorum, but for many long years had been custos of Montagu Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling “currency.” It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it – if not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle, would make a magnificent domain – one of the richest in the Island.

To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart.

Let us not conceal a really creditable motive that Mr Vaughan had for desiring this union. He had been too long in Jamaica to be ignorant of the true social position of his daughter. However beautiful and accomplished Kate Vaughan was; however much her father loved her – and, to do him justice, his paternal affection was of the strongest – he knew that her mother was a quadroon, and she only a mustee. No matter how little trace there might be of the taint – however imperceptible to the outward eye – he knew that between her and the young gentlemen of his acquaintance – that is, those who would have been eligible – there was still enough to erect a certain social barrier. He knew, moreover, that young Englishmen, especially on their first arrival, make light of this barrier; in fact, altogether disregard it, until corrupted by the “society” of the island.

In his match-making designs the Jamaica planter was not more of a sinner than hundreds of other parents both at home and abroad; and there is this much in his favour: that, perhaps, his affection for his daughter, and the desire of ennobling her – for by such an alliance would the taint be extinguished – were the chief motives for the conduct he was pursuing in regard to Montagu Smythje.

So far Mr Vaughan’s conduct may be excused. But, unfortunately, the studied courtesy with which he was preparing to receive the lord of Montagu Castle presented a damaging contrast to the discourtesy he had designed for his kinsman.

In the latter case, both his acts and intentions were paltry beyond parallel.

The announcement in the nephew’s letter, that he had taken a steerage passage, had been to his uncle a source of bitter chagrin. Not that he would have cared a whit about the thing, had the young fellow voyaged in any other vessel than the Sea Nymph, or had he travelled unrecognised. What troubled Mr Vaughan was the fear that the relationship might become known to Mr Montagu Smythje, and thus create in the mind of the latter a suspicion of his, the planter’s, respectability.

The dread of this exposé so preyed upon Mr Vaughan’s mind that, had it been possible, he would have denied the relationship altogether.

He had conceived a hope that this recognition might not take place during the voyage: building his hope on the character of the aristocratic Cockney, which he knew to be a type of supercilious pride. Confiding in the faith that nothing might transpire on board ship to make Mr Smythje acquainted with the connection, he was determined there should be no chance on shore. To preclude the possibility of such a thing, he had conceived a design as childish as it was cruel: his nephew was to be kept out of the way.

The plan of action he had traced out long before the arrival of the Sea Nymph. Mr Montagu Smythje was to be met at the landing, and at once hurried off to Mount Welcome. Herbert Vaughan was likewise to be conducted thither; but not direct.

A different means of transport was to be provided for him; and on his arrival within the bounds of the plantation, he was to be taken by a private road to the house of the overseer – which stood in a secluded corner of the valley, nearly half a mile distant from the “Buff.”

Here he was to remain as the guest of the latter, until such time as his uncle could find a way of disposing of him – either by procuring some employment for him at Montego Bay, or the situation of book-keeper on some distant plantation.

With this ingenious contrivance did Mr Vaughan await the arrival of his guests.

It was upon the third day after receiving his letters of advice, and near the hour of noon, that the planter, playing as usual with his telescope, perceived in the offing of Montego Bay, and standing in for the port, a large square-rigged vessel – a ship.

It might be the Sea Nymph, and it might not; but, taking into consideration some circumstances, known to Mr Vaughan, the probabilities were that it was the expected vessel.

Whether or no, the planter was determined that the programme, he had so ingeniously sketched out, should not be spoiled by any mismanagement in the performance; and its execution was ordered upon the instant.

Bells were rung for a general muster of the domestics; a horn was sounded to summon the overseer; and, in less than half an hour afterwards, the family barouche – a handsome equipage, drawn by a pair of splendidly-caparisoned horses – was on the road to the Bay, with the overseer on horseback, riding as an escort behind it.

In rear of this went a waggon, to which eight large oxen were attached; and behind the waggon appeared an escort sui generis[466]: a rough negro boy, mounted on the shaggiest of steeds, who was no other than the post-boy already mentioned – the identical Quashie.

Quashie was not on his usual diurnal duty: his present errand was one of a far more important character, and the duty confided to him of an exceedingly delicate nature.

At this hour the great hall of Mount Welcome exhibited a scene that, to the eye of a stranger to West Indian customs, might have appeared curious enough.

Scattered over the floor, at certain distances from each other, were some six or eight negro girls, or “wenches,” as they are called, most of them being of the younger brood of the plantation blacks. All were down on their knees – each one having by her side, and within reach of her hand, an orange freshly cut in halves, some bees’-wax, and a portion of the fibrous pericarp of a cocoa-nut.

The floor itself was without carpet of any kind; but instead of being of plain deal, it presented a mosaic of hard woods, of different colours – among which might be recognised the mahogany and heart-wood, the bread-nut and bully-tree.

To give the tesselated surface a polish was the business of the dark damsels on their knees; and for that purpose were the oranges and cocoa-husks provided.

To an islander the sight was one of common, indeed daily, occurrence. The lustre of his hall floor is a matter of pride with a Jamaica planter; as much so as the quality or pattern of his drawing-room carpet to a householder at home; and every day, and at the same hour, the dark-skinned housemaids make their appearance, and renew the glitter of the surface, whose gloss has been tarnished by the revels of the preceding night.

The hour set apart for this quaint custom is just before laying the cloth for dinner – about three or four o’clock; and that she may not sully the polish while carrying in the dishes, the barefooted Abigail adopts a plan that deserves mention on account of its originality.

Having provided herself with two small pieces of linen or cotton cloth, she spreads them out upon the floor, and then places a foot upon each. As the toes of a West Indian house-wench are almost as prehensile as her fingers, she finds no difficulty in “cramping” the cloth and holding it between the “big toe” and its nearest neighbour; and with this simple chaussure she is enabled to slide over the floor without in the least degree “smoutching” its gloss, or leaving any sign of her passage over its shining surface.

While such a busy scene was transpiring in the great hall of Mount Welcome, one of a different character, but of equal activity, was going on in the kitchen. This “office” stood a little apart from the main dwelling, communicating with its lower storey by a covered gallery. Along this passage black and yellow wenches could be seen constantly going and returning, each with her load – a haunch of venison, a ham of the wild hog, a turtle, ramier pigeons, and mountain crabs, all on their way to the spit, the stew-pan, or the chafing-dish.

A similar sight might have been witnessed at Mount Welcome any other day in the year; but perhaps with a less abundant variety in the materials, and with not half so much movement among the staff of wenches pertaining to the cuisine – whose excited manner in the performance of their specific duties testified, as much as the variety of luxuries lying around, that on this particular day a repast of the most sumptuous kind was expected from their skill.

Their master did not leave these preparations to be made without his own personal surveillance. From the time that the ship had been descried, he was everywhere – in the stable, to look after the sable grooms; in the kitchen, to instruct the cooks; in the great hall, to inspect the polishing of the floor; and, at last, on the landing outside, standing, telescope to his eye, and looking down the long avenue, where the carriage containing his distinguished visitor might at any moment be expected to make its appearance.

Chapter 12

Kate and Yola

Occupying one corner of the mansion of Mount Welcome – that which was farthest removed from the din and clangour of the kitchen – was a small chamber, richly and elegantly furnished. The light was admitted into it on two sides through latticed windows, that, when open, left a free passage from the floor to a little balcony outside – with which each of the windows was provided.

One of these windows looked out to the rearward, commanding a view of the garden, and the wooded steep beyond. The other opened to the left side of the house, upon the shrubbery grounds that extended in that direction as far as the foot of the ridge.

Even had there been no one within this little chamber, the style and character of its furniture would have told, that the person to whom it appertained was of the gentler sex.

In one corner stood a bed, with carved posts of yellow lance wood; from which hung what at first sight might have been taken for white muslin curtains, but which, on closer scrutiny, could be seen to be the gauze-like netting of a “mosquito bar.”

The size of the bed told that it was intended for but one individual. Its habitual occupant was therefore unmarried.

In the bay of one of the windows stood a dressing-table of papier mâché, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; and upon this was placed a mirror of circular shape on a stand of the finest Spanish mahogany.

In front of the mirror was a variety of objects of different forms – among which might be noticed the usual implements of the toilet, with many of those eccentric little articles of luxe and vertu[467], that bespeak the refined presence of woman.

Other pieces of furniture in the room were three or four Chinese chairs; a small marqueterie table; a work-box of tortoise-shell veneer, on a pedestal of like material; and a little cabinet of ebony wood, richly inlaid with buhl.

There was neither mantel nor fireplace – the climate of eternal summer precluding all necessity for such “fixtures.”

The window-curtains were of a thin transparent muslin, with a pattern of pink flowering woven into the stuff, and bordered with a fringe of alternate pink and white tassels.

A breeze, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, blowing in through the open lattice-work of the jalousies, kept these light hangings almost continually in motion, imparting an aspect of coolness to the chamber. This was further heightened by the glossy smoothness of the hard-wood floor, which glistened under foot like a mirror.

No one could have glanced into this little apartment, without being struck with its costly yet chaste adornment. Rich and elegant, however, as was the case, it was no more than worthy of the jewel which it was accustomed to contain. It was the bedroom and boudoir of “Lilly Quasheba,” the heiress presumptive of Mount Welcome.

But few were ever favoured with a glance into that luxurious chamber. It was a sacred precinct, into which curious eyes were not permitted to penetrate. Its polished floor was not to be trodden by vulgar feet. With the exception of her father, no man had ever intruded into that virgin shrine; and he, only on rare and extraordinary occasions. Even to the domestics it was not of free access. Only one, besides its mistress, could enter it unbidden – her brown-skinned handmaid Yola.

On that same day – shortly after the ringing of the bells had announced the arrival of the English ship, and while the dusky domestics were engaged, as described, in their ante-prandial preparations – two individuals occupied the chamber in question.

One was the young lady to whom the apartment pertained – the other her maid.

They were in different attitudes: the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window, while the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress’s hair.

The girl was just entering upon her task – if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already the complicated machinery of combs and hair-pins lay strewed over the table; and the long chestnut-coloured tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis there appeared no trace of the taint.

Involuntarily the maid ceased from her task, and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration.

“Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed she, in a low, murmured voice; “you beautiful, missa!”

“Tut, Yola: ’tis only flattery of you to say so! You are as beautiful as I; only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country you would be a great belle.”

“Ah, missa, you belle anywhere – black man – white man – all think you beautiful – all the same!”

“Thank you, Yola! but I shouldn’t particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don’t know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive.”

“Perhaps missa no so say, when come young buckra[468] from Inglis’ country!”

“Which buckra? – there are two of them expected from the English country.”

“Yola no hear two come. Massa she hear speak of one – only one.”

“Oh, you’ve heard speak of one only! Did you hear his name mentioned?”

“Yes; he grand man – great lord – Sultan of Mongew. He have other name – Yola hear it; but she no sabbey speak it.”

“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at that. It’s as much as I ‘sabbey’ myself to pronounce that second name: which I presume to be Smythje. Is that the name you heard?”

“That it, missa – he berry fine gentl’man, he beauty man. Massa he so tell Massr’ Trusty.”

“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”

“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of – dis same one of Mongew Castle.”

A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.

It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.

The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression – the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.

“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.

“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”

“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”

“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before – you berry, berry like!”

“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”

“He man of the mountains – Maroon[469].”

“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble a Maroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”

“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood – eyes like yours – berry like you eyes, missa.”

“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man – much more to a Maroon?”

“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man – berry beauty man.”

“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me.”

“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”

“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa to sell you.”

This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.

“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”

“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”

“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum – how much, can you guess?”

“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”

“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”

“Who, missa?”

“Why – he who sold you to papa – Mr Jessuron.”

“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die – Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa! – beauty missa! – you no sell you poor slave?”

The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.

“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him – whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now? Cubina, was it not?”

“Yes, missa, Cubina.”

“And pray who is Cubina?”

The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.

“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”

“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man – Maroon.”

“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”

“True, missa, he same.”

“Oh! I see how it is – I suppose that accounts for you thinking me beautiful? This Cubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours?”

Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut.

“You need not answer, good Yola,” said the young Creole, with a significant smile. “I know what your answer ought to be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this Cubina. Have a care, my girl! These Maroons are a very different sort of men from the coloured people on the plantations. Like me, he is – ha! ha! ha!” and the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. “Well, Yola, I’m not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier; and no doubt Master Cubina is, in your eyes, a perfect Endymion[470].

“Come girl!” added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory, “I fear we have been wasting time. If I’m not ready to receive this grand guest, I’ll get into trouble with papa. Go on, and trick me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome.”

With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificent chevelure to the manipulation of her maid.

Chapter 13

Quashie

In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr Montagu Smythje and the young steerage passenger, the Sea Nymph had got warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf.

A gangway-plank was stretched from the shore; and over this, men and women, of all shades of colour, from blonde to ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard; while the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore.

Half-naked porters – black, brown, and yellow – commenced wrangling over the luggage – dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clamouring their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.

On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship – not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages – some of them handsome “curricles” drawn by a pair, and driven by black Jehus in livery; others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description – according to the wealth or style of the individual for whose transport each had been brought to the port.

Waggons, too, with teams of oxen – some having eight in the yoke – stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage: the naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood!

Among the different carriages ranged along the wharf, a handsome barouche appeared conspicuous. It was attached to a pair of cream-coloured horses, splendidly caparisoned. A mulatto coachman sat upon the box, shining in a livery of lightest green, with yellow facings; while a footman, in garments of like hue, attended at the carriage-step, holding the door for some one to get in.

Herbert Vaughan, standing on the fore-deck of the Sea Nymph – as yet undecided as to whether he should then go ashore – had noticed this magnificent equipage. He was still gazing upon it, when his attention was attracted to two gentlemen, who, having walked direct from the vessel, had just arrived by the side of the carriage. A white servant followed them; and behind were two negro attendants, carrying a number of parcels of light luggage. One of the gentlemen and the white servant were easily recognised by Herbert: they were Mr Montagu Smythje and his valet.

Herbert now recalled the odd expression made use of, but the moment before, by his fellow-passenger – that he was “consigned” to the proprietor of Mount Welcome.

The carriage having received Mr Montagu Smythje, and the footman having mounted the box – leaving the rumble to the English valet – was driven off at full speed; the second gentleman, who appeared to be an overseer, following on horseback as an escort.

Herbert watched the receding vehicle, until a turn in the road hid it from his view; and then, dropping his eyes towards the deck, he stood for some moments in a reflective attitude, – revolving in his mind some thoughts that were far from agreeable.

No one there to meet him and bid him welcome!

The countenance of the young adventurer became clouded under the influence of this thought; and he stood silently gazing upon the deck with eyes that saw not.

“Sa!” said a negro boy, at this moment stepping up and interrupting his reflections.

“Ha!” rejoined Herbert, looking up and perceiving, with some surprise, that the darkey was regarding him with a fixed stare. “What might you want, my lad? If it be money, I have none to give you.”

“Money, sa? wharra fo’ Quashie want money? He do wha’ massr bid. Young buckra ready go now?”

“Ready to go! where? – what mean you, boy?”

“Go fo’ da great house.”

“Great house! of what great house are you speaking?”

“Moun’ Welc’m’, sa – Massr Va’n. You fo’ Massr Va’n, sa?”

“What!” exclaimed Herbert, in surprise, at the same time scanning the darkey from head to foot; “how do you know that, my boy?”

“Quashie know dat well ’nuf. Cappen ob da big ship, obaseeah say so. Obaseeah point out young buckra from de waff – he send Quashie fetch young buckra to Moun’ Welc’m’. Ready go now, sa?”

“You are from Mount Welcome, then?”

“Ya, sa – me hoss-boy da, an’ pose-boy – fetch pony for young Englis’ buckra. Obaseeah he bring b’rouche for grand Englis’ buckra. Baggage dey go in de ox-waggon.”

“Where is your pony?”

“Up yonna, sa; on de waff, sa. Ready go, sa?”

“All right,” said Herbert, now comprehending the situation of affairs. “Shoulder that portmanteau, and toss it into the waggon. Which road am I to take?”

“Can’t miss um road, sa – straight up da ribber till you come to de crossin’. Dar you take de road dat don’t lead to da leff – you soon see Moun’ Welc’m’, sa.”

“How far is it?”

“Bout sebben or eight mile, sa – reach dar long ’fore sun-down; pony go like de berry lightnin’. Sure you no keep to da left by da crossin’.”

Thus instructed, the young steerage-passenger took his departure from the ship – after bidding adieu to the friendly tars, who had treated him so handsomely during his irksome voyage.

With his gun, a single-barrelled fowling-piece, on his shoulder, he strode over the platform, and up the wooden wharf. Then detaching the pony from the wheel of the ox-waggon, to which it had been tied, he threw himself into the saddle, and trotted off along the road pointed out as the one that would conduct him to Mount Welcome.

The excitement produced by the sudden change from ship to shore – the stir of the streets through which he had to pass – the novel sights and sounds that at every step saluted his eyes and ears – hindered Herbert Vaughan from thinking of anything that concerned himself.

Only for a short time, however, was his mind thus distracted from dwelling on his own affairs. Before he had ridden far, the road – hitherto bordered by houses – entered under a dark canopy of forest foliage; and the young traveller, all at once, found himself surrounded by a perfect solitude.

Under the sombre shadow of the trees, his spirit soon returned to its former gloomy forebodings; and, riding more slowly over a stretch of the road where the ground was wet and boggy, he fell into a train of thoughts that were anything but pleasant.

The subject of his reflections may be easily guessed. He had not failed to notice – how could he? – the distinction made between himself and his fellow-voyager. While a splendid equipage had been waiting for the latter – and his landing had been made a sort of ovation, how different was the means of transport provided for him!

“By the memory of my father!” muttered he, as he rode on, “it is an insult I shall not overlook: an insult to him more than to myself. But for the fulfilment of his dying wish, I should not go one step farther and as he said this, he drew his rough roadster to a halt – as if half-resolved to put his hypothetic threat into practice.

“Perhaps,” he continued, again moving forward, with a more hopeful air, “perhaps there may be some mistake? But no,” he added with a strong emphasis on the negative monosyllable, “there can be none! This shallow fop is a young man of fortune – I a child of misfortune;” and he smiled bitterly at the antithesis he had drawn; “that is the reason why such a distinction has been made between us. Be it so!” he continued, after a pause. “Poor as I am, this churlish relative will find me as proud as himself. I shall return him scorn for scorn. I shall demand an explanation of his behaviour; and the sooner I have it the better!”

As if stimulated by a sense of the outrage, as also by a half-formed purpose of retaliation, the young adventurer gave the whip to his shaggy steed, and dashed onward at full gallop.

Chapter 14

Travelling at the Tail

For nearly an hour did the cob continue its gallop, without pause or slacking. The road was a wide one, much tracked by wheels; and, as it ran in a direct course, the rider took it for granted he was keeping the right path. Now and then he caught a glimpse of water through the trees – no doubt, the river mentioned in the directions given him by the darkey.

The crossing at length came in sight, causing him to desist from his rapid pace – in order that he might ford the stream. There was no appearance of a bridge. The water, however, was only knee-deep; and, without hesitation, the pony plunged in and waded over.

Herbert halted on the opposite bank: for there appeared in front of him a dilemma. The road forked. The negro boy had warned him of this – telling him at the same time to take the one that didn’t lead to “da leff”; but instead of two “tines” to the fork, there were three!

Here was a puzzle. It was easy enough to know which of the three not to take – the one that did lead to “da leff”; but which of the other two was to be chosen was the point that appeared to present a difficulty in the solution. Both were plain, good roads; and each as likely as the other to be the one which would conduct him to Mount Welcome.

Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end; but, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel-tracks of the carriage, that he knew must have passed in advance of him.

While thus cogitating, the silence occasioned by his momentary halt was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him.

On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy – the veritable Quashie!

“Da, sa! das da crossin’ me you tell ’bout; you no take by de leff – dat lead to ole Jew penn; nor da right – he go to Mon’gew Cassel; de middle Massr Va’n road – he go straight na Moun’ Welc’m’.”

The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way – surprise, as by a spell, holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage; and he had seen him – he could almost swear to it – still on board, as he rode away from the wharf! Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles – most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up! How, then, was he to account for the lad’s presence upon the spot?

This was the first question that occurred to him; and which he put to the darkey, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.

“Quashie foller young buckra – at him pony heels.”

The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the “young buckra;” since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden.

“At the pony’s heels! What, my black skin! do you mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing-place?”

“Ya, sa: dat hab Quashie do.”

“But I saw you on board the ship as I started off. How on earth could you have overtaken me?”

“Yaw, massa, dat wa’ easy ’nuf. Young buckra, he start off; Quashie, he put him porkmantle in da ox-waggon, an’ den he foller. Buckra, he go slow at fuss, Quashie soon cotch up, and den easy run ’long wi’ da pony – not much in dat, sa.”

“Not much! Why, you imp of darkness, I have been riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, and how you’ve kept up with me is beyond my comprehension! Well, you’re a noble runner, that I will say! I’d back you at a foot-race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say?”

“Ya, sa, dat de way to Moun’ Welc’m’; you soon see de big gate ob de plantation.”

Herbert headed his roadster in the direction indicated; and moved onward along the path – his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident.

He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony, when he was tempted to look back – partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him, and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort.

A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darkey was nowhere to be seen! Neither to the right, nor the left, nor yet in the rear, was he visible!

“Where the deuce can the boy have gone?” inquired Herbert, involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road.

“Hya, sa!” answered a voice, that appeared to come out of the ground close behind – while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the croup of the cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.

How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained: he had been holding on to its tail!

There was something so ludicrous in the sight, that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him; and once more checking his steed into a halt, gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darkey joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear – though he was utterly unconscious of what the young buckra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practising – for it was not the first time Quashie had travelled at the tail of a horse.

Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome was reached. There was no lodge – only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them.

From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle’s plantation; but Quashie, still clinging to the pony’s tail, removed all doubt by crying out, —

“Da’s da gate, buckra gemman – da’s de way fo’ Moun’ Welc’m’!”

On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight – its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue; which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach an air of aristocratic grandeur.

Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind. He had heard at home that his father’s brother was a man of great wealth; and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him.

The equipage which had transported his more favoured fellow-voyager – and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him – also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived.

The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island.

The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded; and as he looked up the noble avenue, he was oppressed with a presentiment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.

“Tell me, Quashie,” said he, after a spell of painful reflection, “was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome? Or did you have your orders from the overseer?”

“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”

“The overseer, then?”

“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”

“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”

“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’ – dat war yourseff, sa – ‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’ – da’s de pony’s name – ‘and den you fetch him home to my house.’ Da’s all he say – ebbery word.”

“To his house? Mount Welcome, you mean!”

“No, young buckra gemman – to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”

The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.

Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.

“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”

“What do you mean, my good fellow? What have I to do with the overseer’s house?”

“We’s agwine da, sa.”

“Who? you?”

“Boff, sa; an’ Coco too.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness?”

“No, sa; Quashie only do what him bid. Da obaseeah Quashie bid fotch young buckra to him house. Dis yeer’s da way.”

“I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. It is to Mount Welcome I am going – my uncle’s house – up yonder!”

“No, buckra gemman, me no mistake. Da obaseeah berry partikler ’bout dat same. He tell me you no fo’ da great house – da Buff. He say me fotch you to ’im own house.”

“Are you sure of that?” Herbert, as he put this interrogatory, leant forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply.

“Lor, buckra gemman! I’se sure ob it as de sun am in de hebbens dar. I swa’ it, if you like.”

On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapt in a profound and painful reverie. His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve.

At this moment, Quashie caught the rein of the bridle, and was about to lead the pony into the bye-path.

“No!” shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. “Let go, boy! let go, or I’ll give you the whip. This is my way.”

And, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue.

Then laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop, in the direction of the “great house.”

Chapter 15

A Slippery Floor

The carriage conveying Mr Montagu Smythje from Montego Bay to Mount Welcome, passed up the avenue and arrived at the great house, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster, and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance-gate of the plantation.

Mr Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.

It had been the aim of Mr Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.

For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.

So far as the impression to be made on Mr Smythje was concerned, Mr Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb – radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.

The heart of the cockney[471] felt – perhaps for the first time in his life – that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.

For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of the bagnio were obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.

Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last – how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil – was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.

The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive a reciprocity of this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling of dégout[472]; or at least of indifference.

In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate début. A contretemps had occurred in the ceremony of introduction – just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutual reconnoissance. Mr Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!

In that fall he had lost everything – every chance of winning Kate Vaughan’s heart. A thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism, would not have set him up again, after that unfortunate fall. It was a clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty – the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible.

Mr Montagu Smythje was too well stocked with self-complacency to suffer much embarrassment from a lapsus of so trifling a character. His valet had him upon his feet in a trice; and with a “Haw-haw!” and the remark that the floor was “demmed swippeway,” he crept cautiously to his chair, and seated himself.

Though the Londoner had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him.

Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup; and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius[473]; and the wines – instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry – were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock – all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer.

These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the sugar islands – the days of revel and rollicky living – before the wedge of Wilberforce[474] split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity.

A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English guest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of coloured attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers. Young girls of various shades of complexion – some nearly white – stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.

Montagu Smythje was delighted. Even in his “dear metwopolis” he had never dined so luxuriously.

“Spwendid, spwendid – ’pon honaw! A dinner fit for a pwince!” he exclaimed, in compliment to his entertainer.

The savoury dishes were partaken of, and removed, and the table, arranged for dessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce – where almost every order of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New-World may such variety be seen – a dessert table upon which Pomona[475] appears to have poured forth her golden cornucopiae.

The cloth having been removed from the highly-polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round. In honour of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment.

Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky.

It was a very little cloud, and still very far off; but, for all that, a careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter.

Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half human, half equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house.

When first seen by Loftus Vaughan, it was still distant, though not so far off but that, with the naked eye, he could distinguish a man on horseback.

From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair – at short intervals casting uneasy glances upon the centaurean form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced.

For a time, the expression on the face of Mr Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest; and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the bye-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behaviour of Mr Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent, as to elicit from Miss Vaughan an ejaculation of alarm; while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, “Bless ma soul!” adding the interrogatory, —

“Anything wong, sir?”

“Oh! nothing!” stammered the planter; “only – only – a little surprise – that’s all.”

“Surprise, papa! what has caused it? Oh, see! yonder is some one on horseback – a man – a young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding; and that is Quashie running behind him! How very amusing! Papa, what is it all about?”

“Tut! sit down, child!” commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. “Sit down, I say! Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! ’tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr Smythje – glass of Madeira with you, sir?”

“Plesyaw!” answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table, and occupying himself with the decanter.

Kate obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise. She was slightly awed, too; not so much by the words, as the severe glance that accompanied them. She made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father – who, hob-nobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her.

The pony and his rider were no longer visible: as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window; but the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sounds coming nearer and nearer.

Mr Vaughan was endeavouring to appear collected, and to say something; but his sang froid was assumed and unnatural; and being unable to keep up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded.

The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived under the windows, had been brought to a halt.

Then there were voices – earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the steps.

Mr Vaughan looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be frustrated. There was a hitch in the programme – Quashie had failed in the performance of his part.

“Aha!” ejaculated the planter, with returning delight, as the smooth, trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing. “Mr Trusty wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr Smythje – only for one moment.”

Mr Vaughan rose from his seat, and hastened, as if wishing to meet the overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trusty, however, had already stepped inside the doorway; and, not being much of a diplomatist, had bluntly declared his errand – in sotto voce, it is true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication from being heard. Among other words, the phrase “your nephew” reached the ears of Kate – at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound.

The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and apparently tremulous voice: – “Show him – summer-house – garden – tell him to wait – there presently.”

Mr Vaughan turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least, for the time; but the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter restored his suspicions that all was not right.

Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant, Kate cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise, —

“Oh, papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr Trusty say something about ‘your nephew’? After all, has cousin come? Is it he who – ”

“Kate, my child,” quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to have understood her interrogatory, “you may retire to your room. Mr Smythje and I would like to have our cigar; and the smoke of tobacco don’t agree with you. Go, child – go!”

The young girl instantly rose from her chair, and hastened to obey the command – notwithstanding the protestations of Mr Smythje, who looked as if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar.

But her father hurriedly repeated the “Go, child – go!” accompanying the words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and mystified her.

Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory; and as she crossed the threshold of her chamber, she was heard muttering to herself:

“I wonder if cousin be come!”

Chapter 16

The Kiosk

A portion of the level platform, on which Mount Welcome was built, extended to the rear of the dwelling; and was occupied, as already described, by a garden filled with rare and beautiful plants. Near the midst of this garden, and about a dozen paces from the house, stood a small detached building – a summer-house – the materials of which were ornamental woods of various kinds, all natives of the island, famed for such products. The pieces composing this summer-house, or “kiosk,” as it was habitually called, had all been cut and carved with skilful care; and the whole structure had been designed as a representation of a miniature temple, with a cupola upon its top, surmounted by a gilded and glittering vane.

Inside there were neither stairs nor partitions – the whole space being taken up by a single apartment. There were no glass windows: but all around, the walls were open, or closed only with Venetian blinds, the laths of which were of the finest mahogany. A Chinese mat covered the floor, and a rustic table of bamboo cane pieces, with some half-dozen chairs of like manufacture, constituted the principal part of the furniture.

On the aforesaid table stood an inkstand of silver, elaborately chased, with plume pens pertaining to it. Some writing-paper lay beside it; and on a silver tray there were wafers, red sealing-wax, and a signet seal. An escritoire stood on one side; and two or three dozen volumes placed upon the top of this – with a like number thrown carelessly on chairs – formed the library of Mount Welcome.

Some magazines and journals lay upon the centre-table, and a box of best Havannahs – open and half used – showed that the summer-house served occasionally for a smoking-room.

It was sometimes styled the “Library,” though its purposes were many. Mr Vaughan, at times, used it for the reception of visitors – such as might have come upon errands of business – such, in short, as were not deemed worthy of being introduced to the company of the grand hall.

Just at the moment when Kate Vaughan quitted the dinner-table, a young man was shown into this detached apartment, Mr Trusty, the overseer, acting as his chaperon.

It is not necessary to say that this young man was Herbert Vaughan.

How he came to be conducted thither is easily explained. On learning from Quashie the destination designed for him – aggrieved and angry at the revelation – he had hurried in hot haste up to the house. To Mr Trusty, who was keeping guard at the bottom of the stairway, he had announced his relationship with Mr Vaughan, and demanded an interview – making his requisition in such energetic terms as to disturb the habitual sang froid of the overseer, and compel him to the instantaneous delivery of his message.

Indeed, so indignant did Herbert feel, that he would have mounted the steps and entered the house without further parley, had not Mr Trusty put forth his blandest entreaties to prevent such a terrible catastrophe.

“Patience, my good sir!” urged the overseer, interposing himself between the new comer and the stairway; “Mr Vaughan will see you, presently – not just this moment; he is engaged – company with him. The family’s at dinner.”

So far from soothing the chafed spirit of the young man, the announcement was only a new mortification. At dinner, and with company – the cabin-passenger, of course – the ward – not even a relative – while he, the nephew – no dinner for him!

In truth, Herbert recognised in this incident a fresh outrage.

With an effort, he gave up the idea of ascending the stairs. Poor though he was, he was nevertheless a gentleman; and good breeding stepped in to restrain him from this unbidden intrusion: though more than ever did he feel convinced that an insult was put upon him, and one that almost appeared premeditated.

He stood balancing in his mind whether he should turn upon his heel, and depart from his uncle’s house without entering it. A feather would have brought down the scale. The feather fell on the negative side, and decided him to remain.

On being conducted into the summer-house and left to himself, he showed no wish to be seated; but paced the little apartment backward and forward in a state of nervous agitation.

He took but slight heed of aught that was there. He was in no mood for minutely observing – though he could not help noticing the luxurious elegance that surrounded him: the grandeur of the great house itself; the splendid parterres[476] and gardens filled with plants and flowers of exquisite beauty and fragrant perfume.

These fine sights, however, instead of soothing his chafed spirit, only made him more bitterly sensible of his own poor fortunes, and the immeasurable distance that separated him from his proud, rich uncle.

Through the open sides of the kiosk he merely glanced hastily at the grounds; and then his eyes became bent upon the great house – directed habitually towards an entrance at the back that by a flight of steps conducted into the garden. By this entrance he expected his uncle would come out; and in angry impatience did he await his coming.

Had he seen the beautiful eyes that were, at that moment, tenderly gazing upon him from behind the lattice-work of the opposite window, perhaps the sight would have gone far towards soothing his irate soul. But he saw them not. The jalousies were closed; and though from the shadowy interior of the chamber, the kiosk and its occupant were in full view, the young Englishman had no suspicion that he was at that moment the object of observation – perhaps of admiration – by a pair of the loveliest eyes in the island of Jamaica.

After turning, for the twentieth time, across the floor – at each turn scanning the stairs with fresh impatience – he somewhat spitefully laid hold of a book, and opened it – in the hope of being able to kill time over its pages.

The volume which came into his hands – by chance: he had not chosen it – was but little calculated to tranquillise his troubled spirit. It was a digest of the statutes of Jamaica relating to slavery – the famous, or rather infamous, black code of the island.

There he read: that a man might mutilate his own image in the person of a fellow-man – torture him, even to death, and escape with the punishment of a paltry fine! That a man with a black skin – or even white, if at all tainted with African blood – could hold no real estate, no office of trust; could give no evidence in a court of law – not even had he been witness of the crime of murder; that such a man must not keep or ride a horse; must not carry a gun, or other weapon of defence; must not defend himself when assaulted; must not defend wife, sister, or daughter – even when ruffian hands were tearing them from him for the most unholy of purposes! In short, that a man of colour must do nothing to make himself different from a docile and submissive brute!

To the young Englishman, fresh from a Christian land – at that period ringing with the eloquent denunciations of a Wilberforce, and the philanthropic appeals of a Clarkson[477] – the perusal of this execrable statute-book, instead of producing tranquillity, only infused fresh bitterness into his soul; and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, he flung the detestable volume back to its place.

At that moment – just as he had reached the maximum of reckless defiance – a noise was heard in the direction of the great house, and the door of the stair-landing was seen to turn on its hinges.

Of course, he expected to see a surly old uncle, and was resolved to be as surly as he.

On the contrary, and to his pleased surprise, he beheld in the doorway a beautiful young girl, bending her eyes upon him with an affectionate look, and as if courting recognition!

A sudden revulsion of feeling passed through his whole frame; his countenance changed its angry expression to one of admiration; and, unable to utter a word, he remained silently gazing on this lovely apparition.

Chapter 17

A Bold Resolve

Far better would it have been for Mr Vaughan – at least, for the success of his schemes – had he adopted an honourable course with his nephew; and at once introduced him, openly and above-board, to his table, his daughter, and his aristocratic guest.

Had he known before dinner what he was made aware of in less than five minutes after it, he would, in all likelihood, have adopted this course. It would have spared him the chagrin he was made to feel, on Mr Smythje reporting to him the encounter he had had on board ship – which the latter proceeded to do, the moment after Kate had been so unceremoniously dismissed from the hall.

Smythje had also overheard the communication of the overseer – the word “nephew,” at least – and this recalled to his mind – not without some unpleasant remembrance of the satire from which he had suffered – the steerage passenger who had treated him so brusquely on board the Sea Nymph.

The miserable bubble was burst; and the onus of a somewhat bungling explanation was put upon the shoulders of the pompous planter – into whose heart a bitter drop of gall was infused by the disclosure.

As the deception could be sustained no longer, the relationship was necessarily acknowledged; but the spark of ire thus introduced boded a still more unwelcome reception to the unlucky nephew.

The planter partially cleared himself of the scrape by a false representation. In other words, he told a lie, in saying that his nephew had not been expected. Smythje knew it was a lie, but said nothing; and the subject was allowed to drop.

Loftus Vaughan was a common man; and the course he had followed – shallow and self-defeating – was proof of an intellect as low as its morality.

By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune – especially that which springs from persecution – is a grand suggester of sympathy – that is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts; and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality.

Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative – smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods – was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of those whom it was meant to mystify.

So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, that very effect it produced: for, on leaving the dining-room – from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape – the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden; and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.

In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, “Show him to the summer-house.” She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber-window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld – a cousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes – pacing the little apartment as described.

With his braided frock, buttoned tightly over his breast – glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs – his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls – he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl – least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce, expression upon his countenance – at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him – did not, in the eyes of the young Creole, detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her.

What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror – certainly not dislike. On the contrary, she appeared gratified by it: else, why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire, and fixed, as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new, undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it?

For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, there escaped from her lips, low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory, – “Yola! is he not beautiful?”

“Beautiful, missa,” repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was meant; “who beautiful?”

“Who? My cousin, Yola.”

“You cousin – what cousin, young missa?”

“Look yonder, and see! That’s my cousin.”

“I see a man.”

“Ah! and saw you ever such a man?”

“True, missa; never see man look so – he surely angry, missa?”

“Angry?”

“Berry angry. He go back, he go forward, like hyena in a cage.”

“He is only impatient at being kept waiting. My word! I think he looks all the better for it. Ah! see how his eye flashes. Oh! Yola, how handsome he is – how different from the young men of this island. Is he not a beautiful fellow?”

“He curled hair, like Cubina!”

“Cubina! ha! ha! ha! This Cubina must be a very Proteus[478], as well as an Adonis[479]. Do you see any other resemblance, except in the hair? If so, my cousin may, perhaps, resemble me.”

“Cubina much darker in de colour ob him skin, missa.”

“Ha! ha! that is not unlikely.”

“Cubina same size – same shape – ’zactly same shape.”

“Then I should say that Cubina is a good shape; for, if I know anything of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing. See those arms! they look as if he could drag down that great tamarind with them! Gracious me! he appears as if he intended doing it! Surely, he must be very impatient? And, after his coming so far, for papa to keep him waiting in this fashion! I really think I should go down to him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go and speak with him? He is my cousin.”

“What am cousin, missa?”

“Why, cousin is – is – something like a brother – only not exactly – that is – it’s not quite the same thing.”

“Brudder! Oh, missa! if he Yola brudder, she him speak; she care not who be angry.”

“True, Yola; and if he were my brother – alas! I have none – I should do the same without hesitation. But with a cousin – that’s different. Besides, papa don’t like this cousin of mine – for some reason or another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can’t see; and surely it can be no reason for my not liking him? And, surely, his being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him.

“Besides,” continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to the maid, “he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting – who knows how long? since he is so taken up with this Mr Montagu What’s-his-name! Well, I may be doing wrong – perhaps papa will be angry – perhaps he won’t know anything about it! Right or wrong, I’ll go! I shall go!”

So saying, the young Creole snatched a scarf from the fauteuil; flung it over her shoulders; and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.

Chapter 18

The Encounter of the Cousins

Opening the door, and passing out, Kate Vaughan paused timidly upon the top of the stairway that led down into the garden. Her steps were stayed by a feeling of bashful reserve, that was struggling to restrain her from carrying out a resolve somewhat hastily formed.

Her hesitancy was but the matter of a moment; for on the next – her resolution having become fixed – she descended the stairs, and advanced blushingly towards the kiosk.

Herbert had not quite recovered from surprise at the unexpected apparition, when he was saluted by the endearing interrogatory, – “Are you my cousin?” The question, so naïvely put, remained for a moment unanswered: for the tone of kindness in which it was spoken had caused him a fresh surprise, and he was too much confused to make answer.

He soon found speech, however, for the hypothetical reply: —

“If you are the daughter of Mr Loftus Vaughan – ”

“I am.”

“Then I am proud of calling myself your cousin. I am Herbert Vaughan – from England.”

Still under the influence of the slight which he believed had been put upon him, Herbert made this announcement with a certain stiffness of manner, which the young girl could not fail to notice. It produced a momentary incongeniality, that was in danger of degenerating into a positive coolness; and Kate, who had come forth under the promptings of an affectionate instinct, trembled under a repulse, the cause of which she could not comprehend.

It did not, however, hinder her from courteously rejoining: —

“We were expecting you – as father had received your letter; but not to-day. Papa said not before to-morrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome you to Jamaica.” Herbert bowed profoundly. Again the young creole felt her warm impulses painfully checked; and, blushing with embarrassment, she stood in an attitude of indecision.

Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now became sensible that he was committing a rudeness; which, so far from being natural to him, was costing him a struggle to counterfeit.

Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child – and such a child?

With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his attitude of cold reserve.

“Thanks for your kind welcome!” said he, now speaking in a tone of affectionate frankness; “But, fair cousin, you have not told me your name.”

“Catherine – though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate.”

“Catherine! that is a family name with us. My father’s mother, and your father’s, too – our grandmamma – was a Catherine. Was it also your mother’s name?”

“No; my mother was called Quasheba.”

“Quasheba! that is a very singular name.”

“Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Quasheba myself – only by the old people of the plantation, who knew my mother. Lilly Quasheba they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them.”

“Was your mother an Englishwoman?”

“Oh, no! she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young – too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother!”

“Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin? – no sisters nor brothers?”

“Not one. Ah! I wish I had sisters and brothers!”

“Why do you wish that?”

“Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course.”

“Fair cousin! I should think you would find companions enough in this beautiful island.”

“Ah! enough, perhaps; but none whom I like – at least, not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed,” added the young girl, in a reflective tone, “I sometimes feel lonely enough!”

“Ah!”

“Perhaps, now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr Smythje is very amusing.”

“Mr Smythje! Who is he?”

“What! you do not know Mr Smythje? I thought that you and he came over in the same ship? Papa said so; and that you were not to be here until to-morrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming to-day. But why did you not ride out with Mr Smythje? He arrived here only one hour before you, and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment, for papa and him to have their cigars. But, bless me, cousin! Pardon me for not asking – perhaps you have not dined yet?”

“No,” replied Herbert, in a tone that expressed chagrin, “nor am I likely to dine here, to-day.”

The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus assailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him. Hence the character of his reply.

“And why, cousin Herbert?” asked she, with a marked air of surprise. “If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here?”

“Because,” – and the young man drew himself proudly up – “I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In Mount Welcome, it seems, I am not welcome.”

“Oh, cousin – !”

The words, and the appealing accent, were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughan appeared in the doorway.

“Your father?”

“My father!”

“Kate!” cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, “Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?”

The language was coarse and common – the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.

“Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you.”

“Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you.” And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.

“Cousin! I must leave you.”

“Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go! Mr Smythje is impatient.”

“It is papa.”

“Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!”

“Go, Miss Vaughan! Farewell!”

“Miss Vaughan? Farewell?” Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor – now in tones irate and commanding. Obedience could no longer be delayed; and, with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.

Chapter 19

A Surly Reception

After the young Creole had disappeared within the entrance, Herbert remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.

He no longer needed an interview with his uncle, for the sake of having an explanation. This new slight had crowned his convictions that he was there an unwelcome guest; and no possible apology could now retrieve the ill-treatment he had experienced.

He would have walked off on the instant without a word; but, stung to the quick by the series of insults he had received, the instinct of retaliation had sprung up within him, and determined him to stay – at all events, until he could meet his relative face to face, and reproach him with his unnatural conduct. He was recklessly indifferent as to the result.

With this object, he continued in the kiosk – his patience being now baited with the prospect of that slight satisfaction.

He knew that his uncle might not care much for what he should say: it was not likely such a nature would be affected by reproach. Nevertheless, the proud young man could not resist the temptation of giving words to his defiance – as the only means of mollifying the mortification he so keenly felt.

The tones of a harp, vibrating through the far interior of the dwelling, faintly reached the kiosk; but they fell on his ear without any soothing effect. Rather did they add to his irritation: for he could almost fancy the music was meant to mock him in his misery.

But no; on second thoughts, that could not be. Surely, that sweet strain was not intended to tantalise him. He caught the air. It was one equally appropriate to the instrument and to his own situation. It was the “Exile of Erin.”

Presently a voice was heard accompanying the music – a woman’s voice – easily recognisable as that of Kate Vaughan.

He listened attentively. At intervals he could hear the words. How like to his own thoughts!

+++“‘Sad is my fate,’ said the heart-broken stranger;

‘The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger —

A home and a country remain not to me!’”

Perhaps the singer intended it as a song of sympathy for him? It certainly exerted an influence over his spirits, melting him to a degree of tenderness.

Not for long, however, did this feeling continue. As the last notes of the lay died away in the distant corridor, the rough baritones of the planter and his guest were heard joining in loud laughter – perhaps some joke at the expense of himself, the poor exile?

Shortly after, a heavy footstep echoed along the passage. The door opened; and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found time to honour him with an interview.

Though so joyous but the moment before, all traces of mirth had disappeared from the countenance of Loftus Vaughan, when he presented himself before the eyes of his nephew. His face, habitually red, was fired with the wine he had been drinking to the hue of scarlet. Nevertheless, an ominous mottling of a darker colour upon his broad massive brow foretold the ungracious reception his relative was likely to have at his hands.

His first words were uttered in a tone of insolent coolness: —

“So you are my brother’s son, are you?” There was no extending of the hand, no gesture – not even a smile of welcome!

Herbert checked his anger, and simply answered, —

“I believe so.”

“And pray, sir, what errand has brought you out to Jamaica?”

“If you have received my letter, as I presume you have, it will have answered that question.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, with an attempt at cynicism, but evidently taken down by the unexpected style of the reply. “And what, may I ask, do you purpose doing here?”

“Have not the slightest idea,” answered Herbert, with a provoking air of independence.

“Have you any profession?”

“Unfortunately, not any.”

“Any trade? – I suppose not.”

“Your suppositions are perfectly correct.”

“Then, sir, how do you expect to get your bread?”

“Earn it, the best way I can.”

“Beg it, more likely, as your father before you: all his life begging it, and from me.”

“In that respect I shall not resemble him. You would be the last man I should think of begging from.”

“S’death! sirrah, you are impertinent. This is fine language to me, after the disgrace you have already brought upon me!”

“Disgrace?”

“Yes, sir, disgrace. Coming out here as a pauper, in the steerage of a ship! And you must needs boast of your relationship – letting all the world know that you are my nephew.”

“Boast of the relationship!” repeated Herbert, with a smile of contempt. “Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you refer to my having answered a question asked me by this pretty jack-a-box[480] you are playing with. Boast of it, indeed! Had I known you then as well as I do now, I should have been ashamed to acknowledge it!”

“After that, sir,” shouted Mr Vaughan, turning purple with rage – “after that, sir, no more words! You shall leave my house this minute.”

“I had intended to have left it some minutes sooner. I only stayed to have an opportunity of telling you what I think of you.”

“What is that, sir? what is that?”

The angry youth had summoned to the top of his tongue a few of the strongest epithets he could think of, and was about to hurl them into his uncle’s teeth, when, on glancing up, he caught sight of an object that caused him to change his intention. It was the beautiful face of the young creole, that appeared through the half-open lattice of the window opposite. She was gazing down upon him and his uncle, and listening to the dialogue with an anguished expression of countenance.

“He is her father,” muttered Herbert to himself; “for her sake I shall not say the words;” and, without making any reply to the last interrogatory of his uncle, he strode out of the kiosk, and was walking away.

“Stay, sir!” cried the planter, somewhat taken aback by the turn things had taken. “A word before you go – if you are going.”

Herbert turned upon his heel and listened.

“Your letter informs me that you are without funds. It shall not be said that a relative of Loftus Vaughan left his house penniless and unprovided. In this purse there are twenty pounds currency of the island. Take it; but on the condition that you say nothing of what has occurred here; and, furthermore, that you keep to yourself that you are the nephew of Loftus Vaughan.”

Without saying a word, Herbert took the proffered purse; but, in the next moment, the chink of the gold pieces was heard upon the gravel walk as he dashed the bag at the feet of his uncle.

Then, turning to the astonished planter, and measuring him with a look that scorned all patronage, he faced once more to the path, and walked proudly away.

The angry “Begone, sir!” vociferated after him, was only addressed to his back, and was altogether unheeded. Perhaps it was even unheard: for the expression in the eyes of the young man told that at that moment his attention was occupied elsewhere.

As he walked towards the house – with the design of going round it to get upon the front avenue – his glance was directed upwards to the window where that beautiful face had been just seen. The lattice was now closed; and he endeavoured to pierce the sombre shadows behind it. The face was no longer there. No eyes met his.

He glanced back towards the kiosk to see if he might linger a moment. His uncle was in a bent attitude, gathering the scattered pieces of gold. In this position the shrubbery concealed him.

Herbert was about to glide nearer to the window, and summon his cousin by name, when he heard his own pronounced, in a soft whisper, and with the endearing prefix “cousin.”

Distinctly he heard “Cousin Herbert!” and as if spoken around the angle of the building.

He hastened thither: for that was his proper path by which to arrive at the front of the house.

On turning the wall, he looked up. He saw that another window opened from the same chamber. Thence came the sweet summons, and there appeared the fair face for which he was searching.

“Oh, cousin Herbert! do not go in anger! Papa has done wrong – very wrong, I know; but he has been taking much wine – he is not – Good cousin, you will pardon him?”

Herbert was about to make reply, when the young Creole continued: —

“You said in your letter you had no money. You have refused father’s – you will not refuse mine? It is very little. It is all I have. Take it!”

A bright object glistened before his eyes, and fell with a metallic chink at his feet. He looked down. A small silk purse containing coin, with a blue ribbon attached, was seen lying upon the ground.

The young man raised it, and, holding it in one hand, hesitated for a moment – as if he had thoughts of accepting it. It was not that, however, but another thought that was passing in his mind.

His resolve was soon taken.

“Thanks!” said he. “Thanks, cousin Kate!” he added, with increasing warmth. “You have meant kindly, and though we may never meet again – ”

“Oh, say not so!” interrupted the young girl, with an appealing look.

“Yes,” continued he, “it is probable we never shall. Here there is no home for me. I must go hence; but, wherever I may go, I shall not soon forget this kindness. I may never have an opportunity of repaying it – you are beyond the necessity of aught that a humble relative could do for you; but remember, Kate Vaughan! should you ever stand in need of a strong arm and a stout heart, there is one of your name who will not fail you!

“Thanks!” he repeated, detaching the ribbon from the bag, and flinging the latter, with its contents, back through the open window. Then, fastening the ribbon to the breast-button of his coat, he added: “I shall feel richer with the possession of this token than with all the wealth of your father’s estate. Farewell! and God bless you, my generous cousin!”

Before the young Creole could repeat her offer, or add another word of counsel or consolation, he had turned the angle of the building, and passed out of sight.

Chapter 20

The Jew’s Penn

[481]

While these scenes were transpiring upon the plantation of Mount Welcome, others of a still more exciting nature were being enacted on that which adjoined it – the property of Jacob Jessuron, slave-merchant and penn-keeper.

Besides a “baracoon” in the Bay, where his slaves were usually exposed for sale, the Jew was owner of a large plantation in the country, on which he habitually resided. It lay contiguous to the estate of the Custos Vaughan – separated from the latter by one of the wooded ridges already mentioned as bounding the valley of Mount Welcome.

Like the latter, it had once been a sugar estate, and an extensive one; but that was before Jessuron became its owner. Now it was in the condition termed ruinate. The fields where the golden cane had waved in the tropic breeze were choked up by a tangled “second growth,” restoring them almost to their primitive wildness. With that quickness characteristic of equatorial vegetation, huge trees had already sprung up, and stood thickly over the ground – logwoods, bread-nuts, cotton, and calabash trees, which, with their pendent parasites, almost usurped dominion over the soil. Here and there, where the fields still remained open, instead of cultivation, there appeared only the wild nursery of nature – glades mottled with flowering weeds, as the Mexican horn-poppy, swallow-worts, West Indian vervains, and small passiflorae.

At intervals, where the underwood permitted them to peep out, might be seen stretches of “dry wall,” or stone fence, without mortar or cement, mostly tumbled down, the ruins thickly trellised with creeping plants – as convolvuli, cereus, and aristolochia; cleome, with the cheerful blossoming lantana; and, spreading over all, like the web of a gigantic spider, the yellow leafless stems of the American dodder.

In the midst of this domain, almost reconquered by nature, stood the “great house” – except in size, no longer deserving the appellation. It consisted rather of a pile than a single building – the old “sugar works” having been joined under the same roof with the dwelling – and negro cabins, stables, offices, all inclosed within an immense high wall, that gave to the place the air of a penitentiary or barrack, rather than that of a country mansion. The enclosure was a modern construction – an afterthought – designed for a purpose very different from that of sugar-making.

Garden there was none, though evidence that there had been was seen everywhere around the building, in the trees that still bloomed: some loaded with delicious fruits, others with clustering flowers, shedding their incense on the air. Half wild, grew citrons, and avocado pears, sop and custard apples, mangoes, guavas, and pawpaws; while the crown-like tops of cocoa-palms soared high above the humble denizens of this wild orchard, their recurvant fronds drooping as in sorrow at the desolation that surrounded them.

Close to the buildings stood several huge trees, whose tortuous limbs, now leafless, rendered it easy to identify them. They were the giants of the West Indian forest – the silk-cotton-tree (Eriodendron anfractuosum). The limbs of these vegetable monsters – each itself as large as an ordinary tree – were loaded with parasites of many species; among which might be distinguished ragged cactacae, with various species of wild pines, from the noble vriesia to the hoary, beard-like “Spanish moss,” whose long streaming festoons waved like winding-sheets in the breeze – an appropriate draping for the eyrie of the black vultures (John-Crows) that might at all times be seen seated in solemn silence upon the topmost branches.

In the olden time, this plantation had borne the name of “Happy Valley”; but during the ownership of Jessuron, this designation – perhaps deemed inappropriate – had been generally dropped; and the place was never spoken of by any other name than that of the “Jew’s Penn.”

Into a “penn” (grazing farm) Jessuron had changed it, and it served well enough for the purpose: many of the old sugar fields, now overgrown by the valuable Guinea grass, affording excellent pasturage for horses and cattle.

In breeding and rearing the former for the use of the sugar estates, and fattening the latter for the beef markets of the Bay, the industrious Israelite had discovered a road to riches, as short as that he had been travelling in the capacity of slave-dealer; and of late years he had come to regard the latter only as a secondary calling.

In his old age, Jessuron had become ambitious of social distinction; and for this reason, was desirous of sinking the slave-merchant in the more respectable profession of penn-keeper. He had even succeeded so far in his views as to have himself appointed a justice of the peace – an office that in Jamaica, as elsewhere, is more distinctive of wealth than respectability.

In addition to penn-keeper, the Jew was also an extensive spice-cultivator, or rather spice-gatherer: for the indigenous pimento forests that covered the hills upon his estate required no cultivation – nothing further than to collect the aromatic berries, and cure them on the barbacoa[482].

Though changed from a plantation to a penn, the estate of Jacob Jessuron was not less a scene of active industrial life.

In the fields adjacent to the house, and through the glades of Guinea grass, horses and half wild cattle might be seen in turns neighing and bellowing, pursued by mounted herdsmen, black and half-naked.

Among the groves of pimento on the hills, gangs of negro wenches could be heard screaming and chattering continually, as they picked the allspice berries from the branches; or, with the filled baskets poised on their heads, marched in long, chanting files towards the barbacoa.

Outside the gate-entrance, upon the broad avenue leading to the main road, negro horse-tamers might every day be seen, giving their first lessons to rough colts fresh caught from the pastures; while inside the grand enclosure, fat oxen were being slaughtered to supply the markets of the Bay – huge, gaunt dogs holding carnival over the offal – while black butchers, naked to the waist, their brown arms reeking with red gore, stalked over the ground, brandishing blood-stained blades, and other instruments of their sanguinary calling.

Such scenes might be witnessed diurnally on the estate of Jacob Jessuron; but on the day succeeding that on which the slave-merchant had made his unsuccessful errand to Mount Welcome, a spectacle of a somewhat rarer kind was about to be exhibited at the penn.

The scene chosen for this exhibition was an inner inclosure, or courtyard, contiguous to the dwelling – the great house itself forming one side of this court, and opening upon it by a broad verandah, of a dingy, dilapidated appearance.

Vis-à-vis[483] with the dwelling was another large building which shut in the opposite side of the court – the two being connected by high massive walls, that completed the quadrangle. A strong double gate, opening near the centre of one of these walls, was the way out – that is, to the larger enclosure of the cattle-penn.

From the absence of chimneys and windows, as well as from its plain style of architecture, the building that stood opposite the dwelling-house might have been taken for some large granary or barn. But a peep into its interior at once controverted this idea. Inside could be seen groups of human beings, of all colours, from ebony black to jaundice yellow, in all attitudes – seated, standing, or lying upon the floor – and not a few of them, in pairs, manacled to one another. Their attitudes were not more various than the expressions upon their faces. Some looked sad and sullen; some glanced fearfully around, as if waking from horrid dreams, and under the belief that they were realities; others wore the vacant stare of idiotcy; while here and there a group – apparently regardless of past, present, or future – chattered in their barbaric language with an air of gaiety that bespoke the most philosophic insouciance.

The building that contained them was the baracoon – the storehouse of the slave-merchant. Its occupants were his stores!

The “stock” had been just replenished by the cargo of the slave-ship, though there were also some old “bales” on hand; and these were in the act of entertaining the new comers, and initiating them into the ways of the place. Their means, of showing hospitality had been limited – as testified by the empty calabashes[484] and clean-scraped wooden platters that lay scattered over the floor. Not a grain of rice, not a spoonful of the pepper-pot, not a slice of plantain, was left. The emptiness of the vessels showed that the rations had been as short as the viands were coarse and common.

Outside, in the yard, were many groups, happier to escape from the stifled atmosphere of their crowded quarters; though that was freedom when compared with the ’tween-decks of the middle passage.

Each group was gathered around some old hand – some compatriot who had preceded them across the great sea – and who, himself initiated into slavery under a western sky, was giving them some notions of what they had to expect. Eager looks of all, from time to time, directed towards the verandah, told that they were awaiting some event of more than ordinary interest.

There were white men in the courtyard – three of them. Two were of dark complexion – so swarth that many of the coloured slaves were as fair-skinned as they. These two men were lounging by the stairway of the verandah – one of them seated upon the steps. Both were sparely clad in check shirts and trousers, having broad-brimmed palmetto hats on their heads, and rough buskins on their feet and ankles.

Each carried a long, rapier-like blade – a machete – hanging over his hip in its leathern sheath; while a brace of fierce dogs – looped in cotton-rope leashes, attached to belts worn around their waists – crouched upon the ground at their feet.

The faces of these men were clean-shaven – a pointed chin-tuft, or “bigote,” alone being left; and the hair on the heads of both was close-cropped. Their sharp, angular features were thus fully displayed, denoting a high order of intelligence; which might have produced a pleasing effect, but for the pronounced expression of cruelty which accompanied it.

The exclamations that from time to time escaped from their lips, with the few words of conversation that passed between them, bespoke them of Spanish race. Their costume – their arms and accoutrements – their comrades, the fierce dogs – plainly proclaimed, their calling, as well as the country from whence they came. They were caçadores de negros – negro-hunters from the Island of Cuba.

The third white man who appeared in the courtyard differed essentially from these – not so much in colour, for he was also of swarth complexion – but in size, costume, and calling. A pair of horse-skin riding-boots reached up to his thighs, on the heels of which appeared heavy spurs, with rowels three inches in diameter. A sort of monkey-jacket of thick cloth – notwithstanding its unsuitableness to the climate – hung down to his hips; under which appeared a waistcoat of scarlet plush, with tarnished metal buttons, and a wool comforter of the same flaming colour. Crowning all was a felt hat; which, like the other articles of his dress, gave evidence of exposure to all weathers – sun and rain, storm and tornado.

A thick shock of curling hair, so dark in colour as to pass for black; a heavy beard, jet-black, and running most of the way around his mouth; amber-coloured eyes, with a sinister, shining light that never seemed to pale; lips of an unnatural redness gleaming through the black beard; and a nose of aquiline oblique, were the points in the personal appearance of this man that most prominently presented themselves.

The effect of this combination was to impress you with the conviction, that the individual in question belonged to the same nationality as the proprietor of the penn. Such was in reality the case: for the bearded man was another of the race of Abraham[485], and one of its least amiable specimens. His name was Ravener, his calling that of overseer: he was the overseer of Jessuron. The symbol of his profession he carried under his arm – a huge cart-whip. He had it by him at all hours – by night, as by day – for by night, as by day, was he accustomed to make use of it. And the victims of his long lash were neither oxen nor horses – they were men and women!

No sparing use made he of this hideous implement. “Crack, crack!” was it heard from morn to eve; “crack, crack!” from eve to midnight; if need be, from midnight to morning again: for some said that the overseer of Jessuron never slept. “Crack, crack!” did he go through the courtyard, apparently proud of exhibiting his power before the newly-arrived negroes – here and there swinging his long bitter lash among the groups, as if to break up and scatter them in sheer wantonness.

Chapter 21

A Fiery Baptism

It was about twelve o’clock in the day. Jessuron and his daughter had just stepped forth into the verandah, and taken their stand by the balustrade looking down into the court. The countenance of both betrayed a certain degree of solicitude, as if they had come out to be witnesses to some spectacle of more than common interest.

The house-wenches and other domestics, trooping behind them with curious looks, showed that some rare scene was to be enacted.

A small iron furnace, filled with live coals, had been placed in the courtyard, near the bottom of the steps. Three or four sullen-looking men – blacks and mulattoes – stood around it in lounging attitudes. One of these stooped over the furnace, turning in the fire what appeared to be a soldering iron, or some other instrument of a brazier.

It was not that, however, as the spectators well knew. All who beheld it recognised the dreaded branding iron: for every one present, the whites and newly-arrived Africans excepted, had, ere now, felt its hot, seething fire in their flesh.

These last had already learnt what was preparing for them; and most of them stood regarding the preparations with looks of silent awe.

Some Coromantees there were among the number, who looked on with reckless indifference, chatting as gaily – and, at intervals, laughing as loudly – as if they awaited the beginning of some merry game. Little cared these courageous sons of Ethiopia – whose sable skins bore scars of many a native fray – little cared they for the scorching of that simple brand.

It was not long before the inhuman spectacle commenced. The entrance of Jessuron and his daughter was the cue to begin; and the bearded overseer, who was master of the ceremonies, had only been waiting till these should make their appearance. The man, from experience, knew that his master always gave his personal superintendence when such a scene was to be enacted. He knew, moreover, that his master’s daughter was equally accustomed to assist at these interesting ceremonies!

“Go on, Mishter Ravener!” cried the Jew, on reaching the front of the verandah. “Theesh first,” he added, pointing towards a group of Eboes – who stood trembling with apprehension in one corner of the yard.

At a sign from the overseer, who was one of the taciturn sort, a number of old negroes – evidently used to the business – laid hands upon the Eboes, and led them up to the furnace.

As the victims were brought near to the fire, and saw the red iron glowing amid the coals, fear became strongly depicted upon their faces, and their frames shook with a convulsive terror. Some of them, the younger ones, screamed aloud, and would have rushed away from the spot, had they not been held in the grasp of the attendants.

Their appeals, made by the most pitiful looks and gestures, were answered only by unfeeling jeers and shouts of laughter, in which the old Jew himself joined – in which, incredible to relate, joined his beautiful daughter! Nor was it a mere smile which appeared on the face of the fair Judith; clear laughter rang from her lips, exhibiting her regular rows of ivory-like teeth – as if some fiend had assumed the form of an angel!

The Eboes were led forward, and held firmly by the assistants, while their breasts were presented to receive the brand. The red-hot iron flashed for a moment in the eyes of each; and then fell with a dull clap upon the clammy skin. Smoke ascended with a hiss, till the court became filled with a smell of roasting flesh! A struggle, some wild cries, and the operation was over. The slave was marked with those indelible initials, to be carried with him to his grave.

One by one, the poor beings received this terrible baptism, and were led away from the ground.

A batch of Pawpaws – from the Whidaw country – came next. They were brought up one by one, like the Eboes; but altogether unlike these was their behaviour. They neither gave way to extreme fear, nor yet displayed extraordinary courage. They appeared to submit with a sort of docile resignation: as though they regarded it in the light of a destiny or duty.

The operation of branding them was a short work, and afforded no mirth to the bystanders: since there was no ludicrous display of terror to laugh at. This facile disposition renders the Whidaw the most valuable of slaves.

A group of Coromantees were now to undergo the fiery ordeal. These bold and warlike indigenes of Africa evinced, by their attitudes and actions, the possession of a moral nature altogether different from that either of Pawpaw or Eboe. Instead of waiting to be led forward, each stepped boldly up, as he did so baring his breast to receive the red brand, at which he glanced with an air of lordly contempt!

One young fellow even seized the iron from the grasp of the operator; and, turning it in his hand, struck the stamp firmly against his breast, where he held it until the seething flesh told that a deep imprint had been made! Then, flinging the instrument back into the furnace, he strode away from the spot with the air of a triumphant gladiator[486]!

At this moment there occurred a pause in the proceedings – not as if the drama was ended, but only an act. Another was yet to come.

Ravener stepped up to the verandah, in front of the place where Jessuron and his daughter stood. With the former, or indeed with both, he communicated in a voice just audible, – not as if with any design of concealing what he said – but because there was no necessity for loud talking.

The two man-hunters were the only persons there he might have had any care to be cautious about; but these were at that moment busy with their dogs, and not heeding aught that was going on. Branding a batch of negroes was no new sight to them; and they were spectators, merely from having, at the moment, nothing better to do.

“Which next?” was the question put by Ravener to the Jew; “the Mandingoes?”

“Either them or the prinshe,” replied Jessuron; “it don’t matter which ish marked first.”

“Oh, the prince first, by all means!” suggested the amiable Judith, with a smile of satisfaction. “Bring him out first, Mr Ravener; I’m curious to see how his royal highness will stand fire.”

The overseer made no reply; but, taking the wish of the young lady as a command, proceeded to obey it.

Stepping across the court he opened a door that led into a room, separate from that in which the slaves had been lodged.

The overseer entered the room; and in a few minutes came out again, bringing with him an individual who, by his dress, it might have been difficult to recognise as the young Fellatta seen on board the slaver, but whose noble mien still rendered it possible to identify him: for it was he.

Changed, indeed, was his costume. The turban was gone, the rich silken tunic, the sandals and scimitar – all his finery had been stripped off; and in its place appeared a coarse Osnaburg shirt and trousers – the dress of a plantation negro.

He looked wretched, but not crestfallen.

No doubt he had by this time learnt, or suspected, the fate that was in store for him; but, for all that, his features exhibited the proud air of a prince; and the glances which he cast upon the overseer by his side, but oftener upon Jessuron – whose instrument he knew the other to be – were those of concentrated anger and defiance.

Not a word escaped his lips, either of protest or reproach. This had all passed before – when the first rude assault had been made upon him, to deprive him of his garments and the adornments of his person. The hour of recrimination was past. He knew he had no alternative but submission, and he was submitting – though in angry and sullen silence.

He had no idea of what was now designed for him. He had been shut up in a windowless room, and saw nothing of the spectacle that had just passed. Some new outrage he anticipated; but of what nature he could not guess.

He was not allowed to remain long in ignorance. Ravener, roughly grasping him by the wrist, led him up to the furnace.

The iron by this time was ready – glowing red-hot among the coals. The operator stood watching for the signal to use it; and on its being given, he seized the instrument in his grasp, and poised it aloft.

The prince now perceived the intention, but shrank not at the sight. His eyes were not upon the iron, but, gleaming with a fire like that of the furnace itself, were directed upon the face of the old Jew – at intervals upon that of the angel-like demon at his side.

The Jew alone shrank from the glance; his daughter returned it with a mocking imperturbability!

In another instant the red brand hissed as it burnt into the flesh of the Fellattas bosom. Prince Cingües was the slave of Jacob Jessuron!

As if the terrible reality had now for the first time burst upon him, the young man sprang forward with a cry; and before anyone could oppose his progress, he had bounded up the steps and entered the verandah.

Then, gliding along the gallery, to the spot occupied by Jessuron and his daughter, he launched himself forward upon the Jew. As he clutched the latter by the throat, both came together to the ground, and rolled over and over in the writhings of a desperate struggle.

Fortunate it was for the slave-merchant that his victim had been disarmed: else that moment would have been fatal to him. As it was, he came very near being strangled; and had it not been for Ravener and the two Spaniards, who hastened to his rescue, the betrayal of the Foolah prince would have been the last treason of his life.

Overpowered by numbers, Cingües was at length secured; and the throat of the slave-merchant was extricated from his death-like clutch.

“Kill him!” cried the Jew, as soon as he found breath to speak. “No, don’t kill him yet,” added he, correcting himself, “not joosh yet, till I punish him for it! an’ if I don’t punish him – ach!”

“Flog the savage!” shouted the beautiful Judith; “make an example of him, Mr Ravener: else those others will be rising upon us in the same style.”

“Yesh, flog him! that’ll do to begin with. Flog him now, goot Ravener. Give him a hundred lashes thish minute!”

“Ay, ay!” responded the overseer, dragging the victim down the steps; “I’ll give him his full dose – never fear you!”

Ravener was as good as his word. The spectacle that followed was even more horrible to behold than that which has been described: for the punishment of the lash is among the most fearful of exhibitions.

The young Foolah was tied to a post – one that stood there for the purpose. A strong headman wielded the cruel quirt; and as the last stripe was administered, completing that horrid hundred, the poor victim sank fainting against the blood-stained stake.

The occupants of the verandah showed not the slightest signs of having been moved to pity by this horrid spectacle. On the contrary, both father and daughter seemed to draw delight from it; and, instead of retiring when the fearful scene was over, both, seemingly with perfect unconcern, remained to witness the finale of the day’s work – the marking of the Mandingoes!

Chapter 22

A Couch of Silk-Cotton

On parting from the presence of his fair cousin, and, at the same time, from the house of his inhospitable relative, Herbert Vaughan struck off through the shrubbery that stretched towards the ridge on the right.

Notwithstanding the storm that was raging in his breast, a reflection had occurred to him, which hindered him from going by the main avenue. Suffering from a keen sense of humiliation, he had no desire to meet with any of his uncle’s people: since the very slaves seemed to be privy to his false position. Still less desirous was he of being observed, while making the long traverse of the avenue, by eyes that might be directed upon him from the windows of the great house.

On reaching the limits of the level platform, he leaped a low wall, that separated the shrubbery from the outer fields; and then, under cover of the pimento groves, commenced ascending the slope of the ridge.

For some time the conflicting emotions that were stirring in his soul hindered him from anything like tranquil reflection. Conflicting, I say: for two very opposite sentiments had been aroused by the two individuals with whom he had just held interview; opposite as darkness from light – as sorrow from joy – perhaps, as hate from love.

The conflict might have lasted longer, had there been an opportunity to give way to idle emotions. But there was not. The young man felt too forlorn and friendless to indulge in the luxury of passionate thought; and, on this account, the sooner did the storm subside.

On reaching the crest of the ridge, and before plunging into the deep forest that stretched away on the other side, he endeavoured, through an opening in the trees, to catch a view of those white walls and green jalousies. In that glance there was more of regretfulness than anger – an expression of despair, such as may have appeared on the face of the fallen angel when gazing back over the golden palings of Paradise.

As the young man turned away, and entered under the sombre shadows of the forest, the expression of despair seemed to become deeper and darker.

To make Montego Bay – to seek in it such humble home as might offer – to wait there till his poorly-stocked portmanteau, now on its way to Mount Welcome, should be returned to him – these were the simple plans that suggested themselves. His mind was still too much on the rack to permit of his dwelling upon any ulterior purpose.

He walked on through the woods, without taking much heed as to the direction in which he was going. Anyone who could have seen him just then might have supposed that he had lost his way, and was wandering.

It was not so, however. He knew or believed that by keeping to the left of his former course he would get out upon the main road, by which he had reached the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome. In any case, he could not fail to find the river he had already crossed; and by following it downward, he would in time arrive at the town.

With this confidence, false as it may have been, he was not wandering; only absorbed in thought – in common parlance, absent-minded.

But this absence of mind lasted so long, that it led to the result it resembled: he lost his way in reality.

The trees hindered him from seeing the sun – now low down. But even if a view of the golden orb had been afforded him, it would have served no purpose: since, on riding out to Mount Welcome, he had taken no note of the relative directions between it and the Bay.

He was not much disconcerted by the discovery that he had lost himself. The reflection that in Montego Bay he would be no better off, hindered him from greatly regretting the circumstance. He had not the means to command the shelter of a roof – even in the midst of a whole city full – and the chances were he might find none better than that which was above him at the moment – the spreading fronds of a gigantic cotton-tree.

At the time that this reflection crossed his mind, the sun had gone quite down: for the cotton-tree stood upon the edge of an opening where he could see the sky above him; and he perceived that it was already tinged with the purple of twilight. To find his way in the darkness would be no longer possible, and he resolved for that night to accept the hospitality of the ceiba[487].

It had even spread a couch for him: for the seed capsules had burst upon its branches; and the pale-brown staple thickly covered the ground beneath – offering a couch that, under the canopy of a West Indian summer sky, was sufficiently luxuriant.

Was there a supper as well? Herbert looked around – he was hungry. Not a morsel had he eaten since breakfast – only a piece of mess-pork and a brown wormy biscuit, on parting from the ship. Hunger had already made itself felt. During his wanderings, having his gun with him, he had looked out for game. Had any appeared, he was too good a sportsman to have let it escape. But none had shown itself – neither beast nor bird. The woods seemed deserted as himself. He could hear the voices of birds – all strange to his ear – he could see bright-winged creatures fluttering amongst the leaves; but none near enough for the range of his fowling-piece.

Now that he had come to a halt, and having nothing better to do, he took his stand, watching the open glade. Perhaps some bird might yet show itself passing from tree to tree, or flying about in pursuit of prey. It was the hour for owls. He felt hungry enough to eat one.

Neither owl nor night-jar came in sight; but his attention was attracted to an object edible as either, and which promised to relieve him from the pangs he was suffering.

Close by the cotton-tree stood another giant of the forest – rivalling the former in height, but differing from it as an arrow from its bow. Straight as a lance, it rose to the height of an hundred feet. It was branchless as a column of polished malachite or marble – up to its high summit, where its long green fronds, radiating outward, drooped gracefully over, like a circlet of reflexed ostrich plumes.

A child could have told it to be a palm; but Herbert knew more. He had heard of the noble “mountain-cabbage” of Jamaica – the kingly areca oredoxia. He knew that in the centre of that circlet of far-stretching fronds – in that crown – there was a jewel that had often proved more precious than gems or gold: for often had it been the means of saving human life.

How was this jewel to be obtained? Like all crowns, it was placed high – far above the reach of ordinary mortals. Young and active though he was, and a climber at school, he could never “swarm up” that tall, smooth shaft. Without a ladder a hundred feet in length, it would not be possible to reach its summit.

But, see! the palm-tree stands not alone. A great black lliana stretches tortuously from the earth up to the crown, where its head is buried among the tufted leaves, as if it were some huge dragon in the act of devouring its victim.

Herbert stood for a moment reconnoitring the grand stay-cable, that, trailing from the summit of the palm, offered, as it were, a natural ladder for ascending it. Hunger stimulated him to the attempt; and, resting his gun against the trunk of the ceiba, he commenced climbing upward.

Without much difficulty, he succeeded in reaching the top, and making his way among the huge pinnae of the leaves – each in itself a leaf of many feet in length. He arrived at the youngest of them all – that still enfolded in the envelope of the bud – and which was the object for which he had climbed.

With his knife he separated this summit leaf from the stem, flung it to the earth; and then, descending to the bottom of the tree, made his supper upon the raw but sweet and succulent shoots of the mountain-cabbage.

Supper over, he collected a quantity of the strewn fleece of the silk-cotton; and, placing it between two of the great buttress-like root-spurs of the tree, constructed for himself a couch on which, but for some hard thoughts within, he might have slept as softly and soundly as upon a bed of eider.

Chapter 23

The Tree Fountain

That he did not sleep soundly may be attributed solely to his anxieties about the morrow: for the night was mild throughout, and the composition of his improvised couch kept him sufficiently warm. His cares, however, had rendered his spirit restless. They were vivid enough to act even upon his dreams – which several times during the night awoke him, and again, finally, just after the break of day.

This time, on opening his eyes, he perceived that the glade was filled with soft blue light; and the quivering fronds of the cabbage-palm – just visible from where he lay – had caught the first trembling rays of the sun.

Only there, and among the summit-branches of the ceiba, far overtopping the spray of the surrounding forest, was the sun yet visible. Everything else was tinted with the blue grey of the morning twilight.

He could sleep no longer; and rose from his forest lair, intending to make an immediate departure from the spot.

He had no toilet to trouble him – nothing to do, further than brush off the silken floss of the tree-cotton, shoulder his gun, and go.

He felt hunger, even more than on the preceding night; and, although the raw mountain-cabbage offered no very tempting déjeuner, he determined before starting, to make another meal upon it – remembering, and very wisely acting upon, the adage of “a bird in the hand.”

There was plenty left from the supper to serve him for breakfast; and, once more making a vigorous onslaught on the chou de palmiste[488], he succeeded in appeasing his hunger.

But another appetite, far more unpleasant to bear, now assailed him. In truth, it had assailed him long before, but had been gradually growing stronger; until it was now almost unendurable.

It was the kindred appetite, thirst; which the cabbage-palm, instead of relieving, had, from a certain acridity in its juice, only sharpened – till the pain amounted almost to torture.

The sufferer would have struck off into the woods in search of water. He had seen none in his wanderings; still he had hopes of being able to find the river. He would have started at once, but for an idea he had conceived that there was water near the spot where he had slept.

Where? He had observed neither stream nor spring, pond nor river; and yet he fancied he had seen water – in fact, he felt sure of it!

In a very singular situation he had seen it – so thought he at the time – since it was over his head in the cotton-tree!

On the previous evening, while upon the crown of the cabbage-palm, he had glanced slantingly across, among the branches of the ceiba. This, as with all great trees in the tropical forests, was loaded with parasites – vriesias, long ragged-looking cacti, bromelias, epiphytical orchids, and the like. Tillandsias too, of the kind known as “wild pines,” grew in the forks, or on the upper surface of the great limbs, flourishing as luxuriantly as if their roots rested in the richest soil. Among them was conspicuous the most magnificent of the genus, the noble Tillandsia lingulata, with its spike of gorgeous crimson flowers projecting from the midst of its broad sheathing leaves. It was in the concavities of these huge leaves that Herbert had observed something which did not belong to the plant – something he believed to be water.

It would cost but a few seconds’ time to confirm or refute this belief – a climb among the branches of the ceiba. Another huge parasite, from the same root as the former, trended tortuously up to the limbs of the silk-cotton-tree – here and there touching and twisting around them. Its diagonal direction rendered it easy of ascent; and Herbert, impelled by his desire to drink, commenced climbing it.

Ere long, he had succeeded in reaching a main fork of the ceiba, where nestled one of the largest of the wild pines.

He had not been deceived. In a hollow formed by one of its huge ventricose leaves was the natural reservoir he had noticed – the gathering of dew and rain, which the rays of the sun could never reach.

At his approach, the green hyla sprang out from this aerial pool; and leaping, frog-like, from leaf to leaf – guarded against falling by the clammy sponge-disks of its feet – soon disappeared amid the foliage. It was this singular creature whose voice Herbert had been hearing throughout the livelong night; and which, in constant chorus with others of its kind, had recalled to his memory the groaning and working of the Sea Nymph in a storm.

The presence of the tree-toad in this its natural haunt, did not deter the young man from drinking. Raging thirst has no scruples; and, bending over one of the leaves of the tillandsia, he placed his lips to the cool water, and freely quaffed it.

The labour of scrambling up the lliana had taken away his breath, and to some extent fatigued him. Instead, therefore, of descending at once – which he knew would cost him an effort equal to that of the ascent – he determined to rest for a few minutes upon the large limb of the ceiba on which he had seated himself.

“Well!” muttered he, in satisfied soliloquy, “if the people of this island have proved inhospitable, I can’t say the same of its trees. Here are two of them – almost the first I have encountered. They have yielded me the three necessaries of life – meat, drink, and lodging – lodging, too, with an excellent bed, a thing not so common in many a human hostelry. What more is wanted? Under such a sky as this, who need care to have walls around, or a roof over him? Verily, to sleep here, sub Jove, is rather a luxury than an inconvenience! And, verily,” continued he, “were it not that I should feel rather lonely, and that man is designed to be a social animal, I might pass my whole life in these glorious woods, without work or care of any kind. No doubt there is game; and I was told at home there are no game laws – so I might poach at pleasure. Ha! game? What do I see? A deer? No! a hog! Yes, hog it is; but such a singular fellow – prick ears, red bristles, long legs, and tusks. A boar! and why not a wild boar?”

There was no reason why it should not be, since it was one – a wild boar of the Jamaica forest – a true descendant of the Canarian[489] hog, transported thither by the Spaniards.

The young Englishman, never having seen a wild boar in its native haunts, put the question conjecturally; but a moment’s observation of the animal convinced him that his conjecture was correct. The short upright ears, the long head, hams, and legs, the shaggy neck and frontlet, the foxy red colour, the quick short step as it moved onward – all these points, combined with a certain savage air which Herbert noticed at a glance, satisfied him that the animal under his eyes was not one of the domestic breed, but a genuine wild hog of the woods. The grunt, too, which the creature uttered as it moved across the glade – short, sharp and fierce – had but slight resemblance to the squeaking sounds of the farm-yard. A wild boar beyond a doubt!

On perceiving this noble head of game, and so near him, Herbert’s first reflection was one of extreme regret. How unlucky that he should be up in the tree, with his gun upon the ground!

It was very tantalising; but the young man saw it would be impossible to get possession of his gun without giving the alarm. To attempt descending from the tree, or even make a movement upon the branch, would be sufficient to send the boar scampering from the spot: of course never to be seen more.

Conscious of this, Herbert preferred remaining upon his perch – the silent spectator of a scene of wild Nature, to which chance had so oddly introduced him.

Chapter 24

The Hog-Hunter

The boar had stopped over the débris[490] of Herbert’s breakfast – some fragments of the mountain-cabbage which had been left upon the ground. Switching his feathered tail, and uttering a short grunt, expressive of satisfaction, the animal proceeded to snap up the scattered pieces, crunching them between his formidable grinders.

All of a sudden, the tranquil tableau became transformed into a scene of a more exciting nature. As Herbert continued to gaze, he saw the boar suddenly make a start, jerk his muzzle high in the air, at the same instant uttering a peculiar cry. It was a cry of alarm, mingled with angry menace – as testified by the bristles upon his back, which had suddenly shot up into an erect spinous mane.

Herbert looked for the enemy. None was in sight – at least to his eyes. The boar, however, had either seen or heard something: for he was evidently upon the strain to spring off.

Just then, a loud report reverberated through the glade, a bullet hissed through the air, and the animal, with a shrill scream, turned over upon its back, the blood spouting from a wound in its thigh.

In an instant it was on its feet again; but rage appeared to hinder it from attempting flight! It retreated only a few paces, taking its stand between two of the buttresses of the ceiba – on the very spot where the young Englishman had passed the night. There – protected on both flanks and in the rear – and uttering fierce grunts of defiance – it stood, as if awaiting an enemy.

Soon after a man emerged from the underwood, armed with what appeared to be a straight sword or cutlass.

In a dozen quick strides he crossed the glade; and, having reached the roots of the cotton-tree, became engaged in a deadly struggle with the wounded boar.

Notwithstanding the damage done to it, the creature was still a formidable antagonist; and it required all the address of the hunter – habile though he appeared to be – to avoid contact with his terrible tusks.

Each alternatively charged upon the other – the hunter endeavouring to thrust the quadruped with his long blade, while the boar in its turn would repeatedly rush towards its antagonist, suddenly rear itself upon its hind legs, and strike upwards with its armed and grinning muzzle.

It was one of the fore-legs of the animal that had been broken by the shot; but the wound, although greatly disabling it, did not hinder it from making a protracted and desperate defence. The spurs of the cotton-tree rising on each side proved its best protectors – hindering its assailant from turning its flanks and piercing it in the side. The combat, therefore, was face to face; and the blade of the hunter, repeatedly thrust forward, as often glanced harmlessly from the hard skull, or glinted with a metallic ring against the tusks of the boar.

For several minutes did this singular contest continue – the young Englishman all the while watching it with lively interest; but without giving the slightest signs of his being a spectator. Indeed, the scene was so exciting, and had come under his eyes so unexpectedly, that he was for a time held speechless by sheer surprise.

After a while the struggle between biped and quadruped was brought to a termination. The former – who appeared to possess all the craft of his calling – put in practice a ruse that enabled him to give his antagonist the coup de grâce[491].

It was a feat, however, accompanied by no slight danger: and so adroitly did the hunter perform it, as to create within the mind of his spectator – himself a sportsman – both surprise and admiration.

Thus was the feat accomplished. In charging forward upon his human adversary, the boar had incautiously ventured beyond the flanking buttresses of the tree. In fact, the hunter had enticed the animal outward – by making a feint of retreating from the contest.

Just then – and before the brute could divine his intention – the hunter rushed forward, and, throwing all his strength into the effort, sprang high into the air. Quite clearing the quadruped, he alighted in the angle formed by the converging spurs of the tree.

The boar had now lost his position of defence; though that of the hunter for the moment appeared desperate. He had calculated his chances, however: for before the enraged animal – hindered by its hanging limb – could face round to assail him, he had lunged out with his long blade, and buried it up to the hilt between the creature’s ribs.

With a shrill scream the boar fell prostrate to the earth – the red stream from his side spurting over and spoiling the improvised mattress of cotton-tree flock upon which the young Englishman had passed the night.

Up to this moment the latter had done nothing, either by word or gesture, to make known his presence. He was about to descend and congratulate the hunter for the performance of a feat that had filled him with admiration. A fancy, passing through his mind at the moment, determined him to remain where he was a little longer; and, in obedience to this fancy, he sat gazing down upon the successful sportsman at the bottom of the tree.

To say the least, the appearance presented by this individual was singular – especially so in the eyes of an Englishman unacquainted with West Indian characters and costumes. But, in addition to picturesqueness of attire, there was something in the carriage and features of the man that could not fail to make a remarkable impression upon the beholder.

This impression was decidedly pleasing, though the face that produced it was not that of a white man. Neither was it the face of a black man; nor yet the yellow countenance of the mulatto. It was a shade lighter than the last, with a dash of crimson in the cheeks. It was this colouring of the cheeks, perhaps, combined with a well-rounded, sparkling iris, that imparted the agreeable expression.

The man was young. Herbert Vaughan might have guessed him about his own age without being many months astray; and, in point of size and shape, there was no great dissimilitude between them. In the colour of their hair, complexion, and features, there was no resemblance whatever. While the face of the young Englishman was of the oval type, that of the West Indian hunter was rotund. A prominent, well-cut chin, however, hindered it from degenerating into any expression of feebleness. On the contrary, firmness was the prevailing cast of the features; and the hold, swelling throat was a true physical index of daring.

The complexion of the hunter betokened a sang-mêlé between African and Caucasian, which was further confirmed by the slight crisping that appeared among the jet-black curls of hair thickly covering his head. The luxuriance of these curls was partly kept in check by a head-dress that Herbert Vaughan would have been less surprised to see in some country of the East: for, at the first glance, he had mistaken it for a turban. On closer examination, however, it proved to be a brilliant kerchief – the Madras check – ingeniously folded around the forehead, so as to sit coquettishly over the crown, with the knot a little to one side. It was a toque – not a turban.

The other articles of dress worn by the young hunter were an outer coat, or shirt, of sky-blue cottonade, cut somewhat blouse-fashion; an under-shirt of fine white linen, ruffled and open at the breast; trousers of the same material as the coat; and buff coloured boots of roughly-cleaned cowskin. There were straps and strings over both shoulders, all crossing each other on the breast.

From the two that hung to the right side were suspended a powder-horn and skin shot-pouch. On the same side hung a large calabash canteen, covered with a strong network of some forest withe to protect it from injury. Under the left arm was a carved and curving cow’s horn, evidently not for holding powder, since it was open at both ends. Below this, against his hip, rested a black leathern sheath – the receptacle of that long blade still reeking with the blood of the boar.

This weapon was the machete – half sword, half hunting-knife – which, with its straight, short blade, and haft-like hilt of greyish horn, is to be found in every cottage of Spanish America, from California to the “Land of Eire[492].” Even where the Spaniards have been, but are no longer – as in Jamaica – the universal macheté may be seen in the hands of hunter and peasant – a relic of the conqueror colonists.

Chapter 25

The Runaway

Up to the moment that the boar was laid prostrate upon the ground, he in the toque had been kept too well employed with his fierce game to find time for looking at anything else. It was only after dealing the deathblow to his adversary that he was able to stand erect and take a survey around him.

In an instant his eye fell upon the gun of the young Englishman, and then the white pieces of palm-cabbage upon which the boar had been browsing.

“Hoh!” exclaimed he, still gasping for breath, but with a look that betrayed surprise; “A gun! Whose? Some runaway slave who has stolen his master’s fowling-piece? Nothing more likely. But why has he left the piece behind him? And what has started him away from here? Surely not the boar? He must have been gone before the animal got up? Crambo! a richer prize than the porker, if I could only have set eyes on him! I wonder in which direction he has tracked it? Hish! what do I see? The runaway! yes – yes, it is he! Coming back for his gun? Crambo! This is unexpected luck, so early in the morning – a slave capture – a bounty[493]!”

As the hunter hurriedly muttered these concluding phrases, he glided with stealthy tread between the two buttresses; and, having placed himself in the extreme angle of their convergence, remained perfectly still – as if to await the approach of some one who was advancing towards the tree.

Herbert, from his perch, had a full view of the new comer thus announced.

A young man of a copper red colour, with straight black hair, shaggily tossed and pulled over his forehead, as if some one had been tearing it from his head! His face, too – a fine one, notwithstanding its mahogany colour – appeared freshly lacerated; and his whole body bore the marks of inhuman abuse. The coarse cotton shirt that covered his shoulders was blotched with blood; and long, crimson-coloured stripes running across his back, looked like the imprints of an ensanguined lash!

The attitude in which he was advancing was as peculiar as his costume. When Herbert first set eyes on him he was crawling upon his hands and knees, yet going with considerable speed. This led to the belief that his bent position was assumed rather with a view towards concealment, than from the inability to walk erect.

This belief was soon after confirmed: for on entering the glade the young man rose to his feet, and trotted on – but still with body bent – towards the ceiba.

What could he want there?

Was he making for the huge tree as a haven of safety from some deadly pursuers? Herbert fancied so.

The hunter believed he was coming back for his gun – having no suspicion that the real owner of the piece was just over his head.

Both remained silent; though from motives having no similitude to each other.

In a few seconds’ time, the fugitive – for his actions proved him one – had reached the bottom of the tree.

“Halt!” cried the hunter, showing himself round the buttress, and stepping in front of the new comer. “You are a runaway, and my prisoner!”

The fugitive dropped upon his knees, crossed his arms over his breast, and uttered some phrases in an unknown tongue – amongst which Herbert could distinguish the word “Allah.”

His captor appeared equally at fault about the meaning of the words; but neither the attitude of the speaker, nor the expression upon his countenance, could be mistaken: it was an appeal for mercy.

“Crambo!” exclaimed the hunter, bending forward, and gazing for a moment at the breast of the runaway – on which the letters “J.J.” were conspicuously branded – “with that tattoo on your skin, I don’t wonder you’ve given leg-bail to your master. Poor devil! they’ve tattooed you still more brutally upon the back.”

As he said this – speaking rather to himself than to the wretched creature that knelt before him – the hunter stretched forth his hand, raised the shirt from the shoulders of the runaway, and gazed for a while upon his naked back. The skin was covered with purple wales, crossing each other like the arteries in an anatomic plate!

“God of the Christian!” exclaimed the yellow hunter, with evident indignation at the sight, “if this be your decree, then give me the fetish of my African ancestors. But no,” added he, after a pause, “J.J. is not a Christian – he cares for no God.”

The soliloquy of the hunter was here interrupted by a second speech from the suppliant, spoken in the same unknown tongue.

This time the gesture signified that it was an appeal for protection against some enemy in the rear: for the sympathetic looks of his captor had evidently won the confidence of the fugitive.

“They are after you – no doubt of it,” said the hunter. “Well, let them come – whoever are your pursuers. This time they have lost their chance; and the bounty is mine, not theirs. Poor devil! it goes against my grain to deliver you up; and were it not for the law that binds me, I should scorn their paltry reward. Hark! yonder they come! Dogs, as I’m a man! Yes, it’s the bay of a bloodhound! Those villainous man-hunters of Batabano[494] – I knew old Jessuron had them in his pay. Here, my poor fellow, in here!” and the hunter half-led, half-dragged the fugitive over the carcass of the wild boar, placing him between the buttresses of the ceiba. “Stand close in to the angle,” he continued. “Leave me to guard the front. Here’s your gun; I see it’s loaded. I hope you know how to use it? Don’t fire till you’re sure of hitting! We’ll need both blade and shot to save ourselves from these Spanish dogs, that will make no distinction between you and me. Not they! Crambo! there they come!”

The words had scarce issued from the speaker’s lips, when two large dogs broke, with a swishing noise, out of the bushes on the opposite side of the glade – evidently running on the trail of the fugitive.

The crimson colour of their muzzles showed that they had been baited with blood – which, darkening as it dried, rendered more conspicuous the white fang-like teeth within their jaws.

They were half-hound, half-mastiff; but ran as true-bred hounds on a fresh trail.

No trail could have been fresher than that of the flogged fugitive; and, in a few seconds after entering the glade, the hounds had got up to the ceiba, in front of the triangular chamber in which stood the runaway and his protector.

These dogs have no instinct of self-preservation – only an instinct to discover and destroy. Without stopping to bark or bay – without even slackening their pace – both dashed onward, bounding into the air as they launched themselves upon the supposed objects of their pursuit.

The first only impaled himself upon the outstretched macheté of the yellow hunter; and as the animal came down to the earth, it was to utter the last howl of his existence.

The other, springing towards the naked fugitive, received the contents of the fowling-piece, and, like the first, rolled lifeless upon the earth.

Chapter 26

A Combat Declined

The spectator in the tree began to fancy that he was dreaming. Within the short space of twenty minutes he had been the witness of a greater number of exciting events than he might have seen, in his own land, during the same number of years!

And yet he had not witnessed the finale of the drama. The gestures of the runaway, and the speeches of his captor, had already warned him that there was another act to come; and, from the attitudes of both, it was evident that this act would be performed on the same stage, without any change of scene.

As yet the young Englishman saw no particular reason why he should cease to be a spectator, and become an actor, in this West Indian drama. That the yellow hunter should kill a wild boar, capture a runaway slave, and afterwards shield both his captive and himself from a brace of bloodhounds, by killing the fierce brutes, was no affair of his. The only thine: that concerned him was the unceremonious use that had been made of his fowling-piece; but it is scarce necessary to say that Herbert Vaughan, had he been asked, would have freely lent the piece for such a purpose.

Nothing, however, had yet transpired to tempt him from a strict neutrality; and, until something should, he determined to preserve the passive attitude he had hitherto held.

Scarce had he come to this determination, when three new actors appeared upon the scene.

One, the foremost, and apparently the leader, was a tall, black-bearded man in a red plush waistcoat, and high-topped horse-skin boots. The other two were lean, lithe-looking fellows in striped shirt and trousers, each wearing broad-brimmed palm-leaf hats that shadowed their sharp Spanish physiognomies.

The bearded man was armed with gun and pistols. The others appeared to be without firearms of any kind; but each carried in his hand a long rapier-like blade, the sheath of which hung dangling from his hip. It was the macheté – the same kind of weapon as that which the yellow hunter had but the moment before so skilfully wielded.

On perceiving the tableau under the tree, the three new comers halted – and with no slight surprise depicted in their looks. The men of Spanish face appeared more especially astonished – indignation mingling with their surprise – when they beheld in that grouping of figures the bodies of their own bloodhounds stretched dead upon the sward!

The bearded man, who, as we have said, appeared to be the leader, was the first to give speech to the sentiment that animated all three.

“What game’s this?” he cried, his face turning purple with rage. “Who are you that has dared to interfere with our pursuit?”

“Carajo! he’s killed our dogs?” vociferated one of the Spaniards.

“Demonios! you’ll pay for this with your lives!” added the other, raising his macheté in menace.

“And what if I have killed your dogs?” rejoined the yellow hunter, with an air of sang froid, which won the silent applause of the spectator. “What if I have? If I had not killed them, they would have killed me!”

“No,” said one of the Spaniards; “they would not have touched you. Carrambo! they were too well trained for that – they were after him. Why did you put yourself in the way to protect him? It’s no business of yours.”

“There, my worthy friend, you are mistaken,” replied he in the toque, with a significant sneer. “It is my business to protect him – my interest too: since he is my captive.”

“Your captive!” exclaimed one of the men, with a glance of concern.

“Certainly, he is my captive; and it was my interest not to let the dogs destroy him. Dead, I should only have got two pounds currency for his head. Living, he is worth twice that, and mileage money to boot; though I’m sorry to see by the ‘J.J.’ on his breast that the mileage money won’t amount to much. Now, what more have you to say, my worthy gentlemen?”

“Only this,” cried the man with the black beard; “that we listen to no such nonsense as that there. Whoever you may be, I don’t care. I suspect who you are; but that don’t hinder me from telling you, you’ve no business to meddle in this affair. This runaway slave belongs to Jacob Jessuron. I’m his overseer. He’s been taken on Jessuron’s own ground: therefore you can’t claim the captive, nor yet the bounty. So you’ll have to give him up to us.”

“Carrambo, sí!” vociferated both the Spaniards in a breath, at the same time that the three advanced towards the runaway – the bearded overseer pistol in hand, and his two comrades with their machetes drawn, and ready to be used.

“Come on, then!” cried the hunter, in a taunting tone – as he spoke making signs to the runaway to stand to his defence. “Come on! but, remember! the first that lays hand upon him is a dead man. There are three of you, and we are but two – one already half-dead with your inhuman cruelty.”

“Three against two! that’s not a fair fight!” cried the young Englishman, dropping down from the tree, and ranging himself on the weaker side. “Perhaps it’ll be a better match now,” added he, taking a pistol from under the breast of his coat, and cocking it as he did so – evidently with the intention of using it, should the affair be carried further.

“And who are you, sir?” demanded the overseer, with as much arrogance as he could throw into his manner. “Who, sir, may I inquire, is the white man who thus places himself in opposition to the laws of the island? You know the penalty, sir; and by my word, you shall pay it!”

“If I have committed a breach of the laws,” replied Herbert, “I presume I shall have to answer for it. But I have yet to learn what law I have broken; and I don’t choose that you shall be my judge.”

“You are aiding in the escape of a slave!”

“That’s not true,” interrupted the yellow hunter. “The slave is already captured; he could not have escaped; and this young gentleman – who is as much a stranger to me as to you – I am sure, had no intention of assisting him to escape.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the overseer; “we care not for your talk – we deny your right to capture him; and you had no business to interfere. We had already tracked him down with the dogs; and should have had him without any help from you. He is our prize, therefore; and I again demand of you to give him up!”

“Indeed!” sneeringly responded the yellow hunter.

“I make the demand,” continued the other, without noticing the sneer, “in the name of Jacob Jessuron – whose overseer I’ve told you I am.”

“Perhaps, were you Jacob Jessuron himself, I might resist your demand,” rejoined the hunter, coolly, and without any appearance of braggadocio[495].

“You refuse to surrender him, then?” said the overseer, as if making his final overture.

“I do,” was the firm reply.

“Enough – you shall repent this; and you, sir,” continued the deputy of Jessuron, turning a fierce look upon Herbert, “you shall answer before a magistrate for the part it has pleased you to play in this transaction. A pretty white man you for the island of Jamaica! A few more of your sort, and we’d have a nice time with our niggers. Don’t fear, mister; you’ll see me again.”

“I have no particular desire,” rejoined Herbert; “for, certainly,” continued he, with provoking jocularity, “an uglier-looking face than yours I have never set eyes upon; and it could be no pleasure to me to look upon it again.”

“Confusion!” cried the overseer. “You’ll repent that insult before you’re a month older – curse me if you don’t!”

And with this characteristic menace, the ruffian turned and walked sullenly away.

“Caspita[496]!” cried one of the Spaniards, as the two hastened to follow their leader. “My brave dogs! Ah, demonio! you shall pay dearly for them. Two hundred pesos each – not a cuartito[497] less!”

“Not a cuartito for either!” responded the yellow hunter, with a mocking laugh. “Haven’t I proved that they are not worth it? With all your boasting of what your bloodhounds could do, look at them now. Vaya! my fine fellows! Go back to your own country, and hunt runaway negroes there. Here you must leave that game to those who know how to manage it – the Maroons!”

Herbert observed that the hunter, on pronouncing these last words, drew himself up with an air of majestic pride – as he did so, glancing scornfully towards the crestfallen caçadores[498].

An angry “Carrai!” simultaneously hissed from the lips of both, was the only reply made by the two Spaniards; who, at the same instant, turned their backs upon the ceiba, and followed their leader across the glade.

Chapter 27

The Maroons

As soon as they were gone out of sight, the hunter turned towards Herbert, his eyes sparkling with gratitude.

“Master!” said he, making a low obeisance as he spoke, “after that, words are but a poor way of offering thanks. If the brave white gentleman who has risked his life for a coloured outcast will let me know his name, it will not be forgotten by Cubina, the Maroon.”

“Cubina, the Maroon!” Struck by the oddness of the name and title – as he had already been by the appearance and behaviour of him who bore them – Herbert repeated the phrase mechanically, rather than otherwise.

“Yes, that is my name, master.” The young Englishman, though not yet enlightened as to the odd appellation, was too well-bred to press for an explanation.

“Pardon me,” said he, “for not directly replying to your request. I am an Englishman; my name Vaughan – Herbert Vaughan.”

“By that name, master, I take it you have relatives in the island. The owner of Mount Welcome estate – ”

“Is my uncle.”

“Ah! then, sir, anything a poor Maroon hunter could do for you would not be much. All the same, you have my thanks; and if – ; but, master,” continued the speaker, suddenly changing his tone, as if in obedience to some instinct of curiosity, “may I make bold to ask why you are afoot so early? The sun is not yet ten minutes above the trees, and Mount Welcome is three miles distant. You must have tracked it here in the dark – no easy matter, through these tangled woods?”

“I passed the night here,” replied the Englishman, smiling; “that was my bed, where the boar is now sleeping.”

“Then the gun is yours, not his?”

The hunter nodded interrogatively towards the runaway, who, standing some paces off, was regarding both the speakers with glances of gratitude, not, however, unmingled with some signs of uneasiness.

“Yes, it is my gun. I am very glad the piece was not empty: since it enabled him to destroy the fierce brute that would otherwise have had him by the throat. Wretched as the poor fellow appears, he handled his weapon well. What is he, and what have they been doing to him?”

“Ah, Master Vaughan; by those two questions, it is easy to tell you are a stranger to the island. I think I can answer both – though I never saw the young man before. Poor wretch! The answers are written out upon his skin, in letters that don’t require much scholarship to read. Those upon his breast tell that he’s a slave – the slave of J.J.: Jacob Jessuron. You’ll excuse me from giving my opinion of him.”

“What have they done to you, my poor fellow?” asked Herbert of the runaway – his compassion hindering him from waiting for the more roundabout explanation of the Maroon.

The blood-bedaubed creature, perceiving that the speech was addressed to him, made a long rejoinder; but in a tongue unknown both to the hunter and Herbert. The latter could distinguish two words that he had heard before – “Foolah” and “Allah” – both of which occurred repeatedly in the speech.

“It’s no use asking him, Master Vaughan. Like yourself, he’s a stranger to the island; though, as you see, they’ve already initiated him into some of its ways. Those brands upon his breast are nearly fresh – as you may tell by the red skin around the letters. He’s just been landed from Africa, it appears. As for the marks upon his back – those have been made by a plaything, the white planters and their overseers in these parts are rather too fond of using – the cart-whip! They’ve been flogging the poor devil; and, Crambo! they’ve given it to him thick and sharp.”

As the Maroon made this remark, he raised the blood-stained shirt, exposing to view that back so terribly reticulated. The sight was sickening. Herbert could not bear to gaze upon it; but averted his eyes on the instant.

“From Africa, you say? He has not got negro features!”

“As to his features, that don’t signify. There are many African tribes who are not negro-featured. I can tell from his that he is a Foolah. I hear him use the word as he talks.”

“Yoy – Foolah! Foolah!” cried the runaway on hearing pronounced the name of his people; and then he continued in a strain of the same language, accompanied by much gesticulation.

“I wish I knew his lingo,” said the hunter. “I know he’s a Foolah. It is some reason why I should take an interest in him; and may be, if only for that, I might – ”

The speaker paused, as if he had been talking to himself; and then continued the soliloquy only in thought. After a pause he resumed speech.

“Crambo! very little would tempt me not to restore him to his master.”

“And must you?”

“I must. We Maroons are bound by a treaty to deliver up all runaways we may take; and if we fail to do so – that is, when it is known; but these villains of old Jessuron know I have him – ”

“You will receive a bounty, you say?”

“Yes. They will try to deprive me of that; but it isn’t the bounty would tempt me in this case. There is something about this young fellow. – My word! he is like her! – ay, as if he were her brother.”

This last speech was delivered in soliloquy.

“Like her! Like whom?” demanded Herbert with a puzzled look.

“Your pardon,” replied the hunter. “I was struck with a resemblance between this poor fellow and one whom I know; but, Master Vaughan,” he continued, as if wishing to change the subject, “you have not said how you came to be all night in the woods? You were hunting yesterday and lost your way?”

“True, I lost my way, but not exactly while hunting.”

“Perhaps that is all the sort of breakfast you have had?” and the Maroon pointed to some pieces of the palm-cabbage that still lay on the turf.

“I have both supped and breakfasted upon it,” replied Herbert. “I had climbed the tree for water, when the boar came up to break his fast upon what remained of it.”

The Maroon smiled at this explanation of some circumstances by which even he had been mystified.

“Well,” said he, “if you are not anxious to return at once to Mount Welcome, and will give me five minutes’ time, I think I can provide you something better than raw cabbage.”

“I am not particularly in a hurry about getting back to Mount Welcome. Perhaps I may never go back!”

These words, combined with the air of the young Englishman as he uttered them, did not escape the notice of the intelligent Maroon.

“Something strange in this young man’s history!” said he to himself, though he had the delicacy not to demand an explanation of the ambiguous speech just made. “Well, it’s not my affair, I suppose!”

Then, addressing himself to Herbert, he said aloud —

“Do you agree, Master Vaughan, to eat a forest breakfast of my providing?”

“Indeed, with pleasure,” answered Herbert. “Then I must ring for my servants.” As he said this, the hunter raised his curved horn to his lips and blew a long, tremulous blast.

“That should procure us company and something to eat, master,” said he, allowing the horn to drop back to its place.

“Hark!” he continued, the instant after, “there are some of my fellows. I thought they could not be far off.”

As he spoke the sound of a horn was heard reverberating through the woods; and then another, and another – until nearly a dozen could be distinguished, yet all in different directions. They were evidently answers to the signal he had sounded.

“So, Master Vaughan,” he resumed, with an air expressive of triumph, though in a restrained and modest way, “you see these vultures would not have had it all their own way? My hawks were too near for that. Not the less am I beholden to you, Master Vaughan. I did not think it worth while to call my people. I knew the poltroons would not venture beyond a little swaggering talk. See! they come!”

“Who?”

“The Maroons!”

Herbert heard a rustling among the bushes on the opposite side of the glade; and, at the same time, about a dozen armed men emerged from the underwood, and advanced rapidly towards the ceiba.

Chapter 28

A Forest Breakfast

The young Englishman gazed upon the advancing troop with keen curiosity. There were about a dozen of them, all black men, or nearly all – only one or two of them showing any admixture of colour. There was not a dwarfish or deformed figure in the party. On the contrary, every man of them possessed a tall stalwart form, strong muscular limbs, a skin shining with health, and eyes sparkling with a vigorous brilliance that betokened an innate sense of freedom and independence.

Their erect, upright carriage and free, forward step confirmed the belief, which Herbert had already formed, that these black men were not bondsmen. There was nothing of the slave either in their looks or gestures. But for the colour of their skins, he would never have thought of associating such men with the idea of slavery. Armed as they were with long knives and guns, some of them with stout spears, they could not be slaves. Besides, their equipments told that they were hunters – and warriors, if need he. All of them had horns, with pouches suspended over their shoulders; and each was provided with a netted calabash for water, like that of the yellow hunter, already described.

A few carried an equipment altogether different – consisting of a small pannier of withe-work, or palm-fibre neatly woven. It rested upon the back, where it was held in place by a band of palm sinnet, crossing the breast, and another brought over the forehead, which thus sustained a portion of the weight. This pannier was the cutacoo – the depository of their provisions, and of such articles as were required in their wild forest rambles.

With regard to their costume, that was bizarre, though not unpicturesque. No two were dressed alike, though there was a certain idiosyncrasy in their attire, which proclaimed them all of one following. The toqued “bandanna[499]” was the most common head-dress – a few having palm-leaf hats. Only some of them had a shirt with sleeves; others wanted a complete pair of trousers; and one or two were naked from the waist upward, and from the thighs downwards – the white cotton loin-cloth being the unique and only garment! All of them had their feet and ankles covered: as the stony and thorny paths they were accustomed to tread rendered necessary. The chaussure[500] was the same with all; and appeared to be a tight-fitting jack-boot, of some species of raw hide, without seam or stitching of any kind. The reddish bristles standing thinly over its surface, proclaimed the character of the material. It was the skin of the wild hog: the hind leg of a boar, drawn upon the foot while fresh and warm, as it dries tightening over the instep and ankle like an elastic stocking. A little trimming with the knife is all that is necessary for this ready-made mocassin; and once on, it is never taken off till the wearing of the sole renders necessary a refit. Drawing on his boots, therefore, is no part of the diurnal duties of a Jamaica hog-hunter.

I have said that Herbert Vaughan regarded the new comers with a feeling of curiosity as well as surprise. It was no wonder he did so. The mode in which they had been summoned into his presence, their echo-like answers to the horn signal, and their prompt, almost instantaneous appearance, formed a series of incidents that more resembled what might have been witnessed upon the stage of a theatre than in real life; and had the yellow hunter been a white man, and he and his followers clad in Lincoln green[501], the young Englishman might have fancied himself in Sherwood Forest[502], with bold Robin[503] redivivus[504], and his merry men mustering around him!

“This white gentleman has not eaten breakfast,” said Cubina to his followers as they came up. “Well, Quaco! what have you got in your cutacoos?”

The individual thus appealed to was a jet-black negro of large dimensions, with a grave yet quizzical cast of countenance. He appeared to be a sort of lieutenant: perhaps the “Little John[505]” of the party.

“Well, worthy capten,” answered he, saluting the yellow hunter with a somewhat awkward grace; “I believe there’s enough, one thing with another – that be, if the gen’lman has got a good appetite, and’s not too nice about what he eats.”

“What is there? Let me see!” interrupted Cubina, as he proceeded to inspect the panniers. “A ham of wild hog barbecued,” continued he, turning out the contents of a cutacoo. “Well, that to begin with – the white gentry are rather partial to our barbecued hog! What else? a brace of soldier-crabs. So far good. Ah! better still, a pair of ramier pigeons, and a wild guinea-fowl. Who carries the coffee and sugar?”

“Here, captain,” cried another of the cutacoo men, throwing his pannier to the ground, and drawing out several bags which contained the necessary materials for coffee-making.

“A fire, and be quick!” commanded Cubina.

At the word given a tinder was struck, dry leaves and branches quickly collected, and a sparkling, crackling fire soon blazed upon the ground. Over this was erected a crane – resting horizontally on two forked sticks – which soon carried a brace of iron pots suspended in the blaze.

With so many cooks, the process of preparing the meat for the pots was very short and quick. The pigeons and guinea-fowl were singed as fast as feathers would burn; and then being “drawn and quartered,” were flung in torn fragments into the largest of the pots.

The soldier-crabs shared the same fate; and some pieces of the wild hog ham. A handful of salt was added, water, a few slices of plantain, eddoes, calalue, and red capsicum – all of which ingredients were supplied from the cutacoos.

A strong fire of dried faggots soon brought the pot to a furious boil; and the lieutenant Quaco – who appeared also to act as chef de cuisine – after repeatedly testing the contents, at length declared that the pepper-pot was ready for serving up.

Dishes, bowls, cups, and platters made their appearance – all being shells of the calabash, of different shapes; and as soon as Herbert and the captain were helped to the choicest portions of the savoury stew, the remainder was distributed among the men: who, seating themselves in groups over the ground, proceeded to discuss the well-known viand with an avidity that showed it was also their breakfast.

The pepper-pot was not the sole dish of the déjeuner. Pork steaks, cut from the carcass of the freshly-slain boar, were added; while plantains and “cocoa-fingers,” roasted in the ashes, contributed a substitute for bread not to be despisingly spoken of.

The second pot boiling over the fire contained the coffee; which, quaffed from the calabashes, tasted as fine as if sipped out of cups of the purest Sèvres[506] porcelain.

In this “al-fresco[507]” feast the poor captive was not forgotten, but was supplied among the rest – the colossal Quaco administering to his wants with an air of quizzical compassion.

The young Englishman desired enlightenment about the character of his hosts; but delicacy forbade any direct inquiries. Could they be robbers – brigands with black skins? Their arms and accoutrements gave colour to the supposition. Maroons they called themselves, but the name was new, and helped not Herbert in his perplexity. “If robbers,” thought he, “they are the gentlest of their calling.”

Breakfast over, the Maroons gathered up their traps, and prepared to depart from the spot.

Already the wild boar had been butchered, cut up into portable flitches, and packed away in the cutacoos.

The wales upon the back of the runaway had been anointed by the hand of Quaco with some balsamic cerate; and by gestures the unfortunate youth was made to understand that he was to accompany the party. Instead of objecting to this, his eyes sparkled with a vivid joy. From the courtesy he had already received at their hands, he could not augur evil.

The Maroons, out of respect to their chief – whom they appeared to treat with submissive deference – had moved some distance away, leaving Captain Cubina alone with his English guest. The latter, with his gun shouldered, stood ready to depart.

“You are a stranger in the island?” said the Maroon, half interrogatively. “I fancy you have not been living long with your uncle?”

“No,” answered Herbert. “I never saw my uncle before yesterday afternoon.”

“Crambo!” exclaimed the hunter-captain in some surprise; “you have just arrived, then? In that case, Master Vaughan – and that is why I have made bold to ask you – you will scarce be able to find your way back to Mount Welcome. One of my people will go with you?”

“No, thank you. I think I can manage it alone.”

Herbert hesitated to say that he was not going to Mount Welcome.

“It is a crooked path,” urged the Maroon; “though straight enough to one who knows it. You need not take the guide so far as the great house; though Mr Vaughan, I believe, does not object to our people going on his grounds, as some other planters do. You can leave the man when you get within sight of the place. Without a guide, I fear you will not be able to find the path.”

“In truth, Captain Cubina,” said Herbert, no longer caring what idea his words might communicate to his Maroon acquaintance, “I don’t wish to find the path you speak of. I’m not going that way.”

“Not to Mount Welcome?”

“No.”

The Maroon remained for a moment silent, while a puzzled expression played over his features. “Only arrived yesterday – out all night in the woods – not going back! Something strange in all this.”

Such were the quick reflections that passed through his mind.

He had already noticed an air of distraction – of dejection, too – in the countenance of the stranger. What could it mean? The gay ribbon knotted in the button-hole of his coat – what could that mean?

Captain Cubina was of the age – and perhaps just then in the very temper – to observe all matters that appeared indications of a certain soft sentiment; and both the blue ribbon and the thoughtful attitude were of that signification. He knew something of the white denizens of Mount Welcome – more, perhaps, of those with a coloured skin. Could the odd behaviour of the young Englishman be attributed to some family difficulty that might have arisen there?

The Maroon mentally answered this interrogatory for himself: with the reflection that something of the kind had occurred.

Perhaps Captain Cubina was not merely guessing! Perhaps he had already listened to some whisper of plantation gossip: for electricity itself can scarce travel faster than news in the negro quarter!

If the hunter-captain had any suspicions as to the real position of his woodland guest, he was polite enough not to express them. On the contrary, he waived the opportunity given him by Herbert’s ambiguous rejoinder, and simply said —

“If you are going elsewhere, you will need a guide all the same. This glade is surrounded by a wide stretch of tangled woods. There is no good path leading anywhere.”

“You are very kind,” answered Herbert, touched by the delicate solicitude of this man with a coloured skin. “I wish to reach Montego Bay; and if one of your men would set me on the main road, I should certainly feel under great obligations. As to rewarding him for his trouble, beyond thanking him, I am sorry to say that circumstances just now have placed it out of my power.”

“Master Vaughan!” said the Maroon, smiling courteously as he spoke, “were you not a stranger to us and our customs, I should feel offended. You speak as if you expected me to present you with a bill for your breakfast. You seem to forget that, scarce an hour ago, you threw yourself before the muzzle of a pistol to protect the life of a Maroon – a poor outcast mulatto of the mountains! And now – but I forgive you. You know me not – ”

“Pardon me, Captain Cubina; I assure you – ”

“Say no more! I know your English heart, master – still uncorrupted by vile prejudices of caste and colour. Long may it remain so; and whether Captain Cubina may ever see you again, remember! that up yonder in the Blue Mountain,” – the Maroon pointed as he spoke to the purple outline of a mountain ridge, just visible over the tops of the trees – “up yonder dwells a man – a coloured man, it is true, but one whose heart beats with gratitude perhaps as truly as that of the whitest; and should you ever feel the fancy to honour that man with a visit, under his humble roof you will find both a friend and a welcome.”

“Thanks!” cried the young Englishman, stirred to enthusiasm by the free friendship of the yellow hunter. “I may some day avail myself of your hospitable offer. Farewell!”

“Farewell!” responded the Maroon, eagerly grasping the hand which Herbert had held out to him. “Quaco!” he cried, calling to his lieutenant, “conduct this gentleman to the main road that leads to the Bay. Farewell, Master Vaughan, and may fortune favour you!”

Chapter 29

Quaco

It was not without regret that Herbert parted with this new friend; and long time was he following upon the heels of Quaco, before he ceased to reflect on the circumstances that had led to his making so singular an acquaintance.

Quaco, being one of the taciturn sort, made no attempt to interrupt Herbert’s meditations until the two had walked together for more than a mile. Then, however, some matter upon his mind brought the guide to a halt, and the commencement of a conversation.

“Two tracks from here, buckra. We can follow either; but dis to the right am the shortest – the best road, too.”

“Why not take it, then?”

“O – a master; there may be reasons.”

“What! for avoiding it?”

“Ya – a!” replied Quaco, in a thoughtful, drawling tone.

“What reasons, friend?”

“Don’t you see the roof of a house – just over the tops of them pawpaws?”

“Yes – what of that?”

“That’s the baracoon.”

“The baracoon?”

“Ya – the penn of de Jew Jess’ron.”

“And what if it be?”

“Ah, buckra, what if it be? If we take the path to the right we must pass the Jew’s house, and some of his people are sure see us. That John Crow’s a justice of the peace, and we may get into trouble.”

“Oh! about the affair of the runaway, you mean? Your captain said he belonged to a Mr Jessuron.”

“As much ’bout the dogs as the man. Captain had a right to claim the runaway as his catch; but these Spanish cusses’ll make a muss ’bout thar dogs. They’ll say our captain killed them out o’ spite – that they’ll swar to; since it’s well-known we mountainee men don’t like such interlopers here, meddlin’ with our business.”

“But neither you nor I killed the dogs?”

“All, buckra, all the same – you helped – your gun helped kill them. Besides, you hindered the John-Crows from pecking the hawk.”

“For what I have done I am not afraid to answer before a justice, – be it this Mr Jessuron, or any other,” said the young Englishman; conscious of having acted rightly in the part he had taken in the quarrel.

“Not much justice to be expected from Justice Jess’ron, master. My advice be to keep out of the hands of justice as long’s we can; and that we can only do by taking the road to the left.”

“Will it be much out of our way?” asked Herbert; not caring to greatly inconvenience himself for the reasons set forth by his sable guide.

“Nothing to signify,” answered Quaco, though not speaking very truthfully: for the path he intended to take was really much longer than the one leading by Jessuron’s house.

“In that case,” assented Herbert, “take which way you please!”

Without further parley, Quaco strode forward on the path branching to the left – as before, silently followed by him whom he was guiding.

The track they had taken ran entirely through woods – in some places very difficult to traverse on account of the thorny thickets as well as the unevenness of the ground, which caused the path to be constantly ascending, or trending rapidly downward. At length, however, they arrived at the summit of a high ridge, and were moving onwards amidst groves of pimento, more open than the forest from which they had emerged.

From the top of the ridge, Herbert saw a large house shining against the verdant background of the landscape, which he at once recognised as the mansion of Mount Welcome.

They were not going towards the house, but in a diagonal direction, which would bring them out on the avenue near the entrance-gate.

Herbert called out to his guide to make halt. The young man did not like the idea of entering upon the avenue, lest he might encounter some of his uncle’s people – a circumstance which he should not wish to have reported at the great house. He therefore requested Quaco to conduct him by some way lying more to the right – so that he might reach the main road without being seen from Mount Welcome.

The guide yielded compliance, though not without a little grumbling reluctance – as he turned off, muttering some words about giving “as wide a berth as possible to the ole Jew penn.”

He obliqued, however, into a new direction; and after another traverse through the woods, Herbert had the satisfaction of finding himself on the main road leading to Montego Bay.

The young Englishman had no farther need of a guide, and Quaco was just on the point of taking leave of him, when at that moment a party of horsemen suddenly made appearance round a bend in the road. There were six or seven in all; and they were riding forward at a rapid pace, as if bent upon some serious business.

At the first sight of these strangers, Quaco shot like an arrow into the underwood – calling upon the buckra to follow his example.

Herbert, however, disdaining to hide himself, remained standing in the middle of the road.

Seeing his determination, Quaco returned to his side; as he did so, clamorously protesting against the imprudence of his protégé[508].

“Don’t like their looks,” muttered the Maroon, as he glanced apprehensively towards the horsemen. “It might be – by the Great Accompong it is! – that harpy Ravener, the overseer of Jess’ron. Golly! buckra, we’s in for it! No use tryin’ to ’scape ’em now.”

As Quaco finished speaking, the horsemen rode forward on the ground – one and all halting as they came to the spot where the pedestrians were standing.

“Here’s our fellow!” cried the bearded man at their head, whom Herbert easily identified. “Just dropped upon him, like a duck upon a June bug. Now, Mr Tharpey, do your duty! We’ll hear what this young gentleman’s got to say before the justice.”

“I arrest you, sir,” said the person appealed to as Mr Tharpey. “I am head constable of the parish – I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“On what charge?” demanded Herbert, indignantly.

“Mr Ravener here will bring the charge. I’ve got nothing to do with that part of it. You must come before the nearest justice. I reckon the nighest justice from here is the Custos Vaughan?”

This half-interrogatory of the constable was addressed, not to Herbert, but to his own followers. Though it was spoken rather in an undertone, the young man heard it with sufficient distinctness, and with very little complacency. To be carried back into the presence of his uncle – whom he had so lately defied – and in the character of a felon; to be brought, under such humiliating circumstances, before the eyes of his fair cousin – before the eye-glass of his late fellow-passenger – was a prospect that could not fail to be unpleasant.

It was a sort of relief, therefore, when Ravener – who appeared to use some guiding influence over the constable and his posse comitatus[509] – overruled the suggestion that Mr Vaughan was the nearest magistrate, and claimed that honour for Jacob Jessuron, Esquire, of the Happy Valley.

After some discussion between the parties upon this moot legal point, the overseer’s opinion was adopted: and it was determined that the case should be carried before Justice Jessuron.

Both Herbert and his guide were then formally arrested in the name of the king, and marched off in custody – not without some very vociferous protestations on the part of Quaco, with a long string of threats that he would some day make both constable and overseer pay for this outrage upon the person of a free Maroon.

Chapter 30

A Jamaica Justice

Jessuron, Esquire, held court in the verandah of his dingy dwelling-house, where we have already seen him assisting at a different spectacle.

He was now seated, with a small table before him, covered with a piece of green baize, and carrying a gold snuff-box, an inkstand, pens, and some sheets of paper.

A book or two lay upon the table, one of which, by the lettering upon its cover, proclaimed its title and character – The Jamaica Justice. It was bound in black leather – a colour sufficiently emblematic of the chief subject on which it treated: for more than four-fifths of the laws and regulations it contained, related to creatures with black skins.

The Justice was in full costume, as the occasion required – that is, he wore his best blue body-coat with gilt buttons, his drab small-clothes and top-boots. The brownish beaver had been laid aside: as the sanctity of justice requires even the judge’s head to be uncovered; but the white cotton skull-cap still remained upon his cranium; justice in Jamaica not being so rigorous as to exact its removal.

With the spectacles well set upon his nose, and his thin face screwed into an expression of pompous importance, Squire Jessuron sate behind his bench, waiting till the parties to the suit should get well into their places.

He was sole justice present; but, of course, it was merely a “preliminary inquiry before a magistrate.” To have tried a white criminal on the serious charge brought against Herbert Vaughan, would have required a fuller bench – at least three magistrates, and one of them a custos.

Jessuron’s power could go no farther than to commit the presumed criminal to prison, until a more formal process should be organised against him.

Herbert had been brought up in front of the table – his captor, the constable, and one or two of the posse standing behind him. On the right side appeared Ravener, backed by the two Spanish caçadores; the last-mentioned worthies no longer – as had formerly been their constant custom – attended by their canine companions.

Quaco had been left in the yard below – unguarded – since there was, in reality, no charge against him.

There was one other witness to this magisterial trial – the daughter of the Justice himself. Yes, the fair Judith was present – as on all important occasions; but this time not conspicuously so. On the contrary, she was seated in a window that opened on the verandah, her beautiful face half-concealed behind the netted fringe-work of the curtains. The position enabled her to observe what was passing, without formally exposing her own person to view.

Her face was not altogether hidden; and her white shining forehead and dark lustrous eyes, gleaming through the gauzy muslin that veiled them, only appeared more piquantly attractive.

It was evident, from her actions, that the gentle Judith had no intention of remaining unseen. There were several rather good-looking men in the party that accompanied the constable – young planters he had picked up by the way – and who desired nothing better than a lark of this kind. From the moment that these had entered the courtyard, the fair mistress of the mansion had remained almost constantly by the window.

It was only, however, after the people had got grouped in the gallery, that she took her seat behind the curtain, and entered upon a more minute inspection of their faces and persons.

She was not long engaged in this game, when a change might have been observed passing over her countenance.

At first her eyes had wandered from face to face with rather a sneering, cynical expression – such as the Jewess well knew how to put on. All at once, however, her gaze became fixed; and the contemptuous smile gradually gave place to a look of more serious regard.

By following the direction of her eyes, the object of this regard could easily be discovered. It was the “prisoner at the bar!”

What was the meaning of that gaze? Sympathy for the accused?

She knew why the young man was there. Ravener had already informed her father of all that had transpired, and the daughter had heard the tale. Was it a generous pity for the position in which this unknown youth was placed, that was now stirring within the breast of the fair Judith, and had produced that sudden change in the expression of her countenance? Hers was hardly the soul for such a sentiment.

Certainly, however, she was actuated by some motive different from the common: for as the trial progressed she no longer looked stealthily from behind the curtain; but having drawn it to one side, she directed her full glance on the stranger, and kept her eyes fixed upon him, apparently regardless of any observation which her conduct might call forth!

Her father, whose back was towards her, saw nothing of this; though it was not unnoticed by the others.

The young Englishman – though little disposed at that moment to the contemplation of aught beyond his own unpleasant position – could not help observing the beautiful face directly opposite to where he stood; nor did he fail to notice the peculiar glances with which he was being regarded.

Was the old man, before whom he stood on trial, the father of that fair creature at the window? Such was his interrogative reflection, as he glanced inquiringly from one to the other.

Some time had been occupied by the overseer in telling his story – to substantiate the charge he had made. That done, the prisoner was put upon his defence.

“Young man!” said the Justice, “you have heard what thish witness alleges against you. What hash you to say in your defence? And first tell ush what’s your name?”

“Herbert Vaughan.”

Jessuron re-adjusted his spectacles, and looked at the prisoner with some show of surprise. The bystanders – stolid constable and all – seemed a little startled. Quaco, whose colossal form rose above the railings in the background, uttered a grunt of satisfaction on hearing the young man’s name – which he had not known before – a name all-powerful in the district, being that of the mighty Custos himself!

There was one upon whom the words appeared to produce an impression different from that of mere surprise. A glance of anger shot from the dark eyes of the Jewess as she heard it pronounced, and the look of sympathy for the moment disappeared. Evidently, to her the name was distasteful.

“Herbert Vochan?” repeated the Justice. “Might you be any kinshman of Mishter Vochan of Mount Welcome?”

“His nephew,” was the laconic reply.

“Ah! hish nephew! Bless me! ish that true?”

This announcement, as testified by his speech, produced a sudden commotion in the mind of the Jew-justice. From some little that was known of his secret hostility towards his neighbour of Mount Welcome – Ravener knew more than a little – it might have been expected that the discovery of the relationship of the prisoner would have put him in high glee. To be sitting in judgment upon the near kinsman of the Custos – accused of a serious crime, too – was a proud position for Jacob Jessuron, who could remember many a slight he had received from the haughty lord of Mount Welcome. What a splendid revanche!

Certainly the manner of the Justice, on learning who was before him, seemed to indicate that such were his reflections. He rubbed his skinny hands together; helped himself from his gold snuff-box; gleefully smiled from behind his glasses, which were once more shifted upon the sharp ridge of his nose; and then, bending his face forward over the table, he remained for some moments smiling, but silent and thoughtful, as if considering how he should proceed.

After a time he raised his eyes, and freshly scrutinised the prisoner – who had already returned an affirmative answer to his last query.

“Blesh my soul! – I never knew that Mishter Vochan had a nephew! You are from England, young man? Hash your uncle any more English nephews?”

“Not that I am aware of,” replied Herbert, frankly. “I believe I am his only relative of that kind – in England, at least.”

The proviso in this reply betrayed a significant fact: that the young man was not very well acquainted with the family affairs of his colonial kinsman.

The astute Justice did not fail to notice this deficiency in the nephew’s knowledge.

“How long hash you been in Shamaica?” asked he, as if endeavouring to arrive at an explanation of some point that was puzzling him.

“A night, and part of two days – in all, about twenty-four hours,” replied Herbert, with scrupulous exactness.

“Blesh my soul!” again exclaimed the Justice; “only twenty-four hours! It’sh a wonder you’re not at your uncle’s house? You hash been there?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Herbert, carelessly.

“You come to shtay at Mount Welcome, I supposhe?”

Herbert made no reply to this interrogatory. “You shleep there lash night? Excushe me young man, for ashking the question, but ash a magistrate – ”

“You are perfectly welcome to the answer, your worship,” said Herbert, laying a satirical emphasis on the titular phrase; “I did not sleep there last night.”

“Where did you shleep then?”

“In the woods,” answered Herbert.

“Moshesh!” exclaimed the Jew-justice, raising his spectacles in surprise. “In the woods, you shay?”

“In the woods,” re-affirmed the young man; “under a tree; and a very good bed I found it,” he added, jocosely.

“And did your uncle know of thish?”

“I suppose my uncle knew nothing about it, and as little did he care,” replied Herbert, with a reckless indifference as to what answer he gave.

The bitter emphasis on the last words, with the tone in which they were delivered, did not escape the observation of Jessuron. A suspicion had arisen in his mind, that there was something amiss in the relationship between the young man and his uncle; to the comprehension of which the answer of the former, aided by a knowledge of the character and affairs of the latter, was gradually giving him a clue. A secret joy sparkled in his sunken eyes, as he listened to the last answer given.

All at once he discontinued the direct examination of the prisoner; and, signing to Ravener and the constable to come near, he became engaged with these two worthies in a whispering conversation.

What passed between the trio, the young Englishman could not tell – nor indeed any one else who chanced to be present. The result, however, was to Herbert as pleasant as unexpected.

When Jessuron again returned to address him, a complete change appeared to have taken place in his manner; and, instead of the frowning Justice, Herbert now saw before him a man who appeared more in the character of a friendly protector – bland, smiling, almost obsequious!

“Mashter Vochan,” said he – rising from his magisterial seat, and extending his hand to the prisoner – “you will excushe the rough treatment you hash had from theshe people. It ish a great crime in thish country – helping a runaway shlave to eshcape; but as you hash joosh landed, and cannot be ekshpected to know our shtatutes, the law deals mershifully with a firsht offence. Besides, in thish instance, the runaway – who ish one of my own shlaves – did not eshcape. He ish in the hands of the Maroons, and will soon be brought in. The punishment I inflict upon you – and I shall inshist upon its being carried out – ish, that you eats your dinner with me, and – I think that ish punishment enough. Mishter Ravener,” added he, calling to his overseer, and at the same time, pointing to Quaco, “take that good fellow and see that he ish cared for. Now, Mashter Vochan! pleashe to step inside, and allow me to introshuce you to my daughter Shoodith.”

It would have been contrary to all human nature had Herbert Vaughan not felt gratified at the pleasant turn which this disagreeable affair had taken; and perhaps this gratification was enhanced at the prospect of the proposed introduction. Indeed, no man, however cold his nature, could have looked upon those lovely eyes – so long wistfully watching him from the window – without wishing a nearer acquaintance with their owner.

The angry glance had been evanescent. It was gone long before the conclusion of the trial scene; and as the young Englishman – in obedience to the invitation of his ci-devant judge – stepped across the verandah, the fair face, retreating from the window, was suffused with the sweetest and most sympathetic of smiles.

Chapter 31

An Unexpected Patron

Thus had the chapter of accidents that conducted Herbert Vaughan to the penn of Jacob Jessuron been brought to a very unexpected termination.

But the end was not yet. There was more to come – much more.

Herbert was surprised at the turn things had taken. The only explanation he could think of was, that it was to his uncle’s name he was indebted for the honours that were being done to him – a mere neighbourly feeling of the penn-keeper for the great sugar-planter.

“They are friends,” thought Herbert, “and this kindness to me is the offspring of that friendship.”

The reflection did not give him pleasure, but the contrary. He felt himself in an awkward position – the recipient of a hospitality not meant for himself, but rather for one who had injured him; and who, although his own relative, he now regarded as his enemy.

His uncle would hear of it – no doubt, soon – and would be able to accuse him of taking advantage of his name. The thought caused Herbert a feeling of uneasiness.

Perhaps he would have cared less had there been no one but his uncle to be cognisant of the false position. But there was. His short and troubled visit to Mount Welcome had made Herbert Vaughan acquainted with one whose remembrance was likely for a long time to exert an influence over his thoughts – even though lips as red, and eyes, perhaps, as brilliant as hers, were now smiling courteously upon him.

The memory of his cousin Kate was still mellow. He could fancy her soft, sweet voice yet ringing in his ears; the warm glow of her virgin presence seemed hanging like a halo around him: all urging him to preserve the heroism of his character, if only for the sake of standing well in her estimation.

Influenced by these considerations, he resolved to throw off the mask with which circumstances had momentarily invested him, and declare the true position in which he stood to his haughty relative.

It was not until the conclusion of the dinner – after the daughter of his host had retired smilingly from the table – that the young Englishman unburdened himself. Then – perhaps a little prompted by the wine – he made a full confession of the disagreeable circumstances existing between himself and the master of Mount Welcome.

Was it the wine – somewhat freely pressed upon him – that hindered him from perceiving the displeasure which his communication had produced upon his hearer? Was there any show of displeasure?

If there was, Herbert did not perceive it.

On the contrary, had the young man been closely observant, he might have noticed an effect of altogether an opposite character. Behind the green goggles, he might have seen those deep dark Israelitish eyes sparkling with joy at the revelation he had made.

“I’m exsheedingly sorry, young Mashter Vochan,” said the Jew, after his surprise at Herbert’s revelations had apparently subsided – “exsheedingly sorry I ish – to hear that you and your uncle are not on good terms. Ah! well; we mush hope for the besht; and ash I am one of Mishter Vochan’s humble friendsh, possibly I might do somethingsh to reconshile your little quarrel. Doosh you not intend going back to Mount Welcome?”

“Never. After what has passed, never!”

“Ach! yoush musht not be too revengeful. Mishter Vochan ish a proud man; and I musht say he hash behaved badly – very badly; but still he ish your uncle.”

“He has not acted as such.”

“That ish true – very true – thish fine gentleman you shpeak of – shtill, that ish no reason why Mishter Vochan should treat hish own nephew so shabby. Well, well – I am sorry – exsheedingly sorry. But, Mashter Herbert,” continued the penn-keeper, interrogating his guest with evident interest, “what dosh you intend to do? I supposhe you hash monish of your own?”

“I am sorry to say, Mr Jessuron, I have not.”

“No monish at all!”

“Not a shilling,” affirmed Herbert, with a careless laugh.

“That ish bad. Where dosh you think of going – since you shay you will not return to Mount Welcome?”

“Well,” said Herbert, still preserving his air of jocularity, “I was making for the port again, when your worthy overseer and his friends intercepted me – luckily, I may say: since, but for their intervention, I should in all likelihood have gone without dinner to-day – at all events, I should not have dined so sumptuously.”

“A wretched dinner, Mashter Vochan – a misherable dinner to what your uncle could have given you. I’m but a poor humble man compared with the Cushtos; but what I hash ish at your service any time.”

“Thanks!” said Herbert. “I know not, Mr Jessuron, how I shall ever repay you for your hospitality. I must not tax it any longer, however. I see, by the sun, it is time I should be making for the Bay.”

As Herbert spoke, he was rising to take his departure.

“Shtop, shtop!” cried his host, pushing him back into his chair; “not to-night, Mashter Vochan, not thish night. I can’t promish you ash fine a bed as yoush might get at Mount Welcome, but I think I can give you a better ash you shleep in lash night – ha, ha! You musht stay with ush thish night; and Shoodith will make you some music. Don’t shay a word; I takesh no refushal.”

The offer was a tempting one; and, after some further pressure, Herbert acquiesced in it. He was partly influenced to stay where he was, by the poor prospect of a lodging which the Bay afforded him; and, perhaps, a little from a desire to hear the promised music.

The conversation was continued, by his host putting some further interrogatories: – How did Herbert intend to employ himself in the Bay? What prospect had he of employment; and in what line?

“I fear not much in any line,” replied the young man, answering both questions in one, and in a tone of sarcastic despondence.

“Hash you no profeshion?”

“Alas, no!” replied Herbert. “It was intended by my father I should have one; but he died before my education was completed; and my college – as is too often the case – has taught me little more than a knowledge of dead languages.”

“No ushe – no ushe whatever,” rejoined the intelligent Israelite.

“I can draw a landscape,” pursued the young man, modestly, “or paint a portrait tolerably well, I believe – my father himself taught me these accomplishments.”

“Ah! Mashter Vochan, neither ish of the shlightest ushe here in Shamaica. If you could paint a house, or a waggon, or a shopkeeper’sh sign, it would bring you more monish than to make the likeneshes of every face in the island. What saysh you to the situation of book-keeper?”

“Unfortunately, I know nothing of accounts. The very useful science of book-keeping I have not been taught.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” replied Jessuron, with an encouraging chuckle, “you ish what we, in Shamaica, call green, Mashter Vochan. You musht know that a book-keeper here hash no books to keep. He doesh not even put a pen to paper.”

“How is that, Mr Jessuron? I have heard the statement before, though I did not comprehend what was meant by it.”

“Then I musht explain, Mashter Vochan. There ish a law here which makes all proprietors of shlaves keep a white man on hish estate for every fifty blacksh. A very shilly law it ish; but it ish a law. Theesh white supernumeraries are called book-keepers: though, ash I’ve told you, they keepsh no books. Now you understand what it meansh.”

“Then, what duties do they perform?”

“Oh! that depends on circumshtances. Some look after the shlaves, and some do thish and some that. But, egad! now I think of it, Mashter Vochan, I am myshelf in need of a book-keeper. I have joosh bought a new lot of blacksh, and I musht not break the law. I am ushed to give my book-keepers fifty poundsh a-year, currenshy; but if you would be content to accept such a berth, I would make the salary – on account of your uncle – a hundred poundsh a-year. You would also be found in everything elshe. What dosh you shay, Mashter Vochan?”

This unexpected proposal on the part of the penn-keeper, caused his guest to hesitate and reflect.

Not long, however. His forlorn, homeless situation presented itself too forcibly to his mind, to keep him long in doubt as to what answer he should make.

Suffice it to say, that the offer – which to the young Englishman appeared only too generous – was accepted; and from that hour the Happy Valley became his home.

Chapter 32

A Plotting Parent

Jacob Jessuron was never known to be generous without expecting some reward. Never did he fling out a sprat without the expectation of catching a salmon.

What object had he in view in thus becoming the patron and protector of the young Englishman – an outcast adventurer, apparently incapable of making him any return? Why such liberal conditions unasked, and to all appearance unmerited – for, to say the truth, Herbert Vaughan was not the stuff for a slave-driver, a term almost synonymous with that of book-keeper.

No doubt the Jew had some deep scheme; but in this, as in most other matters, he kept his counsel to himself. Even his “precious Shoodith” was but half-initiated into his designs upon this special subject: though a conversation, which occurred between father and daughter, had placed before the latter some data calculated to assist her in guessing at them.

The date of this dialogue was upon the morning after Herbert’s arrival at the penn.

“Show the young man every kindness, Shoodith dear! Don’t shpare pains to pleashe him.”

“Why particularly him, my worthy parent?”

“Hush! mine Shoodith! Shpeak low, for the luf of Gott! Don’t let him hear you talk in that shtyle. Theesh young Englishmen are not ushed to our ways. I hash a reason for being friendly to him.”

“What! because he is the nephew of Vanity Vaughan? Is that your reason, rabbi?”

“I shay, shpeak low! He’s in his shleeping room, and may hear you. A single word like that you shay might shpoil all my plans.”

“Well, father, I’ll talk in whispers, if you like. But what are your plans? You’ll let me know them, I suppose?”

“I will, Shoodith, but not shoost now. I hash an idea, mine daughter – a grand idea, it ish! And if all goes right, you, Shoodith, will be the richest woman in Shamaica.”

“Oh, I have no objection to that – to be the richest woman in Jamaica, with a prince for my footman! Who won’t envy Judith Jessuron, the daughter of the slave-merchant?”

“Shtay! a word about that, Shoodith dear. In hish presence we musht say as little ash possible upon the subject of shlaves. He musht see no shlave-whipping here – at leasht till he gets ushed to it. Ravener musht be told to behave himshelf. I knowsh of more than one young Englishmans who left his place joosh for that very thing. He needn’t go among the field handsh at all. I’ll take care of that. But, dearest Shoodith! everything depends on you; and I knowsh you can, if you will.”

“Can what, worthy father?”

“Make this young fellow satishfied to shtay with ush.”

The look which accompanied these words betokened some other meaning, than what they might have literally conveyed.

“Well,” replied Judith, affecting to understand them literally, “I fancy there will not be much difficulty about that. If he’s as poor as you say, he’ll only be too well pleased to get a good situation, and keep it, too, I should think.”

“I’sh not so sure about that. He’sh a young man of a proud spirit. That ish proved by hish leaving his uncle ash he has done – without a shilling in hish pocket – and then to defy the Cushtos faysh to faysh! Blesh my soul! what a foolish young fellow he ish! He must be managed, Shoodith, dear – he must be managed; and you’re shoost the one to do it.”

“Why, father, to hear you talk, one would think that this poor young Englishman was a rich sugar estate – to be managed for some grand profit – ”

“Aha!” exclaimed the other, interrupting her; “maybe yesh – maybe he ish a rich sugar estate. We shee – we shee.”

“Now, had it been the grand guest of Mount Welcome,” continued Judith, without heeding the interruption; “had it been this lord of Montagu Castle that you wished me to manage,” – at the word the Jewess smiled significantly – “I might have come nearer comprehending you.”

“Ah! there is no schance there – no schance whatever, Shoodith.”

“No chance of what?” abruptly inquired the Jewess.

“Why, no schance of – that ish – ”

“Come, worthy rabbi, speak out! You needn’t be afraid to tell me of what you’re thinking: I know it already.”

“Of what wash I thinking, Shoodith?” The father put this question rather with a view to escape from an explanation. The daughter instantaneously answered,

“You were thinking, and I suppose still are, that I – your daughter, the child of an old nigger-dealer as you are – would have no chance with this aristocratic stranger who has arrived – this Mr Montagu Smythje. That’s your thought, Jacob Jessuron?”

“Well, Shoodith, dear! you know he ish to be the guesht of the Cushtos; and the Cushtos, ash I hash reason to know, hash an eye on him for his own daughter. Miss Vochan is thought a great belle, and it would be no ushe for ush to ashpire – ”

“She a belle!” exclaimed the Jewess, with a proud toss of her head, and a slight upturning of her beautiful spiral nostril; “she was not the belle of the last ball at the Bay – not she, indeed; and as for aspiring, the daughter of a slave-dealer is at least equal to the daughter of a slave – maybe a slave herself – ”

“Hush, Shoodith! not a word about that – not a whisper in the hearing of thish young man. You know he ish her cousin. Hush!”

“I don’t care if he was her brother,” rejoined the Jewess, still speaking in a tone of spiteful indignation – for Kate Vaughan’s beauty was Judith Jessuron’s especial fiend; “and if he were her brother,” continued she, “I’d treat him worse than I intend to do. Fortunately for him, he’s only her cousin; and as he has quarrelled with them all, I suppose – has he said anything of her?”

The interrogatory was put as if suggested by some sudden thought – and the questioner seemed to wait with considerable anxiety for the answer.

“Of hish cousin Kate, you mean?”

“Why, who should I mean!” demanded Judith, bluntly. “There is no other she in Mount Welcome the young fellow is likely to be talking about; nor you either – unless, indeed, you’ve still got that copper-coloured wench in your head. Of course, it’s Kate Vaughan I mean. What says he of her? He must have seen her – short as his visit seems to have been; and, if so, you must have talked about her last night – since you sat late enough to have discussed the whole scandal of the island.”

With all this freedom of verbiage, the Jewess seemed not to lose sight of the original interrogatory; and her frequent repetition of it was rather intended to conceal the interest with which she looked for the answer. If her words did not betray that interest, her looks certainly did: for, as she bent forward to listen, a skilled observer might have detected in her eyes that sort of solicitude which springs from a heart where the love-passion is just beginning to develop itself – budding, but not yet blooming.

“True, Shoodith, true,” admitted the slave-merchant, thus bantered by his own bold offspring. “The young man did shpeak of hish cousin; for I hash a wish to know what wash hish opinion of her, and ashked him. I wash in hopes he had quarrelled with her too; but, ach! no – he hashn’t – he hashn’t.”

“What might that signify to you?”

“Moch, moch, daughter Shoodith; a great deal.”

“You’re a mysterious old man, father Jacob; and, though I’ve been studying you for nearly a score of years, I don’t half understand you yet. But what did he say of Kate Vaughan? He saw her, I suppose?”

“Yesh. He had an interview with her. He saysh she behaved very kind to him. He’sh not angry with her. S’help me, no!”

This information appeared to produce no very pleasant impression upon the Jewess; who, with her eyes downcast upon the floor, remained for some moments in a thoughtful attitude.

“Father,” she said, in a tone half serious, half in simplicity, “the young fellow has got a bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. You have noticed it, I suppose? I am curious to know what he means by wearing that. Is it an order, or what? Did he tell you?”

“No. I notished it; but, ash he shayed nothings about it, I did not ashk him. It’sh no order – nothing of the kind. His father was only a poor artisht.”

“I wonder where he procured that piece of ribbon?” said Judith, speaking in a low tone, and half in soliloquy.

“You can ashk him for yourself, Shoodith. There ish no harm in that.”

“No, not I,” answered Judith, suddenly changing countenance, as if ashamed of having shown the weakness of curiosity. “What care I for him, or his ribbon?”

“No matter for that, Shoodith, dear; no matter for that, if yoush can make him care for you.”

“Care for me! What, father! do you want him to fall in love with me?”

“Joosh that – joosh so.”

“For what reason, pray?”

“Don’t ash know. I hash a purpose. You shall know it in good time, Shoodith. You make him in luff with you – over head and earsh, if you like.”

The counsel did not appear averse to her who received it. Anything but displeasure was in her looks as she listened to it.

“But what,” asked she, after a reflective pause, and laughing as she spake, “what if, in luring him, I should myself fall into the lure? They say that the tarantula is sometimes taken in its own trap.”

“If you succeed in catching your fly, mine goot shpider Shoodith, that won’t signify. So much the better ish that. But fusht catch your fly. Don’t let go the shtrings of your heart, till you hash secured hish; and then you may do as you pleashe about falling in luff with him. Hush! I hear him coming from hish shamber. Now, Shoodith dear, show him every reshpect. Shower on him your sweetest of shmiles!”

And terminating the dialogue with this parental injunction, Jacob Jessuron walked off to conduct his guest into the great hall.

“Ah! worthy father!” said Judith, looking after him with a singular expression upon her countenance, “for once, you may find me a dutiful daughter; though not for you or your purpose – whatever that may be. I have my suspicion of what it is. No: not for that either – grand destiny as it might be deemed. There is something grander still – a passion perilous to play with; and just for that peril shall I play with it. Ha – he comes! How proud his step! He looks the master, and yon old Israelite his overseer – his book-keeper – ha! ha! ha!”

“Ach!” she exclaimed, suddenly checking her laughter, and changing her smile to a frown; “the ribbon! he wears it still! What can it mean? No matter now! Ere long I shall unravel the skein of its silken mystery – even if this heart should be torn in the attempt!”

Chapter 33

Another of the Same

On that same morning, and about the same hour, a scene of remarkable parallelism was passing at Mount Welcome. Loftus Vaughan was holding dialogue with his daughter, as Jacob Jessuron with Judith – the subject very similar – the motives of planter and penn-keeper equally mean.

“You have sent for me, papa?” said Kate, entering the great hall in obedience to a summons from her father.

“Yes, Catherine,” replied Mr Vaughan, in a tone of unwonted gravity.

The grave tone was not needed. The “Catherine” was enough to tell Kate that her father was in one of his serious moods: for it was only when in this vein, that he ever pronounced her baptismal name in full.

“Sit down there,” he proceeded, pointing to a fauteuil in front of where he was himself seated. “Sit down, my daughter, and listen: I have something of importance to say to you.”

The young lady obeyed in silence, and not without a little of that reluctant gaucherie[510] which patients display when seating themselves in front of a physician, or a naughty child composing itself to listen to the parental lecture.

The natural gaiety of “Lilly Quasheba” was not easily restrained; and though the unusual gravity depicted in her father’s face might have checked it, the formality with which he was initiating the interview had an opposite effect. At the corners of her pretty little mouth might have been observed something that resembled a smile.

Her father did observe something that resembled it.

“Come, Catherine!” said he, reprovingly, “I have called you out to talk over a serious matter. I expect you to listen seriously, as becomes the subject.”

“Oh! papa, how can I be serious, till I know the subject? You are not ill, I hope?”

“Tut, no – no. It has nothing to do with my health – which, thank Providence, is good enough – nor yours neither. It is our wealth, not our health, that is concerned – our wealth, Catherine!”

The last phrase was uttered with emphasis, and in a confidential way, as if to enlist his daughter’s sympathies upon the subject.

“Our wealth, papa? I hope nothing has happened? You have had no losses?”

“No, child,” replied Mr Vaughan, now speaking in a fond, parental tone; “nothing of the sort, thanks to fortune, and perhaps a little to my own prudence. It is not losses I am thinking about, but gains.”

“Gains!”

“Ay, gains – gains, Catherine, which you can assist me in obtaining.”

“I, papa? How could I assist you? I know nothing of business – I am sure I know nothing.”

“Business! ha! ha! It’s not business, Kate. The part which you will have to play will be one of pleasure – I hope so, at least.”

“Pray tell me what it is, papa! I am sure I’m fond of pleasure at all times – everybody knows that.”

“Catherine!” said her father, once more adopting the grave tone, “do you know how old you are?”

“Certainly, papa! at least, what I have been told. Eighteen – just past last birthday.”

“And do you know what young girls should, and generally do, think about, when they come to be of that age?”

Kate either affected or felt profound ignorance of the answer she was expected to make.

“Come!” said Mr Vaughan, banteringly, “you know what I mean, Catherine?”

“Indeed, papa, I do not. You know I keep no secrets from you; you taught me not. If I had any, I would tell them to you.”

“I know you’re a good girl, Kate. I know you would. But that is a sort of secret I should hardly expect you to declare – even to me, your father.”

“Pray what is it, papa?”

“Why, at your age, Kate, most girls – and it is but right and natural they should – take to thinking about a young man.”

“Oh! that is what you mean! Then I can answer you, papa, that I have taken to thinking about one.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Mr Vaughan, in a tone of pleased surprise; “you have, have you?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Kate, with an air of the most innocent naïveté. “I have been thinking of one – and so much, that he is scarce ever out of my mind.”

“Ha!” said the Custos, repeating his exclamation of surprise, and rather taken aback by a confession so unexpectedly candid. “Since how long has this been, my child?”

“Since how long?” rejoined Kate, musingly.

“Yes. When did you first begin to think of this young man?”

“Oh! the day before yesterday, after dinner – ever since I first saw him, father.”

“At dinner you first saw him,” said Mr Vaughan, correcting his daughter. “But, no matter for that,” he continued, gleefully rubbing his hands together, and not noticing the puzzled expression upon Kate’s countenance. “It might be, that you did not think of him in the first moments of your introduction. It’s not often people do. A little bashfulness has to be got over. And so then, Kate, you like him now – you think you like him now?”

“Oh! father, you may be sure I do – better than any one I ever saw – excepting yourself, dear papa.”

“Ah! my little chit, that’s a different sort of liking – altogether different. The one’s love – the other is but filial affection – each very well in its place. Now, as you’re a good girl, Kate, I have a bit of pleasant news for you.”

“What is it, papa?”

“I don’t know whether I should tell you or not,” said the Custos, playfully patting his daughter upon the cheek; “at least, not now, I think. It might make you too happy.”

“Oh, papa! I have told you what you wished me; and I see it has made you happy. Surely you will not conceal what you say will do the same for me? What is the news?”

“Listen, then, Kate!”

Mr Vaughan bending forward, as if to make his communication more impressive, pronounced in a whisper: —

“He reciprocates your feeling – he likes you!”

“Father, I fear he does not,” said the young Creole, with a serious air.

“He does – I tell you so, girl. He’s over head and ears in love with you. I know it. In fact, I saw it from the first minute. A blind man might have perceived it; but then a blind man can see better than a young lady that’s in love. Ha! ha! ha!”

Loftus Vaughan laughed long and loudly at the jest he had so unexpectedly perpetrated: for at that moment he was in the very mood for merriment. His dearest dream was about to be realised. Montagu Smythje was in love with his daughter. That he knew before. Now his daughter had more than half admitted – in fact, quite confessed – that she liked Smythje; and what was liking but love?

“Yes, Kate,” said he, as soon as his exultation had to some extent subsided, “you are blind, you little silly – else you might have seen it before. His behaviour would show how much he cares for you.”

“Ah! father, I think that his behaviour would rather show that he cares not for either of us. He is too proud to care for any one.”

“What! too proud? Nonsense! it’s only his way. Surely he has not shown anything of that to you, Kate?”

“I cannot blame him,” continued the young girl, still speaking in a serious tone. “The fault was not his. Your treatment of him, father – you must not be angry at me for telling you of it – now that I know all, dear papa – was it not enough to make him act as he has done?”

“My treatment of him!” cried the Custos, with a self-justifying, but puzzled look. “Why, child, you rave! I could not treat him better, if I was to try ever so. I have done everything to entertain him, and make him feel at home here. As to what he has done, it’s all nonsense about his pride: at least, with us he has shown nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he is acting admirably throughout the whole matter. Certainly, no man could behave with more politeness to you than Mr Smythje is doing?”

“Mr Smythje!”

The entrance of this gentleman at the moment prevented Mr Vaughan from noticing the effect which the mention of his name had produced: an unexpected effect, as might have been seen by the expression which Kate’s features had suddenly assumed.

But for that interruption – hindering the éclaircissement which, no doubt, his daughter would on the instant have made – Mr Vaughan might have sat down to breakfast with his appetite considerably impaired.

His guest requiring all his attention, caused him to withdraw suddenly from the dialogue; and he appeared neither to have heard the exclamatory repetition of Smythje’s name, nor the words uttered by Kate in a lower tone, as she turned towards the table: —

“I thought it was Herbert!”

Chapter 34

A Sweetheart Expected

The departure of the young Englishman, under the conduct of Quaco, was a signal for the black band to disperse.

At a word from their chief, they broke up into knots of two or three individuals each; and went off in different directions – disappearing amid the underwood as silently as they had emerged from it.

Cubina alone remained in the glade, the captured runaway cowering upon a log beside him.

For some minutes, the Maroon captain stood resting upon his gun – which one of his followers had brought up – his eyes fixed upon the captive. He appeared to be meditating what course he should pursue in relation to the unfortunate slave; and the shadow upon his countenance told that some thought was troubling him.

The Maroon captain felt himself in a dilemma. His duty was in conflict with his desires. From the first, the face of the captive had interested him; and now that he had time to scan it more narrowly, and observe its noble features, the idea of delivering him up to such a cruel master, as he whose initials he bore upon his breast, became all the more repugnant.

Duty demanded him to do so. It was the law of the land – one of the terms of the treaty by which the Maroons were bound – and disobedience to that law would be certain to meet with punishment stringent and severe.

True, there was a time when a Maroon captain would have held obedience to this law more lightly; but that was before the conquest of Trelawney[511] town – or rather its traitorous betrayal – followed by the basest banishment recorded among men.

That betrayal had brought about a change. The Maroons who had avoided the forced exile, and still remained in the mountain fastnesses, though preserving their independence, were no longer a powerful people – only a mere remnant, whose weakness rendered them amenable, not only to the laws of the island, but to the tyranny and caprice of such planter-justices as might choose to persecute them.

Such was the position of Cubina and his little band, who had established themselves in the mountains of Trelawney.

With the Maroon captain, therefore, it was a necessity as well as a duty, to deliver up the runaway captive. Failing to do so, he would place his own liberty in peril. He knew this, without the threat which Ravener had fulminated in such positive terms.

His interest also lay in the line of his duty. This also he could understand. The captive was a prize for which he would be entitled to claim a reward – the bounty.

Not for a moment was he detained by this last consideration. The prospect of the reward would have had no weight with him whatever; it would not even have cost him a reflection, but that, just then, and for a very singular purpose, Cubina required money.

This purpose was revealed in a soliloquy that at that moment escaped from his lips.

“Crambo!” he muttered, using an exclamation of the Spanish tongue, still found in a corrupted form among the Maroons; “if it wasn’t that I have to make up the purchase-money of Yola – Por Dios! he is as like to Yola as if he was her brother! I warrant he is of the same nation – perhaps of her tribe. Two or three times he has pronounced the word Foolah. Besides, his colour, his shape, his hair – all like hers. No doubt of it, he’s a Foolah.”

The last word was uttered so loud as to reach the ear of the runaway.

“Yah! Foolah, Foolah!” he exclaimed, turning his eyes appealingly upon his captor. “No slave – no slave!” added he, striking his hand upon his breast as he repeated the words.

“Slave! no slave!” echoed the Maroon, with a start of surprise; “that’s English enough. They’ve taught him the ugly word.”

“Foolah me – no slave!” again exclaimed the youth, with a similar gesture to that he had already made.

“Something curious in this,” muttered the Maroon, musingly. “What can he mean by saying he is no slave – for that is certainly what he is trying to say? Slave he must be; else how did he get here? I’ve heard that a cargo has been just landed, and that the old Jew got most or all of them. This young fellow must be one of that lot. Very likely he’s picked up the words aboard ship. Perhaps he is speaking of what he was in his own country. Ah, poor devil! he’ll soon find the difference here!

“Santos Dios!” continued the Maroon, after a pause, in which he had been silently regarding the countenance of the newly-arrived African. “It’s a shame to make a slave of such as he – a hundred times more like a freeman than his master. Poor fellow! it’s a hard row he’ll have to hoe. I feel more than half-tempted to risk it, and save him from such a fate.”

As this half-determination passed through the mind of the Maroon, a noble and proud expression came over his features.

“If they had not seen him in my possession;” he continued to reflect; “but the overseer and those Spanish poltroons know all, and will – Well, let them! – at all events I shall not take him back till I’ve seen Yola. No doubt she can talk to him. If he’s Foolah she can. We’ll hear what he’s got to say, and what this ‘no slave’ means.”

On saying this, the speaker turned his eyes upward; and appeared for some moments to scan the sun.

“Good,” he exclaimed. “It is near the hour. I may expect her at any moment. Oh! I must have him out of sight, and these dead dogs, too, or my timid pet will be frayed. There’s been so much doing about here – blood and fire – she will scarcely know the old trysting-place. Hark you, Foolah! Come this way, and squat yourself in here till I call you out again.”

To the runaway the gestures of his captor were more intelligible than his words. He understood by them that he was required to conceal himself between the buttresses of the ceiba; and, rising from the log, he readily obeyed the requisition.

The Maroon captain seized the tail of one of the dead bloodhounds; and, after trailing the carcase for some distance across the glade, flung it into a covert of bushes.

Returning to the ceiba, in a similar manner he removed the other; and then, once more cautioning the runaway to remain silent in his concealment, he awaited the approach of her who had given him assignation.

Chapter 35

A Love Scene under the Ceiba

The lover who is beloved need never fear disappointment. True to her tryst, and punctual to the time, did the expected sweetheart make her appearance within the glade.

With shy but graceful mien, she advanced towards the ceiba, and with sufficient firmness of step to show that she came not in doubt. A smile, confident and slightly coquettish, dancing in her dark eyes, and playing upon her prettily-curved lips, told of a love already plighted – at the same time betokening full faith in the vows that had been exchanged.

Cubina stepped forth to receive her; and the lovers met in the open ground, at some distance from the tree. Their demeanour at meeting told that it was not their first assignation; but that ofttimes before had they been together in that same rendezvous.

The presence of the runaway – not seen, however, from the spot – did not hinder Cubina from saluting his sweetheart with a kiss, nor prevent him from folding her for a short moment in his arms.

That spasm of exquisite pleasure passed, the dialogue began.

The girl spoke first.

“Oh, Cubina! news I have tell.”

“Come, my love – what news? Ah! you are looking grave, Yola; your news is not very joyful, I fear?”

“No, not joyful – bad news.”

“Let me hear them, love. Something Cynthy has been saying to you? You shouldn’t heed what that girl says.”

“No, Cubina, I no care what her me tell. I her know, wicked, bad girl. Not Cynthy say that thing me trouble now. Missa Kate me tell.”

“Ah! something Miss Vaughan has told you? I wouldn’t look for bad news from her. But what is it, dear Yola? Maybe, after all, it’s nothing?”

“Ah! yes, Cubina, something. I fear me keep from you long, long time.”

“Keep you from me! Surely Miss Vaughan don’t object to your meeting me?”

“No – not that. Something I fear me hinder from be – .”

“Be what?” inquired the lover, seeing that his sweetheart hesitated to pronounce some word, the thought of which was causing her to blush. “Come, dear Yola, don’t fear to tell me. You know we’re engaged. There should be no secret between us. What were you going to say?”

In a low, murmured voice, and looking lovingly in his eyes as she spoke, the girl pronounced the word “marry.”

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed the lover, in a confident tone. “I think nothing can occur to hinder that – at least, for a very long time. I have now nearly a hundred pounds laid by, and a lucky capture I’ve just made this morning will help still further to make up that sum. Surely the Custos will not require more than a hundred pounds; though if you were once mine,” continued the speaker, casting a look of smiling fondness upon his sweetheart’s face, “all the money in the world wouldn’t tempt me to part with you. I hope,” added he, speaking in a jocular air, “a hundred pounds will be enough to make you my slave?”

“You slave, Cubina?”

“Yes, Yola, as I am yours now.”

“Ah – that way, Yola yours; yours ever – evermore.”

“I will believe you, dear girl,” rejoined the lover, gazing, with a gratified look, in the face of his beloved. “I am very happy to think that in that way you are mine; and that I have, as you assure me, your heart and soul. But, dearest Yola, so long as another is the owner of your body – not with the right, but the powder to do, ay – indeed, almost as he might please – for who can hinder these proud planters from committing crimes of which they are their own judges? Ah! Yola, girl, it is fearful to reflect on their wicked doings. This very morning I have come across a sample of their cruelty; and when I think of you being in the power of one, it makes me feel as if every hour was a day until I can obtain your freedom. I am always in fear lest something may happen to hinder me.

“Just to-day I am in high hopes,” continued the lover, evincing the truth of his words by a pleasant smile. “I have succeeded in raising nearly the hundred pounds; and the bounty I expect to receive for the runaway I have caught will make it quite that.”

The girl returned no reply to this speech of her lover, but stood gazing upon him silently, and as if half reproachfully. Something of this kind he read, or fancied he read, in her looks.

“What, Yola, you are not satisfied with what I have said? You reproach me? Ah! true. I confess it is not a very creditable way of procuring your purchase-money. Maldito! what can I do? We Maroons have no other way of raising money, except by hunting the wild hogs, and selling their barbecued flesh. But that barely gives us a living. Crambo! I could never have got together a hundred pounds in that way. So do not reproach me, dear Yola, for what I’ve done. I assure you it goes against my grain, this man-hunting business. As for the young fellow I caught this morning, I’d risk a good real rather than give him up – if it wasn’t for the purpose of procuring your freedom. For that I must have the hundred pounds, which it is to be hoped will be enough to satisfy your master.”

“All, Cubina!” replied his slave-love, with a sigh, “that the bad news I you bring. Hundred pound no more enough. Only two days go, he have him offer twice so much for poor slave Yola.”

“Two hundred pounds offered for you!” exclaimed the Maroon, with a start of surprise, his brow becoming suddenly clouded. “Is that what you mean, Yola?”

“Ah, yes!” answered the slave, repeating her sad sigh.

“And who – who is he?” demanded the lover, in a quick earnest tone, at the same time that a gleam of jealous thought flashed from his dark eyes, like forked lightning across a clouded sky.

He knew that no man would have bid two hundred pounds for a slave – even for Yola – without some wicked motive. The girl’s beauty, combined with the extravagant offer, would have suggested the motive to one disinterested in her fate. How much more was it calculated to arouse the suspicions of a lover!

“A white man,” continued he, without waiting for the reply to his first question. “I need not ask that. But tell me, Yola, who is he that’s so desirous of becoming your owner. You know, I suppose.”

“Missa Kate me tell all. He Jew – wicked white man! Same who me take from big ship; and me first sell Massa Vaughan.”

“Ha!” sharply ejaculated the lover, “that old wretch it is? Wicked white man you may well call him. I know the old villain well. Crambo! what can he want with her?” muttered the Maroon, musingly, but with a troubled mien. “Some vile purpose, to a certainty? Oh, sure!” Then once more addressing himself to his slave sweetheart —

“You are certain, Yola, the old Jew made this offer?”

“So me say young missa.”

“Two hundred pounds! And Mr Vaughan refused it?”

“Missa Kate no allow Massa Vaughan me sell. She say ‘Never!’ Ah! young missa! she good for say so! No matter what money he give, she never let wicked white man buy Yola. She so say many time.”

“Miss Kate said this? Then she is good, she is generous! It must have been her doing, else the Custos would never have refused such a tempting offer. Two hundred pounds! It is a large sum. Well, I must begin again. I must work night and day to get it. And then, if they should refuse me! Ha! what then?”

The speaker paused, not as if expecting a reply from her who stood by his side, but rather from his own thoughts.

“Never mind!” continued he, his countenance assuming an expression partly hopeful, partly reckless. “Have no fear of the future, Yola. Worst come worst, you shall yet be mine. Ay, dearest, you shall share my mountain home, though I may have to make it the home of an outlaw!”

“Oh!” exclaimed the young girl, slightly frayed by the wild look and words of her lover, her eye at the same instant falling upon the red pool where the hounds had been slain. “Blood, Cubina?”

“Only that of some animals – a wild boar and two dogs – just killed there. Don’t let that frighten you, pet. You must be brave, my Yola; since you are to be the wife of a Maroon! Ours is a life of many dangers.”

“With you Yola no fear. She go any where – far over the mountains – to Jumbé Rock – anywhere you her take, Cubina.”

“Thanks, dearest! Maybe, some day, we may be forced to go far over the mountains – in flight, too, Yola. But we shall try to avoid that. If your master will only act right, there will be no need. If not, then you will fly with me – will you not?”

“What Cubina do, Yola do same; where he go, she go.”

The passionate promise was sealed by a kiss, followed by an interval of sacred silence.

“Enough, then!” said the lover, after the pause had passed. “As a last resource, we can do that. But we shall hope for the best; and, maybe, some good fortune may befall. My followers are true, and would help me; but, alas! all are poor hunters, like myself. Well, it may take some time before I can call you my own fearlessly, in the face of the world – longer, maybe, than I expected. Never mind for that; we can meet often. And now, dear Yola, listen to what I am going to say to you – listen, and keep it in your mind! If ever a white man insults you – you know what I mean? – if you are in danger of such a thing – as you would have been, were old Jessuron to become your master – ay, and who knows how, where, or when? – well, then, fly to this glade, and wait here for me. If I do not come, some one will. Every day I shall send one of my people to this place. Don’t fear to run away. Though I may not care to get into trouble about a common slave, I shall risk all to protect you – yes, my life, dearest Yola!”

“Oh, Cubina!” exclaimed the girl, in passionate admiration. “Oh, brave, beauty Cubina! you not fear danger?”

“There is no great danger in it,” returned the Maroon, in a confident tone. “If I had made up my mind to run away with you, I could soon take you beyond the reach of pursuit. In the Black Grounds we could live without fear of the tyranny of white men. But I don’t want to be hunted like a wild hog. I would rather you should become mine by honest means – that is, I would rather buy you, as I intend to do; and then we may settle down near the plantations, and live without apprehension. Perhaps, after all, the Custos may not be so hard with me as with the old Jew – who knows? Your young mistress is kind, you have told me: she may do something to favour our plans.”

“True, Cubina – she me love; she say never me part.”

“That is well; she means, she would not part with you against your will. But if I offer to buy you, it would be a different thing. Perhaps you might let her know all, after a while. But I have something to learn first, and I don’t wish you to tell her till then. So keep our secret, dear Yola, for a little longer.

“And now,” continued the Maroon, changing his tone, and turning towards the ceiba as he spoke, “I’ve got something to show you. Did you ever see a runaway?”

“Runaway!” said the girl; “no, Cubina – never.”

“Well, my love, there’s one not far off; he that I said I had captured this morning – only a little while ago. And I’ll tell you why I’ve kept him here: because I fancied that he was like yourself, Yola.”

“Like me?”

“Yes; and that is why I felt for the poor fellow something like pity: since it is to this cruel old Jew he belongs. From what I can make out, he must be one of your people; and I’m curious to know what account he will give of himself.”

“He Foolah, you think?” inquired the African maiden, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at the anticipation of seeing one of her own race.

“Yes; I am as good as sure of that. In fact, he has called himself a Foolah several times, though I can’t make out what he says. If he is one of your tribe, you will be able to talk to him. There he is!”

Cubina had by this time conducted his sweetheart round the tree, to that side on which the runaway was concealed between the two spurs.

The young man was still crouching within the angle, close up to the trunk of the ceiba. The moment the two figures came in front of him, and his eyes fell upon the face of the girl, he sprang to his feet, uttering a cry of wild joy. Like an echo, Yola repeated the cry; and then both pronouncing some hurried phrases in an unknown tongue, rushed together, and became folded in a mutual embrace!

Cubina stood transfixed to the spot. Surprise – something more – held him speechless. He could only think: —

“She knows him! Perhaps her lover in her own land!”

A keen pang of jealousy accompanied the thought.

Rankling it remained in the breast of the Maroon, till Yola, untwining her arms from the fond embrace, and pointing to him who had received it, pronounced the tranquillising words: —

“My brother!”

End of Volume One.

Volume II

Chapter 1

Smythje in Shooting Costume

Several days had elapsed since that on which Mr Montagu Smythje became the guest of Mount Welcome; and during the time neither pains nor expense had been spared in his entertainment. Horses were kept for his riding – a carriage for his driving – dinners had been got up – and company invited to meet him. The best society of the Bay and the neighbouring plantations had been already introduced to the rich English exquisite – the owner of one great sugar estate, and, as society began to hear it whispered, the prospective possessor of another.

The matrimonial projects of the worthy Custos – that had been suspected from the first – soon became the subject of much discussion.

It may be mentioned – though it is scarce necessary – that in his designs upon Smythje, Mr Vaughan was not left all the field to himself. There were other parents in the planter fraternity of the neighbourhood blessed with good-looking daughters; and many of them, both fathers and mothers, had fixed their eyes on the lord of Montagu Castle as a very eligible sample for a son-in-law. Each of these aspiring couples gave a grand dinner; and, in turn, trotted out their innocent lambs in presence of the British “lion.”

The exquisite smiled amiably upon all their efforts – adopting his distinguished position as a matter of course.

Thus merrily passed the first fortnight of Smythje’s sojourn in Jamaica.

On a pleasant morning near the end of this fortnight, in one of the largest bed-chambers of Mount Welcome house – that consecrated to the reception of distinguished strangers – Mr Smythje might have been seen in front of his mirror. He was engaged in the occupation of dressing himself – or, to speak more correctly, permitting himself to be dressed by his valet de chambre[512].

In the extensive wardrobe of the London exquisite there were dresses for all purposes and every occasion: suits for morning, dinner, and evening; one for riding, and one for driving; a shooting dress, and one for the nobler sport of the chasse au cheval; a dress for boating, à la matelot[513]; and a grand costume de bal[514].

On the occasion in question, Mr Smythje’s august person was being enveloped in his shooting dress; and, although a West India sportsman or an English squire would have smiled derisively at such a “rig,” the Cockney regarded it with complacency as being “just the thing.”

It consisted of a French tunic-shaped coatee of green silk velvet, trimmed with fur; a helmet-shaped hunting-cap to match; and a purple waistcoat underneath, embroidered with cord of gold bullion.

Instead of breeches and top-boots, Mr Smythje fancied he had improved upon the costume, by encasing his limbs in long trousers. These were of dressed fawn-skin, of a straw colour, and soft as the finest chamois leather. They fitted tightly around the legs, notwithstanding that the wearer was rather deficient in that quarter. Moreover, they were strapped at the bottoms, over a pair of brightly-shining lacquered boots – another error at which a true sportsman would have smiled.

Mr Smythje, however, was well satisfied with the style of his dress: as appeared from the conversation carried on between him and his valet Thoms, while the latter was making him ready for the field.

“’Pon honaw! a demmed becoming costume!” exclaimed he, surveying himself from head to foot in the mirror. “Dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”

“Pe Cod! it’s all that, yer honner!” replied Thoms, with just enough of an Irish accent to show that he was a Welshman.

The object, for which Mr Smythje was thus having his person apparelled, was a shooting excursion to the hills, which he designed making, in order to vary his pleasures by committing havoc among the ramier pigeons and wild guinea-fowl which, he had been told, abounded there.

The projected expedition was not any grand affair by appointment – merely an ordinary, improvised thing. The sportsman intended going alone – as the Custos on that day had some important business at the Bay; and Mr Smythje, by a ramble through the neighbouring woods, fancied he might kill the time between breakfast and dinner pleasantly enough. This was all that was intended; and a darkey to guide him all that was needed.

“Weally!” resumed the exquisite, after some moments spent in enthusiastic admiration of his person, “weally, Thoms, these Queeole queetyaws are chawming – positively chawming! Nothing in the theataw or opwa at all to compare with them. Such lovely eyes! such divine figaws! and such easy conquests! Ba Jawve! I can count a dozen alweady! Haw, haw!” added he, with a self-gratulatory giggle, “it’s but natywal that – dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”

“Parfectly natyeral, your honner,” replied Thoms, “considherin’ yer honner’s good looks.”

“Aw haw! that’s it, Thoms – that’s it. They can’t wesist.”

Either the lady-killer was not content with his twelve easy conquests, and wished to have the number more complete by making it “the baker’s dozen” – either this, or he was uncertain about his victory over one of the twelve – as would appear by the dialogue that followed between him and his confidential man.

“Hark yaw, Thoms!” said he, approaching the valet in a more serious way; “yaw are an exceedingly intelligent fellaw – yaw are, ’pon honnaw.”

“Thank yer honner. It’s keepin’ yer honner’s company has made me so.”

“Nevaw mind – nevaw mind what – but I have observed yaw intelligence.”

“It’s at yer honner’s humble sendee.”

“Ve-well, Thoms; ve-well! I want you to employ it.”

“In what way, yer honner? anything yer honner may desire me to do.”

“Yaw know the niggaw girl – the bwown girl with the tawban, I mean?”

“Miss Vaghan’s waitin’-maid?”

“Exactly – ya-as. Yolaw, or something of the sawt, is the queetyaw’s name.”

“Yis – Yowla; that’s her name, yer honner.”

“Well, Thoms, I pwesume you have excellent oppwotunities of holding convawsation with haw – the niggaw, I mean?”

“Plenty of oppurtunity, yer honner. I’ve talked with her scores of times.”

“Good. Now, the next time yaw talk with haw, Thoms, I want you to pump haw.”

“Pump her! what’s that, yer honner?”

“Why, dwaw something out of haw!”

“Feth! I don’t understan’ yer honner.”

“Not undawstand! yaw are stoopid, Thoms.”

“Keeping yer honner’s company – ”

“What, fellaw? keeping my company make yaw stoopid?”

“No, yer honner; ye didn’t hear me out. I was goin’ to say, that keeping yer honner’s company would soon take that out o’ me.”

“Haw – haw – that’s diffwent altogethaw. Well, listen now, and I’ll make yaw undawstand me. I want you to talk with this Yolaw, and dwaw some seek wets out of haw.”

“Oah!” answered Thoms, dwelling a long time upon the syllable, and placing his forefinger along the side of his nose. “Now I comprehend yer honner.”

“All wight – all wight.”

“I’ll manage that, don’t fear me; but what sort of saycrets does yer honner want me to draw out af her?”

“I want yaw to find out what she says about me – not the niggaw, but haw mistwess.”

“What the negur says about her mistress?”

“Thoms, yaw are intolawably stoopid this mawning. Not at all – not at all; but what haw mistress says about me – me.”

“Oh! fwhat Miss Vaghan says about yer honner?”

“Pwecisely.”

“Faith! I’ll find that out – ivery word af it.”

“If yaw do, Thoms, I shall be your debtaw faw a guinea.”

“A guinea, yer honner!”

“Ya-as; and if yaw execute yaw commission clevawly, I shall make it two – two guineas, do yaw heaw?”

“Never fear, yer honner. I’ll get it out of the negur, if I should have to pull the tongue from between thim shinin’ teeth af hers!”

“No, Thoms – no, my good fellaw! There must be no woodness. Wemember, we are guests heaw, and Mount Welcome is not an hotel. Yaw must work by stwategy, not stwength, as Shakespeaw or some other of those skwibbling fellaws has said. No doubt stwategy will win the day.”

And with this ambiguous observation – ambiguous as to whether it referred to the issue of Thoms’s embassy, or his own success in the wooing of Miss Vaughan – Mr Montagu Smythje closed the conversation.

Thoms now gave the last touch to the sportsman’s toilet, by setting the hunting-cap on his head, and hanging numerous belts over his shoulders – among which were included a shot-pouch, a copper powder-horn, a pewter drinking flask with its cup, and a hunting-knife in its leathern sheath.

Thus equipped, the sportsman strode stiffly from the apartment; and wended his way towards the great hall, evidently with the design of encountering the fair Kate, and exhibiting himself in his killing costume.

Chapter 2

A Cockney Sportsman

That he had obtained the interview he sought, and that its result had gratified him, might be inferred from the complacent smile that played upon his countenance as he sallied forth from the house. Moreover, in crossing the two or three hundred yards of open ground which separated the dwelling from the wooded slope of the ridge, he walked with an exalted, gingerly step – occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, as if conscious of being observed.

He was observed. Two faces could be seen at a window, one of which Mr Smythje knew to be that of Kate Vaughan. The other, of darker hue, was the face of the maid Yola.

Both were set in smiles. It did not matter to Mr Smythje whether the maid smiled or not; but he fondly fancied he could distinguish a pleased expression on the countenance of the mistress. He was at too great a distance to be certain; but he had little doubt of its being a look of intense admiration that was following him through his fine paces.

Had he been near enough to translate the expression more truly, he might have doubted whether he was the object of so much admiration; and had the remark made by Yola to her mistress reached his ear, with the clear ringing laughter it called forth, his doubts would have had a melancholy confirmation.

“He berry gran’, missa!” said the maid. “He like cock-a-benny turned yellow-tail!” – a plantation proverb, which, translated into plain English, means, that the coarse and despised little fish, the “cock-a-benny,” had become metamorphosed into the splendid and esteemed species known among the negroes as the “yellow-tail.”

As the sportsman neither heard the remark nor the laugh it elicited, he was enabled to carry his self-esteem into the woods unhurt and undiminished.

At his heels walked an attendant – a negro boy, whose sole costume consisted of an Osnaburgh shirt, with a huge game-bag slung over his shoulders, and hanging down to his hams. It was the veritable Quashie, post-boy, horseboy, and factotum.

Quashie’s duties on the present occasion were to guide the English buckra to the best shooting ground among the hills, and carry the game when killed. As there was no dog – pigeon and pintado shooting not requiring the aid of this sagacious animal – Quashie was to act also as finder and retriever.

For a full mile over hill and dale, through “brake, brush, and scaur,” tramped the ardent sportsman – his Ethiopian attendant, keeping like a shadow at his heels. Still not a head of game had as yet been bagged. Ramiers were scarce and shy, and as for the beautiful speckled hen – the exotic Numida meleagris – not as much as the crest of one could be seen. Their shrill skreek, like the filing of a frame saw, could be occasionally heard afar off; and the hope of getting sight of one enticed the sportsman still further into the forest.

Another mile was passed over, and another hour spent, almost equally unfruitful in events. A few ramiers had been sighted and shot at; but the thick corselet of feathers, that covers the bold breasts of these beautiful birds, seemed impenetrable to the shot of a gun; at least, they proved so to the double-barrelled “Manton” of the London sportsman.

Another mile traversed – another hour spent – still nothing bagged!

His want of success did not hinder the sportsman from growing hungry; and, at the end of his third mile, he began to feel a certain void about the epigastric region that called for viands. He knew that the bag which Quashie carried contained a luncheon that had been carefully provided and packed by the major-domo of Mount Welcome. It was time to examine this luncheon; and, seating himself under the shadow of a spreading tree, he directed the darkey to draw it forth.

Nothing loth was Quashie to respond to this request; for the weight of the bag, which he had been wincing under for some hours, and its distended sides, promised pickings for himself – after the grand buckra should satisfy his hunger.

Certainly, there appeared enough for both, and to spare: for on “gutting” the game-bag, a whole capon was turned out upon the grass, with sundry slices of bread, ham, and tongue, and all the paraphernalia of salt, pepper, and mustard.

A bottle of – claret[515] was found at the bottom of the bag; which, in addition to the flask of eau de vie[516] that the sportsman himself carried, and which he now laid aside to disencumber him, was liquid enough to wash down the savoury solids which the thoughtful steward had provided.

A knife and fork were also turned out; and, as Mr Montagu Smythje was more habile in the handling of these weapons than he was in the use of a gun, in a trice the capon was cut into convenient pieces. In an equally short space of time, many of these pieces had disappeared between his teeth, in company with sundry slices of the ham and tongue.

Quashie was not invited to partake; but sat near the grand buckra’s feet, wistfully watching his movements, as a dog would his master similarly occupied.

As the masticatory powers of the Cockney sportsman appeared to be of no mean order, Quashie’s look began to betray astonishment, mingled with a growing dread that the “oughts” he might be called upon to eat would be neither very numerous nor very bulky. Half the capon had already disappeared, with a large proportion of the odd slices of ham and tongue!

“I b’lieve de dam buckra glutton za gwine eat ’um all up – ebbery bit!” was Quashie’s mental, and not very good-humoured, soliloquy. “Ay, an’ drink ’um up too – ebbery drop!” continued he, in thought, as he saw Mr Smythje quaff off a full cup of the claret without taking the vessel from his lips.

Shortly after, another cup was poured into the same capacious funnel: for the exercise he had undergone, combined with the warmth of the day, had rendered the sportsman drouthy.

To the great chagrin of Quashie, and the no small mortification of Smythje himself, a worse misfortune than that of its being drunk befell the remainder of the claret. On setting down the bottle, after filling his cup for the second time, the sportsman had performed the act in an unskilful manner. The consequence was that the bottle, losing its balance, toppled over; and the balance of the claret trickled out upon the grass.

Both Quashie’s temper and patience were put to a severe test; but the buckra’s appetite being at length appeased, the débris of the feast – still a considerable quantity – remained to Quashie’s share; and he was directed to fall to and make his best of it.

The darkey was not slow in complying with the order; and, from the manner in which he went to work, it was evident, that unless Mr Smythje should make better shooting after luncheon than he had done before it, the game-bag would go back to the house much lighter than it had left it.

While Quashie was masticating his meal, the refreshed sportsman – his spirits elevated by the claret he had quaffed – bethought him of taking a stroll by himself. There was no time to be wasted – as the contingency of having to return to Mount Welcome with an empty bag had already begun to suggest itself; and after the sanguine expectations which his grand sporting costume must have given rise to – assisted by some little bravado he had indulged in while leave-taking – his failing to fulfil these expectations could not be otherwise than humiliating.

He resolved, therefore, to return to his shooting with a more serious earnestness, and, if possible, make up for the deficiencies of the morning.

Slinging on his horn and pouch, and laying hold of his gun, the sportsman once more started off, leaving his retriever busily employed in polishing off the “drumsticks” of the capon.

Chapter 3

Stalking a Turkey

It almost seemed as if the divine patron of the chase – the good Saint Hubert – had regarded the spilt wine as an oblation to himself, and, in return, had consented to give the sportsman success.

Scarce had the latter advanced two hundred yards from the spot where he had lunched, when his eyes were gratified by the spectacle of a large, fine-looking bird, perched upon the top of a tree stump.

At first he believed it to be a guinea-hen, but its dusk colour – it was brownish-black – forbade that supposition. It had a naked head and neck, just like a turkey; and in several other respects it resembled this well-known bird.

“A tawkey it is!” exclaimed Smythje, after scanning it a little. “A wild tawkey, by Jawve!”

The London exquisite had heard, somehow or somewhere, that the wild turkey was indigenous to America, and, of course, also to Jamaica – since Jamaica is part of America.

However erroneous the deduction, the reasoning satisfied Smythje; and, firmly convinced that he saw before him a wild turkey, he determined on taking measures to circumvent it.

The stump upon which the bird was perched, stood upon the edge of an opening, about a hundred yards from the spot where Smythje first came in sight of it.

To insure success, the sportsman dropped upon his knees, and crawled forward impressively, but with due caution. If he could only make thirty yards in advance, he knew his gun was good for the other seventy.

In fine, after considerable damage done to his fawn-skin trousers, the thirty yards were accomplished, and still the turkey remained upon its perch.

The gun was brought to bear upon the bird; Joe Manton did the work; and, simultaneously with the “bang,” the turkey was seen to tumble over, disappearing as it did so from the top of the stump.

The overjoyed sportsman hastened forward to secure his game; and soon arrived at the spot where he expected to find it.

To his surprise it was not there!

Had it taken to wing and escaped?

Impossible! He had seen it fall, and without a flutter. It must have been shot quite dead? It could not have come to life again?

He searched all about – going round the stump at least a dozen times, and carefully scrutinising every inch of the ground for a score of yards on each side – but no turkey could be found!

Had the unlucky sportsman been at all doubtful of the fact of his having killed the bird, he would have given up the search in despair. But upon this point he was as certain as of his own existence; and it was that which rendered him so pertinacious in his endeavours to find it. He was determined to leave neither stick nor stone unturned; and, to aid him in the prosecution of his search, he called loudly for his retriever Quashie.

But to his repeated calls no Quashie came; and Mr Smythje was forced to the conclusion that the darkey had either gone to sleep, or had strayed away from the spot where he had left him.

He had some thoughts of going back to look for Quashie; but, while he was meditating on the matter, an idea occurred to him, which promised to explain the mysterious disappearance of the bird.

The stump upon which the “turkey” had been perched could scarcely have been termed a stump. It was rather the trunk of a large tree, that had been abruptly broken off below the limbs, and still stood some fifteen or twenty feet in height, erect and massive as the tower of some ruined castle. Though quite a dead-wood, and without any branches of its own, it was, nevertheless, garnished with verdure. A complete matting of vines that grew around its roots, and parasites that sprang from its decaying sides, inclosed it with a tortuous trellis-work – so that only near its top could the shape of the old tree be distinguished.

At first the sportsman supposed that his game had dropped down among the ragged shrubbery; and he searched the whole of this with elaborate minuteness, but in vain.

It now occurred to him – and this was the idea that promised the éclaircissement spoken of – that the bird had not fallen from the stump, but had dropped dead upon the top of it, and there might still be lying!

The dead-wood, which, at its broken summit, appeared to be some five or six feet in diameter, rendered this conjecture probable enough; and Smythje resolved upon putting it to the proof, by climbing to the top. He would have appointed Quashie to the performance of this feat; but Quashie non esset inventus[517].

Several thick, cable-like vines, that struggled up to the summit, promised an easy means of ascent; and, although the Cockney could climb about as dexterously as a shod cat, he fancied there could be no great difficulty in attaining the top of the dead-wood.

Throwing aside his gun, he entered enthusiastically upon the attempt.

The feat was not so easy of performance but that it cost him an exertion. Stimulated, however, by the desire to retrieve his game and the reflections about the game-bag, already alluded to, he put forth his utmost energies, and succeeded in reaching the summit.

His conjecture proved correct. There lay the bird – not on the stump, but in it – at the bottom of a large cylinder-shaped concavity, which opened several feet down into the heart of the dead-wood. There it was, dead as the tree itself.

The sportsman could not restrain himself from uttering a cry of joy – as he saw his fine game at length secure within his reach.

It proved not exactly within his reach, however: as, upon kneeling down and stretching his arm to its full length, he found that he could not touch the bird, even with the tips of his fingers.

That signified little. It would only be necessary for him to descend into the cavity, and this he could easily do: as it was wide enough, and not over four feet in depth.

Without further reflection, he rose to his feet again and leaped down into the hole.

It would have been a wiser act if he had remembered the prudent counsel of the paternal frog, and looked before leaping. That was one of the most unfortunate leaps Mr Smythje had ever made in his life. The brown surface upon which the bird lay, and which looked so deceptively solid, was nothing more than a mass of rotten heartwood, honeycombed with long decay. So flimsy was it in structure, that though supporting a dead bird, it gave way under the weight of a living man; and the lord of Montagu Castle shot as rapidly out of sight as if he had leaped feet foremost from the mainyard of the Sea Nymph into the deepest soundings of the Atlantic!

Chapter 4

Smythje Embarrassed by his Boots

Rapid as was the pitch, and dark the abyss into which it was made, the sportsman was not killed. Neither was he much hurt: for the “punk” through which he had pitched, though not firm enough to support him, had offered some resistance to the velocity of his descent; and towards the bottom he had settled down more gradually.

But though neither killed nor yet stunned by the fall, he was for awhile as completely deprived of his senses as if he had been both. Surprise had bereft him not only of the power of speech, but of thought as well; and for some moments he was as quiet as Jack, after being jerked into his box.

After a time, however, feeling that, though badly scared, he was not much hurt, his consciousness began to return to him; and he made a scramble to recover his legs: for in going down, he had somehow got doubled up in a sort of tailor-fashion.

He found his feet after an effort; and, as he saw that light came from above, he raised his eyes in that direction.

It took him some time to make out the exact character of the place in which he was: for a thick “stoor” was swimming around him, that not only impeded his sight, but having entered his mouth and nostrils, had inducted him into a violent fit of sneezing.

The dust however gradually thinned away; and Smythje was enabled to “define his position.”

Above his head was a clear circular patch, which he knew to be the sky; whilst all around him was a dark brown wall, rising many feet beyond the reach of his outstretched arms. He became conscious that he was standing in the concavity of a huge upright cylinder, with a surface of corrugated rotten wood circling all around him.

As his senses grew clearer – along with the atmosphere – he arrived at a better understanding of the mishap that had befallen him. He did not, at first, regard it in the light of a misfortune – at least, not a very heavy one – and he was rather disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous adventure.

It was not till he began to think of climbing out, and had actually made the attempt, that he became aware of a difficulty hitherto unsuspected; and the contemplation of which at once inspired him with a feeling of alarm.

A second attempt to get out was unsuccessful as the first; a third equally so; a fourth had no better issue; a fifth was alike a failure; and after the sixth, he sank down upon the rotten rubbish in a state bordering on despair.

Well might he have exclaimed,

“Facilis descensus Averni, sed revocare gradum[518].”

But the mind of Mr Smythje was now under the influence of an indescribable awe, which excluded all thoughts of the classic.

When reflection came to his aid, it was only to make more certain the fearful reality of his situation. The more he reflected upon it, the more he became convinced of the peril into which his rash leap had precipitated him.

It was not simply a slight mishap – a ludicrous adventure – he no longer saw it in that light. Neither was it a mere misfortune; but a positive danger – the danger of his life.

Yes, his life was most certainly in danger; and he was not slow in arriving at this knowledge. The chain of inductive reasoning that led to it was but too palpably clear – every link of it – from premisses to conclusion. If he could not help himself out of the prison, in which by his unlucky leap he had incarcerated himself, who was to help him?

Hope could not long dwell upon Quashie. The darkey had been left some distance off; and since he had not answered to his calls, he must be asleep or straying. In either case – or even if awake and still on the ground of the bivouac – what chances would Quashie have of finding him?

Who was to find him, if not Quashie? Ah! who else? Who was likely to come that way?

Not a soul! The tree that contained him stood in the midst of a wild tract – a solitary forest all around – no roads, no paths – he had observed none. He might be there for a month without a human being approaching the place; and a week would be enough to finish him! Yes, in one week, perhaps far less, he might expect to die of starvation! The prospect was appalling.

And it so appalled him, that again his mind gave way under it, and relapsed into the stupor of despondence.

It is not natural that one should sink at once into utter despair, without making an extreme effort. The instinct of self-preservation – common to the lowest animals – will nerve even the weakest spirit of man. That of Montagu Smythje was none of the strongest, and had given way at the first shock; but, after a time, a reaction arose, stimulating him to make a fresh effort for his life.

Once more starting to his feet, he attempted to scale the steep walls that encircled him; but the attempt, as before, proved a failure.

In this last trial, however, he discovered that his exertions were greatly hindered by three special impedimenta – the tight fawn-skin trousers that, moistened with perspiration, clung closely around his legs; his boots; but, above all, the straps that bound boots and trousers together.

To get rid of these obstacles became his next thought; and the execution of such a design might appear easy enough.

On trial, however, it proved a most difficult undertaking.

From the confined space in which he stood, he could not get into a stooping attitude, so as to reach down to the straps and unbutton them; and so long as these remained buttoned, it was impossible to take off the boots. He could squat down tailor-fashion, as he had already done; but, in that posture the straps became so tightened, that to unbutton them was clearly out of the question. The delicate fingers of the dandy were unequal to the effort.

“Necessity is the mother of invention.” This adage held good in Smythje’s case: for it just then occurred to him to unfasten his suspenders instead of his straps, and divest himself of his under garments all at once!

For this purpose he rose to his feet; but in doing so, a better idea suggested itself: to cut off his fawn-skin inexpressibles just above the knees, and thus free boots, straps, and pantaloon bottoms all together!

He had left his hunting-knife by his brandy-flask, and both on the ground of the bivouac. Fortunately, however, a penknife, which he carried in his waistcoat pocket, would answer even better; and, drawing it forth, he proceeded to execute his design.

A cross section of the fawn-skins, just above the knees, was at once made; and then – by the alternate application of toe to heel – boots, trouser-bottoms, and all, were cast simultaneously, and Smythje stood in his stockings!

He did not remain long inactive. Danger urged him to exert himself; and once more he essayed to scale the walls of his tree-prison.

Alas! after many efforts – many oft-repeated, but unsuccessful clamberings – he was forced back to the appalling conviction that the thing was impossible.

He could get up within about four feet of the orifice; but there the surface, which had been long open to the atmosphere, was worn so smooth by the weather – besides being still wet and slippery from late rains – that he could find no holding place upon it; and at every endeavour to grasp the rotten wood, he lost his balance, and fell backward to the bottom.

These falls frequently stunned him, almost knocking the breath out of his body. They were from a considerable height – ten or twelve feet – and, but for the soft rubbish below, that modified the shock as he came down, one such descent would have been sufficient to cripple him for life.

Once more his spirit sank within him. Once more Smythje yielded to despair.

Chapter 5

A Tropic Shower

When reflection again favoured the unfortunate man – which it did after a short time had passed over – his thoughts took a new turn.

He made no further attempt at climbing out. Repeated trials had fully convinced him of the impracticability of that; and he was now satisfied that his only hope lay in the chance of Quashie or some one else coming that way.

It is true that this chance appeared grievously doubtful. Even should one pass near the dead-wood, how was he to know that he, Smythje, was inside it? Who would suspect that the old tree was hollow? and, least of all, that a human being was inclosed within its cylindrical cell – buried alive, as it were, in this erect wooden sarcophagus?

A person passing might see the gun lying upon the ground outside; but that would be no clue to the whereabouts of its owner.

After all, some one might be passing, and as he could not be seen, his only hope lay in making himself heard.

The moment this thought came into his mind, he commenced crying out at the highest pitch of his voice.

He regretted that he had not done so before: since some one might have passed in the interim.

After falling in, he had shouted several times during the moments of his first surprise: but while making his attempts to clamber out, he had desisted – the earnestness of his exertions having reduced him to silence.

Now that he comprehended the necessity of making a noise, he determined to make up for his former remissness; and he continued to send forth scream after scream with all the power of his lungs, at intervals varying his voice from an abrupt sharp screech, to the more prolonged and dismal monotone of a groan.

For nearly an hour did he continue this melancholy cavatina[519], without receiving any response beyond the echoes of his own voice, which reverberated through the concavity in hollow, sepulchral tones – a mournful monologue of alternate groanings and howlings, interrupted at intervals as the utterer paused to listen for a response.

But none came. No change took place in his situation, except one that was calculated to make it still more deplorable and forlorn. As if his lugubrious appeals had invoked the demon of the storm, the sky above became suddenly overcast with heavy black clouds; from which came pouring rain, such as might have fallen during the forty days of the deluge!

It was one of those tropic showers, where the water gushes from the sky, not in single, isolated drops, but in long, continuous streams; as if heavens canopy was one great shower-bath, of which the string had been jerked and tied down.

Though well sheltered from wind, the unfortunate Smythje had no roof – no cover of any kind – to shield him from the rain, which came down upon his devoted head, as though the spout of a pump had been directed into the hollow of the dead-wood. Indeed, the funnel-shaped orifice, which was wider than the rest of the concavity, aided in conducting a larger quantity of rain into it; and, but that the water found means of escape, by percolating through the mass of dry rubbish below, Mr Smythje might have been in danger of a more sudden death than by starvation: since, as he himself afterwards asserted, there fell sufficient water to have “dwowned” him.

If not drowned, however, he was well douched. There was not a stitch of clothing upon his person that was not wetted through and through: the silk velvet shooting-coat, the purple vest, and what remained of the fawn-skin trousers, all were alike soaked and saturated. Even his whiskers had parted with their crisp rigidity; the curls had come out of the tails of his moustaches; his hair had lost its amplitude; and all – hair, whiskers, and moustaches – hung dripping and draggled.

In that melancholy image of manhood that stood shivering in the hollow tree, it would have required a quick imagination to have recognised Mr Montagu Smythje, the débonnaire[520] sportsman of the morning.

Lugubrious as were his looks, they were nothing to compare with his thoughts. There were moments when he felt angry – angry at his ill-fortune – angry at Quashie – angry at Mr Vaughan, for having provided an attendant so inattentive to his duties. There were moments when he felt spiteful enough to swear. Yes, in that fearful crisis, Smythje swore – the owner of Mount Welcome and Quashie being alternately the object of his abjurations. Jamaica, too, came in for a share of his spite – its pigeons and guinea-hens, its trees, and, above all, its wild turkeys!

“The howwid Island!” he cried, in his anguish; “would to ma Makeaw I had nevaw set foot on its shaws!”

What, at that moment, would he not have given to be once more in his “deaw metwopolis?” Gladly would he have exchanged his tree-prison for a chamber in the King’s Bench – for a corner in the meanest cell which the Old Bailey could have afforded him!

Poor Smythje! he had not yet reached the climax of his sorrows. A new suffering was in store for him – one in comparison with which all he had undergone was but a mild endurance. It was only when that slimy thing came crawling over his feet, and began to entwine itself round his ankles – its cold clammy touch painfully perceptible through his silk stockings – it was only then that he felt something like a sensation of real horror!

He was on his legs at the moment; and instantly sprang upward, as if coals had been suddenly applied to the soles of his feet. But springing upward did not avail him, since it only resulted in his dropping down again on the same spot; and, as he did so, he felt writhing beneath his feet the slippery form of a serpent!

Chapter 6

A Dangerous Dance

Beyond the shadow of a doubt was Smythje standing upon a snake, or rather, dancing upon one: for as he felt the scaly creature crawling and writhing under his feet with a strong muscular action, it was contrary to human nature that he should remain at rest upon such a perilous pedestal.

For some moments he hopped about upon this dangerous dais, expecting every instant to feel the sharp sting of a bite. Any one who could have looked on him at that crisis would have seen a face white with horror, eyes starting from their watery sockets, and dripping hair and whiskers doing their best to stand on end.

Through his dark sky of dread a gleam of light flashed upon his spirit: he remembered having heard that in Jamaica there is no poisonous serpent.

It was but a spark of consolation. If the reptile could not sting, it could bite; and, being such an enormous creature as to cover with its coils the whole floor of his cylindric chamber, its bite should be a formidable one.

Perhaps, after all, it was not a single snake? Perhaps there was a whole family of serpents, crawling one over another, and wreathing fantastic figures of eight beneath his feet?

If so – and this was probable enough – he might be bitten by all; repeatedly bitten – torn to pieces – devoured!

What matter whether they were poisonous or not? He might as well perish from their fangs, as by their teeth!

Fortunate it was for Smythje that the snakes – for his conjecture that there were more than one was correct – fortunate for him that they were still half asleep, else the danger he dreaded might have come to pass. As it was, the whole band of reptiles had just been aroused from a state of torpidity – the wash of cold rain having reached them in their crushed cave, and scattered the mutual coil in which they had been cosily slumbering. Still only half awakened, in the confusion of their ideas they could not distinguish friend from foe; and to this was Mr Smythje indebted for the circumstance that his skin, and even his silk stockings, still remained intact.

Notwithstanding this, his dread remained undiminished, and incited him to a fresh effort at escape.

Only one mode suggested itself: to clamber up the “chimney” as far as he could go, and by that means get out of reach of the reptiles.

On conceiving this new design, he sprang upward, shaking the serpent coils from his feet; and, after a few seconds of scratching and scrambling, he arrived at an elevation of some ten feet from the bottom of the tree.

Here a slight projection offered a tolerable support for his posteriors; and, setting his toes well against the opposite side, he did his very best to sustain himself in position.

It was an irksome effort, and could not have lasted long – as to his consternation he soon discovered.

His strength would soon give way, his toes become cramped and nerveless; and then, losing his hold, he must inevitably drop down among the monsters below – who, perhaps, in a second collision with him, would be less chary about using their teeth?

The prospect of such a terrible fate stimulated him to put forth all his energies in preserving his balance and his place – at the same time that it drew from him cries of the keenest anguish.

His cries at this crisis proved his salvation. His strength was well-nigh exhausted; and he was on the point of letting go, when, just then, an object came before his upturned eyes that determined him to hold on a little longer – even should his toes be torn out of their joints.

Above him, and half filling the orifice of the hollow, appeared an enormous head, with a face black as Erebus, and two yellowish-white eyes shining in the midst of it. No other feature was at first seen; but presently a double row of great white teeth appeared, gleaming between a pair of freshly-opened purplish lips, of a massive, cartilaginous structure.

In the confusion of his senses Smythje was, for the moment, inclined to believe himself between two demons – one below, in the shape of a monstrous serpent, and the other above him, in human form: for the grinning white teeth, and yellow eyeballs rolling in sockets of sable ground, presented an appearance sufficiently demoniac.

Of the two demons, however, he preferred the company of the one who bore something of his own shape; and when a huge black arm – like the trunk of a young tree – with the hand of a Titan attached to it, was stretched down to him, he did not decline to take it; but eagerly clutching at the gigantic paw thus proffered, he felt himself raised upward, as lightly as if elevated upon the extremity of a “see-saw!”

In another instant he found himself upon the summit of the dead-wood, his deliverer standing by his side.

So much light rushing all at once into the eyes of the rescued Smythje, instead of enabling him to see distinctly, quite blinded him; and it was only by the touch that he knew a man was by his side, who, the next moment, lifting him with one arm carried him down to the bottom of the tree, with as much apparent facility as if he, Smythje, had been a little infant!

On reaching the ground, Smythje’s eyes had become sufficiently strengthened to bear the light; and then he saw, in full length, the individual who had rescued him from his perilous dilemma. He was a jet-black negro of colossal size, nearly naked, with a number of straps and strings passing over his shoulders, to which were suspended horns, bullet-pouches, and other accoutrements of a more mysterious kind. His head-dress was equally odd as the rest of his costume, and consisted simply of the crown of an old beaver hat, with the brim closely trimmed off just above the ears. This gave a ludicro-comic expression to the face, which, though black as ebony, was otherwise not disagreeable.

Still there was a wild look about the man, which, combined with his gigantic size, was calculated to impress one with the idea of his being no ordinary character.

Nor was he, for the deliverer of Mr Smythje was no other than our old acquaintance Quaco.

Smythje knew nothing of the Maroon. It might be a robber into whose hands he had fallen; but even so, the Cockney was no longer in a condition to be frightened. All fear had been scared out of him by his adventure with the snakes; and perceiving, from his amiable smiles, that his deliverer meant him no harm, he proceeded to give the latter a full account of all that had befallen him.

As soon as the sportsman had finished his narrative, Quaco, without saying a word, scrambled back to the summit of the dead-wood.

Fastening a cord, which he carried up with him, around the top of the stump, he fearlessly let himself down into the dark, snake-tenanted chamber, which Mr Smythje had been so glad to get out of!

He had not been more than half a minute out of sight, when a glittering object was seen projected above the top of the stump. It was of serpent form, and bright yellow colour. Wriggling and writhing, it hung, for a moment, suspended in the air; and then, yielding to the laws of gravitation, it came down with a thump upon the turf. Its large size, and its lines of black and gold, rendered it easy of identification as the “yellow snake” of Jamaica (chilabothrus inornatus).

Scarce had it touched the ground when a second and similar projectile was ejected from the hollow stump; and then a third – and another, and yet another, until no less than a dozen of these hideous reptiles lay scattered over the grass, to the no small consternation of Smythje, who, however, took care to keep well out of their reach.

After the dead-wood had been delivered of its last snake, an object of a far different character was seen to issue forth in a similar manner. It was a misshapen mass, of a dirty buff colour, and proved, upon inspection, to be one of Mr Smythje’s boots, still incased in its fawn-skin covering! Its mate soon followed; and then, the “wild turkey,” which had led the sportsman into his deplorable dilemma, and which now, with half its plumage gone, and the other half “drooked” and bedraggled, offered but a poor chance for the garnishing of his game-bag.

Smythje, however, too well contented at escaping with his life, thought no more of his game-bag, nor of anything else, but getting back to Mount Welcome by the shortest route possible.

His boots being restored to him, he lost no time in drawing them on, leaving the bottoms of his trousers in the companionship of the worthless “turkey,” which Quaco, better acquainted with the ornithology of Jamaica, on coming out of the hollow tree, assured him, was, after all, no turkey, but only a turkey-buzzard – a John Crow – in short, a stinking vulture!

Chapter 7

Quashie in a Quandary

During all this time, where was Quashie?

Mr Smythje did not know, and no longer did he care. Too glad to get away from the scene of his unpleasant adventure, he made no inquiry about his negligent squire; nor did he even think of going back to the place where he had left him. His deliverer had offered himself as a guide; and the road by which he conducted the sportsman from the dead-wood led in quite another direction. As to the empty game-bag left with Quashie, it made no difference what became of that; and, for the hunting-knife and brandy-flask, no doubt the darkey would see to them.

In this conjecture Mr Smythje hit the nail upon the head – at least so far as regarded the brandy-flask. It was by seeing too well to it, that Quashie had lost all sight of everything else – not only of the duties he had been appointed to perform, but of the whole earth and everything upon it. The buckra had not been twenty minutes out of his presence, when Quashie, by repeated application of the brandy-flask to his lips, brought his optical organs into such a condition, that he could not have told the difference between a turkey and a turkey-buzzard any more than Mr Smythje himself.

The drinking of the eau de vie had an effect upon the negro the very reverse of what it would have had upon an Irishman. Instead of making him noisy and quarrelsome, it produced a tendency towards tranquillity – so much so, that Quashie, in less than five minutes after his last suck at the flask, coggled over upon the grass, and fell fast asleep.

So soundly slept he, that not only did he fail to hear the report of Smythje’s gun, but the discharge of a whole battery of field-pieces close to his ear would not, at that moment, have awakened him.

It is scarce possible to say how long Quashie would have continued in this state of half-sleep, half-inebriety, had he been left undisturbed; nor was he restored to consciousness by human agency or living creature of any kind. That which brought him to himself – waking and, at the same time, partially sobering him – was the rain; which, descending like a cold shower-bath on his semi-naked skin, caused him to start to his feet.

Quashie, however, had enjoyed more than an hour’s sleep, before the rain began to fall; and this may account for the eau de vie having in some measure lost its influence when he awoke.

He was sensible that he had done wrong in drinking the buckra’s brandy; and as the temporary courage with which it had inspired him was now quite gone, he dreaded an encounter with the white “gemman.” He would have shunned it, had he known how; but he knew very well that to slink home by himself would bring down upon him the wrath of massa at Mount Welcome – pretty sure to be accompanied by a couple of dozen from the cart-whip.

After a while’s reflection, he concluded that his most prudent plan would be to wait for the young buckra’s return and tell him the best tale he could.

To say he had been searching for him, and that was how he had spent the time – was the story that suggested itself to the troubled imagination of Quashie.

To account for the disappearance of the cognac – for he had drunk every drop of it – the darkey had bethought him of another little bit of fabrication – suggested, no doubt, by the mischance that had befallen the bottle of claret. He intended to tell the grand buckra – and “thrape” it down his throat if need be – that he, the buckra, had left out the stopper of the flask, and that the brandy had followed the example set by the “heel-tap” of wine.

Thus fortified with a plausible story, Quashie awaited the return of the sportsman.

The sky cleared after a time, but no buckra came; nor yet, after a considerable spell of fine weather had transpired, did he make his appearance.

Quashie became impatient, and slightly anxious. Perhaps the English “gemman” had lost himself in the woods; and if so, what would be done to him, the guide? Massa Vaughan would be sure to punish him. In fancy he could hear the crack of the cart-whip resounding afar off over the hills.

After waiting a while longer, he determined to put an end to his anxiety, by going in search of the sportsman; and taking up the empty bag, along with the equally empty flask, and hunting-knife, he set forth.

He had seen Mr Smythje go towards the glade, and so far he could follow his trail; but once arrived at the open ground, he was completely at fault.

He had not the slightest idea of what direction to take.

After pausing to reflect, he took the right – that which would conduct him to the dead-wood, which was visible from the point where he had entered the glade.

It was not altogether accident that conducted him thither; but rather that, in that direction, he heard, or fancied he heard, voices.

As he drew near to the decapitated tree, a glittering object on the ground caught his eye. He halted, thinking it might be a snake – a creature of which most plantation negroes have a wholesome dread.

On scrutinising the object more closely, Quashie was surprised to perceive that the glittering object was a gun; and, on a still nearer acquaintance with it, he saw that it was the gun of the buckra sportsman!

It was lying upon the grass near the bottom of the dead-wood. What was it doing there?

Where was the buckra himself? Had some accident happened to him? Why had he abandoned his gun? Had he shot himself? Or had somebody else shot him?

Just at that moment the most lugubrious of sounds fell upon Quashie’s ear. It was a groan, long-drawn and hollow – as if some tortured spirit was about taking its departure from the earth! It resembled the voice of a man, as of some one speaking from the interior of a tomb!

The darkey stood horrified – his black epidermis turning to an ashy-grey colour, quick as the change of a chameleon.

He would have taken to his heels, but a thought restrained him. It might be the buckra still alive, and in trouble? In that case he, Quashie, would be punished for deserting him.

The voice appeared to issue from behind the dead-wood. Whoever uttered it must be there. Perhaps the sportsman lay wounded upon the other side?

Quashie screwed up his courage as high as it would go, and commenced moving round to the other side of the stump. He proceeded cautiously, step by step, scrutinising the ground as he went.

He reached the other side. He looked all over the place. Nobody there – neither dead nor wounded!

There were no bushes to conceal an object so large as the body of a man – at least, not within twenty yards of the stump. The groan could not have come from a greater distance!

Nor yet could a man be hidden under the trellis of climbing plants that clung around the underwood. Quashie had still enough courage left to peep among them and see. There was nobody there!

At this moment, a second groan sounded in the darkey’s ear, increasing his terror. It was just such a one as the first – long, protracted, and sepulchral, as if issuing from the bottom of a well.

Again it came from behind the stump; but this time from the side which he had just left, and where he had seen no one!

Had the wounded man crawled round to the other side, while he, Quashie, was proceeding in the opposite direction?

This was the thought that occurred to him; and to determine the point, he passed back to the side whence he had come – this time going more rapidly, lest the mysterious moaner might again escape him.

On reaching the spot from which he had originally set out, he was more surprised than ever. Not a soul was to be seen. The gun still lay in its place as he had left it. No one appeared to have touched it – no one was there!

Again the voice – this time, however, in a shrill treble, and more resembling a shriek! It gave Quashie a fresh start; while the perspiration spurted out from his forehead, and ran down his cheeks like huge tears.

The shriek, however, was more human-like – more in the voice of a man; and this gave the darkey sufficient courage to stand his ground a little longer. He had no doubt but that the voice came from the other side of the dead-wood; and once more he essayed to get his eyes upon the utterer.

Still in the belief that the individual, whoever it was, and for whatever purpose, was dodging round the tree, Quashie now started forward with a determination not to stop till he had run the dodger to earth. For this purpose he commenced circling around the stump, going first at a trot; but hearing now and then the groans and shrieks – and always on the opposite side – he increased his pace, until he ran with all the speed in his power.

He kept up this exercise, till he had made several turns around the tree; when, at length, he became convinced that no human being could be running before him without his seeing him.

The conviction brought him to an abrupt halt, followed by a quick reflection. If not a human being, it must be a “duppy, or de debbil hisself!”

The evidence that it was one or the other had now become overpowering. Quashie could resist it no longer.

“Duppy! Jumbé! de debbil!” cried he, as with chattering teeth, and eyeballs protruding from their sockets, he shot off from the stump, and “streaked it” in the direction of Mount Welcome, as fast as a pair of trembling limbs were capable of carrying him.

Chapter 8

A Scarcity of Trousers

Following his gigantic guide, Mr Smythje trudged unhappily homeward.

How different his craven, crestfallen look, from the swell, swaggering sportsman of the morning! while the condition of his person was not more dilapidated than that of his spirit.

It was no longer the disgrace of returning with an empty game-bag, but the chagrin which he expected to have to undergo, presenting himself at Mount Welcome in the “pickle” in which his adventure had left him.

He was now even in a more ludicrous plight than when Quaco had extracted him from the hollow tree: for the rain, that had long since ceased, had been succeeded by a blazing hot sun, and the atmosphere acting upon what remained of his wet fawn-skin trousers, caused them to shrink until the ragged edges had crept up to mid-thigh; thus leaving a large section of thin knock-kneed legs between them and the tops of his boots!

In truth, the sportsman had become the beau ideal of a “guy”; and, more than half conscious of this fact, he would at that moment have given the situation of book-keeper on his estate to any individual who should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons.

His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles Quaco was no better provided than himself.

Verily, the prospect was appalling!

Could he reach the house, and steal to his own chamber unseen? What chance was there of his doing so?

On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in Jamaica, was a cage – open on every side. It was almost beyond the bounds of probability that he could enter the house unobserved.

Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno – the secret of rendering one’s-self invisible! What would Smythje not have given for a ten minutes’ hire of that Carthaginian[521] cloud?

The thought was really in his mind; for Smythje, like all young Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics.

The idea, moreover, proved suggestive. If there was no probability of being provided with the nimbus of Juno, there was the possibility of shadowing himself under the nimbus of night. Darkness once on, he might enter the house, reach his chamber unperceived, and thus escape the unpleasant exposure he so much dreaded.

Smythje stopped, looked at his guide, looked at the sun, and lastly at his naked knees – now, from the enfeebled state of his limbs, oscillating towards each other.

Mount Welcome was in sight. The guide was about to leave him; and, therefore, in whatever way he might choose to act, there would be no witness.

Just then the Maroon made his adieus, and the ci-devant sportsman was left to himself.

Once more he scanned the sun, and consulted his watch. In two hours it would be twilight. The crepusculous interval would enable him to approach the house; and in the first moments of darkness – before the lamps were lit – he might enter unobserved – or, at all events, his plight might not very plainly be perceived.

The scheme was feasible, and having determined to adopt it, Smythje cowered down in the covert, and awaited the setting of the sun.

He counted the hours, the half-hours, and minutes – he listened to the voices coming up from the negro village – he watched the bright-winged birds that fluttered among the branches overhead, and envied them their complete plumage.

Notwithstanding many rare sights and sweet sounds that reached him, the two hours spent in his secret lair were not passed pleasantly – solicitude about the success of his scheme robbing him of all zest for the enjoyment of that fair scene that surrounded him.

The hour of action drew nigh. The sun went down over the opposite ridge, where lay Montagu Castle, his own domain. The twilight, like a purple curtain, was gently drawn over the valley of Mount Welcome. It was time to start.

Smythje rose to his feet; and, after making a reconnoissance of the ground before him, set off in the direction of the house.

He aimed at keeping as much as possible under cover of the woods; and this he was enabled to do – the pimento groves on that side stretching down to the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling.

He had got past the negro village – keeping it upon his right – without being observed. To both the “quarter” and the sugar works he gave as wide a berth as the nature of the ground would permit.

He succeeded in reaching the platform on which the house stood – so far unperceived.

But the moment of peril was not yet past. The dangerous ground still lay before him, and had still to be traversed. This was the open parterre in front of the house: for it was to the front that the path had conducted him.

It was dusk; and no one appeared – at least he could see no one – either on the stair-landing or in the windows of the great hall. So far good.

A rush for the open doorway, and then on to his own chamber, where Thoms would soon clothe him in a more becoming costume.

He started to make the rush, and had succeeded in getting half-way across the parterre, when, all at once, a crowd of people, carrying large flaming torches above their heads, appeared, coming from the rear of the dwelling.

They were the domestics and some field hands of the plantation, with Trusty, the overseer, at their head.

One might have fancied that they were setting out upon some ceremonious procession; but their hurried advance, and the presence of Quashie trotting in the lead, proclaimed a different purpose.

Smythje divined their errand. They were going in search of himself!

The sight filled him with despair. The torch-bearers had anticipated him. They had already reached the front of the house, and the glare of their great flambeaux illuminated every object, as if a new sun had suddenly shot up athwart the sky!

There was no chance of successfully running the gauntlet under that bright flame: Smythje saw not the slightest.

He stopped in his tracks. He would have retreated back among the bushes, and there awaited the departure of the torch-bearers, but he feared that his retrograde movement would attract their eyes upon him; and then all would be over – his adventure terminating in the most undesirable manner.

Instead of retreating, therefore, he stood where he had stopped – fixed and immobile, as if pinned to the spot.

At that moment two figures appeared on the top of the stairway – in the brilliant light easily recognisable as the planter and his daughter. The maid Yola was behind them. Mr Vaughan had come out to give some directions about the search.

All three stood facing the crowd of torch-bearers, and, of course, fronting towards Smythje.

The planter was just opening his lips to speak, when a cry from the maid, echoed by her young mistress, interrupted him. The sharp eyes of the Foolah had fallen upon Smythje, whose wan, white face, shining under the light of the links, resembled those of the statues that were set over the parterre.

Smythje was among the shrubbery; and as the girl knew that no statue stood there, the unexpected apparition had elicited her cry of alarm.

All eyes were instantly turned upon the spot, while the torch-bearers, with Trusty at their head, hurried towards it.

There was no chance of escape. The unfortunate sportsman was discovered and brought broadly into the light, under the fierce battery of eyes – among others, the eyes of his lady-love, that, instead of expressing sympathy for his forlorn condition, appeared rather to sparkle with satirical delight!

It was a terrible catastrophe – to be contemplated in such a plight; and Smythje, hurrying through the crowd, lost no time in withdrawing from observation by betaking himself to his chamber; where, under the consolatory encouragement of the sympathising Thoms, he was soon rendered presentable.

Chapter 9

Herbert in the Happy Valley

Inappropriate as Jacob Jessuron’s neighbours may have deemed the title of his estate – the Happy Valley – Herbert Vaughan had no reason to regard it as a misnomer. From the hour in which he entered upon his situation of book-keeper, it was a round of pleasures, rather than duties, that he found himself called upon to fulfil; and his new life, so far from being laboriously spent, was one continued scene, or series of scenes, of positive pastime.

Instead of keeping books, or looking after slaves – or, in short, doing anything that might be deemed useful – most of his time was spent in excursions, that had no other object than recreation or amusement. Drives to the Bay – in which he was accompanied by Jessuron himself, and introduced to his mercantile acquaintances; visits to neighbouring penns and plantations with the beautiful Judith – in which he was made acquainted with her circle; fishing parties upon the water, and picnics in the woods: all these were afforded him without stint.

He was furnished with a fine horse to ride; dogs and equipments for the chase; everything, in short, calculated to afford him the life of a gentleman of elegant leisure. A half-year’s salary had been advanced to him unasked – thus delicately giving him the means of replenishing his wardrobe, and enabling him to appear in proper costume for every occasion.

Certainly, the prospects of the poor steerage-passenger seemed to have undergone a change for the better. Through the generosity of his unexpected patron, he was playing a rôle at the Jew’s penn not unlike that which his fellow-voyager was, at that very time, performing at Mount Welcome; and as there was not much difference in the social rank of the respective circles in which they were each revolving, it was by no means improbable that the two might meet again, and upon a more equal footing than formerly.

To do Herbert Vaughan justice, it should be stated that he was more surprised than gratified by the luxurious life he was leading. There was something rather extraordinary in the generous patronage of the Jew – something that puzzled him not a little. How was he to account for such kind hospitality?

Thus for days after Herbert Vaughan had made the Happy Valley his home, matters moved on smoothly enough to the superficial observer. Slight incongruities that did occur from time to time, were ingeniously explained; and the young Englishman, unsuspicious of any evil design, with the exception of the unwonted hospitality that was being bestowed upon himself, saw nothing extraordinary in the circumstances that surrounded him.

Had he been less the honoured guest of his Israelitish host, perhaps his perceptions might have been more scrupulous and discriminative. But the Arabs have a proverb – “It is not in human nature to speak ill of the horse that has borne one out of danger;” and human nature in the East is but the counterpart of its homonym in the West. Noble as was the nature of the young Englishman, still was it human; and to have “spoken ill of the bridge that had carried him safely over” – and from that desolate shore on which he had late been stranded – would have argued a nature something more than human.

If he entertained any suspicion of his patron’s integrity, he zealously kept it to himself – not with any idea of surrendering either his independence or self-respect; but to await the development of the somewhat inexplicable courtesy of which he was the recipient.

This courtesy was not confined to his Hebrew host. As Herbert had long been aware, his daughter exercised it in an equal degree, and far more gracefully. Indeed, among other transformations that had been remarked as occurring in the Happy Valley, the spirit of the fair Jewess seemed also to have sustained a remarkable change. Though upon occasions the proud, imperious temper would manifest itself, more generally now was Judith in a sentimental vein – at times approaching to sadness. There were other times when the old spitefulness would show itself. Then the spiral nostrils would curl with contempt, and the dark Israelitish eyes flash with malignant fire.

Happily, these rather ungraceful exhibitions – like the tornadoes of her native land – were rare: for a certain name – the cause that called them forth – was but rarely pronounced in her hearing. Kate Vaughan was the name.

Judith’s dislike for the young Creole had originated in a mere rivalry of charms. Both enjoyed a wide-spread reputation for beauty – oft descanted upon, and often compared, by the idle gallants of the Bay. These discussions and comparisons reached the ears of the Jewess; and, to her chagrin, the decisions were not always in her favour. Hence the origin of her enmity.

Hitherto it had been only envy; and, with a toss of the head, and a slight curl of the nostril, the unpleasant theme would be dismissed. Of late, however, a stronger emotion than envy had begun to exhibit itself; and, whenever the name of Kate Vaughan was introduced into the conversation – no matter how incidentally or undesigned – the eye of the Jewess would light up with a jealous fire, her lip quiver as if muttering curses, and she, who but the moment before seemed a very angel, would become all at once transformed into the semblance of a demon!

The behaviour of the Jewess admits of easy explanation. She was in love, and with Herbert Vaughan.

At first the motive had been part vanity, part coquetry – blended, however, with some serious admiration. Mingled also with this was a desire to vex Kate Vaughan: for, from the first, she had suspected rivalry in that quarter. Even though she had been made aware of the very short interview between the cousins, she could not feel satisfied but that something had passed between them; and there was that bit of ribbon, which Herbert still cherished, and of the symbolism of which she had vainly endeavoured to obtain a solution.

Her suspicions did not die out, as it might be supposed they would, in the absence of any demonstration on Herbert’s part towards his cousin. On the contrary, they only grew stronger as her own interest in the young Englishman increased, for then she could not understand how a young girl – Kate Vaughan, or any other – could have looked upon the man who had impressed her, without being herself impressed.

And she had become impressed by him, not gradually, but rapidly and profoundly; until her love had grown into a fierce passion – such as a tigress might be suspected of conceiving for her tawny mate.

Herbert Vaughan had passed scarce a week under the roof of the Jew’s mansion when its mistress was in love with him – to the ends of her fingers – to the very extreme of jealousy!

As for the object of this fervent passion, the young man was at this time altogether unable to analyse his own feelings.

It is true that the imperious spirit of the Jewess, aided by her endless wiles, had gained a certain ascendancy over him; but not so as to obliterate the image that had recently become impressed upon his heart.

In the short interview which he had had with his cousin Kate, Herbert Vaughan had looked, for the first time in his life, on one whom to look at was to love. The blue-eyed belle of his native village, the pretty barmaid at the inn, the sweet-faced chorister in the church – with other boyish fancies, already half obliterated by two months of absence – were swept instantaneously into the dustbin of oblivion by that lovely apparition. He was face to face with a woman worthy of his love – one who deserved every aspiration of his soul. Intuitively and at the first glance he had felt this; and still more was he impressed with it, as he pronounced those warm words on his painful parting. Hence the ardent proffer of the strong arm and the stout heart – hence the chivalric refusal of the purse, and the preference of a piece of ribbon.

Not that he had any reason to regard the latter as a love-token. He knew that the kind words that had been spoken in that short but stormy interview – as well as the offer of gold that had ended it – were but the promptings of a pitying heart; and rather a negation of love, than a sign of its existence. Glad as he might have been to have regarded the piece of ribbon as a guage d’amour, he could only prize it as a souvenir of friendship – of no higher signification than the purse to which it had belonged, or the gold treasure which that purse had contained.

Though sensible that he had no claim upon his cousin beyond that of kinship – though not a word had been spoken by her to show that she felt for him any other kind of regard, Herbert, strange enough, had conceived a hope, that some day or other, a more endearing relationship might exist between them.

Not for long was he cheered by this sweet expectancy. It was too transitory to stand the test of time. As day succeeded day, rumours reached him of the gay scenes that were transpiring at Mount Welcome. Especially was he informed of the contentedness of his cousin Kate in the society of the new companion which her father had provided for her.

The effect of this information was a gradual but grievous extinction of the slight hope which Herbert had conceived.

The circumstances with which chance had now surrounded him may have rendered these regrets less painful. Though his cousin cared not for him, he had no reason to feel forsaken or forlorn. By his side – and almost constantly by his side – was beauty of no common brilliance, showering smiles upon him of no ordinary attractiveness.

Had he been the recipient of those smiles only one day sooner – before the image of Kate Vaughan had made that slight impression upon his heart – he might the more readily have yielded to their influence. And, perhaps, on the other hand, could he have known how his image had fallen upon her heart, and made lodgment there, he might have offered a sterner resistance to the syren seductions with which he was now beset.

But lovers’ hearts are not things of glass; and though at times they resemble mirrors, mentally reflecting each other, too often, by the ruling of contrarieties, do the mirrors become reversed and with the reflecting images facing darkly inward.

In such a dilemma was the heart of Herbert Vaughan. No wonder he found a difficulty in effecting its analysis!

In a condition somewhat similar to Herbert’s was the heart of his cousin: though hers was easier to analyse. It was simply trembling under the influence of a first and virgin love. Two forms had been presented to it in the same hour, both in the blush of youthful manhood – one, a distinguished gentleman, the other, an humble adventurer.

The former had the additional advantage in priority of introduction; the latter was not even introduced. But the favourite does not always win. The earliest on the course may be the latest in the race; and though the heart of the young Creole, on its pure virgin page, had received love’s image at first sight, it was not that of him who first presented himself to make the impression.

Nor was she kept in ignorance of outward events. Her maid Yola was the medium by which she was acquainted with them. Through this medium she had heard of Herbert’s proximity – of his happiness and prosperity. The news would have given her joy, but that she had heard he was too happy. Strange that this should be a cause of bitterness!

The thoughts that succeeded – the hopes and fears – the dark doubts by day and by night – the dreams, often delusively bright – need not be detailed. There are none who have not known a first love; few who have not felt this chequered alternation of emotions.

As for the distinguished Smythje, he was not always in one mind. He, too, was troubled with an alternation of hopes and fears. The former, however, generally predominated; and, for the most part, he felt in his spirit the proud confidence of a conqueror. Often, with Thoms as his audience, might Smythje be heard exultingly repeating the despatch of Caesar: – “Veni, vidi, vici![522]”

Chapter 10

In Search of Justice

The mutual spite between planter and penn-keeper was of old standing – dating, in fact, from their first acquaintance with each other. Some sharp practice between them, in the sale and purchase of slaves, had given origin to it; and circumstances were always occurring to hinder it from dying out. This was more especially the case since the Jew, by the purchase of the Happy Valley estate, had become the contiguous neighbour – and, in point of wealth, almost the rival – of the proprietor of Mount Welcome.

On the side of the Custos there had been for some time past another feeling mixed up with his antipathy to his Israelitish neighbour – a vague sense of fear. This was of modern origin – dating from a period subsequent to the execution of Chakra, the myal-man – and begotten of some remarks which, as reported to Mr Vaughan, the Jew had made in connection with that ugly incident.

If nothing had of late transpired to increase this fear on the part of the Custos, a circumstance had arisen to strengthen his hostility. The protection which had been given to his discarded nephew, and the parade which his neighbour was making of him, had proved to the Custos a scandal of the most irksome kind; and almost every day was he made aware of some unpleasant bit of gossip connected with the affair. So irritated had he become with rumours, constantly reaching him, that his hatred for the Jew had grown stronger than ever before; and he would have given a dozen hogsheads of his best muscovado[523] to any one who would have provided him with the means of humiliating the detested penn-keeper.

Just at this crisis, chance or fortune stepped in to favour him, apparently offering the very opportunity he desired; and in a way that, instead of costing him a dozen hogsheads of sugar, was likely to put far more than that amount of property into his pocket.

It was the day before that on which Smythje had dropped into the dead-wood. The Custos was in his kiosk alone, smoking a plantation cigar, and conning over the statutes of the “black code” – a favourite study with him. Just at that moment Mr Trusty’s shadow was projected into the summer-house. “Well, Trusty, what is it?”

“There’s a man below wants to see your worship.”

“On what business, pray?”

“Don’t know,” answered the laconic overseer; “he won’t tell. Says it’s important, and can only communicate to yourself.”

“What sort of a man is he? Negro or white?”

“Neither, your worship. He’s a clear mulatto. I’ve seen him about before. He’s one of the Maroons that have their settlement over among the Trelawney Hills. He calls himself Cubina.”

“Ah!” said the Custos, showing a slight emotion as the name was pronounced; “Cubina! Cubina! I’ve heard the name. I fancy I’ve seen the man – at a distance. A young fellow, isn’t he?”

“Very young; though they say he’s the captain of the Trelawney band.”

“What on earth can the Maroon want with me?” muttered Mr Vaughan, half to himself. “He hasn’t brought in any runaways, has he?”

“No,” answered the overseer. “Thanks to your worship’s good management, we haven’t any of late – not since that old schemer Chakra was put out of the way.”

“Thanks to your good management, Mr Trusty,” said the planter, returning his overseer’s compliment, not without a show of nervous uneasiness, which the reference to Chakra had called forth. “Then it’s nothing of that kind, you think?” he hastily added, as if desirous of changing the theme.

“No, your worship. It cannot be: there’s not a runaway upon my list;” replied Trusty, with an air of triumph.

“Gad! I’m glad to hear it,” said the Custos, rubbing his hands together as an expression of his contentment. “Well; I suppose the young fellow has come to consult me in my magisterial capacity. In some scrape, no doubt? These Maroons are always getting themselves into trouble with our planters. I wonder who he’s come to complain about?”

“Well, that much I think I can tell you,” rejoined the overseer, evidently knowing more of the Maroon’s errand than he had yet admitted – for Mr Trusty was a true disciple of the secretive school. “If I should be allowed to make a guess, your worship, I should say it is something relating to our neighbour of the Happy Valley.”

“What! the Jew?”

“Jacob Jessuron, Esquire.”

“You think so, Trusty?” inquired Mr Vaughan, with an earnest and gratified look. “Has the young fellow said anything?”

“No,” answered the overseer; “it’s not anything he has said. I heard something a day or two ago about a runaway the Maroons have got among them – a slave belonging to the Jew. It appears they don’t want to give him up.”

“Whom did you hear it from?”

“Why, not exactly from any one, your worship. I should rather say I overheard it, quite by accident. One of the Trelawney Maroons – a big fellow that comes down here occasionally after Black Bet – was telling her something. I was passing Bet’s cabin, and heard him talking about this runaway.”

“Don’t want to give him up! And for what reason do they refuse?”

“Can’t tell, your worship. I could only make out part of the conversation.”

“So you think it’s about that the young fellow has come?”

“I think it likely, your worship. He’s close, however, and I couldn’t get a word out of him about his business. He says he must see you.”

“All right, then! You can show him in here. And hark ye, Mr Trusty! See Black Bet, and get what you can out of her. This is an interesting matter. A Maroon refusing to deliver up a runaway! There must be something in it. Perhaps the mulatto will tell me all about it; but whether he does or not, you may see Bet. You can promise her a new gown, or whatever you like. Show the young fellow up at once. I am ready to receive him.”

Mr Trusty bowed, and walked off in the direction of the works, where the Maroon had remained in waiting; while the Custos, composing himself into an official attitude, awaited the approach of his visitor.

“I’d give a good round sum,” soliloquised he, “to learn that the old rascal has got into some scrape with these Maroon fellows. I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, in gleeful anticipation, “I shouldn’t wonder! I know they don’t much like him – less since he’s taken the Spaniards into his pay – and I suspect he’s been engaged in some underhand transactions of late. He’s been growing grander every day, and nobody knows where all the money comes from. Maybe Master Maroon has a tale to tell; and, if it’s against Jessuron, I’ll take care he has an opportunity of telling it. Ah, here he comes! Egad, a fine-looking fellow! So, so! This is the young man that my daughter jokes Yola about! Well, I don’t wonder the Foolah should have taken a fancy to him; but I must see that he doesn’t make a fool of her. These Maroons are dangerous dogs among the women of the plantations; and Yola, whether a princess or not in her own country-princess, ha! ha! Well, at all events the wench is no common nigger; and it won’t do for Master Maroon to be humbugging her. I shall lecture him about it, now that I’ve got him here.”

By this time the Maroon captain – equipped just as we have seen him in the forest – had arrived in front of the kiosk; and, making a deferential bow, though without taking off his hat – which, being the toqued kerchief, could not conveniently be removed – stood waiting for the Custos to address him.

The planter remained for a considerable time without vouchsafing further speech than the mechanical salutation, “Good morning.”

There was something in the physiognomy of his visitor that had evidently made an unpleasant impression upon him; and the gaze, with which he regarded the latter, was one which bespoke some feeling different from that of mere curiosity or admiration.

Whatever the feeling was, he seemed desirous of suppressing it; and, making an effort to that effect, appeared to succeed: for the shadow, that for an instant had shown itself on his countenance, cleared away; and, with a magisterial but courteous smile, he commenced the conversation.

Chapter 11

Magistrate and Maroon

“Well, young man,” continued the Custos, in an affable tone, “you, I believe, are one of the Maroons of Trelawney?”

“Yes, worship,” bluntly rejoined Cubina. “The captain of a town, are you not?”

“Only a few families, worship. Ours is a small settlement.”

“And your name is – ?”

“Cubina.”

“Ah! I’ve heard the name,” said the Custos. “I think,” added he, with a significant smile, “we have a young girl here on the plantation who knows you?”

Cubina blushed, as he stammered out an affirmative.

“Oh! that’s all right,” said the planter, encouragingly. “So long as there’s no harm meant, there’s no harm done. Mr Trusty tells me you have business with me. Is it about that?”

“About what, your worship?” inquired the Maroon, a little taken by surprise at the question so unexpectedly put to him.

“About your sweetheart!”

“My sweetheart, worship?”

“Ay, Yola. Is she not your sweetheart?”

“Well, Mr Vaughan,” rejoined the Maroon, “I’m not going to deny that something has passed between me and the young girl; but it wasn’t exactly about her I’ve come to see you, though now, bein’ here, I might as well talk about that matter, too, if it so please your worship.”

“Very good, Captain Cubina. I’m ready to hear what you have to say. Go on!”

“Well, then, your worship, the truth is, I want to buy Yola.”

“What? Buy your own sweetheart?”

“Just so, worship. Of course, as soon as she would be mine, I’d set her free.”

“That is, you would change the bonds she now wears for the bonds of matrimony? – ha! ha! ha! Is that it, Captain Cubina?” and the Custos laughed at the conceit he had so neatly expressed.

“Something of that sort, your worship,” replied the Maroon, slightly participating in the worthy magistrate’s mirth.

“And do you think Yola desires to become Mrs Cubina?”

“If I didn’t think so, your worship, I wouldn’t propose to buy her. It would be nothing to me to own the girl, if she wasn’t agreeable.”

“She is agreeable, then?”

“Well, worship, I think so. Not that she don’t like the young mistress that owns her at present; but, you see, your worship – but – ”

“But there’s somebody she likes better than her mistress; and that’s yourself, Master Cubina?”

“Well, you see, worship, that’s a different sort of liking, and – ”

“True enough – true enough!” interrupted Mr Vaughan, as if wishing to come to the end of the conversation – at least, upon that particular topic.

“Well, Captain Cubina,” he added, “suppose I was willing to part with Yola, how much could you afford to give for her? Mind you, I don’t say I am willing: for, after all, the girl belongs to my daughter; and she would have something to say in the matter.”

“Ah, sir!” exclaimed Cubina, in a tone of tender confidence, “Miss Vaughan is good and generous. I’ve often heard say so. I am sure she would never stand in the way of Yola’s being happy.”

“Oh, you think it would make Yola happy, do you?”

“I hope so, your worship,” answered the Maroon, modestly dropping his eyelids as he made the reply.

“After all,” said the planter, “it would be a matter of business. My daughter, even if she wished it, could not afford to part with the girl for less than the market price; which in Yola’s case would be a large one. How much do you suppose I have been offered for her?”

“I’ve heard two hundred pounds, your worship.”

“Just so; and I refused that, too.”

“Maybe, Mr Vaughan, you would not have refused it from another – from me, for instance?”

“Ah, I don’t know about that! But could you raise that large sum?”

“Not just now, your worship. I am sorry to say I could not. I had scraped together as good as a hundred – thinking that would be enough – when, to my sorrow, I learnt I had only got half-way. But, if your worship will only allow me time, I think I can manage – in a month or two – to get the other hundred, and then – ”

“Then, worthy captain, it will be time to talk about buying Yola. Meanwhile, I can promise you that she shan’t be sold to anybody else. Will that satisfy you?”

“Oh, thank your worship! It is very kind of you, Mr Vaughan: I’ll not fail to be grateful. So long as Yola – ”

“Yola will be safe enough in my daughter’s keeping. But now, my young fellow, since you say this was not exactly the business that brought you here, you have some other, I suppose? Pray tell me what it is.”

The Custos, as he made this request, set himself to listen, in a more attentive attitude than he had yet assumed.

“Well, your worship!” proceeded Cubina, “I’ve come over to ask you for some advice about a matter I have with Mr Jessuron – he as keeps penn close by here.”

Mr Vaughan became doubly attentive.

“What matter?” asked he, in a simple phrase – lest any circumlocution might distract the speaker from his voluntary declaration.

“It’s an ugly business, your worship; and I wouldn’t bother about it, but that the poor young fellow who’s been robbed out of his rights, turns out to be neyther more nor less than the brother of Yola herself. It’s a queer story altogether; and if it wasn’t the old Jew that’s done the thing, one could hardly believe it.”

“What thing? Pray be explicit, my friend.”

“Well, your worship, if you’ll have patience to hear me, I’ll tell you the whole story from beginning to end – that is, as far as it has gone: for it ain’t ended yet.”

“Go on!” commanded the Custos. “I’ll hear it patiently. And don’t be afraid, Captain Cubina,” added he, encouragingly. “Tell me all you know – every circumstance. If it’s a case for justice, I promise you justice shall be done.”

And with this magisterial commonplace, the Custos resumed his attitude of extreme attention.

“I’ll make no secrets, your worship, whether it gets me into trouble or no. I’ll tell you all – leastwise, all that’s come to my knowledge.”

And with this proviso, the Maroon captain proceeded to detail the circumstances connected with the capture of the runaway; the singular encounter between brother and sister; and the mutual recognition that followed. Then afterwards the disclosures made by the young man: how he was an African prince; how he had been sent in search of his sister; the ransom he had brought with him; his landing from the ship, consigned by Captain Jowler to the care of Jessuron; his treatment and betrayal by the Jew; the branding of his person, and robbing him of his property; his escape from the penn; his capture by Cubina, already described; and, finally, his detention by the latter, in spite of several messages and menaces, sent by the Jew, to deliver him up.

“Good!” cried Loftus Vaughan, starting from his chair, and evidently delighted by the recital, somewhat dramatically delivered by the Maroon. “A melodrama, I declare! wanting only one act to complete it. Egad, I shall feel inclined to be one of the actors before it’s played out. Ho!” exclaimed he, as if some thought had suddenly struck him; “this may explain why the old rascal wanted to buy the wench – though I don’t clearly see his purpose in that. It’ll come clear yet, no doubt.”

Then addressing himself once more to the Maroon: —

“Twenty-four Mandingoes, you say – twenty-four belonged to the prince?”

“Yes, your worship. Twenty regular slaves, and four others that were his personal attendants. There were more of the slaves; but these were the lawful property of the captain, the price paid for bringing him over.”

“And they were all carried to the Jew’s penn?”

“All of them, with the others: the whole cargo was taken there. The Jew bought all. There were some Coromantees among them; and one of my men, Quaco, who had talk with these, heard enough to confirm the young man’s story.”

“Ha! what a pity, now, that black tongues can’t wag to any purpose! Their talk goes for nothing. But I’ll see what may be done without it.”

“Did your prince ascertain the name of the captain that brought him over?” inquired the magistrate, after considering a minute.

“Oh yes, your worship; Jowler, he was called. He trades upon the Gambia, where the prince’s father lives. The young man knows him well.”

“I think I know something of him, too – that same Jowler. I should like to lay my hands upon him, for something else than this – a precious scamp! After all, it wouldn’t help our case if we had him. No doubt, the two set their heads together in the business, and there’s only one story between them.

“Humph! what are we to do for a white witness?” continued the magistrate, speaking rather to himself than his visitor. “That, I fear, will be a fatal difficulty. Stay! Ravener, you say, Jessuron’s overseer, was at the landing of the cargo?”

“Oh, yes, your worship. That individual took an active part in the whole transaction. It was he who stripped the prince of his clothes, and took all his jewellery away from him.”

“Jewellery, too?”

“Crambo, yes! He had many valuable things. Jowler kept most of his plunder aboard ship.”

“A robbery! Egad, a wholesale robbery!”

“Well, Captain Cubina,” proceeded the Custos, changing his tone to one of more business-like import, “I promise you that this shall not be passed over. I don’t yet clearly see what course we may have to take. There are many difficulties in a prosecution of this kind. We’ll have trouble about the testimony – especially since Mr Jessuron is a magistrate himself. Never mind about that. Justice shall be done, even were he the highest in the land. But there can be no move made just yet. It will be a month before the assize court meets at Savannah; and that is where we must go with it. Meanwhile, not a word to any one – not a whisper of what you know!”

“I promise that, your worship.”

“You must keep the Foolah prince where you have him. Don’t on any account deliver him up. I’ll see that you’re protected in holding him. Considering the case, it’s not likely the Jew will go to extremities with you. He has a glass house over his head, and will ’ware to throw stones – so you’ve not much to fear.

“And now, young man!” added the Custos, changing his tone to one that showed how friendly he could be to him who had imparted such gratifying intelligence, “if all goes well, you’ll not have much difficulty in making up the hundred pounds for the purchase of your sweetheart. Remember that!”

“Thanks, worthy Custos,” said Cubina, bowing gratefully; “I shall depend upon your promise.”

“You may. And now – go quietly home, and wait till I send for you. I shall see my lawyer to-morrow. We may want you soon.”

Chapter 12

The Smythje Eclipse

The celebrated eclipse of Columbus, by which that shrewd navigator so advantageously deluded the simple savages of Don Christopher’s Cove, is not the only one for which the island of Jamaica should be famous. It is my duty to introduce another: which, if not worthy of being recorded upon the page of history, deserves at least a chapter in our romance.

The eclipse in question, though not so important in its results as that which favoured the great world-finder, was nevertheless of considerable interest – more especially to some of the dramatis personae of our tale, whose fortunes it influenced in no slight degree.

Occurring about two weeks after the arrival of the distinguished Smythje, it seemed as if the sun had specially extinguished himself for the occasion: as a sort of appropriate climax to the round of brilliant fêtes[524] and entertainments, of which the lord of Montagu Castle had been the recipient. It deserves, therefore, to be designated the “Smythje eclipse.”

On the day before that on which the obscuration of the sun was expected to take place, the Cockney had conceived a brilliant design – that of viewing the eclipse from the top of the mountain – from the summit of the Jumbé Rock!

There was something daringly original in this design; and for that had Smythje adopted it. Kate Vaughan was to be his companion. He had asked, and of course obtained, Mr Vaughan’s consent, and hers also of course – for Kate had found of late, more than ever, that her father’s will was to be her law.

Smythje was not without a purpose in the proposed ascent to the natural observatory of the Jumbé Rock. In that hour when all the earth would be in chiaro-oscuro – as if shrouded under the pall of infinity – in that dark and solemn hour, Smythje had determined upon popping the question!

Why he had selected such a place and time – both pre-eminently sombre – must for ever remain a mystery. He may have been under an impression that the poetical reputation of the place, combined with the romantic solemnity of the scene and the hour, might exercise a dissolving influence over the heart of the young Creole, and incline her to an affirmative answer. Or, perhaps, au fait as he was to theatrical contrivances, he may have drawn his idea from something he had seen upon the stage, and chosen his climax accordingly.

Some two hours before the expected contact between the limbs of the two great luminaries – in time to allow of leisurely walking – Smythje started out for the Jumbé Rock, of course accompanied by Kate Vaughan.

Attendants there were none; for the exquisite, on such an occasion, preferred being alone; and had so signified – declining the sable escort which his host had provided.

The morning was one of the fairest. The sun was still shining brightly. Not a speck could be distinguished upon the azure arch of a West-Indian sky; and the scenes through which the path conducted Mr Smythje and his fair companion were among the loveliest to be found in the domain of Nature.

Around the dwelling of Mount Welcome – in its gardens and parterres – the eye delighted to dwell upon a variety of vegetable forms, both indigenous and exotic – some planted for shade; some for the beauty of their blossoms; and others for their fruit. There could be seen the genip, the tamarind of Oriental fame, palms of several species, the native pawpaw, and the curious trumpet-tree. Distinguished for their floral beauties, were the cordia, the oleander, and South-Sea rose, the grand magnolia, and the perfumed Persian lilac. Bearing luscious fruits, were the cashew, the mango, and Malay apple; the sop, the guava, with every variety of the citron tribe – as oranges, lemons, limes, and the huge shaddock.

Climbing the standard trunks, and twining around the branches, were parasites of many species – rare and beautiful flowering plants: as the wax-like hoya carnosa, the crimson quamoclit, barsavolas, ipomeas, and other magnificent orchids.

It was a scene to stir the soul of a botanist to enthusiastic admiration; resembling a vast botanical garden – some grand house of palms, having for its roof the azure canopy of heaven.

To the eyes of the young creole – all her life accustomed to look upon those fair vegetable forms – there was nothing in the sight of them to beget astonishment; and the Cockney cared but little for trees. His late adventure had cured him of all inclination for a forest life; and, in his eyes, a cabbage-palm was of no more interest than a cabbage.

Smythje, however, was not unmusical. Constant attendance at the opera had, to some extent, attuned his soul to song; and he could not help expressing some surprise at the melody of the Western songsters – so much misrepresented and maligned.

In truth, upon that morning they appeared to be giving one of their grandest concerts. In the garden groves could be heard the clear voice of the banana-bird, like the tones of a clarionet, mingled with the warbling tones of the blue quit. There, too, could be seen the tiny vervain humming-bird, seated upon the summit of a tall mango-tree, trilling out its attenuated and fairy-like lay, with as much enthusiastic energy as if its little soul was poured forth in the song.

In the dark mountain woods could be heard other songsters – the glass-eye merle singing his rich and long-continued strain; and, at intervals, the wild, plaintive cry of the solitaire, littered in sweet but solemn notes, like the cadenced chaunting of a psalm – in perfect keeping with the solitude which this singular songster affects.

Above all could be distinguished the powerful voice of the New World nightingale – the far-famed mock-bird – excelling all the other music of the groves; except when at intervals the rare May-bird condescended to fling his melody upon the breeze, when the mock-bird himself would instantly interrupt his lay, and become a listener.

Add to these sounds the humming of bees, the continuous “skirling” of grasshoppers, lizards, and cicadas – the metallic cluckling of tree-frogs, the rustling of the breeze among the lanceolate leaves of the tall bamboos, and the sighing of a cascade among the distant hills – add these, and you may have some idea of the commingling of sounds that saluted the ear of Mr Montagu Smythje, as, with his fair companion, he ascended the mountain slope.

Cheerful as were the birds and brisk the bees, Smythje appeared cheerful and brisk as they. He was gay both in spirits and costume. Thoms had equipped him in one of his favourite suits; and his spirits were elevated by the prospect of his grand love triumph.

On arriving at the bottom of the ravine which conducted to the summit of the rock, Smythje showed his courage by boldly advancing to scale the steep path. He would have offered a hand to assist his companion; but in the difficult ascent he found full occupation for both; and in this ungallant manner was he compelled to climb upward.

Kate, however – who was accustomed to the path, and could possibly have given him assistance – found no difficulty in following; and in a few seconds both had arrived on the summit of the rock, and stood under the shadow of the palm.

The skeleton form, once chained to the tree, was no longer there to fray them. It had been mysteriously removed.

Mr Smythje consulted his repeater. They had arrived just in the nick of time. In five minutes the eclipse would commence; and the discs of the two great heavenly orbs would appear in contact.

It was not this crisis, however, that Smythje had chosen for the cue to his important speech. Nor yet the moment of deepest darkness; but just when the sun should begin to re-appear, and, by his renewed brightening symbolise the state of the lover’s own feelings.

He had prepared some pretty speeches which he meant to repeat by way of ushering in the declaration: how his own heart might be compared to the sun – now burning with passion – now darkened by deep despair; then once more brightening up, with rekindled hope, at the prospect of Kate making him the happiest of mortals.

He had prepared them pit-a-pat[525] the night before, and gone over them with Thoms in the morning. He had rehearsed them more than a dozen times – ending with a dress rehearsal just before starting out.

Unless the eclipse should in some way deprive him of the use of his tongue, there could be no danger of his breaking down.

With perfect confidence, therefore, in his speech-making, and equally confident of the issue, the romantic Smythje restored his repeater to its fob; and, with sun-glass in hand, awaited the coming on of the eclipse.

Chapter 13

A Proposal Postponed

Slowly, silently, and still unseen, stole the soft luminary of night towards her burning god – till a slight shadow on his lower limb betokened the contact.

“The ekwipse is commencing,” said Smythje, holding the glass to his eye. “The sun and moon are just kissing, like two lovers. How pwetty it is! Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

“Rather a distant kiss for lovers, I should say – some ninety odd millions of miles between them!”

“Haw, haw! veway good, veway good indeed! And in that sawt of thing, distance dawn’t lend enchantment to the view. Much bettaw to be near, just as yaw and I are at this moment. Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

“That depends upon circumstances – whether the love be reciprocal.”

“Wecipwocal! – yas, twoo enough – thaw is something in that.”

“A great deal, I should think, Mr Smythje. For instance, were I a man, and my sweetheart was frowning on me – as yonder moon seems to be upon his majesty the sun – I should keep my distance, though it were ninety millions of miles.”

Had Mr Smythje at that moment only removed the glass from his eye, and turned towards his sweetheart, he might have read in her looks that the speech just made possessed a significance, altogether different from the interpretation which it pleased him to put upon it.

“Haw, haw! veway pwetty of yaw, ’pon honaw! But yaw must wemember that yondaw moon has two faces. In that she wesembles the queetyaw called woman. Her bwight face is turned towards the sun, and no doubt she is at this moment smiling upawn the fellaw. Her frowns, yaw see, are faw us, and all the west of mankind; thawfo’ she wesembles a devoted queetyaw. Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

Kate was compelled to smile, and for a short moment regarded Smythje with a glance which might have been mistaken for admiration. In the analogy which the exquisite had drawn there was a scintillation of intellect – the more striking that it was not expected from such a source. Withal, the glance was rather indicative of surprise than admiration, though Smythje evidently interpreted it for the latter – his self-esteem assisting him to the interpretation.

Before she could make reply, he repeated the interrogatory.

“Oh, yes!” answered she, the smile disappearing from her countenance; “I can well imagine, Mr Smythje, that your simile is just. I should think that a woman who loves devotedly, would not bestow her smiles on any other than him she loves; and though he were distant as yonder sun, in her heart she would smile on him all the same.”

The young Creole as she spoke lowered her eyes, no longer regarding the eclipse, but as if involuntarily directing her glance downward.

“Ah, yes!” continued she in thought, “and even if alike impossible for them ever to meet, still would her smiles be his! Ah, yes!”

For some seconds she remained silent and abstracted. Smythje, attracted by the altered tone of her voice, had taken the telescope from his eye, and turned towards her.

Observing this abstracted air, which he had often before remarked, he did not think of attributing it to any other cause than that which his vanity had already divined. Kate Vaughan was in love; and with whom but himself?

His sympathetic soul was ready to give way; and he was almost on the point of departing from the programme which he had so ingeniously traced out. But the remembrance of the pretty speeches he had rehearsed with Thoms – and the thought that any deviation from the original design would deprive him of the pleasure of witnessing the effects which they must undoubtedly produce – restrained him from a premature declaration, and he remained silent.

It did not hinder him from some unspoken reflections.

“Poor queetyaw! evidently suffwing! Neithaw distance nor absence can make the slightest impwession upon her love – not the slightest. Ba Jawve! I feel more than half-inclined to bweak the spell, and reweive her fwom her miseway. But no – it would nevaw do. I must wesist the temptation. A little more suffwing can do no harm, since the situation of the queetyaw wesembles the pwoverb: ‘The darkest hour is that which is neawest the day.’ Haw! haw!”

And with this fanciful similitude before his mind, the sympathetic and self-denying lover concluded his string of complacent reflections; and returning the glass to his eye, once more occupied himself in ogling the eclipse.

The young Creole, seeing him thus engaged, withdrew to one side; and placing herself on the very edge of the cliff, stood gazing outward and downward. It was evident that the grand celestial phenomenon had no attraction for her. She cared neither to look upon the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars that would soon be visible in the fast-darkening sky. Her eyes, like her thoughts, were turned upon the earth; and as the penumbra began to cast its purple shadow over the fair face of Nature, so could a cloud be seen overspreading her beautiful countenance.

There was now deep silence below and around. In a few seconds of time a complete change had taken place. The uttering of the forest was no longer heard. The birds had suddenly ceased their songs, and if their voices came up at intervals, it was in screams and cries that denoted fear. Insects and reptiles had become silent, under the influence of a like alarm. The more melancholy sounds alone continued – the sighing of the trees, and the sough of the distant waterfall. This transformation reminded Kate Vaughan of the change which had taken place in her own heart. Almost equally rapid had it been – the result of only a few days, or perhaps only hours: for the once gay girl had become, of late, habitually grave and taciturn. Well might she compare her thoughts to the forest sounds! The cheerful and musical were gone – those that were melancholy alone remained!

For this change there was a cause, not very different from that which Smythje had divined. He was right in assigning it to that passion – the most powerful that can dwell in a woman’s heart.

Only as to its object did Mr Smythje labour under a misconception. His self-conceit had guided him to a very erroneous conjecture. Could he have divined the thoughts at that moment passing in the mind of his companion, it would have completely cured him of the conceit that he was the maker of that melancholy.

The mansion of Mount Welcome was in sight, gaily glittering amidst gorgeous groves. It was not upon it that the eyes of Kate Vaughan were bent; but upon a sombre pile, shadowed by great cotton-trees, that lay in the adjoining valley. Her heart was with her eyes.

“Happy Valley!” soliloquised she, her thoughts occasionally escaping in low murmur from her lips. “Happy for him, no doubt! There has he found a welcome and a home denied him by those whose duty it was to have offered both. There has he found hospitality among strangers; and there, too – ”

The young girl paused, as if unwilling to give words to the thought that had shaped itself in her mind.

“No,” continued she, unable to avoid the painful reflection; “I need not shut my eyes upon the truth. It is true what I have been told – very true, I am sure. There has he found one to whom he has given his heart!”

A sigh of deep anguish succeeded the thought.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, resuming the sad soliloquy; “he promised me a strong arm and a stout heart, if I should ever need them. Ah, me! promise now bitter to be remembered – no longer possible to be kept! And the ribbon he was to prize so highly – which gave me such joy as he said it. Only another promise broken! Poor little souvenir! no doubt, long ere this, cast aside and forgotten! ah, me!”

Again the sigh interrupted the soliloquy. After a time it proceeded: —

“‘We may never meet more!’ These were almost his last words. Alas! too prophetic! Better, now, we never should. Better this than to meet him – with her by his side – Judith Jessuron – his wife – his wife – oh!”

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, and with an undisguised accent of anguish.

Smythje heard it, and started as he did so – letting the sun-glass fall from his fingers.

Looking around, he perceived his companion standing apart – unheeding as she was unheeded – with head slightly drooping, and eyes turned downward upon the rock – her face still bearing the expression of a profound anguish which her thoughts had called forth.

The heart of Smythje melted within him. He knew her complaint – he knew its cure. The remedy was in his hands. Was it right any longer to withhold it? A word from him, and that sad face would be instantly suffused with smiles! Should that word be spoken or postponed?

Spoken! prompted humanity. Spoken! echoed Smythje’s sympathetic heart. Yes! perish the cue and the climax! Perish the fine speech and the rehearsal with Thoms – perish everything to “relieve the deaw queetyaw fwom the agony she is suffwing!”

With this noble resolve, the confident lover stepped up to the side of his beloved, leaving a distance of some three feet between them. His movements were those of a man about entering upon the performance of some ceremonial of the grandest importance; and to Mr Smythje, in reality, it was so.

The look of surprise with which the young Creole regarded him, neither deterred him from proceeding, nor in anywise interfered with the air of solemn gravity which his countenance had all at once assumed.

Bending one knee down upon the rock – where he had dropped the glass – and placing his left hand over the region of his heart, while with the right he had raised his hat some six inches above his perfumed curls, there and then he was about to unburden himself of that speech, studied for the occasion – committed to Smythje’s memory, and more than a dozen times delivered in the hearing of Thoms – there and then was he on the eve of offering to Kate Vaughan his hand – his heart – his whole love and estate – when just at this formidable crisis, the head and shoulders of a man appeared above the edge of the rock, and behind, a black-plumed beaver hat, shadowing the face of a beautiful woman!

Herbert Vaughan! – Judith Jessuron!

Chapter 14

The Obscuration

“Intawupted!” exclaimed Smythje, briskly restoring his person to its erect position. “What an infawnal haw!” he continued, drawing out his handkerchief, and dusting the knee on which he had been kneeling. “I wondaw who are the intwoodaws? Aw! ah! It’s the young fellaw, yaw cousin! Shawly it is; and – a – a pwetty girl with him – a dooced pwetty girl, ba Jawve!”

A satirical titter, loud enough to be termed a laugh, was heard issuing from between the white teeth of the Jewess. It somewhat discomfited Smythje: since he knew that the satire could only be pointed at the ridiculous tableau[526] just broken up, and of which he had himself been the conspicuous figure. His sang froid, however, did not quite forsake him, for the Cockney possessed considerable presence of mind – the offspring of an infinite superciliousness. This at the moment came to his relief, bringing with it an idea that promised to rescue him from his embarrassment. The spy-glass lying upon the rock suggested the idea.

Dropping back upon his knee – in an attitude similar to that from which he had just arisen – he took up the telescope, and, once more rising to his feet, presented it to Kate Vaughan, as she stood bent and blushing.

The ruse was well intended, and not badly executed; but Mr Smythje had to deal with one as cunning as himself. It was of no use endeavouring to throw dust in the keen, quick eyes of Judith Jessuron; and the laugh was repeated, only in a louder and more quizzical tone.

It ended in Smythje himself joining in the laughter, which, under the circumstances, was the very best course he could have pursued.

Notwithstanding the absurdity of the situation, Herbert did not seem to share in his companion’s mirth. On the contrary, a shadow was visible upon his brow – not that produced by the gradually deepening twilight of the eclipse – but one that had spread suddenly over his face at sight of the kneeling Smythje.

“Miss Vaughan!” pronounced the Jewess, springing lightly upon the rock, and, with a nod of recognition, advancing towards the young Creole and her companion; “an unexpected pleasure this! I hope we are not intruding?”

“Not at all – nothing of the sawt, I ashaw yaw,” replied Smythje, with one of his profoundest bows.

“Mr Smythje – Miss Jessuron,” interposed Kate, performing the duty of introduction with dignified but courteous politeness.

“We have climbed up to view this eclipse,” continued Judith. “The same errand as yourselves, I presume?” added she, with a glance of quizzical malignity directed towards Kate.

“Aw, yes! sawtinly!” stammered out Smythje, as if slightly confused by the innuendo of the interrogative. “That is pwecisely the pawpose which bwought us heaw – to view this cewestial phenomenon fwom the Jumbé Wock. A spwendid observatowy it is, ba Jawve!”

“You have had the advantage of us,” rejoined Judith. “I feared we should arrive too late. Perhaps, we are soon enough?”

The satirical tone and glance were reiterated.

Perhaps Kate Vaughan did not perceive the meaning of this ambiguous interrogatory, though addressed to her even more pointedly than the former; at all events, she did not reply to it. Her eyes and thoughts were elsewhere.

“Quite in time, Miss Jessuwon!” answered Smythje. “The ekwipse is fawst assuming a most intewesting phase. In a few minutes the sun will be in penumbwa. If yaw will step this way, yaw may get a bettaw standing-place. Pawmit me to offaw yaw the tewescope? Aw, haw!” continued he, addressing himself to Herbert, who had just come forward, “aw, how do, ma fwiend? Happy to have the pwesyaw of meeting you again!”

As he said this, he held out his hand, with a single finger projecting beyond the others.

Herbert, though declining the proffered finger, returned the salutation with sufficient courtesy; and Smythje, turning aside to attend upon Judith, escorted her to that edge of the platform facing towards the eclipse.

By this withdrawal – perhaps little regretted by either of the cousins – they were left alone.

A bow, somewhat stiff and formal, was the only salutation that had yet passed between them; and even for some seconds after the others had gone aside, they remained without speaking to each other.

Herbert was the first to break the embarrassing silence.

“Miss Vaughan!” said he, endeavouring to conceal the emotion which, however, his trembling voice betrayed, “I fear our presence here will be considered an intrusion? I would have retired, but that my companion willed it otherwise.”

“Miss Vaughan!” mentally repeated the young creole, as the phrase fell strangely upon her ear, prompting her, perhaps, to a very different rejoinder from that she would otherwise have made.

“Since you could not follow your own inclination, perhaps it was wiser for you to remain. Your presence here, so far as I am concerned, is no intrusion, I assure you. As for my companion, he appears satisfied enough, does he not?”

The rapid exchange of words, with an occasional cachinnation, heard from the other side of the rock, told that a gay conversation was going on between Smythje and the Jewess.

“I regret that our arrival should have led even to your temporary separation. Shall I take Mr Smythje’s place and permit him to rejoin you?”

The reply was calculated to widen the breach between the two cousins.

It was indebted for its character to the interpretation which Herbert had placed upon Kate’s last interrogatory.

“Certainly, if it would be more agreeable to you to do so,” retorted Kate, in a tone of defiant bitterness.

Here a pause occurred in the conversation, which from the first had been carried on defiance against defiance. It was Herbert’s turn to speak; but the challenge conveyed in Kate’s last words placed him in a position where it was not easy to make an appropriate rejoinder, and he remained silent.

It was now the crisis of the eclipse – the moment of deepest darkness. The sun’s disc had become completely obscured by the opaque orb of the night, and the earth lay lurid under the sombre shadow. Stars appeared in the sky, to show that the universe still existed; and those voices of the forest heard only in nocturnal hours, came pealing up to the summit of the rock – a testimony that terrestrial nature was not yet extinct.

It was equally a crisis between two loving hearts. Though standing near, those wild words had outlawed them from each other, far more than if ten thousand miles extended between them. The darkness without was naught to the darkness within. In the sky there were stars to delight the eye; from the forest came sounds to solace the soul; but no star illumined the horizon of their hearts with its ray of hope – no sound of joy cheered the silent gloom that bitterly embraced them.

For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the cousins, nor spoken either to those who were their sharers in the spectacle. These, too, were silent. The solemnity of the scene had made its impression upon all; and, against the dark background of the sky, the figures of all four appeared in sombre silhouette – motionless as the rock on which they stood.

Thus for some minutes stood Herbert and Kate without exchanging word or thought. Side by side they were, so near and so silent, that each might have heard the breathing of the other.

The situation was one of painful embarrassment, and might have been still more so, but for the eclipse; which, just then complete, shrouded both in the deep obscurity of its shadow, and hindered them from observing one another.

Only for a short while did the darkness continue; the eclipse soon re-assuming the character of a penumbra.

One by one the stars disappeared from the canopy of the sky – now hastening to recover its azure hue. The creatures of darkness, wondering at the premature return of day, sank cowering into a terrified silence; and the god of the heavens, coming forth triumphantly from the cloud that had for a short while concealed him, once more poured his joyous effulgence upon the earth.

The re-dawning of the light showed the cousins still standing in the same relative position – unchanged even as to their attitudes.

During the interval of darkness Herbert had neither stirred nor spoken; and after the harsh rejoinder to which, in the bitterness of her pique, the young Creole had given words, it was not her place to continue the conversation.

Pained though Herbert was by his cousin’s reply, he nevertheless remembered his indebtedness to her – the vows he had made – the proud proffer at parting. Was he now to repudiate the debt of gratitude and prove faithless to his promise? Was he to pluck from his breast that silken souvenir, still sheltering there, though in secret and unseen?

True, it was but the memorial of an act of friendship – of mere cousinly kindness. He had never had reason to regard it in any other light; and now, more than ever, was he sure it had no higher signification.

She had never said she loved him – never said a word that could give him the right to reproach her. On her side there was no repudiation, since there had been no compromise. It was unjust to condemn her – cruel to defy her, as he had done.

That she loved another – was that a crime?

Herbert now knew that she loved another – was as sure of it as that he stood upon the Jumbé Rock. That interrupted tableau had left him no loop to hang a doubt on. The relative position of the parties proclaimed the purpose – a proposal.

The kneeling lover may not have obtained his answer; but who could doubt what that answer was to have been? The situation itself proclaimed consent.

Bitter as were these reflections, Herbert made an effort to subdue them. He resolved, if possible, to stifle his spleen; and, upon the ruin of his hopes, restore that relationship – the only one that could now exist between himself and his cousin – friendship.

With a superhuman effort he succeeded; and this triumph of virtue over spite, backed by the strongest inclinings of the heart, for a moment solaced his spirit, and rendered it calmer.

Alas! that such triumph can be only temporary. The struggle upon which he was entering was one in which no man has ever succeeded. Love undenied, may end in friendship; but love thwarted or unreciprocated, never!

+++“Now, where the swift Rhone[527] cleaves its way between

Heights, that appear as lovers who have parted

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;

Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,

Love was the very root of the fond rage

Which blighted their life’s bloom – ”

Herbert Vaughan was perhaps too young – too inexperienced in the affairs of the heart – to have ever realised the sentiment so expressed; else would he have desisted from his idle attempt, and surrendered himself at once to the despair that was certain to succeed it.

Innocent – perhaps happily so – of the knowledge of these recondite truths, he yielded to the nobler resolve – ignorant of the utter impracticability of its execution.

Chapter 15

An Encounter of Eyes

While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to re-dawn – gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.

All were gone: Kate’s eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.

Withal, the face was lovely as ever – lovelier, thought Herbert.

Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that painful thought, that was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips compressed and quivering? Was it the happiness of another that was making that misery? Smythje seemed happy – very happy, to judge from his oft-repeated “Haw! haw!”

Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed itself on the countenance of his cousin?

So did Herbert interpret it.

Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he believed to be actuating her, he remained silent – though unable to withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face.

While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have been heard by her who stood nearest; nor hers by him: for she had also sighed, and at the same instant of time! Perhaps both were moved by some secret sympathetic instinct?

Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his emotions: and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship, when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze. It was the first time during the interview their eyes had met: for up to that moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances.

For some seconds they stood face to face – each gazing into the eyes of the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination.

Not a word passed between them – their very breathing was stilled. Both seemed to consider the time too important for speech: for they were seeking in one another’s eyes – those faithful mirrors of the soul – those truest interpreters of the heart – the solution of that, the most interesting enigma of their existence.

This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual – uncorrupted by a shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself – unregarding outward observation. What cared they for the eclipse? What for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe itself? Less – far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near them!

Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must – else why did they continue it?

Not for long: not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them – the eye of that beautiful demon.

Ah! fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure! The ruse has recoiled upon thyself!

The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumbé Rock, revealing the forms of four individuals – all youthful – all in love, though two only were beloved!

The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jessuron.

It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination, which, with a quick, sharp cry, she had interrupted.

A bitter embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud spirit, and dragged it into the dust.

Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of Herbert Vaughan, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that stung her, even to the utterance of a scream!

From that moment the flirtation with Smythje ceased; and the Cockney exquisite was forsaken in the most unceremonious manner left to continue his telescopic observations alone.

The conversation was no longer dos y dos[528], but at once changed to a trio; and finally restored to its original quartette form – soon, however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties.

The Jewess was the first to propose departure – the first to make it. She descended from the Jumbé Rock in a less lively mood than that in which she had climbed up to it; inwardly anathematising the eclipse, and the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred observatory.

Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed in that cold, ceremonious adieu with which they parted.

Smythje and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the rock; and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the declaration.

One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his knees, and finished the performance so vexatiously interrupted.

Not so, however. The spirit of Smythje’s dream seemed equally to have undergone a change; as if he, too, had seen something.

His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he had counted: for the sun’s disc was now quite clear of the eclipse, and the pretty speeches, intended for an anterior time, would now have been pointless and inappropriate.

Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentiment that the offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a rejection, can never be known: since Smythje, who alone could divulge it, has left no record of the reason.

Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the Jumbé Rock on the day of the eclipse; but was postponed, sine die[529], to some future occasion.

Chapter 16

The Smythje Ball

As if the eclipse had not been a sufficient climax to the round of fêtes got up for the express amusement of Mr Smythje, only a few days – or, rather, nights – after, still another was inaugurated, to do honour to this young British lion.

Unlike the eclipse, it was a terrestrial phenomenon – one of the most popular of sublunary entertainments – a ball – a complimentary ball – Mr Smythje the recipient of the compliment.

Montego Bay was to be the place; which, notwithstanding its provinciality, had long been celebrated for its brilliant assemblies – from the time that fandangoes were danced by the old Spanish pork-butchers, down to that hour when Mr Montagu Smythje had condescended to honour its salons by the introduction of some very fashionable steps from the world’s metropolis.

The hall was to be a grand affair – one of the grandest ever given in the Bay – and all Planterdom was expected to be present.

Of course, Kate Vaughan would be there; and so, too, the Custos himself.

Mr Smythje would be the hero of the night; and, as such, surrounded by the fairest of the fair – hedged in by a galaxy of beautiful belles, and beset by an army of matchmaking parents, all seeking success with as much eagerness as Loftus Vaughan himself.

Under these circumstances, it would be but simple prudence that Kate should be there to look after him: for the worthy Custos was not unacquainted with the adage, that “the sweetest smelling flower is that nearest the nose.”

Mr Vaughan would have rejoiced at the opportunity thus offered, of letting all the monde[530] of Jamaica know the relationship in which he stood, and was likely to stand, to the distinguished individual to whom the entertainment was dedicated. He had no doubt but that Kate would be chosen as the conspicuous partner: for well knew he the condition of Mr Smythje’s mind upon that subject. To him the latter had made no secret of his affections; and the cunning Custos, who had been all along warily watching the development of the passion, now knew to a certainty that the heart of Montagu’s lord was not only smitten with his daughter, but was irretrievably lost – so far as such a heart could suffer love’s perdition.

No doubt, then, Mr Vaughan would have looked forward to the Smythje ball with pleasant anticipation – as likely to afford him a social triumph – but for a little circumstance that had lately come to his knowledge. It was the incident which had transpired on the Jumbé Rock – the meeting between his daughter and nephew on the day of the eclipse.

The Custos had been the more particular in obtaining the details of that interview from his presumptive son-in-law, on account of a suspicion that had arisen in his mind as to the inclinings of his daughter’s heart. Something she had said – during the first days after Herbert’s brusque dismissal from Mount Welcome – some sympathetic expressions she had made use of – unguarded and overheard, had given rise to this suspicion of her father.

He was sufficiently annoyed about Kate having met Herbert on the Jumbé Rock; and believed it quite possible that the latter had come there in the hope of encountering his cousin.

In Mount Welcome the name of Herbert Vaughan was no longer heard. Even Kate – whether it was that she had grown more sage – for she had been chided more than once for introducing it into the conversation – or whether she had ceased to think of him – even she never pronounced his name.

For all that, Mr Vaughan was still vexed with some lingering suspicion that in that direction lurked danger; and this determined him to prevent, as far as possible, any further interview between his daughter and nephew.

After the encounter on the Jumbé Rock, he had taken his daughter to task upon this subject; and, using the full stretch of parental authority, compelled her to a solemn promise, that she was not again to speak to her cousin, nor even acknowledge his presence!

It was a hard promise for the poor girl to make. Perhaps it would have been still harder, had she known Herbert’s disposition towards her.

There can be no doubt that her father, in extracting this promise, had in view the event about to take place – the grand Smythje ball. There an encounter between the cousins was not only possible, but probable; so much so as to render Mr Vaughan apprehensive. Judith Jessuron was sure to be present – perhaps the Jew himself; and Herbert, of course.

The nephew was now cordially disliked. Stung by the defiant speeches which the young man had made on the day of his arrival, his uncle even detested him: for the proud planter was himself too poor in spirit to admire this quality in any one else.

The Custos had heard all about the hospitality which his neighbour was extending to Herbert, and the kindnesses which the patron was lavishing upon his protégé. Though not a little mystified by what was going on, he availed himself of the ordinary explanation – that it was done to vex himself; and, if so, the stratagem of the Jew was proving perfectly successful: for vexed was Mr Vaughan to his very heart’s core.

The night of the Smythje ball came round in due course. The grand ball-room of the Bay was decorated as became the occasion. Flags, festoons, and devices hung around the walls; and over the doorway a large transparency – supported by the loyal emblems of the Union Jack and banner of Saint George, and surmounted by the colonial colours – proclaimed, in letters of eighteen inches diameter: —

“Welcome to Smythje!”

The hour arrived; the band shortly after; close followed by strings of carriages of every kind current in the Island, containing scores – ay, hundreds of dancers. Twenty miles was nothing to go to a Jamaica ball.

The grand barouche of Loftus Vaughan arrived with the rest, only fashionably behind time, bringing the Custos himself, his truly beautiful daughter, but, above all – as before all perhaps should have been mentioned – the hero of the night.

“Welcome to Smythje!”

How his proud heart swelled with triumph under the magnificent ruffles of his shirt, as he caught sight of the flattering transparency! How conquering his smile, as he turned towards Kate Vaughan, to note the effect which it could not fail to produce!

“Welcome to Smythje!” pealed from a hundred pairs of lips, as the carriage drove up to the door; and then a loud cheer followed the words of greeting; and then the distinguished stranger was ushered into the hall-room; and, after remaining a few moments in a conspicuous position – the cynosure of at least two hundred pairs of eyes – the great man set the example by pairing off with a partner.

The hand struck up, and the dancing began.

It need scarce be said who was Smythje’s first partner – Kate Vaughan, of course. The Custos had taken care of that.

Smythje looked superb. Thoms had been at him all the afternoon. His hay-coloured hair was in full curl – his whiskers in amplest bush – his moustache crimped spirally at the points; and his cheek pinked with just the slightest tinting of vermillion.

Arrived a little late, the Jewess had not appeared in the first set. In the waltz she was conspicuous: not from her dress of rich purple velvet – not from the splendid tiara of pearls that glistened against the background of her glossy raven hair – not from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth, that gleamed between lips like curved and parted rose-leaves – not from the damask tinting of her cheeks; nor the liquid light that flashed incessantly from her black, Israelitish eyes – not from any of these was she conspicuous; but from all combined into one, and composing a grand and imperious picture.

It was a picture upon which more than one eye gazed with admiration; and more than one continued to gaze.

The partner of Judith was not unworthy to embrace such beauty.

She was in the arms of a young man, a stranger to most in the room; but the glances bestowed upon him by bright eyes – some interrogative, some furtive, some openly admiring – promised him an easy introduction to any one he might fancy to know.

Not that this stranger appeared to be conceitedly conscious of the graces which nature had so lavishly bestowed upon him; or even sensible of the good fortune that had given him such a partner.

On the contrary, he was dancing with despondency in his look, and a cloud upon his brow that even the exciting whirl of the waltz was failing to dissipate!

The partner of Judith Jessuron was Herbert Vaughan.

A ball-room may be likened to a kaleidoscope: the personages are the same, their relative positions constantly changing. Design it or not, either during the dance or the interregnum – one time or another – you will find yourself face to face, or side by side, with every individual in the room.

So in the ball-room of Montego Bay came face to face two sets of waltzers – Smythje and Kate, Herbert and Judith.

The situation arose as they were resting from the dizzy whirl of a waltz.

Smythje bent profoundly towards the floor – Judith, with an imperious sweep, returned the salutation – Herbert bowed to his cousin, with a half-doubting, half-appealing glance; but the nod received in return was so slight, so distant, that even the keen-eyed Custos, closely watching every movement of the quartette, failed to perceive it!

Poor Kate! She knew that the paternal eye, severely set, was upon her. She remembered that painful promise.

Not a word passed between the parties. Scarce a moment stood they together. Herbert, stung by Kate’s salutation – unexpectedly cold, almost insultingly distant – warped his arm around the waist of his willing partner, and spun off through the unobservant crowd.

Though often again upon that same night Smythje and Kate, Herbert and the Jewess were respectively partners – so often as to lead to general observation – never again did the four stand vis-à-vis or side by side. Whenever chance threatened to bring them together, design, or something like it, stepped in to thwart the approximation!

Almost all the night did Herbert dance with the Jewess – no longer with despondency in his look, but with the semblance of a gay and reckless joy. Never had Judith received from the young Englishman such ardent attention; and for the first time since their introduction to each other did she feel conscious of something like a correspondence to her own fierce love. For the moment her proud, cruel heart became dissolved to a true feminine tenderness; and in the spiral undulations of the waltz, as she coiled round the robust form of her partner, her cheek rested upon his shoulder, as if laid there to expire in the agony of an exquisite bliss.

She stayed not to question the cause of Herbert’s devotedness. Her own heart, blinded by love, and yearning for reciprocity, threw open its portals to receive the passion without challenge or scrutiny – without knowing whether it was real or only apparent.

A wild anguish would she have experienced at that moment, could she have divined what was passing in Herbert’s mind. Little did she suspect that his devotedness to her was only a demonstration intended to act upon another. Little dreamt she that real love for another was the cause and origin of that counterfeit that was deceiving herself. Happily for her heart’s peace she knew not this.

Herbert alone knew it. As the kaleidoscope evolved the dazzling dancers one after another, often did the face of Kate Vaughan flit before the eyes of her cousin, and his before her eyes. On such occasions, the glance hastily exchanged was one of defiant indifference: for both were playing at piques! The cold salutation had given him the cue, ignorant as he was of its cause. She had begun the game only a little later – on observing the attitude of extreme contentment which Herbert had assumed towards his companion. She knew not that it was studied. Her skill in coquetry, although sufficient for the pretence of indifference, was not deep enough to discern it in him; and both were now behaving as if each believed the love of the other beyond all hope.

Before abandoning the ball-room, this belief – erroneous as it might be on both sides – received further confirmation. A circumstance arose that strengthened it to a full and perfect conviction.

From the gossip of a crowded ball-room many a secret may be learnt. In those late hours, when the supper champagne has untied the tongue, and dancers begin to fancy each other deaf, he who silently threads his way or stands still among the crowd, may catch many a sentence not intended to be overheard, and often least of all by himself. Many an involuntary eavesdropper has fallen into this catastrophe. At least two instances occurred at the Smythje hall; and to the two individuals in whom, perhaps, we are most interested – Herbert and Kate Vaughan.

Herbert for a moment was alone. Judith, not that she had tired of her partner, but perhaps only to save appearances, was dancing with another. It was not Smythje, whom all the evening she had studiously avoided. She remembered the incident on the Jumbé Rock; and feared that dancing with him might conduct to a similar disposition of partners as that which had occurred on the day of the eclipse.

It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented; and cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him.

Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud.

Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of; and, having heard, could not help heeding it. He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity; for it was the common topic of the ball-room, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythje; and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan.

On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred.

“When is it to come off?” inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information.

“No time fixed yet,” was the reply; “at least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose.”

“There’ll be a grand spread upon the occasion – breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt?”

“Sure to be all that. The Custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all the éclat.”

“Honeymoon tour afterwards?”

“Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr Smythje don’t much relish our colonial life: he misses the opera. A pity: since it’ll make one beautiful woman less in the Island!”

“Well, all I’ve got to say is, that Loff Vaughan has sold his nigger well.”

“Oh, for shame! to use such a word in speaking of the beautiful – the accomplished Miss Vaughan. Come, Thorndyke! I’m shocked at you.”

Thorndyke, by the expression, had hazarded the punching of his head – not by his companion, but by a stranger who stood near.

Herbert curbed his indignation. Kate cared not for him! Perhaps she would not have accepted him even as her champion!

Almost at that same moment Kate, too, was listening to a dialogue painfully analogous. Smythje could not dance all the night with her. Too many claimed the honour of his partnership; and for a set or two she had been forsaken by him – left under the guardianship of the watchful Custos.

“Who can he be?” inquired one of two gentle gossips within earshot of Kate.

“A young Englishman, I have heard: a relative of Vaughans of Mount Welcome; though, for some reason, not acknowledged by the Custos.”

“That bold girl appears willing enough to acknowledge him. Who is she?”

“A Miss Jessuron. She is the daughter of the old Jew penn-keeper, who used to deal largely in blacks.”

“Faugh! she is behaving as if she belonged to a – ”

The last word was whispered, and Kate did not hear it.

“True enough!” asserted the other; “but, as they are engaged, that, I take it, is nobody’s business but their own. He’s a stranger in the Island; and don’t know much about certain people’s position, I suppose. A pity! He seems a nice sort of a young fellow; but as he makes his bed, so let him lie. Ha! ha! If report speaks true of Miss Judith Jessuron, he’ll find no bed of roses there. Ha! ha! ha!”

What causes merriment to one may make another miserable. This was true of the words last spoken. From the speaker and her companion they elicited a laugh – from Kate Vaughan they drew a sigh, deep and sad.

She left the ball with a bleeding heart.

“Lost! lost for ever!” murmured she, as she laid her cheek upon a sleepless pillow.

“Won!” triumphantly exclaimed Judith Jessuron, flinging her majestic form on a couch. “Herbert Vaughan is mine!”

“Lost! lost for ever!” soliloquised Herbert, as he closed the door of his solitary sleeping-room.

“Won!” cried the victorious Smythje, entering his elegant bed-chamber, and, in the fervour of his enthusiasm, dropping his metropolitan patois. “Kate Vaughan is mine!”

Chapter 17

After the Ball

The time was rapidly drawing nigh when the ambitious scheme of the Custos Vaughan was either to be crowned with success, or end in failure.

Of the latter he had little apprehension. Though Smythje, having lost the opportunity of the eclipse, had not yet declared himself, Mr Vaughan knew it was his intention to do so on an early occasion. Indeed, the declaration was only postponed by the advice of the Custos himself, whose counsel had been sought by his intended son-in-law.

Not that Mr Vaughan had any fear of Kate’s giving a negative answer. The stern father knew that he had his daughter too well in hand for that. His wish would be her will – on that point was he determined; and it was less the fear of a refusal than some other circumstances that had hindered him from bringing the matter earlier to a crisis.

As for Smythje, he never dreamt of a rejection. Kate’s behaviour at the ball had confirmed him in the belief that she was entirely his own; and that without him her future existence would be one of misery. Her pale cheek, and sad, thoughtful air, as she appeared next morning at the breakfast-table, told him too plainly that she would never be happy under any other name than that of Mrs Smythje.

Again, upon that morning, it occurred to him that the proposal should be made. It would be an appropriate finale to the fête of the preceding night.

His brow still glowing with the laurels that had bedecked it, like a second Antony[531] he would approach his Cleopatra[532], triumphantly irresistible.

After breakfast, Mr Smythje drew the Custos into a corner, and once more expressed his solicitude to become his son-in-law.

Whether, because Kate’s behaviour at the ball had also impressed Mr Vaughan with the appropriateness of the time, or for some other reason, Smythje found him agreeable. Only first, the father desired to have a few words with his daughter, in order to prepare her for the distinguished honour of which she was so soon to be the recipient.

Kate had gone out into the kiosk. There Mr Vaughan sought her, to bring about the proposed preliminary interview. Smythje also stepped into the garden; but, instead of going near the summer-house, he sauntered along the walks at a distance, occasionally plucking a flower, or chasing the butterflies, bright and gay as his own thoughts.

Kate’s countenance still preserved the air of melancholy that had clouded it all the morning; and the approach of the Custos did nothing to dissipate it. On the contrary, its shadows became deeper, as if the ponderous presence of her father, coming between her and the sun, was about to shut out the little light left shining in her heart.

From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, and resign herself to an unhappy fate; or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps – she knew not what.

She only knew that she did not like Mr Smythje, and never could. She did not hate the man – she did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt. Harmless she deemed him; and, no doubt, a harmless husband he would make; but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart.

Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches. Although at that time Kate Vaughan felt towards Smythje more indifference – perhaps more contempt – than she had ever done, at that very hour was she wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him.

Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favour. It was not love for Smythje under which she was suffering; but despair of this passion for another; and in that despair lay the hope – the only hope – of the lord of Montagu Castle.

It was a despair not unmingled with pique – with anger; that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart, prompts it to desperate resolves: even to the utter annihilation of all future hope – as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it!

Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughan had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge!

The Smythje ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughan.

Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughan. Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured: for she had treasured and cherished them in spite of absence, and calumny, and false report.

True, as time passed they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt, until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbé Rock.

Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night – the night of the Smythje ball – when they were doomed to utter extinction.

All night long he had come but once near her – only that once by the mere chance of changing positions. And that bow – that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold – almost cynical!

She did not think how cold and distant had been her own – at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage: for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other.

Never more that night had he come near – never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her; though opportunities there were – many – when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.

All night long had his attentions been occupied by another – apparently engrossed – and that other, a bold, beautiful woman – just such an one as Herbert might love.

“He loves her! I am sure he loves her!” was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ball-room.

And then came the climax – that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married: they were already betrothed!

It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young creole were crushed – so cruelly, so completely, that, in the dark future before her, no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them.

No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek – no wonder that an air of deep dejection sate upon the countenance of Kate Vaughan.

In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.

She made no attempt to conceal it – not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.

It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!

Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness – the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself – never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream – a virgin’s love – with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.

Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child – how you were contributing to crush that young heart – you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!

Chapter 18

Paving the Way

“Catherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.

“Father!”

The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.

That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.

Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.

“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.

“Some one has torn the string from it – a pity! who can have done it?”

Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.

“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”

Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!

Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.

Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.

This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.

+++“‘I’d be a butterfly,’ – ”

sang Smythje —

“‘born in a bower,

Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet;

Sporting for ever, from flower to flower;

And – ’”

And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendid vanessa[533], and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers!

“Isn’t he a superb fellow?” said Mr Vaughan, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythje, and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter, to note the character of the reply.

“I suppose he must be, papa – since everybody says so.”

There was no enthusiasm in Kate’s answer – nothing to encourage the Custos.

“Don’t you think so, Kate?”

This was coming more directly to the point; but the response proved equally evasive.

“You think so, papa – and that should do for both of us.”

The melodious voice of Smythje again interrupted the dialogue, and turned it into a new channel.

Smythje, singing, —

+++“I’d never languish for wealth nor for power,

I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet!”

“Ah, Mr Smythje!” exclaimed the Custos, in a kind of soliloquy, though meant for the ear of Kate; “you have no need to sigh for them – you have them; five hundred of them. And beauties, too! Wealth and power, indeed! You needn’t languish for either one or the other. The estate of Montagu Castle provides you with both, my boy!”

Smythje, still chantant: —

+++“Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary,

Power, alas! nought but misery brings.”

“Do you hear that, Kate? What fine sentiments he utters!”

“Very fine, and apropos[534] to the occasion,” replied Kate, sarcastically. “They are not his, however; but, no doubt, he feels them; and that’s just as good.”

“A splendid property!” continued Mr Vaughan, returning to what interested him more than the sentiments of the song, and not heeding the sarcasm conveyed in the speech of his daughter, – “a splendid property, I tell you; and, with mine joined to it, will make the grandest establishment in the Island. The Island, did I say? In the West Indies – ay, in the Western World! Do you hear that, my daughter?”

“I do, papa,” replied the young Creole. “But you speak as if the two estates were to be joined together? Does Mr Smythje intend to purchase Mount Welcome? or you Montagu Castle?”

These questions were asked with an air of simplicity evidently assumed. In truth, the interrogator knew well enough to what the conversation was tending; and, impatient with the ambiguity, every moment growing more painful to her, desired to bring it to its crisis.

Mr Vaughan was equally desirous of arriving at the same result, as testified by his reply.

“Ah, Kate! you little rogue!” said he, looking gratified at the opening thus made for him. “Egad! you’ve just hit the nail on the head. You’ve guessed right – only that we are both to be buyers. Mr Smythje is to purchase Mount Welcome; and what do you suppose he is to pay for it? Guess that!”

“Indeed, father, I cannot! How should I know? I am sure I do not. Only this I know, that I am sorry you should think of parting with Mount Welcome. I, for one, shall be loth to leave it. Though I do not expect now ever to be happy here, I think I should not be happier anywhere else.”

Mr Vaughan was too much wound-up in the thread of his own thoughts to notice the emphasis on the word “now,” or the double meaning of his daughter’s words.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he; “Mr Smythje’s purchase won’t dispossess us of Mount Welcome. Don’t be afraid of that, little Kate. But, come, try and guess the price he is to pay?”

“Father, I need not try. I am sure I could not guess it – not within thousands of pounds.”

“Not a thousand pounds! no, not one pound, unless his great big heart weighs that much, and his generous hand thrown into the scale – for that, Catherine, that is the price he is to pay.”

Mr Vaughan wound up this speech with a significant glance, and a triumphant gesture, expressive of astonishment at his own eloquence.

He looked for a response – one that would reciprocate his smiles and the joyful intelligence he fancied himself to have communicated.

He looked in vain. Notwithstanding the perspicuity of his explanation, Kate obstinately refused to comprehend it.

Her reply was provokingly a “shirking of the question.”

“His heart and his hand, you say? Neither seem very heavy. But is it not very little for an estate where there are many hands and many hearts, too? To whom does he intend to give his? You have not let me know that, papa!”

“I shall let you know now,” replied the father, his voice changing to a more serious tone, as if a little nettled by Kate’s evident design to misunderstand him. “I shall let you know, by telling you what I intend to give him for Montagu Castle. I told you we were both to be buyers in this transaction. It is a fair exchange, Kate, hand for hand, and heart for heart. Mr Smythje freely gives his, and I give yours.”

“Mine!”

“Ay, yours. Surely, Kate, I have not made a mistake? Surely you are agreeable to the exchange?”

“Father,” said the young girl, speaking in a tone of womanly gravity, “there can be no exchange of hearts between Mr Smythje and myself. He may have given his to me. I know not, nor do I care. But I will not deceive you, father. My heart he can never have. It is not in my power to give it to him.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, startled by this unexpected declaration; “you are deceiving yourself, my child, when you talk thus. I do not see how you can fail to like Mr Smythje – so generous, so accomplished, so handsome as he is! Come, you are only jesting, Kate? You do like him? You do not hate him?”

“No, no! I do not hate him! Why should I? Mr Smythje has done nothing to offend me. I believe he is very honourable.”

“Why, that is almost saying that you like him!” rejoined the father, in a tone of returning gratification.

“Liking is not love,” murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself.

“It may turn to it,” said the Custos, encouragingly. “It often does – especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it’s not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, ‘Hot love soon grows cold.’ Never fear, Kate! you’ll get to like Mr Smythje well enough, when you come to be the mistress of Montagu Castle, and take rank as the grandest lady of the Island. Won’t that be happiness, little Kate?”

“Ah!” thought the young Creole, “a cabin shared with him would be greater happiness – far, far greater!”

It is needless to say that the “him” to whom the thought pointed was not Smythje.

“As Mrs Montagu Smythje,” proceeded the Custos, with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints, “you will have troops of friends – the highest in the land. And remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine?”

These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter.

Whether the speech produced the desired effect, he who made it did not stay to perceive; but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-coloured picture he had essayed to paint.

“Yes, my little Kate! you will be the observed of all observers – the cynosure[535] of every eye, as the poets say. Horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London – egad! I feel like going myself! In the great metropolis you will hob-nob with lords and ladies; visit the operas and balls, where you will be a belle, my girl – a belle, do you hear? Every one will be talking of Mrs Montagu Smythje! How do you like it now?”

“Ah, papa!” replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur, “I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things – you know I do not. They cannot give happiness – at least, not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home. What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure; but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods – our beautiful trees with their gay, perfumed blossoms – our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs! Operas and balls! I dislike balls; and to be the belle of one – papa, I detest the word!”

Kate, at that moment, was thinking of the Smythje ball, and its disagreeable souvenirs – perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase “belle of the ball” applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart.

“Oh! you will get over that dislike,” returned Mr Vaughan, “once you go into fashionable society. Most young ladies do. There is no harm in balls – after a girl gets married, and her husband goes with her, to take care of her – no harm whatever. But now, Kate,” continued the Custos, betraying a certain degree of nervous impatience, “we must come to an understanding. Mr Smythje is waiting.”

“For what is he waiting, papa?”

“Tut! tut! child,” said Mr Vaughan, slightly irritated by his daughter’s apparent incapacity to comprehend him. “Surely you know! Have I not as good as told you? Mr Smythje is going to – to offer you his heart and hand; and – and to ask yours in return. That is what he is waiting to do. You will not refuse him? – you cannot: you must not!”

Loftus Vaughan would have spoken more gracefully had he omitted the last phrase. It had the sound of a command, with an implied threat; and, jarring upon the ear of her to whom it was addressed, might have roused a spirit of rebellion. It is just possible that such would have been its effect, had it been spoken on the evening before the Smythje ball, instead of the morning after.

The incidents occurring there had extinguished all hope in the breast of the young Creole that she should ever share happiness with Herbert Vaughan – had, at the same time, destroyed any thought of resistance to the will of her father; and, with a sort of apathetic despair, she submitted herself to the sacrifice which her father had determined she should make.

“I have told you the truth,” said she, gazing fixedly in his face, as if to impress him with the idleness of the arguments he had been using. “I cannot give Mr Smythje my heart; I shall tell him the same.”

“No – no!” hastily rejoined the importunate parent; “you must do nothing of the kind. Give him your hand; and say nothing about your heart. That you can bestow afterwards – when you are safe married.”

“Never, never!” said the young girl, sighing sadly as she spoke. “I cannot practise that deception. No, father, not even for you. Mr Smythje shall know all; and, if he choose to accept my hand without my heart – ”

“Then you promise to give him your hand?” interrupted the Custos, overjoyed at this hypothetical consent.

“It is you who give it; not I, father.”

“Enough!” cried Mr Vaughan, hastily turning his eyes to the garden, as if to search for the insect-hunter. “I shall give it,” continued he, “and this very minute. Mr Smythje!”

Smythje, standing close by the kiosk, on the qui vive[536] of expectation, promptly responded to the summons; and in two seconds of time appeared in the open doorway.

“Mr Smythje – sir!” said the Custos, putting on an air of pompous solemnity befitting the occasion; “you have asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage; and, sir, I am happy to inform you that she has consented to your becoming my son-in-law. I am proud of the honour, sir.”

Here Mr Vaughan paused to get breath.

“Aw, aw!” stammered Smythje. “This is a gweat happiness – veway gweat, indeed! Quite unexpected! – aw, aw! – I am shure, Miss Vawn, I never dweamt such happiness was in store faw me.”

“Now, my children,” playfully interrupted the Custos – covering Smythje’s embarrassment by the interruption – “I have bestowed you upon one another; and, with my blessing, I leave you to yourselves.”

So saying, the gratified father stepped forth from the kiosk; and, wending his way along the walk, disappeared around an angle of the house.

We shall not intrude upon the lovers thus left alone, nor repeat a single word of what passed between them.

Suffice it to say, that when Smythje came out of that same kiosk, his air was rather tranquil than triumphant. A portion of the shadow that had been observed upon Kate’s countenance seemed to have been transmitted to his.

“Well?” anxiously inquired the intended father-in-law.

“Aw! all wight; betwothed. Yewy stwange, thaw – inexpwicably stwange!”

“How, strange?” demanded Mr Vaughan.

“Aw, vewy mild. I expected haw to go into hystewics. Ba Jawve! naw: she weceived ma declawation as cool as a cucumbaw!”

She had done more than that; she had given him a hand without a heart.

And Smythje knew it: for Kate Vaughan had kept her promise.

Chapter 19

The Duppy’s Hole

[537]

On the flank of the “Mountain” that frowned towards the Happy Valley, and not far from the Jumbé Rock, a spring gushed forth. So copious was it as to merit the name of fountain. In its descent down the slope it was joined by others, and soon became a torrent – leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming as it followed its onward course.

About half-way between the summit and base of the mountain, a deep longitudinal hollow lay in its track – into which the stream was precipitated, in a clear, curving cascade.

This singular hollow resembled the crater of an extinct volcano – in the circumstance that on all sides it was surrounded by a precipice facing inward, and rising two hundred feet sheer from the level below. It was not of circular shape, however – as craters generally are – but of the form of a ship, the stream falling in over the poop, and afterwards escaping through a narrow cleft at the bow.

Preserving the simile of a ship, it may be stated that the channel ran directly fore and aft, bisecting the bottom of the valley, an area of several acres, into two equal parts – but in consequence of an obstruction at its exit, the stream formed a lagoon, or dam, flooding the whole of the fore-deck, while the main and quarter-decks were covered with a growth of indigenous timber-trees, of appearance primeval.

The water, on leaving the lagoon, made its escape below, through a gorge black and narrow, bounded on each side by the same beetling cliffs that surrounded the valley. At the lower end of this gorge was a second waterfall, where the stream again pitched over a precipice of several hundred feet in height; and thence traversing the slope of the mountain, ended in becoming a tributary of the Montego River.

The upper cascade precipitated itself upon a bed of grim black boulders; through the midst of which the froth-crested water seethed swiftly onward to the lagoon below.

Above these boulders hung continuously a cloud of white vapour, like steam ascending out of some gigantic cauldron.

When the sun was upon that side of the mountain, an iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapour. But rare was the eye that beheld this beautiful phenomenon: for the Duppy’s Hole – in negro parlance, the appellation of the place – shared the reputation of the Jumbé Rock; and few were the negroes who would have ventured to approach, even to the edge of this cavernous abysm: fewer those who would have dared to descend into it.

Indeed, something more than superstitious terror might have hindered the execution of this last project: since a descent into the Duppy’s Hole appeared an impossibility. Down the beetling cliffs that encompassed it, there was neither path nor pass – not a ledge on which the foot might have rested with safety. Only at one point – and that where the precipice rose over the lagoon – might a descent have been made: by means of some stunted trees that, rooting in the clefts of the rock, formed a straggling screen up the face of the cliff. At this point an agile individual might possibly have scrambled down; but the dammed water – dark and deep – would have hindered him from reaching the quarter-deck of this ship-shaped ravine, unless by swimming; and this, the suck of the current towards the gorge below would have rendered a most perilous performance.

It was evident that some one had tempted this peril: for on scrutinising the straggling trees upon the cliff, a sort of stairway could be distinguished – the outstanding stems serving as steps, with the parasitical creepers connecting them together.

Moreover, at certain times, a tiny string of smoke might have been seen ascending out of the Duppy’s Hole; which, after curling diffusely over the tops of the tall trees, would dissolve itself, and become invisible. Only one standing upon the cliff above, and parting the foliage that screened it to its very brink, could have seen this smoke; and, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a stray waif of the fog that floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinised, however, its blue colour and soft filmy haze rendered it recognisable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been made by human hands.

Any day might it have been seen, and three times a-day – at morning, noon, and evening – as if the fire had been kindled for the purposes of cooking the three regular meals of breakfast, dinner, and supper.

The diurnal appearance of this smoke proved the presence of a human being within the Duppy’s Hole. One, at least, disregarding the superstitious terror attached to the place, had made it his home.

By exploring the valley, other evidences of human presence might have been found. Under the branches of a large tree, standing by the edge of the lagoon, and from which the silvery tillandsia[538] fell in festoons to the surface of the water, a small canoe of rude construction could be seen, a foot or two of its stem protruding from the moss. A piece of twisted withe, attaching it to the tree, told that it had not drifted there by accident, but was moored by some one who meant to return to it.

From the edge of the lagoon to the upper end of the valley, the ground, as already stated, was covered with a thick growth of forest timber – where the eye of the botanical observer might distinguish, by their forms and foliage, many of those magnificent indigenous trees for which the sylva[539] of Jamaica has long been celebrated.

There stood the gigantic cedrela, and its kindred the bastard cedar, with elm-like leaves; the mountain mahoe; the “tropic birch;” and the world-known mahogany.

Here and there, the lance-like culms of bamboos might be seen shooting up over the tops of the dicotyledons, or forming a fringe along the cliffs above, intermingled with trumpet-trees, with their singular peltate leaves, and tall tree-ferns, whose delicate lace-like fronds formed a netted tracery against the blue background of the sky. In the rich soil of the valley flourished luxuriantly the noble cabbage-palm – the prince of the Jamaica forest – while, by its side, claiming admiration for the massive grandeur of its form, stood the patriarch of West-Indian trees – the grand ceiba; the hoary Spanish moss that drooped from its spreading branches forming an appropriate beard for this venerable giant.

Every tree had its parasites – not a single species, but in hundreds, and of as many grotesque shapes; some twining around the trunks and boughs like huge snakes or cables – some seated upon the limbs or in the forking of the branches; and others hanging suspended from the topmost twigs, like streamers from the rigging of a ship. Many of these, trailing from tree to tree, were loaded with clusters of the most brilliant flowers, thus uniting the forest into one continuous arbour.

Close under the cliff, and near where the cascade came tumbling down from the rocks, stood a tree that deserves particular mention. It was a ceiba of enormous dimensions, with a buttressed trunk, that covered a surface of more than fifty feet in diameter. Its vast bole, rising nearly to the brow of the cliff, extended horizontally over an area on which five hundred men could have conveniently encamped; while the profuse growth of Spanish moss clustering upon its branches, rather than its own sparse foliage, would have shaded them from the sun, completely shutting out the view overhead.

Not from any of these circumstances was the tree distinguished from others of its kind frequently met with in the mountain forests of Jamaica. What rendered it distinct from those around was, that between two of the great spurs extending outwards from its trunk, an object appeared which indicated the presence of man.

This object was a hut constructed in the most simple fashion – having for its side walls the plate-like buttresses already mentioned, while in front a stockade of bamboo stems completed the inclosure. In the centre of the stockade a narrow space had been left open for the entrance – which could be closed, when occasion required, by a door of split bamboos that hung lightly upon its hinges of withe.

In front, the roof trended downward from the main trunk of the tree – following the slope of the spurs to a height of some six feet from the ground. Its construction was of the simplest kind – being only a few poles laid transversely, and over these a thatch of the long pinnate leaves of the cabbage-palm.

The hut inside was of triangular shape, and of no inconsiderable size – since the converging spurs forming its side walls extended full twelve feet outwards from the tree. No doubt it was large enough for whoever occupied it; and the platform of bamboo canes, intended as a bedstead, from its narrowness showed that only one person was accustomed to pass the night under the shelter of its roof.

That this person was a man could be told by the presence of some articles of male attire lying upon this rude couch – where also lay a strip of coarse rush matting, and an old, tattered blanket – evidently the sole stock of bedding which the hut contained.

The furniture was scanty as simple. The cane platform already mentioned appeared to do duty also as a table and chair; and, with the exception of an old tin kettle, some calabash bowls and platters, nothing else could be seen that might be termed an “utensil.”

There were articles, however, of a different character, and plenty of them; but these were neither simple nor their uses easily understood.

Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects – some of them of ludicrous and some of horrid aspect. Among the latter could be observed the skin of the dreaded galliwasp; the two-headed snake; the skull and tusks of a savage boar; dried specimens of the ugly gecko lizard; enormous bats, with human-like faces; and other like hideous creatures.

Little bags, suspended from the rafters, contained articles of still more mysterious import. Balls of whitish-coloured clay; the claws of the great-eared owl; parrots’ beaks and feathers; the teeth of cats, alligators, and the native agouti; pieces of rag and broken glass; with a score of like odds and ends, forming a medley as miscellaneous as unintelligible.

In one corner was a wicker basket – the cutacoo – filled with roots and plants of several different species, among which might be identified the dangerous dumb-cane; the savanna flower; and other “simples” of a suspicious character.

Entering this hut, and observing the singular collection of specimens which it contained, a stranger to the Island of Jamaica would have been puzzled to explain their presence and purpose. Not so, one acquainted with the forms of the serpent worship of Ethiopia – the creed of the Coromantees. The grotesque objects were but symbols of the African fetish. The hut was a temple of Obi: in plainer terms, the dwelling of an Obeah-man.

Chapter 20

Chakra, the Myal-Man

The sun was just going down to his bed in the blue Caribbean, and tinting with a carmine-coloured light the glistening surface of the Jumbé Rock, when a human figure was seen ascending the mountain path that led to that noted summit.

Notwithstanding the gloom of the indigenous forest – every moment becoming more obscure under the fast-deepening twilight – it could be easily seen that the figure was that of a woman; while the buff complexion of her face and naked throat, of her gloveless hands, and shoeless and stockingless feet and ankles, proclaimed her a woman of colour – a mulatta.

Her costume was in keeping with her caste. A frock of cotton print of flaunting pattern, half-open at the breast: a toque of Madras kerchief of gaudy hues – these were all she wore, excepting the chemise of scarcely white calico, whose embroidered border showed through the opening of her dress.

She was a woman of large form, and bold, passionate physiognomy; possessing a countenance not altogether unlovely, though lacking in delicacy of feature – its beauty, such as it was, being of a purely sensual character.

Whatever errand she was on, both her step and glance bespoke courageous resolve. It argued courage – her being upon the “Mountain,” and so near the Jumbé Rock, at that unusual hour.

But there are passions stronger than fear. Even the terror of the supernatural fades from the heart that is benighted with love, or wrung by jealousy. Perhaps this lone wanderer of the forest path was the victim of one or the other?

A certain expression of nervous anxiety – at times becoming more anguished – would have argued the latter to be the passion which was uppermost in her mind. Love should have looked more gentle and hopeful.

Though it was evident that her errand was not one of ordinary business, there was nothing about her to betray its exact purpose. A basket of palm wickerwork, suspended over her wrist, appeared to be filled with provisions: the half-closed lid permitting to be seen inside a congeries of yams, plantains, tomatoes, and capsicums; while the legs of a guinea-fowl protruded from the opening.

This might have argued a certain purpose – an errand to market; but the unusual hour, the direction taken, and, above all, the air and bearing of the mulatta, as she strode up the mountain path, forbade the supposition that she was going to market. The Jumbé Rock was not a likely place to find sale for a basket of provisions.

After all, she was not bound thither. On arriving within sight of the summit, she paused upon the path; and, after looking around for a minute or two – as if making a reconnoissance – she faced to the left, and advanced diagonally across the flank of the mountain.

Her turning aside from the Jumbé Rock could not have been from fear: for the direction she was now following would carry her to a place equally dreaded by the superstitious – the Duppy’s Hole.

That she was proceeding to this place was evident. There was no distinct path leading thither, but the directness of her course, and the confidence with which she kept it, told that she must have gone over the ground before.

Forcing her way through the tangle of vines and branches, she strode courageously onward – until at length she arrived on the edge of the cliff that hemmed in the cavernous hollow.

The point where she reached it was just above the gorge – the place where the tree stairway led down to the lagoon.

From her actions, it was evident that the way was known to her; and that she meditated a descent into the bottom of the valley.

That she knew she could accomplish this feat of herself, and expected some one to come to her assistance, was also evident from her proceeding to make a signal as soon as she arrived upon the edge of the cliff.

Drawing from the bosom of her dress a small white kerchief, she spread it open upon the branch of a tree that grew conspicuously over the precipice; and then, resting her hand against the trunk, she stood gazing with a fixed and earnest look upon the water below.

In the twilight, now fast-darkening down, even the white kerchief might have remained unnoticed. The woman, however, appeared to have no apprehension upon this head. Her gaze was expectant and full of confidence: as if the signal had been a preconcerted one, and she was conscious that the individual for whom it was intended would be on the look-out.

Forewarned or not, she was not disappointed. Scarce five minutes had transpired from the hanging out of the handkerchief, when a canoe[540] was seen shooting out from under the moss-garnished trees that fringed the upper edge of the lagoon, and making for the bottom of the cliff beneath the spot where she stood.

A single individual occupied the canoe; who, even under the sombre shadow of the twilight, appeared to be a man of dread aspect.

He was a negro of gigantic size; though that might not have appeared as he sat squatted in the canoe but for the extreme breadth of his shoulders, between which was set a huge head, almost neckless. His back was bent like a bow, presenting an enormous hunch – partly the effect of advanced age, and partly from natural malformation. His attitude in the canoe gave him a double stoop: so that, as he leant forward to the paddle, his face was turned downward, as if he was regarding some object in the bottom of the craft. His long, ape-like arms enabled him to reach over the gunwale without bending much to either side; and only with these did he appear to make any exertion – his body remaining perfectly immobile.

The dress of this individual was at the same time grotesque and savage. The only part of it which belonged to civilised fashion was a pair of wide trousers or drawers, of coarse Osnaburgh linen – such as are worn by the field hands on a sugar plantation. Their dirty yellowish hue told that they had long been strangers to the laundry: while several crimson-coloured blotches upon them proclaimed that their last wetting had been with blood, not water.

A sort of kaross, or cloak, made out of the skins of the utia, and hung over his shoulders, was the only other garment he wore. This, fastened round his thick, short neck by a piece of leathern thong, covered the whole of his body down to the hams – the Osnaburgh drawers continuing the costume thence to his ankles.

His feet were bare. Nor needed they any protection from shoes – the soles being thickly covered with a horn-like callosity, which extended from the ball of the great toe to the broad heel, far protruding backward.

The head-dress was equally bizarre. It was a sort of cap, constructed out of the skin of some wild animal; and fitting closely, exhibited, in all its phrenological[541] fulness, the huge negro cranium which it covered. There was no brim; but, in its place, the dried and stuffed skin of the great yellow snake was wreathed around the temples – with the head of the reptile in front, and two sparkling pebbles set in the sockets of its eyes to give it the appearance of life!

The countenance of the negro did not need this terrific adornment to inspire those who beheld it with fear. The sullen glare of his deep-set eye balls; the broad, gaping nostrils; the teeth, filed to a point, and gleaming, sharklike, behind his purple lips; the red tattooing upon his cheeks and broad breast – the latter exposed by the action of his arms – all combined in making a picture that needed no reptiliform addition to render it hideous enough for the most horrid of purposes. It seemed to terrify even the wild denizens of the Duppy’s Hole. The heron, couching in the sedge, flapped up with an affrighted cry; and the flamingo, spreading her scarlet wings, rose screaming over the cliffs, and flew far away.

Even the woman who awaited him – hold as she may have been, and voluntary as her rendezvous appeared to be – could not help shuddering as the canoe drew near; and for a moment she appeared irresolute, as to whether she should trust herself in such uncanny company.

Her resolution, however, stimulated by some strong passion, soon returned; and as the canoe swept in among the bushes at the bottom of the cliff, and she heard the voice of its occupant summoning her to descend, she plucked the signal from the tree, fixed the basket firmly over her arm, and commenced letting herself down through the tangle of branches.

The canoe re-appeared upon the open water, returning across the lagoon. The mulatta woman was seated in the stern, the man, as before, plying the paddle, but now exerting all his strength to prevent the light craft from being carried down by the current, that could be heard hissing and groaning through the gorge below.

On getting back under the tree from which he had started, the negro corded the canoe to one of the branches; and then, scrambling upon shore, followed by the woman, he walked on towards the temple of Obi – of which he was himself both oracle[542] and priest.

Chapter 21

The Resurrection

Arrived at the cotton-tree hut, the myal-man – for such was the negro – dived at once into the open door, his broad and hunched shoulders scarce clearing the aperture.

In a tone rather of command than request he directed the woman to enter.

The mulatta appeared to hesitate. Inside, the place was dark as Erebus: though without it was not very different. The shadow of the ceiba, with its dense shrouding of moss, interrupted every ray of the moonlight now glistening among the tops of the trees.

The negro noticed her hesitation.

“Come in!” cried he, repeating his command in the same gruff voice. “You me sabbey – what fo’ you fear?”

“I’se not afraid, Chakra,” replied the woman, though the trembling of her voice contradicted the assertion; “only,” she added, still hesitating, “it’s so dark in there.”

“Well, den – you ’tay outside,” said the other, relenting; “you ’tay dar wha you is; a soon ’trike a light.”

A fumbling was heard, and then the chink of steel against flint, followed by fiery sparks.

A piece of punk was set a-blaze, and from this the flame was communicated to a sort of lamp, composed of the carapace of a turtle, filled with wild-hog’s lard, and having a wick twisted out of the down of the cotton-tree.

“Now you come in, Cynthy,” resumed the negro, placing the lamp upon the floor. “Wha! you ’till afeard! You de dauter ob Juno Vagh’n – you modder no fear ole Chakra. Whugh! she no fear de Debbil!”

Cynthia, thus addressed, might have thought that between the dread of these two personages there was not much to choose: for the Devil himself could hardly have appeared in more hideous guise than the human being who stood before her.

“O Chakra!” said she, as she stepped inside the door, and caught sight of the weird-looking garniture of the walls; “woman may well be ’fraid. Dis am a fearful place!”

“Not so fearful as de Jumbé Rock,” was the reply of the myal-man, accompanied by a significant glance, and something between a smile and a grin.

“True!” said the mulatta, gradually recovering her self-possession; “true: you hab cause say so, Chakra.”

“Das a fac’, Cynthy.”

“But tell me, good Chakra,” continued the mulatta, giving way to a woman’s feeling – curiosity, “how did you ebber ’scape from the Jumbé Rock? The folks said it was your skeleton dat was up there – chain to de palm-tree!”

“De folk ’peek da troof. My ’keleton it was, jess as dey say.”

The woman turned upon the speaker a glance in which astonishment was mingled with fear, the latter predominating.

“Your skeleton?” she muttered, interrogatively.

“Dem same old bones – de ’kull, de ribs, de jeints, drumticks, an’ all. Golly, gal Cynthy! dat ere ’pears ’stonish you. Wha fo’? Nuffin in daat. You sabbey ole Chakra? You know he myal-man? Doan care who know now – so long dey b’lieve um dead. Wha for myal-man, ef he no bring de dead to life ’gain? Be shoo Chakra no die hisseff, so long he knows how bring dead body to de life. Ole Chakra know all dat. Dey no kill him, nebber! Neider de white folk nor de brack folk. Dey may shoot ’im wid gun – dey may hang ’im by de neck – dey may cut off ’im head – he come to life ’gain, like de blue lizard and de glass snake. Dey did try kill ’im, you know. Dey ’tarve him till he die ob hunger and thuss. De John Crow pick out him eyes, and tear de flesh from de old nigga’s body – leab nuffin but de bare bones! Ha! Chakra ’lib yet – he hab new bones, new flesh! Golly! you him see? he ’trong – he fat as ebber he wa’! Ha! ha! ha!”

And as the hideous negro uttered his exulting laugh, he threw up his arms and turned his eyes towards his own person, as if appealing to it for proof of the resurrection he professed to have accomplished!

The woman looked as if petrified by the recital; every word of which she appeared implicitly to believe. She was too much terrified to speak, and remained silent, apparently cowering under the influence of a supernatural awe.

The myal-man perceived the advantage he had gained; and seeing that the curiosity of his listener was satisfied – for she had not the slightest desire to hear more about that matter – he adroitly changed the subject to one of a more natural character.

“You’ve brought de basket ob wittle, Cynthy?”

“Yes, Chakra – there.”

“Golly! um’s berry good – guinea-hen an’ plenty ob vegable fo’ de pepperpot. Anything fo’ drink, gal? Habent forgot daat, a hope? De drink am da mose partickla ob all.”

“I have not forgotten it, Chakra. There’s a bottle of rum. You’ll find it in the bottom of the basket. I had a deal trouble steal it.”

“Who you ’teal ’im from?”

“Why, master: who else? He have grown berry partickler of late – carries all de keys himself; and won’t let us coloured folk go near de storeroom, as if we were all teevin’ cats!”

“Nebba mind – nebba you mind, Cynthy – maybe Chakra watch him by’m-bye. Wa, now!” added he, drawing the bottle of rum out of the basket, and holding it up to the light. “De buckra preacher he say dat ’tolen water am sweet. A ’pose dat ’tolen rum folla de same excepshun. A see ef um do.”

So saying, the negro drew out the stopper; raised the bottle to his lips; and buried the neck up to the swell between his capacious jaws.

A series of “clucks” proclaimed the passage of the liquor over his palate; and not until he had swallowed half a pint of the fiery fluid, did he withdraw the neck of the bottle from between his teeth.

“Whugh!” he exclaimed, with an aspirate that resembled the snort of a startled hog. “Whugh!” he repeated, stroking his abdomen with his huge paw. “De buckra preacher may talk ’bout him ’tolen water, but gib me de ’tolen rum. You good gal, Cynthy – you berry good gal, fo’ fetch ole Chakra dis nice basket o’ wittle – he sometime berry hungry – he need um all.”

“I promise to bring more – whenebber I can get away from the Buff.”

“Das right, my piccaninny! An’ now, gal,” continued he, changing his tone, and regarding the mulatta with a look of interrogation, “wha fo’ you want see me dis night? You hab some puppos partickla? Dat so – eh, gal?”

The mulatta stood hesitating. There are certain secrets which woman avows with reluctance – often with repugnance. Her love is one; and of this she cares to make confession only to him who has the right to hear it. Hence Cynthia’s silent and hesitating attitude.

“Wha fo’ you no ’peak?” asked the grim confessor. “Shoo’ you no hah fear ob ole Chakra? You no need fo’ tell ’im – he know you secret a’ready – you lub Cubina, de capen ob Maroon? Dat troof, eh?”

“It is true, Chakra. I shall conceal nothing from you.”

“Better not, ’cause you can’t ’ceal nuffin from ole Chakra – he know ebbery ting – little bird tell um. Wa now, wha nex’? You tink Cubina no lub you?”

“Ah! I am sure of it,” replied the mulatta, her bold countenance relaxing into an anguished expression. “I once thought he love me. Now I no think so.”

“You tink him lub some odder gal?”

“I am sure of it – Oh, I have reason!”

“Who am dis odder?”

“Yola.”

“Yola? Dat ere name sound new to me. Whar d’s she ’long to?”

“She belongs to Mount Welcome – she Missa Kate’s maid.”

“Lilly Quasheba, I call dat young lady,” muttered the myal-man, with a knowing grin. “But dis Yola?” he added; “whar she come from? A nebber hear de name afo’.”

“Oh, true, Chakra! I did not think of tellin’ you. She was bought from the Jew, and fetched home since you – that is, after you left the plantation.”

“Arter I lef’ de plantation to die on de Jumbé Rock; ha! ha! ha! Dat’s wha you mean, Cynthy?”

“Yes – she came soon after.”

“So you tink Cubina lub her?”

“I do.”

“An’ she ’ciprocate de fekshun?”

“Ah, surely! How could she help do that?”

The interrogatory betrayed the speaker’s belief that the Maroon captain was irresistible.

“Wa, then – wha you want me do, gal? You want rebbenge on Cubina, ’cause he hab ’trayed you? You want me put de death-spell on him?”

“Oh! no – no! not that, Chakra, for the love of Heaven! – not that!”

“Den you want de lub-spell?”

“Ah! if he could be make love me ’gain – he did once. That is – I thought he did. Is it possible, good Chakra, to make him love me again?”

“All ting possble to old Chakra; an’ to prove dat,” continued he, with a determined air, “he promise put de lub-spell on Cubina.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks!” cried the woman, stretching out her hands, and speaking in a tone of fervent gratitude. “What can I do for you, Chakra? I bring you everything you ask. I steal rum – I steal wine – I come every night with something you like eat.”

“Wa, Cynthy – dat berry kind ob you; but you muss do more dan all dat.”

“Anything you ask me – what more?”

“You must yourseff help in de spell. It take bof you an’ me to bring dat ’bout.”

“Only me tell what to do; and trust me, Chakra, I shall follow your advice.”

“Wa, den – lissen – I tell you all ’bout it. But sit down on da bedsed dar. It take some time.”

The woman, thus directed, took her seat upon the bamboo couch, and remained silent and attentive – watching every movement of her hideous companion, and not without some misgivings as to the compact which was about to be entered into between them.

Chapter 22

The Love-Spell

The countenance of the myal-man had assumed an air of solemnity that betokened serious determination; and the mulatta felt a presentiment that, in return for his services, something was about to be demanded of her – something more than a payment in meat and drink.

His mysterious behaviour as he passed around the hut; now stopping before one of the grotesque objects that adorned the wall, – now fumbling among the little bags and baskets, as if in search of some particular charm – his movements made in solemn silence only broken by the melancholy sighing of the cataract without; all this was producing on the mind of the mulatta an unpleasant impression; and, despite her natural courage, sustained as it was by the burning passion that devoured her, she was fast giving way to an indefinable fear.

The priest of Obi, after appearing to have worshipped each fetish in turn, at length transferred his devotions to the rum-bottle – perhaps the most potent god in his whole Pantheon. Taking another long-protracted potation, followed by the customary “Whugh!” he restored the bottle to its place; and then, seating himself upon a huge turtle-shell, that formed part of the plenishing of his temple, he commenced giving his devotee her lesson of instructions.

“Fuss, den,” said he, “to put de lub-spell on anybody – eider a man or a woman – it am nessary, at de same time, to hab de obeah-spell go ’long wi’ it.”

“What!” exclaimed his listener, exhibiting a degree of alarm; “the obeah-spell? – on Cubina, do you mean?”

“No, not on him – dat’s not a nessary consarquence. But ’fore Cubina be made lub you, someb’dy else muss be made sick.”

“Who?” quickly inquired the mulatta, her mind at the moment reverting to one whom she might have wished to be the invalid.

“Who you tink fo’? who you greatest enemy you wish make sick?”

“Yola,” answered the woman, in a low muttered voice, and with only a moment of hesitation.

“Woan do – woman woan do – muss he man; an’ more dan dat, muss be free man. Nigga slave woan do. Obi god tell me so jess now. Buckra man, too, it muss be. If buckra man hab de obeah-’pell, Cubina he take de lub-spell ’trong – he lub you hard as a ole mule can kick.”

“Oh! if he would!” exclaimed the passionate mulatta, in an ecstasy of delightful expectation; “I shall do anything for that – anything!”

“Den you muss help put de obeah-spell on some ob de white folk. You hab buckra enemy? – Chakra hab de same.”

“Who?” inquired the woman, reflectingly.

“Who! No need tell who Chakra enemy – you enemy too. Who fooled you long time ’go? who ’bused you when you wa young gal? No need tell you dat, Cynthy Vagh’n?”

The mulatta turned her eyes upon the speaker with a significant expression. Some old memory seemed resuscitated by his words, – evidently anything but a pleasant one.

“Massa Loftus?” she said, in a half-whisper.

“Sartin shoo, Massa Loftus – dat ere buckra you enemy an’ mine boaf.”

“And you would – ?”

“Set de obeah fo’ him,” said the negro, finishing the interrogatory, which the other had hesitated to pronounce.

The woman remained without making answer, and as if buried in reflection. The expression upon her features was not one of repentance.

“Muss be him!” continued the tempter, as if to win her more completely to his dark project; “no odder do so well. Obi god say so – muss be de planter ob Moun’ Welc’m.”

“If Cubina will but love me, I care not who,” rejoined the mulatta, with an air of reckless determination.

“’Nuff sed,” resumed the myal-man. “De obeah-spell sha’ be set on de proud buckra, Loftus Vagh’n; an’ you, Cynthy, muss ’sist in de workin’ ob de charm.”

“How can I assist?” inquired the woman, in a voice whose trembling told of a slight irresolution. “How, Chakra?”

“Dat you be tole by’m-bye – not dis night. De ’pell take time. God Obi he no act all at once, not eben fo’ ole Chakra. You come ’gain when I leab de signal fo’ yon on de trumpet-tree. Till den you keep dark ’bout all dese ting. You one ob de few dat know ole Chakra still ’live. Odders know ob de ole myal-man in de mask, but berry few ebber see um face, an’ nebba suspeck who um be. Das all right. You tell who de myal-man am, den – ”

“Oh, never, Chakra,” interrupted his listener, “never!”

“No, berra not. You tell dat, Cynthy, you soon feel de obeah-spell on youseff.

“Now, gal,” continued the negro, rising from his seat, and motioning the mulatta to do the same, “time fo’ you go. I specks one odder soon: no do fo’ you to be cotch hya when dat odder come. Take you basket, an’ folla me.”

So saying, he emptied the basket of its heterogeneous contents; and, handing it to its owner, conducted her out of the hut.

Chapter 23

Chakra Redivivus

The scene that had thus transpired in the depths of the Duppy’s Hole requires some explanation. The dialogue which Cynthia had held with the hideous Coromantee, though couched in ambiguous phrase, clearly indicated an intention to assassinate the Custos Vaughan; and by a mode which these arch-conspirators figuratively – almost facetiously – termed the obeah-spell!

In the diabolical design, the woman appeared to be acting rather as coadjutor than conspirator; and her motive for taking part in the plot, though wicked enough, presents, in the language of French law, one or two “extenuating circumstances.”

A word or two of the mulatta’s history will make her motive understood, though her conversation may have already declared it with sufficient distinctness.

Cynthia was a slave on the plantation of Mount Welcome – one of the house-wenches, or domestics belonging to the mansion; and of which, in a large establishment like that of Custos Vaughan, there is usually a numerous troop.

The girl, in earlier life, had been gifted with good looks. Nor could it be said that they were yet gone; though hers was a beauty that no longer presented the charm of innocent girlhood, but rather the sensualistic attractions of a bold and abandoned woman.

Had Cynthia been other than a slave – that is, had she lived in other lands – her story might have been different. But in that, her native country – and under conditions of bondage that extended alike to body and soul – her fair looks had proved only a fatal gift.

With no motive to tread the paths of virtue – with a thousand temptations to stray from it – Cynthia, like, it is sad to think, too many of her race, had wandered into ways of wantonness. It might be, as Chakra had obscurely hinted, that the slave had been abused. Wherever lay the blame, she had, at all events, become abandoned.

Whether loving them or not, Cynthia had, in her time, been honoured with more than one admirer. But there was one on whom she had at length fixed her affections – or, more properly, her passions – to a degree of permanence that promised to end only with her life. This one was the young Maroon captain, Cubina; and although it was a love of comparatively recent origin, it had already reached the extreme of passion. So fierce and reckless had it grown, on the part of the wretched woman, that she was ready for anything that promised to procure her its requital – ready even for the nefarious purpose of Chakra.

To do Cubina justice, this love of the slave Cynthia was not reciprocated. To the levities and light speeches habitually indulged in by the Maroons, in their intercourse with the plantation people, Cubina was a singular exception; and Cynthia’s statement that he had once returned her love – somewhat doubtingly delivered – had no other foundation than her own groundless conjectures, in which the wish was father to the thought.

Some friendly words may have passed between the Maroon and mulatta – for they had often met upon their mutual wanderings; but the latter, in mistaking them for words of love, had, sadly for herself, misconceived their meaning.

Of late her passion had become fiercer than ever – since jealousy had arisen to stimulate it – jealousy of Cubina with Yola. The meeting and subsequent correspondence of the Maroon with the Foolah maiden were events of still more recent date; but already had Cynthia seen or heard enough to produce the conviction that in Yola she had found a rival. With the passionate sang-mêlé, jealousy pointed to revenge; and she had begun to indulge in dark projects of this nature just at that time when Chakra chanced to throw his shadow across her path.

Cynthia was one of those slaves known as night-rangers. She was in the habit of making occasional and nocturnal excursions through the woods for many purposes; but of late, principally in the hope of meeting Cubina, and satisfying herself in regard to a suspicion she had conceived of meetings occurring between him and Yola.

In one of these expeditions she had encountered a man whose appearance filled her with terror; and very naturally: since, as she at first supposed, it was not a man, but a ghost that she saw – the ghost of Chakra, the myal-man!

That it was the “duppy” of old Chakra, Cynthia on sight firmly believed; and might have continued longer in that belief, had she been permitted to make her escape from the spot – as she was fast hastening to do. But the long, ape-like arms of the myal-man, flung around her on the instant, restrained her flight until she became convinced that it was not Chakra’s ghost, but Chakra himself, who had so rudely embraced her!

It was not altogether by chance this encounter had occurred – at least, on the part of Chakra. He had been looking out for Cynthia for some time before. He wanted her for a purpose.

The mulatta made no revelation of what she had seen. With all his ugliness, the myal-man had been the friend of her mother – had often dandled her, Cynthia, upon his knees. But the tongue of Juno’s daughter was held silent by stronger ties than those of affection. Fear was one; but there was also another. If Chakra wanted Cynthia for a purpose, a quick instinct told her she might stand in need of him. He was just the instrument by which to accomplish that revenge of which she was already dreaming.

On the instant, mulatta and myal-man became allies.

This mutual confidence had been but very recently established – only a few days, or rather nights, before that on which Cynthia had given Chakra this, her first seance in the temple of Obi.

The purpose for which the myal-man wanted the mulatta – or one purpose, at least – has been sufficiently set forth in the dialogues occurring between them. He required her assistance to put the obeah-spell upon the planter, Loftus Vaughan. The character of Cynthia, which Chakra well understood – with the opportunities she had, in her capacity of housemaid – promised to provide the assassin with an agency of the most effective kind; and the pretended love-spell he was to work upon Cubina had given him a talisman, by which his agent was but too easily induced to undertake the execution of his diabolical design.

Among many other performances of a like kind, it was part of Chakra’s programme, some day or other, to put the death-spell upon the Maroon himself; to “obeah” young Cubina – as it was suspected he had the old Cubina, the father – after twenty years of temptation. It was but the want of opportunity that had hindered him from having long before accomplished his nefarious project upon the son, as upon the father – in satisfaction of a revenue so old as to be anterior to the birth of Cubina himself, though associated with that event.

Of course, this design was not revealed to Cynthia.

His motive for conspiring the death of Loftus Vaughan was without any mystery whatever; and this – perhaps more than any other of his crimes, either purposed or committed – might plead “extenuating circumstances.” His cruel condemnation, and subsequent exposure upon the Jumbé Rock, was a stimulus sufficient to have excited to revenge a gentler nature than that of Chakra, the Coromantee. It need scarce be said that it had stimulated his to the deadliest degree.

The resurrection of the myal-man may appear a mystery – as it did to the slave, Cynthia. There was one individual, however, who understood its character. Not to an African god was the priest of Obi indebted for his resuscitation, but to an Israelitish man – to Jacob Jessuron.

It was but a simple trick – that of substituting a carcase – afterwards to become a skeleton – for the presumed dead body of the myal-man. The baracoon of the slave-merchant generally had such a commodity in stock. If not, Jessuron would not have scrupled to manufacture one for the occasion.

Humanity had nothing to do in the supplying of this proxy. Had there been no other motive than that to actuate the Jew, Chakra might have rotted under the shadow of the cabbage-palm.

But Jessuron had his purpose for saving the life of the condemned criminal – more than one, perhaps – and he had saved it.

Since his resurrection, Chakra had pursued his iniquitous calling with even more energy than of old; but now in the most secret and surreptitious manner.

He had not been long in re-establishing a system of confederates – under the auspices of a new name – but only at night, and with disguised form and masked face, did he give his clients rendezvous. Never in the Duppy’s Hole; for few were sufficiently initiated into the mysteries of myalism[543] to be introduced to its temple in that secure retreat.

Although the confederates of the obeah-man rarely reveal the secret of his whereabouts – even his victims dreading to divulge it – Chakra knew the necessity of keeping as much as possible en perdu[544]; and no outlaw, with halter around his neck, could have been more cautious in his outgoings and incomings.

He knew that his life was forfeit on the old judgment; and, though he had once escaped execution, he might not be so fortunate upon a second occasion. If recaptured, some surer mode of death would be provided – a rope, instead of a chain; and in place of being fastened to the trunk of a tree, he would be pretty certain of being suspended by the neck to the branch of one.

Knowing all this, Chakra redivivus trod the forest paths with caution, and was especially shy of the plantation of Mount Welcome. Around the sides of the mountain he had little to fear. The reputation of the Jumbé Rock, as well as that of the Duppy’s Hole, kept the proximity of these noted places clear of all dark-skinned stragglers; and there Chakra had the heat to himself.

Upon dark nights, however, like the wolf, he could prowl at pleasure and with comparative safety – especially upon the outskirts of the more remote plantations: the little intercourse allowed between the slaves of distant estates making acquaintanceship among them a rare exception. It was chiefly upon these distant estates that Chakra held communication with his confederates and clients.

It was now more than a year since he had made his pretended resurrection; and yet so cautiously had he crawled about, that only a few individuals were aware of the fact of his being still alive. Others had seen his ghost! Several negroes of Mount Welcome plantation would have sworn to having met the “duppy” of old Chakra, while travelling through the woods at night, and the sight had cured these witnesses of their propensity for midnight wandering.

Chapter 24

The Bargain of Obeah

For a while after the departure of Cynthia, the temple of Obi remained untenanted, except by its dumb deities: its priest having gone to ferry his neophyte[545] across the lagoon.

In a few minutes he returned alone – having left the mulatta to make her way up the cliff, and homeward to Mount Welcome, where she belonged.

It was evident that the visit of the mulatta had given him gratification. Even in the dim light of his lard lamp an expression of demoniac joy could be distinguished upon his ferocious visage, as he re-entered the hut.

“One dead!” cried he, in an exulting tone; “anodder upon ’im death-bed; and now de third, de las’ an’ wuss ob ’em all – ha! ha! ha! – he soon feel de vengeance ob Chakra, de myal-man!”

Thrice did the wild, maniac-like laugh peal from under the spreading limbs of the ceiba – reverberating with an unearthly echo against the cliffs that hemmed in the Duppy’s Hole. It startled the denizens of the dark lagoon; and, like echoes, came ringing up the ravine the scream of the crane, and the piercing cry of the wood-ibis.

These sounds had scarce died away, when one of a somewhat different intonation was heard from above. It resembled a shriek; or rather as if some one had whistled through his fingers. Whoever gave utterance to the sound was upon the top of the cliff – just over the hut.

Chakra was not startled. He knew it was a signal; and that it was given by the guest he was expecting.

“Das de ole Jew!” muttered he, taking the rum-bottle, and concealing it under the bedstead. “You stay dar till I wants ye ’gain,” added he, addressing himself in a confidential tone to this, the object of his greatest adoration. “Now for de nigga-dealer! I’se hab news fo’ him ’ll tickle ’im in de ribs like a ole guana lizzard. Not dat Chakra care fo’ him. No – only, on dis voyage, boaf am sailin’ in de same boat. Da he go ’gain!”

This last exclamation referred to a repetition of the signal heard further down: as if he who was sounding it was advancing along the cliff, towards the gorge at the lower end.

A third call proceeded from that point where the tree stairway scaled the precipice – indicating to Chakra that his visitor was there awaiting him.

Without further delay, the ferryman – grim as Charon himself – returned to his canoe; and once more paddled it across the lagoon.

While Chakra was thus occupied, a man could be seen descending the cliff, through the tangle of climbing plants, who, on the arrival of the canoe at the bottom, was standing, half concealed among the bushes, ready to step into it. The moon shone upon a blue body-coat, with bright buttons; upon a brown beaver hat and white skull-cap; upon tarnished top-boots, green goggles, and an enormous umbrella.

Chakra did not need to scan the sharp Israelitish features of the man to ascertain who he was.

Jacob Jessuron was there by appointment; and the myal-man knew both his presence and his purpose.

Not a word of recognition passed between the two, nor sign. Only a caution from Chakra – as the Jew, swinging by a branch, let himself down into the canoe.

“’Tep in lightly, Massr Jake, an’ doan’ push da canoe down ’tream. ’T am jess’ as much as I kin do to keep de ole craff out ob de eddy. Ef she get down da, den it ’ud be all up wifh boaf o’ us.”

“Blesh my soul! D’you shay so?” rejoined the Jew, glancing towards the gorge, and shivering as he listened to the hoarse groaning of the water among the grim rocks. “S’help me, I didn’t know it was dangerous. Don’t fear, Shakra! I shtep in ash light ash a feather.”

So saying, the Jew dropped his umbrella into the bottom of the boat; and then let himself down upon the top of it, with as much gentleness as if he was descending upon a basket of eggs.

The ferryman, seeing his freight safely aboard, paddled back to the mooring-place; and, having secured his craft as before, conducted his visitor up the valley in the direction of the hut.

On entering the temple of Obi, Jessuron – unlike the devotee who had just left it – showed no signs either of surprise or fear at its fantastic adornments. It was evident he had worshipped there before.

Nor did he evince a special veneration for the shrine; but, seating himself familiarly on the bamboo bedstead, uttered as he did so a sonorous “Ach!” which appeared as if intended to express satisfaction.

At the same time he drew from the ample pocket of his coat a shining object, which, when held before the lamp, appeared to be a bottle. The label seen upon its side, with the symbolical bunch of grapes, proved it to be a bottle of cognac.

The exclamation of the myal-man, which the sight of the label had instantaneously elicited, proved that on his side equal satisfaction existed at this mode of initiating an interview.

“Hash you a glass among your belongingsh?” inquired the Jew, looking around the hovel.

“No; dis yeer do?” asked his host, presenting a small calabash with a handle.

“Fush rate. Thish liquor drinksh goot out of anything. I had it from Capten Showler on hish lasht voyage. Jesh taste it, good Shakra, before we begins bishness.”

A grunt from the negro announced his willing assent to the proposal.

“Whugh!” he ejaculated, after swallowing the allowance poured out for him into the calabash.

“Ach! goot it ish!” said his guest, on quaffing off a like quantity; and then the bottle and gourd being set on one side, the two queer characters entered into the field of free conversation.

In this the Jew took the initiative.

“I hash news for you,” said he, “very shtrange news, if you hashn’t already heard it, Shakra? Who dosh you think ish dead?”

“Ha!” exclaimed the myal-man, his eye suddenly lighting up with a gleam of ferocious joy; “he gone dead, am he?”

“Who? I hashen’t told you,” rejoined the Jew, his features assuming an expression of mock surprise. “But true,” he continued, after a pause; “true, you knew he wash sick – you knew Justish Bailey wash sick, an’ not likely to get over it. Well – he hashen’t, poor man! – he’s dead and in hish coffin by thish time: he breathed hish lasht yesterdays.”

A loud and highly-aspirated “Whugh!” was the only answer made by the myal-man. The utterance was not meant to convey any melancholy impression. On the contrary, by its peculiar intonation, it indicated as much satisfaction as any amount of words could have expressed.

“It ish very shtrange,” continued the penn-keeper, in the same tone of affected simplicity; “so short a time shince Mishter Ridgely died. Two of the three shustices that sat on your trial, goot Shakra. It looksh ash if Providensh had a hand in it – it dosh!”

“Or de Dibbil, mo’ like, maybe?” rejoined Chakra, with a significant leer.

“Yesh – Gott or the Devil – one or t’other. Well, Shakra, you hash had your refenge, whichever hash helped you to it. Two of your enemies ish not likely to trouble you again; and ash for the third – ”

“Nor he berry long, I’se speck’,” interrupted the negro, with a significant grin.

“What you shay?” exclaimed the Jew, in an earnest undertone. “Hash you heard anythings? Hash the wench been to see you?”

“All right ’bout her, Massr Jake.”

“Goot – she hash been?”

“Jess leab dis place ’bout quar’r ob an hour ’go.”

“And she saysh she will help you to set the obeah-shpell for him?”

“Hab no fear – she do all dat. Obi had spell oba her, dat make her do mose anythin – ah! any thin’ in de worl’ – satin shoo. Obi all-powerful wi’ dat gal.”

“Yesh, yesh!” assented the Jew; “I knowsh all that. And if Obi wash to fail,” added he, doubtingly, “you hash a drink, goot Shakra – I know you hash a drink, ash potent as Obi or any other of your gotsh.”

A glance of mutual intelligence passed between the two.

“How long dosh it take your shpell to work?” inquired the penn-keeper, after an interval of silence, in which he seemed to be making some calculation.

“Dat,” replied the negro, “dat depend altogedder on de saccomstance ob how long de spell am wanted to work. Ef ’im wanted, Chakra make ’im in tree day fotch de ’trongest indiwiddible cla out o’ ’im boots; or in tree hour he do same – but ob coorse dat ud be too soon fo’ be safe. A spell of tree hours too ’trong. Dat not Obi work – ’im look berry like pisen.”

“Poison – yesh, yesh, it would.”

“Tree day too short – tree week am de correct time. Den de spell work ’zackly like fever ob de typos. Nobody had s’picion ’bout ’um.”

“Three weeks, you shay? And no symptoms to make schandal? You’re shure that ish sufficient? Remember, Shakra; the Cushtos ish a strong man – strong ash a bull.”

“No mar’r ’bout dat. Ef he ’trong as de bull, in dat period ob time he grow weak as de new-drop calf – I’se be boun’ he ’taggering Bob long ’fore dat. You say de word, Massr Jake. Obi no like to nigga. Nigga only brack man: he no get pay fo’ ’im work. Obi ’zemble buckra man. He no work ’less him pay.”

“Yesh – yesh! dat ish only shust and fair. Obi should be paid; but shay, goot Shakra! how much ish his prishe for a shpell of thish kind?”

“Ef he hab no interest hisseff in de workin’ ob de ’pell, he want a hunder poun’. When he hab interest, das different – den he take fifty.”

“Fifty poundsh! That ish big monish, good Shakra! In thish case Obi hash an interest – more ash anybody elshe. He hash an enemy, and wants refenge. Ish that not true, goot Shakra!”

“Das da troof. Chakra no go fo’ deny ’im. But das jess why Obi ’sent do dat leetle chore fo’ fifty poun’. Obi enemy big buckra – ’trong as you hab jess say – berry diff’cult fo’ ’pell ’im. Any odder myal-man charge de full hunder poun’. Fack, no odder able do de job – no odder but ole Chakra hab dat power.”

“Shay no more about the prishe. Fifty poundsh be it. Here’sh half down.” The tempter tossed a purse containing coin into the outstretched palm of the obeah-man. “All I shtipulate for ish, that in three weeks you earn the other half; and then we shall both be shquare with the Cushtos Vochan – for I hash my refenge to shatisfy ash well as you, Shakra.”

“Nuff sed, Massr Jake. ’Fore tree day de ’pell sha’ be put on. You back come to de Duppy Hole tree night from dis, you hear how ’im work. Whugh!”

The gourd shell was again brought into requisition; and, after a parting “kiss” at the cognac, the “heel-tap” of which remained in the hut, the precious pair emerged into the open air.

The priest of Obi having conducted his fellow-conspirator across the lagoon, returned to his temple, and set himself assiduously to finish what was left of the liquor.

“Whugh!” ejaculated he, in one of the pauses that occurred between two vigorous pulls at the bottle; “ole villum Jew wuss dan Chakra – wuss dan de Debbil hisseff! Doan’ know why he want rebbenge. Das nuffin’ to me. I want rebbenge, an’, by de great Accompong! I’se a g’wine to hab it! Ef dis gal proob true, as de odder’s did – she muss proob true – in tree week de proud, fat buckra jussis dat condemn me to dat Jumbé Rock – ‘Cussos rodelorum,’ as de call ’im – won’t hab no more flesh on ’im bones dan de ’keleton he tink wa’ myen. And den, when ’im die – ah! den, affer ’im die, de daughter ob dat Quasheba dat twenty year ’go ’corn de lub ob de Coromantee for dat ob de yellow Maroon – maybe her dauter, de Lilly Quasheba, sleep in de arms ob Chakra de myal-man! Whugh!”

As the minister of Obi gave utterance to this hypothetical threat, a lurid light glared un in his sunken eyes, while his white, sharklike teeth were displayed in an exulting grin – hideous as if the Demon himself were smiling over some monstrous menace!

Both cognac and rum-bottle were repeatedly tasted, until the strong frame of the Coromantee gave way to the stronger spirit of the alcohol; and, muttering fearful threats in his gumbo jargon, he at length sank unconscious on the floor.

There, under the light of the lard lamp – now flickering feebly – he lay like some hideous satyr, whom Bacchus, by an angry blow, had felled prostrate to the earth!

Chapter 25

The Mysterious Motive

The original motive of the myal-man, in conspiring the death of the Custos Vaughan, would have been strong enough to urge him on without this new instigation. As we have seen, it was one of deadly revenge – simple, and easily understood.

Not so easily understood was that which actuated the Jew. On the contrary, so secretly had he conceived his purposes, that no living man – not even Chakra himself – had been made privy to them. Up to this moment they may have appeared mysterious; and the time has arrived when it becomes necessary to reveal them. The explanation will show them to be only natural – only in keeping with the character of this crooked and cruel old man.

It is scarce necessary to say that Jacob Jessuron was no type of his race; nor, indeed, of any race. A German Jew by birth, it was not necessarily this that made him either slave-dealer or slave-stealer. Christians have taken their full share in both branches of the nefarious trade; and equally with Jews and Mohammedans[546] have they been guilty of its most hideous enormities. It was not, therefore, because Jacob Jessuron chanced to be a Jew that he was a trafficker in human flesh and blood – any more than that he was a villainous man; but because he was Jacob Jessuron – a representative of neither race nor nation, but simply a character sui generis.

Without dwelling upon his general demerits, let us return to the more particular theme of the motives which were instigating him to make a victim of his neighbour Vaughan – a death victim: for his conversation with Chakra showed that this was the very starting-point of his intentions.

In the first place, he was well acquainted with the domestic history of the planter – at least, with that portion of it that had transpired subsequent to the latter’s coming into possession of Mount Welcome. He knew something of Mr Vaughan previously – while the latter was manager of the Montagu Castle estate – but it was only after the Custos had become his nearer neighbour, by removal to his present residence, that the Jew’s knowledge of him and his private affairs had become intimate and accurate.

This knowledge he had obtained in various ways: partly by the opportunities of social intercourse, never very cordial; partly through business transactions; and, perhaps, more than all – at least, as regarded some of the more secret passages of Mr Vaughan’s history – from the myal-man, Chakra.

Notwithstanding his grotesque hideousness, the Coromantee was gifted with a rare though dangerous intelligence. He was au fait to everything that had occurred upon the plantation of Mount Welcome for a past period of nearly forty years. As already hinted, he knew too much; and it was this inconvenient omniscience that had caused him to be consigned to the Jumbé Rock.

For more than one purpose had the Jew made use of the myal-man; and if the latter was at present assisting him in his dark design, it was not the first by many, both deep and dark, in which Chakra had lent him a hand. Their secret partnership had been of long duration.

The Jew’s knowledge of the affairs of Loftus Vaughan extended to many facts unknown even to Chakra. One of these was, that his neighbour was blessed with an English brother, who had an only son.

An artist was the English brother, without fortune – almost without name. Many other circumstances relating to him had come to the knowledge of Jessuron; among the rest, that the proud Custos knew little about his poor English relatives, cared less, and scarcely kept up correspondence with them.

In what way could this knowledge interest Jacob Jessuron? – for it did.

Thus, then: it was known to him that Loftus Vaughan had never been married to the quadroon Quasheba. That circumstance, however, would have signified little, had Quasheba been a white woman, or even a “quinteroon[547]” – in Jamaica termed a mustee, and by some fanciful plagiarists, of late, pedantically styled “octoroon” – a title which, it may here be stated, has no existence except in the romantic brains of these second-hand litterateurs[548].

We repeat it – had the slave Quasheba been either a white woman, or even a mustee, the fact of a marriage, or no marriage, would have signified little – so far as regarded the succession of her offspring to the estates of the father. It is true that, if not married, the daughter would, by the laws of Jamaica – as by those of other lands – still have been illegitimate; but for all that, she could have inherited her father’s property, if left to her by will: since in Jamaica no entail existed.

As things stood, however, the case was widely, and for the Lilly Quasheba – Kate Vaughan – dangerously different. Her mother was only a quadroon; and, married or unmarried, she, the daughter, could not inherit – even by will – beyond the paltry legacy of 2000 pounds currency, or 1500 pounds sterling!

Kate Vaughan was herself only a mustee – still wanting one step farther from slavery to bring her within the protecting pale of freedom and the enjoyment of its favours.

No will that Loftus Vaughan could decree, no testamentary disposition he might make, could render his daughter his devisee – his heiress.

He might will his property to anybody he pleased: so long as that anybody was a so-called white; but, failing to make such testament, his estate of Mount Welcome, with all he possessed besides, must fall to the next of his own kin – in short, to his nephew Herbert.

Was there no remedy for this unspeakable dilemma? No means by which his own daughter might be saved from disinheritance?

There was. A special act might be obtained from the Assembly of the Island.

Loftus Vaughan knew the remedy, and fully intended to adopt it. Every day was he designing to set out for Spanish Town – the capital – to obtain the special act; and every day was the journey put off.

It was the execution of this design that the Jew Jessuron of all things dreaded most; and to prevent it was the object of his visit to the temple of Obi.

Why he dreaded it scarce needs explanation.

Should Loftus Vaughan fail in his intent, Herbert Vaughan would be the heir of Mount Welcome; and Herbert’s heart was in the keeping of Judith Jessuron.

So fondly believed the Jewess; and, with her assurance of the fact, so also the Jew.

The love-spell woven by Judith had been the first step towards securing the grand inheritance. The second was to be the death-spell, administered by Chakra and his acolyte.

Chapter 26

The Death-Spell

On the night after that on which Chakra had given reception to Jessuron, and about the same hour, the Coromantee was at home in his hut, engaged in some operation of a nature apparently important: since it engrossed his whole attention.

A fire was burning in the middle of the floor, in a rude, extemporised furnace, constructed with four large stones, so placed as to inclose a small quadrangle.

The fuel with which this fire was fed, although giving out a great quantity of smoke, burnt also with a bright, clear flame. It was not wood, but consisted of a number of black agglutinated masses, bearing a resemblance to peat or coal.

A stranger to Jamaica might have been puzzled to make out what it was; though a denizen of the Island could have told at a glance, that the dark-coloured pieces piled upon the fire were fragments detached from the nests of the Duck-ants; which, often as large as hogsheads, may be seen adhering to the trees of a tropical forest.

As the smoke emitted by this fuel is less painful to the eyes than that of a wood fire, and yet more efficacious in clearing out the mosquitoes – that plague of a southern clime – it may be supposed that the Coromantee had chosen it on that account. Whether or not, it served his purpose well.

A small iron pot, without crook or crane, rested upon the stones of the furnace; and the anxious glances with which the negro regarded its simmering contents – now stirring them a little, now lifting a portion in his wooden spoon, and carefully scrutinising it under the light of the lamp – told that the concoction in which he was engaged was of a chemical, rather than culinary nature. As he bent over the fire – like a he-Hecate[549] stirring her witches’ cauldron – his earnest yet stealthy manner, combined with his cat-like movements and furtive glances, betrayed some devilish design.

This idea was strengthened on looking at the objects that lay near to his hand – some portions of which had been already consigned to the pot. A cutacoo rested upon the floor, containing plants of several species; among which a botanist could have recognised the branched calalue, the dumb-cane, and various other herbs and roots of noxious fame. Conspicuous was the “Savannah flower,” with its tortuous stem and golden corolla – a true dogbane, and one of the most potent of vegetable poisons.

By its side could be seen its antidote – the curious nuts of the “nhandiroba”: for the myal-man could cure as well as kill, whenever it became his interest to do so.

Drawing from such a larder, it was plain that he was not engaged in the preparation of his supper. Poisons, not provisions, were the ingredients of the pot.

The specific he was now concocting was from various sources, but chiefly from the sap of the Savannah flower. It was the spell of Obeah!

For whom was the Coromantee preparing this precious hell-broth?

His mutterings as he stooped over the pot revealed the name of his intended victim.

“You may be ’trong, Cussus Vaugh’n – dat I doan deny; but, by de power ob Obeah, you soon shake in you shoes. Obeah! Ha! ha! ha! Dat do fo’ de know-nuffin’ niggas. My Obeah am de Sabbana flower, de branch calalue, and the allimgator apple – dem’s de ’pell mo’ powerful dan Obi hisseff – dem’s de stuff dat gib de shibberin’ body and de staggerin’ limbs to de enemies ob Chakra. Whugh!”

Once more dipping the spoon into the pot, and skimming up a portion of the boiling liquid, he bent forward to examine it.

“’T am done!” he exclaimed. “Jess de right colour – jess de right tickness. Now fo’ bottle de licka!”

Saying this, he lifted the pot from the fire; and after first pouring the “liquor” into a calabash, and leaving it for some moments to cool, he transferred it to the rum-bottle – long since emptied of its original contents.

Having carefully pressed in the cork, he set the bottle to one side – not in concealment, but as if intended for use at no very distant time.

Then, having gathered up his scattered pharmacopoeia[550], and deposited the whole collection in the cutacoo, he stepped into the door way of the hut, and, with a hand on each post, stood in an attitude to listen.

It was evident he expected some visitor; and who it was to be was revealed by the muttered soliloquy in which he continued to indulge. The slave Cynthia was to give him another séance.

“Time dat yella wench wa’ come. Muss be nigh twelve ob de night. Maybe she hab call, an’ a no hear her, fo’ de noise ob dat catrack? A bess go down b’low. Like nuf a fine her da!”

As he was stepping across the threshold to put this design into execution, a cry, uttered in the shrill treble of a woman’s voice – and just audible through the soughing sound of the cataract – came from the cliff above.

“Da’s de wench!” muttered the myal-man, as he heard it. “A make sartin shoo she’d come. Lub lead woman troo fire an’ water – lead um to de Debbil. Seed de time dat ar’ yella’ gal temp’ dis chile. No care now. But one Chakra ebber care ’brace in dese arms. Her he clasp only once, he content – he willen’ den fo’ die. Augh!”

As the Coromantee uttered the impassioned ejaculation, he strode outward from the door, and walked with nervous and hurried step – like one urged on by the prospect of soon achieving some horrible but heartfelt purpose he had been long contemplating from a distance.

Chapter 27

The Invocation of Accompong

The canoe soon made its trip, and returned with Cynthia seated in the stern. As upon the occasion of her former visit, she carried a basket upon her arm filled with comestibles, and not forgetting the precious bottle of rum.

As before, she followed the myal-man to his hut – this time entering with more confidence, and seating herself unbidden upon the side of the bamboo bedstead.

Still, she was not without some feeling of fear; as testified by a slight trembling that might be observed when her eyes rested upon the freshly-filled bottle, that stood in a conspicuous place. The look which she turned upon it told that she possessed some previous information as to the nature of its contents – or perhaps she had only a suspicion.

“Da’s de bottle fo’ you,” said the myal-man, noticing her glance, “and dis hya,” continued he, drawing the other out of Cynthia’s basket, “dis hya am de one fo’ – ”

He was about to add “me,” but before he could pass the word out of his mouth, he had got the neck of the rum-bottle into it; and the “gluck-gluck” of the descending fluid was substituted for the personal pronoun.

The usual “Whugh!” wound up the operation, clearing the Coromantee’s throat; and then, by a gesture, he gave Cynthia to understand that he was ready to proceed with the more serious business of the interview.

“Dat bottle,” said he, pointing to the one that contained his decoction, “am de obeah-’pell. It make Cubina lub you while dar’s a tuff ob wool on de top o’ ’im head. Dat long ’nuf, I reck’n; fo’ when ’im go bald, you no care fo’ ’im lub.”

“Is that the love-spell you spoke of?” inquired the mulatta, with an ambiguous expression of countenance, in which hope appeared struggling with doubt.

“De lub-spell? No – not ’zackly dat. De lub-spell am different. It am ob de nature ob an ointment. Hya! I’se got ’im in dis coco-shell.”

As Chakra said this he raised his hand, and drew out from a cranny in the thatch about three-quarters of the shell of a cocoa-nut; inside which, instead of its white coagulum, appeared a carrot-coloured paste, resembling the pulp of the sapotamammee – for this, in reality, it was.

“Da’s de lub mixture!” continued the obeah-man, in a triumphant tone; “da’s for Cubina!”

“Ah! Cubina is to take that?”

“Shoo he am. He mus’ take ’im. A gib it him, and den he go mad fo’ you. You he lub, an’ he lub you, like two turtle dove in de ’pring time. Whugh!”

“Good Chakra – you are sure it will do Cubina no harm?”

The query proved that the jealousy of the mulatta had not yet reached the point of revenge.

“No,” responded the negro; “do ’im good – do ’im good, an’ nuffin else. Now, Cynthy, gal,” continued he, turning his eyes upon the bottle; “das for de ole Cussus ob Moun’ Welc’m – take um – put ’im in you basket.”

The woman obeyed, though her fingers trembled as she touched the bottle that contained the mysterious medicine.

“And what am I to do with it, Chakra?” she asked, irresolutely.

“Wha you do? I tole you arready wha you do. You gib to massr – you enemy and myen.”

“But what is it?”

“Why you ask daat? I tole you it am de obeah-’pell.”

“Oh, Chakra! is it poison?”

“No, you fool – ef ’twa pizen, den it kill de buckra right off. It no kill ’im. It only make um sick, an’ den, preehap, it make ’im die long time atterward. Daz no pizen! You ’fuse gib ’im?”

The woman appeared to hesitate, as if some sparks of a better nature were rising within her soul. If there were such sparks, only for a short while were they allowed to shine.

“You ’fuse gib ’im?” repeated the tempter, hastening to extinguish them. “If you ’fuse, I no put de lub-spell on Cubina. Mor’n dat – I set de obeah fo’ you – you youseff!”

“Oh, no – no, Chakra!” cried she, cowering before the Coromantee; “I not refuse – I give it – anything you command me.”

“Dere, now – das sensible ob you, Cynthy. Now I gib you de instrukshin how fo’ ’minister de ’pell. Lissen, an’ ’member ebbery ting I go ’peak you.”

As the hideous sorcerer said this, he sat down in front of his neophyte – fixing his eyes upon hers, as if the better to impress his words upon her memory.

“Fuss an’ formoss, den, de grand buckra ob Moun’ Welcome, ebbery night ’fore he go bed, hab glass ob rum punch. I know he used hab – he so ’till, eh?”

“Yes – he does,” mechanically answered the mulatta.

“Berry likely – dat ere am one ob de habits neider buckra nor brack man am like break off. Ebbery night, shoo?”

“Yes – every night – one glass – sometimes two.”

“Gorry! ef twa me, me hab two – not sometime, but alway – ’cept when a make um tree, ha! ha! Berry well, das all right; and now, gal, who mix de punch fo’ ’im? You use do dat youseff, Cynthy!”

“It is still my business. I make it for him every night.”

“Good – das jess de ting. Whugh! now we know how set de ’pell ob de obeah. You see dis hya? It am de claw of de mountain crab. You see de ’cratch – dar – inside ob de machine? Well – up to dat mark it holds jess de ’zack quantum. Ebbery night you make de punch, you fill up dar out ob dis bottle. You pour in de glass – fuss de sugar an’ lemon – den de water – den de rum, which am ’tronger dan de water; an’ affer dat de ’pell out of dis bottle, which am de ’trongest ob dem all. You ’member all a hab tell you?”

“I shall remember it,” rejoined the woman, with a firmness of voice, partly assumed – for she dreaded to show any sign of irresolution.

“Ef you no do, den de spell turn roun’ an’ he work ’gin youseff. When de Obi once ’gins he no ’top till he hab ’im victim. Now a go fo’ ’voke de god Accompong. He come whenebba Chakra call. He make ’im ’pearance in de foam ob de catrack out yonner. Affer dat no mortal him lay not till one be promise fo’ de sacrafize. You ’tay in hya – De god muss not see no woman – you lissen – you hear um voice.”

Rising with a mysterious air, and taking down from its peg an old palm-leaf wallet, that appeared to contain some heavy article, the myal-man stepped out of the hut, closing the door behind him, lest – as he informed the mulatta, in sotto voce – the god might set his eyes on her, and get into a rage.

Cynthia seemed to consider the precaution scarce sufficient; for the moment the door was closed, in order to make herself still more secure against being seen, she glided up to the light and extinguished it. Then, groping her way back to the bedstead, she staggered down upon it, and sate shivering with apprehension.

As the myal-man had enjoined upon her, she listened; and, as he had promised her, she heard – if not the voice of Accompong – sounds that were worthy of having proceed from the throat of that Ethiopian divinity.

At first a voice reached her which she knew to be human: since it was the voice of Chakra himself. It was uttered, nevertheless, in strange and unnatural tones, that at each moment kept changing. Now it came ringing through the interstices of the bamboos, in a kind of long-drawn solo, as if the myal-man was initiating his ceremonies with the verse of a psalm. Then the chaunt became quicker, by a sort of crescendo[551] movement, and the song appeared transformed to a recitative. Next were heard sounds of a very different intonation, resembling the shrill, harsh call of a cow-horn or conch-shell, and gradually dying off into a prolonged bass, like the groaning of a cracked trombone.

After this had continued for some moments, there ensued a dialogue – in which the listener could recognise only one of the voices as that of Chakra.

Whose could be the other? It could only be that of Accompong. The god was upon the ground!

Cynthia trembled as she thought how very near he was. How lucky she had blown out the light! With the lamp still burning, she must have been seen: for both Chakra and the deity were just outside the door, and so near that she could not only hear their voices with distinctness, but the very words that were spoken.

Some of these were in an unknown tongue, and she could not understand them. Others were in English, or rather its synonym in the form of a negro patois. These last she comprehended; and their signification was not of a character to tranquillise her thoughts, but the contrary.

Chakra, chantant: —

+++“Open de bottle – draw de cork,

De ’pell he work – de ’pell he work;

De buckra man muss die!”

“Muss die!” repeated Accompong, in a voice that sounded as if from the interior of an empty hogshead.

+++“De yella gal she gib ’im drink;

It make ’im sick – it make ’im sr’ink,

It send ’im to ’im grave!”

“Him grave!” came the response of Accompong.

+++“An’ if de yella gal refuse,

She ’tep into de buckra’s shoes,

An’ fill de buckra’s tomb.”

“Buckra’s tomb!” echoed the African god, in a sonorous and emphatic voice, that told there was no alternative to the fate thus hypothetically proclaimed.

There was a short interval of silence, and then the shrill, conch-like sound was again heard – as before, followed by the long-drawn bass.

This was the exorcism[552] of the god – as the same sounds, previously heard, had been his invocation.

It was also the finale of the ceremony: since the moment after Chakra pushed open the door, and stood in the entrance of the hut.

“Cynthy, gal,” said he, with a look of mysterious gravity, “why you blow out de light? But no matter for light. It’s all oba. Did you hear the god ’peak?”

“I did,” murmured the mulatta, still trembling at what she had heard.

“You hear wha him say?”

“Yes – yes.”

“Den he ’peak de troof. Nuffin mor’n dat. You take heed – I ’vise you, as you friend. You go troo wif de ’pell now ’im ’gun, else you life not worth so much trash ob de sugar-cane. A say no more. Ebbery night, in um fuss glass, de full ob de crab-claw, up to de mark. Now, gal, come ’lon’.”

The last command was the more readily obeyed since Cynthia was but too glad to get away from a place whose terrors had so severely tested her courage.

Taking up the basket – in which the bottle containing the dangerous decoction had been already placed – she glided out of the hut, and once more followed the Coromantee to his canoe.

Chapter 28

Midnight Wanderers.

Once more under the ceiba, that gigantic trysting tree, stood the Maroon and his mistress. Not, as before, in the bright noonday sun, but near the mid-hour of the night. The Foolah had dared the dangers of the forest to meet her beloved Cubina.

And there were dangers in that forest, more to be dreaded than fierce beasts or ravenous reptiles – more to be dreaded than the tusks of the wild boar, or the teeth of the scaly alligator. There were monsters in human form far more fearful to be encountered; and at that moment not very distant from the spot where the lovers had made their rendezvous.

Love recks little of dangers. Cubina knew of none; and, in Yola’s belief, there was no danger while Cubina was near.

The moon was in high heaven, full, calm, and clear. Her beams filled the glade with a silvery effulgence. It was a moonlight that almost rivalled the brightness of day. The flowers over the earth, and the blossoms upon the trees, appeared full blown: as if they had opened their petals to drink in the delightful dew. Borne upon the soft, silent breeze, the nocturnal sounds of the forest fell with a tremulous cadence upon the ear; while the nightingale of the West, as if proud of the superiority of her counterfeit notes, in turns imitated them all.

The lovers stood in shadow – but it was the shadow of the ceiba. There was none in their hearts; and had the moonlight at that moment fallen upon their faces, no trace of a cloud could have been detected there.

It was a happy meeting – one of the happiest they had yet enjoyed. Each had brought good news to the other. Cubina, that the brother of his beloved was still safe under his protection – safe and well; Yola, that her young mistress had promised to bestow upon her her freedom.

Within the few days since they had last met, many things had transpired to interest both. Each had a tale to tell.

Yola related how the story of her brother’s misfortunes, though strictly kept from the servants at Mount Welcome, had been told to her mistress; how Miss Vaughan, on hearing it, had requested her father to grant her (Yola’s) manumission; and how the Custos had consented to the request. Conditionally, however. Her “free papers” were to be dated from a certain day – that on which Kate Vaughan was to become a bride, but that day was supposed not to be far distant.

It was joyous news for the Maroon. He might keep his hundred pounds for the plenishing of his mountain home!

This piece of intelligence might have taken Cubina more by surprise, but for the understanding that now existed between him and the Custos – whom he had of late frequently visited. Certain conditions had become established between the magistrate and the Maroon, which rendered the latter less apprehensive about the future. Mr Vaughan had made some promises to himself in regard to the manumission of Yola. It is true, these had also been conditional; and their performance was to depend, to a great degree, on the success of the prosecution to be instituted against the Jew. But, with the Custos himself as a prosecutor, Cubina felt sanguine that the conditions would be accomplished.

These were circumstances to be kept secret. Even to his sweetheart the lover was not permitted to impart the knowledge of this affair. Only did he make known to her that steps were being taken to cause the restitution of her brother’s property; but how, where, and when, could not be divulged until that day when war should be openly declared against the enemy. So had the Custos commanded.

Cubina, nevertheless, could not help being gratified by the intelligence which Yola had conveyed to him. The promise of Miss Vaughan had but one condition – her bridal day; and that was definite and certain.

“Ah!” said Cubina, turning with a proud look towards his sweetheart, “it will be a happy day for all. No, not for all,” added he, his face suddenly assuming an expression of sadness; “not for all. There is one, I fear, to whom that day will not bring happiness!”

“I know one, too, Cubina,” rejoined the girl, her countenance appearing to reflect the expression that had come over his.

“Oh, you know it, too? Miss Vaughan has told you then, I suppose? I hope she does not boast of it?”

“What she boast of, Cubina?”

“Why, of breaking his heart, as you would do mine, if you were to marry somebody else. Poor young fellow! Crambo! If I’m not mistaken, it will be a sad day for him!”

The girl looked up, in puzzled surprise. “Sad day for him! No, Cubina; he very happy. For her – poor missa – that day be sad.”

“Vayate! What do you mean, Yola?”

“No more dan I say, Cubina. Missa Kate be very unhappy that day she marry Mr Mongew – she very so now.”

“What!” exclaimed Cubina, suddenly placing himself in an attitude of unusual attention; “do I understand you to say that Miss Vaughan don’t wish to marry this Mr Smythje?”

“She no love him, Cubina. Why she wish marry him, then?”

“Ha!” significantly ejaculated the Maroon, while an expression of joy came over his countenance; “what makes you think she don’t love him? Have you a reason, Yola?”

“Missa me say so. She me tell everything, Cubina.”

“You are sure she has said that she don’t love him?”

“She laugh at him – she no care for him. Girl no love one she laugh at – never.”

“Vaya! I hope you will never laugh at me, then! But say, dearest; do you know why she is going to marry Mr Smythje?”

“Massa her make marry. He Mr Mongew very, very rich – he great planter. That why she him go to marry.”

“Ho! – ho!” thoughtfully ejaculated the captain of Maroons. “I suspected there was some compulsion,” continued he, not speaking to his companion, but muttering the words to himself.

“Can you tell me, Yola,” he asked, turning again to his sweetheart; “do you know why your mistress does not like this grand gentleman? Has she told you any reason?”

“Very good reason, Cubina. She another love; that why she Mongew not like.”

“Ah! she’s in love with somebody else! Have you heard who it is, Yola?”

“Oh, yes; you know him youself. He Missa Kate’s cousin; she him love.”

“Her cousin, Herbert Vaughan?”

“Yes, he name Herber’; he come once – never more come. No matter, she love him first time – she him love ever more! Same I you, Cubina; I you love first time, all the same for ever.”

“You are sure of all this?” inquired Cubina, in his anxiety to know more, resisting the temptation to reciprocate the endearing speech; “you are sure Miss Vaughan loves her cousin Herbert?”

“Sure, Cubina; missa say so many, many time. She have very much grief for him. She hear he marry one fine, bad lady. You know old Jew Jess’ron – his daughter he go marry.”

“I have heard so,” rejoined Cubina, evidently keeping back from his sweetheart a more definite knowledge of the subject which he himself possessed; “I have heard so. After all,” he continued, speaking reflectingly, “it might not happen – neither of these marriages. There’s a proverb, Yola, I’ve heard among the white folks – ‘Many a slip between the cup and the lip.’ I hope it won’t be true of you and me; but it might come to pass between young Master Vaughan and Miss Jessuron. Who knows? I know something. Por Dios! you’ve given me good news, I think, for somebody. But tell me, Yola; have you heard them say when your mistress and this great gentleman are to be married?”

“Massa he say soon. He tell Missa Kate he go great journey. When he come back they get marry; he Missa Kate say so yesterday.”

“The Custos going a journey? Have you heard where?”

“Spanish Town, missa me tell – a great big city far away.”

“I wonder what that can be for,” said Cubina to himself, in a conjectural way. “Well, Yola,” he added, after a pause, and speaking more earnestly, “listen to me. As soon as Mr Vaughan has set out on this journey, you come to me. Perhaps I may have a message for your mistress. Have you heard when he intends to take the road?”

“He go morrow morning.”

“Ha! so soon! Well, so much the better for us, and maybe for somebody else. You must meet me here to-morrow night. Tell your mistress it concerns herself. No, don’t tell her,” he added, correcting himself, “she will let you come without that excuse; besides, it might be that – never mind! Come, anyhow. I shall be waiting for you at this same hour.”

Yola gave her willing promise to keep an appointment so accordant to her inclinations.

For some time longer the lovers conversed, imparting to each other the ordinary news of life – the details of common things – to be at length succeeded by words only of love, of far, far deeper interest.

Cubina swore eternal truth – by the trees around – by the sky above – by the bright moon, and the blue heavens.

He had done the same a score of times; and as often had he been believed. But lovers never tire of such vows – neither of hearing nor repeating them.

The African maiden answered with promises of faithfulness, alike free, alike fervent. She no longer sighed for her far Gambian home – no more mourned the fate that had torn her from a court to consign her to slavery. The dark hours of her life seemed to have ended; and her future, as her present, was full of hope and bliss!

For more than an hour did the enamoured pair indulge in this sweet converse. They were about to close it with a parting kiss.

The Maroon stood with his strong arms tenderly entwined around the waist of his mistress, who willingly yielded to the embrace. Her slender form, under the shadow of the ceiba, looked like the statue of some Egyptian maiden in bronze antique.

The adieu had been spoken more than once; but still the lovers lingered, as if loth to give the parting kiss. There had been more than one, but not that which was to end the interview.

Ere their lips had met to achieve it, the design was interrupted. Voices fell upon their ears, and two forms emerging into the moonlight at the lower end of the glade, rapidly advanced in the direction of the ceiba.

As if by a common instinct, Cubina and his mistress stepped silently and simultaneously back, retiring together between the buttresses of the tree. There it was dark enough for concealment. Only an eye bent on purposed scrutiny could have detected their presence.

The forms drew near. They were those of a man and a woman. The moonlight shining full upon them, rendered them easy of recognition; but their voices had already declared their identity. Both the intruders were known to both the lovers. They were the Jew Jessuron and the slave Cynthia.

“Crambo!” muttered the Maroon, as he saw who they were. “What on earth can they be doing together, at this time of the night, and here – so far away from any house? Maldito! some wicked business, I warrant.”

By this time the brace of midnight strollers had got opposite to the tree, and the Jew was delivering himself of a speech, which was plainly heard by those who stood concealed in its shadow.

“Now, Cynthy – goot wench! – you hashn’t said yet why he hash sent for me! Do you know what it ish for?”

“I don’t, Mass Jess’ron, unless it be – ”

“Unlesh what, wench?”

“Somethin’ ’bout the news I took him afore I come to you, when I went with his basket of provisions – ”

“Ah-ha! you took him some newsh – what newsh, girl?”

“Only that Massr Vagh’n am a-goin’ away in the mornin’.”

“Blesh my soul!” exclaimed the Jew, suddenly stopping in his tracks, and turning towards the mulatta with a look of troubled surprise. “Blesh my soul! You don’t shay that, dosh you?”

“Dey say so at the Buff, Massr Jess’ron. Besides, I know m’self he’s a-goin’. I help pack up him shirts in de trabbelin’ valise. He’s a-goin’ a hossaback.”

“But where, wench? where?” gasped the Jew, in hurried and anxious speech.

“Dey say to ’Panish Town – odder side ob de Island.”

“Spanish Town! ach!” cried the penn-keeper, in a tone betokening that the words had conveyed some very unwelcome intelligence. “Spanish Town! S’help me, it ish! I knew it! I knew it! ach!”

And, as he repeated the aspirated ejaculation, he struck his umbrella fiercely into the ground – as if to render more emphatic the chagrin that had been communicated by the answer.

Only for a few seconds did he make pause upon the spot.

“Come on!” cried he to his companion, hurriedly moving off from the tree; “come on, wench! If that’sh the case, ash you shay, there’sh no time to be losht – not a minute, s’help me!”

And with this elegant reflection, he ended the brief dialogue, and strode swiftly and silently onward across the glade – the woman following close upon his heels.

“Demonios!” muttered the Maroon, as they went off. “That John Crow and his pretty partner are on some ugly errand, I fear! It appears to be the Custos they’re conspiring against. Crambo! I wonder what they are after with him! What can the old Jew have to do with his going to Spanish Town? I must follow them, and see if I can discover. There appears to be some scheme brewing, that bodes no good to Mr Vaughan. Where can they be gadding to at this time of night? From the Jew’s penn, instead of towards it!”

These interrogative reflections the Maroon made to himself. Then, turning once more to his sweetheart, with a gesture that declared his intention to be gone, he said: —

“We must part, Yola, and this instant, love: else I may lose their trail. Adieu! adieu!”

And, with a quick kiss and equally hurried embrace, the lovers separated – Yola returning to Mount Welcome, by a path well-known to her; while the Maroon glided off on the track taken by the penn-keeper and his female companion.

Chapter 29

Tracking the Strollers

The Maroon was but a few moments in recovering the “spoor” of the two nocturnal strollers.

At the point where they had gone out of the glade, there was a path that led up the hills in the direction of the Jumbé Rock. It was a mere cattle track – used only very occasionally by bipeds. Being the only path that went that way, and judging, moreover, that neither the Jew nor his follower would be likely to traverse the thicket at random, Cubina concluded that they had gone by this path.

Throwing himself upon it, and advancing with a quick but silent step, he soon recovered sight of them.

The shade of the gigantic trees – it was a primeval forest through which they were passing – was favourable to his design; and without much risk of being seen, he was able to keep them in view, and almost within earshot.

At that moment, the mind of the Jew was too pre-occupied to be suspicious; and the mulatta was not likely to trouble her thoughts about whether they were followed or not. Had she known, however – had she even suspected – that her steps were dogged, and by Cubina, the Maroon, it would, no doubt, have sharpened her senses.

“They appear to be making for the Jumbé Rock?” mentally soliloquised Cubina, as they commenced ascending the slope of the mountain. “Crambo! That is odd enough! What do they intend to do there at this hour of the night – or at any hour, I might say? And who’s the he that’s been sending for Jessuron? She took him a provision basket! By that, it ought to be some runaway. But what has the old Jew to do with a runaway? To get out of his bed at this time of the night, and tramp it three miles through the woods! For that matter, they say he don’t sleep much anyhow; and, like the owl, night’s his favourite time, I suppose. Something’s being cooked for the Custos: for that girl’s a very devil! Not that I should care about him, or what happened to him, at any other time. He’s not much; and is only helping me in that matter because he hates the other. No matter for him; but from what Yola’s told me, I’d go to the world’s end for his daughter. Ha! I may do her a service yet. Valga me Dios! what’s up now? They’ve stopped!”

The Jew and his companion, about a hundred yards ahead, had suddenly come to a stand. They appeared to be scrutinising the path.

Cubina, crouching in the shadow of the bushes, stopped likewise; and waited for the others to advance.

They did so after a short interval – hastening on as before; but in a slightly divergent direction.

“Ho, ho!” muttered the Maroon; “not for the Jumbé Rock, but the Duppy’s Hole! I remember now. The path forks up yonder. They’ve taken that which goes to the Hole. Well! it don’t help me to comprehend their purpose a bit clearer. Carrai! that Duppy’s Hole! Didn’t some of my fellows tell me they’ve heard strange noises there lately? Quaco is ready to swear he saw the ghost of the old myal-man, Chakra, standing upon the edge of the cliff! They’re going there, as sure as my name’s Cubina!”

And with this conjectural reflection the Maroon forsook the shadow under which he had been sheltering, and flitted forward along the path.

Another five hundred yards further on, his conjecture was confirmed. The parties dogged by him had reached the edge of the precipice that frowned down upon the Duppy’s Hole, and there halted.

Cubina also made stop – as before concealing himself within the black shadow of the bushes.

He had scarcely crouched down, when his ears were saluted by a shrill whistle – not made by the lips, but proceeding from some instrument, as a reed or a common dog-call. It was plainly a signal, sounded either by Cynthia or the Jew, Cubina could not tell which.

Only once was it given. And there was no answer – for that similar sound, that came like an echo from the far forest, was a counterfeit. It was the mimic-note of the mock-bird.

Cubina, skilled in these voices of the night, knew this, and paid no heed to the distant sound. His whole attention was absorbed in watching the movements of the two individuals still standing upon the edge of the cliff. The white sky was beyond them, against which he could see their dark silhouettes outlined with perfect distinctness.

After about a minute’s time, he saw them once more in motion; and then both appeared to vanish from his view – not wasting into the air, but sinking into the ground, as if a trap-door had admitted them to the interior of the earth.

He saw this without much surprise. He knew they must have gone down the precipice, but how they had performed this feat was something that did surprise him a little.

It was but a short spell of astonishment. In a score of seconds he stood upon the edge of the precipice, at the spot where they had disappeared.

He looked down. He could trace, though dimly, a means of descent among the wattle of boughs and corrugated creepers that clasped the façade of the cliff. Even under the fantastic gleam of the moon, he could see that human hands had helped the construction of this natural ladder.

He stayed not to scrutinise it. An object of greater interest challenged his glance. On the disc of the lagoon – in the moonlight, a sheet of silver, like a mirror in its frame of dark mahogany – moved a thing of sharp, elliptical shape – a canoe.

Midships of the craft, a form was crouching. Was it human or demon?

The aspect was demon – the shape scarce human. Long, ape-like arms; a hunched back; teeth gleaming in the moonlight like the incisors of a shark; features everything but human to one who had not seen them before!

Cubina had seen them before. To him, though not familiar, they were known. If not the ghost of Chakra, he saw Chakra himself!

Chapter 30

Cynthia in the Way

The heart of the young Maroon, though by nature bold and brave, was for a moment impressed with fear. He had known the myal-man of Mount Welcome – never very intimately – but enough to identify his person. Indeed, once seen, Chakra was a man to be remembered.

Cubina had, like every one else for miles around, heard of the trial of the Coromantee conjuror, and his condemnation to exposure on the Jumbé Rock. The peculiar mode of his execution – the cruel sentence – the celebrity of the scene where the criminal had been compelled to pass the last miserable hours of his existence – all combined to render his death even more notorious than his life; and few there were in the western end of the Island who had not heard of the myal-man of Mount Welcome, and the singular mode of atonement that justice had demanded him to make for his crimes.

In common with others, Cubina believed him dead. No wonder, then, that the heart of the Maroon should for a moment misgive him on seeing Chakra seated in a canoe, and paddling himself across the calm surface of the lagoon!

Under any circumstances, the sight of the Coromantee was not calculated to beget confidence in the beholder; but his unexpected appearance just then produced within the mind of the Maroon a feeling somewhat stronger than astonishment, and for some seconds he stood upon the cliff overcome by a feeling of awe.

Very soon, however, he remembered the statement which his lieutenant had made, and which Quaco had put in the form of an asseveration.

Quaco, like most of his colour, a firm believer in “Duppy” and “Jumbé,” had believed it to be Chakra’s ghost he had seen; and under the terror with which the sight had inspired him, instead of making an attempt to pursue the apparition, and prove whether it was flesh and blood, or only “empty air,” he had used his utmost speed to get away from the spot, leaving the myal-man’s ghost full master of the ground.

Cubina, less given to superstitious inclinings, only for a moment permitted himself to be mystified with the idea of a “Duppy.” Quaco’s experience, along with the presence of the penn-keeper and his companion – there evidently for a purpose – guided him to the conclusion that what he saw in the canoe was no spiritual Chakra, but Chakra in the flesh.

How the Coromantee came to be still living and moving, the Maroon could not so easily comprehend; but Cubina possessed acute reasoning powers, and the presence of the Jew, evidently en rapport[553] with the restored conjuror, went far towards explaining the mystery of the latter’s resurrection.

Satisfied that he saw Chakra himself, the Maroon placed himself in a position to watch the movements both of the men in the canoe, and those who had summoned him across the lagoon.

In another moment the canoe was lost sight of. It had passed under the bushes at the bottom of the cliff, where it was not visible from above.

Voices now ascended, which could be heard, but not distinctly.

Cubina could distinguish three voices taking part in the conversation – Chakra’s, the Jew’s, and, at longer intervals, the shrill treble of the slave Cynthia.

He bent his ear, and listened with keen attention – in hopes of hearing what they said. He could only catch an occasional word. The roar of the cascade rising along with the voices hindered him from hearing them distinctly; and, notwithstanding his earnest desire to do so, he was unable to make out the matter of the conversation.

Only for a short while was he kept waiting. The trialogue[554] came to a close, followed by a brief interval of silence – at the end of which the canoe once more made its appearance upon the open water of the lagoon.

Two persons only were in it, Chakra and the Jew. Cynthia had stayed by the bottom of the cliff.

Cubina made this observation with some chagrin. It was a circumstance that promised to frustrate the design he had suddenly conceived: of following the myal-man to his lair. This he desired to do, in order to make himself acquainted with the hiding-place of the remarkable runaway.

That it was down in the Duppy’s Hole there could be no doubt; and therefore the Maroon might at any time find him there.

This reflection would have contented him; but, on seeing the Jew ferried across the lagoon, he conjectured that he and Chakra were bent upon the completion of some horrid plot, which, by following, he, Cubina, might overhear, and, perhaps, be enabled to counteract.

The Maroon was aware of the difficulty of descending into the Duppy’s Hole. He knew there was but one way – by the bushes that clustered along the face of the cliff at his feet. Once, while on the chase, he and his followers, aided by a rope-ladder, had gone down; and, in search of game, had explored the wooded covert beyond. At that time, however, Chakra had not been executed; and the hunter had found no trace of human presence in the solitary place.

He knew that he could follow the canoe by swimming; as in this way he had crossed before, but now that Cynthia barred the way, it would be impossible for him to reach the water unobserved.

To follow the conspirators further was out of the question. His chance was cut off by the interposition of the mulatta. He could only remain on the cliff and await their return.

He was reflecting upon what course to pursue, when a rustling sound reached him from below. It was made by some one moving among the bushes that grew against the face of the precipice.

He caught one of the branches; and, supporting himself by it, craned his neck over the cliff. His eye fell upon the brilliant chequer of a bandanna, visible among the leaves. It was the toque upon the head of Cynthia. It was in motion; and he could see that she was ascending by the tree stairway he had already observed.

Without staying to witness the ascent, he turned back into the underwood by the side of the path; and, crouching down, he waited to see what the woman intended doing. Perhaps her part in the performance had been played out – at least, for that night – and she was on her way homeward?

That was what Cubina conjectured, as well as just what he would have wished.

His conjecture proved correct. The mulatta, on mounting to the crest of the cliff, stopped only for a moment, to adjust upon her arm a basket she had brought up – from the half-open lid of which protruded the neck of a bottle. Then, casting her eyes forward, she struck off into the shadowy forest path, and was soon out of sight.

The moment after she had passed him, the Maroon glided silently forward to the edge of the cliff, and commenced descending the stair. Such feat was nothing to him; and in a few seconds he had reached the edge of the lagoon.

Here he paused – to make sure that the canoe had arrived at its destination, and that its late occupants had disembarked from it.

After a moment spent in this reconnoissance[555] – looking sharply, and listening with all his ears – he became satisfied that the coast was clear; and, letting himself stealthily into the water, he swam for the opposite shore of the lagoon.

Upon only about two-thirds of the surface of the lagoon did the moonlight fall – the cliff casting its shadow upon the other third. Keeping within the boundaries of this shadow, and swimming as silently as a fish, Cubina succeeded in reaching the opposite shore, without perceiving any sign that he had been observed.

Under the heavy timber, with which the upper half of the ravine was covered, the darkness was as deep as if not a ray of moonlight came down from the sky. Only on the stream itself, and here and there through a break in the umbrageous forest, could the moonbeams reach the surface of the earth. Elsewhere, from cliff to cliff, the obscurity was complete.

Cubina conjectured, and correctly, that there was a path leading from the anchorage of the canoe; and to find this was his first purpose.

Keeping around the edge of the lagoon, he soon came upon the craft – empty, and anchored under a tree.

The moonlight, entering here from the open water, showed him the embouchure[556] of the path, where it entered the underwood; and, without losing a moment’s time, he commenced moving along it.

Silently as a cat he stole onward, at intervals pausing to listen; but he could only bear the hissing sound of the upper cascade – to which he was now making approach.

There was a space in front of the waterfall, where the trees stood thinly, and this opening was soon reached.

On arriving at its edge the Maroon again stopped to reconnoitre.

Scarcely a second of time did he need to pause. Light flashed in his eyes through the interstices of what appeared to be a sort of grating. It was the bamboo door of the obeah hut. Voices, too, reverberated through the bars.

Within were the men upon whom it was his purpose to play eavesdropper.

In another instant Cubina was cowering under the cotton-tree, close up to the doorpost.

Chapter 31

Strange Disclosures

The two plotters were palavering loud enough. In that place there was no need – at least, so thought they – for restrained speech; and the listener could have heard every word, but for the hoarse hissing of the cataract. This, at times, hindered him from distinguishing what was said; and only in detached portions could he pick up the thread of the discourse. Enough, however, heard he to cause him astonishment – the greatest of all, that in the Island of Jamaica, or upon the earth, existed two such villains as Chakra, the Coromantee, and Jessuron, the Jew!

He could see the conspirators as well as hear them. The chinks between the bamboos enabled him to obtain a view of both.

The Jew, slightly blown with his long walk against the hill, had dropped into a sitting attitude upon the truck-like bedstead; while the Coromantee stood before him, leaning against the buttress of the tree which formed one side of his dwelling.

The conversation had commenced before Cubina came up. It could not have proceeded far. The lard lamp seemed recently lit. Besides, the Maroon knew that he had been only a few minutes behind them. The plot, therefore, whatever it was, had not yet made much progress.

So reasoned the listener; but it soon appeared that it was the continuation of a plot, and not its first conception, to which he was to become privy – a plot so demoniac as to include murder in its design!

The Jew, when Cubina first got eyes on him, appeared as if he had just given utterance to some angry speech. His dark, weasel-like orbs were sparkling in their sunken sockets, with a fiendish light. The goggles were off, and the eyes could be seen. In his right hand the eternal umbrella was grasped, with a firm clutch, as if held in menace!

Chakra, on the other hand, appeared cowed and pleading. Though almost twice the size, and apparently twice the strength of the old Israelite, he looked at that moment as if in fear of him!

“Gorry, Massr Jake!” said he, in an appealing tone; “how ebber wa’ I to know de Cussus warn a gwine so soon? A nebber speered ob dat; an’ you nebber tole me you wanted de obeah-spell to work fasser dan war safe. Ef a’d a know’d dat, a kud a fotch de dam Cussus out o’ him boots in de shake ob a cat’s tail – dat cud a a’ did!”

“Ach!” exclaimed the Jew, with an air of unmistakable chagrin; “he’s going to shlip us. S’help me, he will! And now, when I wants more ash ever the shpell upon him. I’sh heard something from thish girl Cynthy of a conshpiracy against myshelf. Sheesh heard them plotting in the summer-house in the Cushtos’s garden.”

“Wha’ dey plot ’gain you, Massr Jake? Who am dey dat go plottin’?”

“The Cushtos is one, the other ish that scamp son of Cubina, the Maroon – the young Cubina. You knowsh him?”

“Dat same a know well ’nuf.”

“Ah! the proud Cushtos don’t know – though he hash his sushpicions – that hish wife Quasheba wash the mishtress of a Maroon. Ha! ha! ha! And she luffed the mulatto better as ever she luffed Vanities Vochan! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Dat am berry near de troof,” observed the negro, with a thoughtful air.

“Little dosh the Cushtos think,” continued Jessuron, without heeding the interpolation, “that thish young fellow, whosh a-helpin’ him to conshpire againsht me, is a sort of a son to hish consheited worship. Ha! ha! ha!”

It was startling intelligence for the listener outside the door. It was the first intimation the young Maroon ever had as to who was his mother.

Some vague hints had been conveyed to him in early childhood; but his memory recalled them only as dreams; and he himself had never allowed them expression. His father he had known well – called, as himself, Cubina, the Maroon. But his mother, who or what she had been, he had never known.

Was it possible, then, that the quadroon, Quasheba – of whose fame he, too, had heard – was it true she was his own mother? That “Lilly Quasheba,” the beautiful, the accomplished daughter of the Custos Vaughan, was his half-sister?

He could not doubt it. The conversation that followed put him in possession of further details, and more ample proofs. Besides, such relationships were too common in the Island of Jamaica, to make them matter either of singularity or surprise.

Notwithstanding, the listener was filled with astonishment – far more than that – for the revelation was one to stir his soul to emotions of the strangest and strongest kind. New thoughts sprang up at the announcement; new vistas opened before the horoscope of his future; new ties were established within his heart, hitherto unfelt and unknown.

Stifling his new-sprung emotions as well as he was able – promising them indulgence at some other time – he re-bent his ear to listen.

He heard enough to satisfy him that he had a sister – a half-sister, it is true – but still a sister.

The next point determined on between the conspirators was equally calculated to startle and astonish him. It was no less than a design to render that sister brotherless!

“You musht put the shpell on him, too,” said the Jew; “for heesh the principal in thish plot againsht me. Even if the Cushtos wash out of the way, thish Captain Cubina will go to some other magistrate to carry out hish design. There will be plenty to help him. You musht shpell him, and soon ash you can, Shakra. There’sh no time to lose – not a minnit, s’help me!”

“A do wha a can, Massr Jake; but a mout’s well tell ye, that it a’nt so easy to put de spell on a Maroon. It coss me more’n twenty year to put de obeah on him ole fadder, and I’se a been tryin’ um on dis young Cubina fo’ some time – ebber since him fadder die. A hate de young un, same a hated de ole un. You knows why a hate boaf.”

“I knowsh all that – I knowsh all that.”

“Wa, den! a do ma bess. Dat ar m’latta gib me no hope. She soon ’dminster de spell ef she hab chance – kase she think um de lub drink. She no hab chance, fo’ Cubina he no let her come nigh o’ him. Nebba mind: Chakra he find oppotunity some day; ’fore long he put de death-spell on de son ob dat quaderoom.”

“Perhaps not so soon!” was the mental rejoinder of him who listened to this confident declaration.

“It’sh less matter about him than the other!” cried the Jew, giving way to a fresh burst of rage. “S’help me! the Cushtos is going to shlip out of my fingers – the eshtate – all! Ach!” he ejaculated, as his disappointment came more palpably before him, “you hash played me false, Shakra! I b’lief you’ve been playin’ me false!”

As the Jew gave utterance to this conjectural speech, he started to his feet – taking a tighter hold upon his umbrella, and standing before his vis-à-vis in a threatening attitude.

“No, Massr Jake,” replied the myal-man, without altering the air of obeisance he had hitherto assumed, – “no – nuffin ob dat – anyhow, I’se can say dar’s nuffin ob dat. You yaseff sabbey well ’nuff a hab as good reezun as you to make de spell work, an’ I tell you it shall work!”

“Yesh! when too late – too late! I don’t care then. If the Cushtos get to Spanish Town – if he procuresh the shpecial act, I’m a ruined Shew! I don’t care a shtraw if the death-shpell wash put on myshelf! I don’t!”

This speech was rather a soliloquy than addressed to Chakra, who listened to it without clearly comprehending its import: for the chief motive which was stimulating the Jew was still unknown to his fellow-conspirator.

“I tell you,” resumed Jessuron, still in threatening speech, “I believe you hash been fooling me, Shakra! You hash some interest of your own – perhaps, with thish Lilly Quasheba. Ha! never mind! I tell you thish time – I tell you, Shakra, if the shpell dosh fail – yesh, if it fail, and the Cushtos reach the capital – where he ish going – I tell you, Shakra, you may look out for shqualls! You loosh your monish I promised you. Ay, you may loosh your life ash well. I hash only to shay a word, and the Duppy’s Hole will be searched by the houndsh of the law. Now will you do your besht to keep the Cushtos from reaching the capital of the Island?”

As Jessuron finished the speech containing this conditional threat, he moved in the direction of the door, apparently with the intention of taking his departure.

The Maroon, perceiving the movement, stepped further back into the shadow of the cotton-tree – taking care to conceal himself effectually.

This change of position prevented him from hearing what subsequently passed between the two conspirators. Some more conversation there was on both sides – an interchange of it – which lasted for several minutes; but although the listener could hear the sound of their voices, he was unable to make out the words spoken by either.

What was said by the Jew was principally a repetition of his menace – in terms the most emphatic he could employ; while Chakra, with equal emphasis, repeated his promises to accomplish the nefarious purpose already agreed upon between them.

“A promise, Massr Jake,” said the myal-man, in conclusion, “by de great Accompong, a do ma bess. Ef de Cussus ’trive ’scape, den you do wid ole Chakra whasomediver you hab mind to. ’Liver him up, ef you like! Ha! de Cussus no ’scape. Dis night Cynthy hab take bottle in her basket of de ’trongest kind. It do de bizness in ’bout twenty-fo’ hour. Daat am de true death-spell. Whugh!”

“In twenty-four hours? You ish shure, Shakra? you ish shure?”

“Shoo’ as a ’m now in de Duppy Hole, Massr Jake. Doan’ you hab no mo’ doubt ob ole Chakra. He hab no lub fo’ Cussus Va’ghan mo’ dan youseff. P’raps he lub de Cussus’ dau’ter, but dat am berry diffrent sort ob ’fecshun. Whugh!”

With this speech of fiendish signification the dialogue ended; and the Jew was seen stepping outside, followed by his confederate.

Both walked away from the spot, Chakra taking the lead, the Maroon closely watching their movements.

On reaching the canoe the conspirators stepped aboard, and the craft was paddled over the lagoon.

Cubina waited for its return; and then, seeing Chakra safe within his hut, he hastened back to the water; and, as before, swimming under the shadow of the rock, he re-ascended the tree stairway, and stood once more on the summit of the cliff.

Chapter 32

A Stormy Scene

On emerging from the Duppy’s Hole, the penn-keeper tracked it, as straight as the path would permit him, towards his own home. He walked with hurried steps, as if he had some purpose before him beyond that of going to bed. Late as was the hour – or early, it should rather be said, since it was getting on for daybreak – in the eye of the old Israelite there was no sign of sleepiness; but, on the contrary, a wide-awake expression that betokened his intention to accomplish some desired object before retiring to rest.

The mutterings which fell from his lips, as he moved onward among the trees, told that his discontent still continued. Chakra’s assurances, that had, for the moment, partially removed his ill-humour, on reflection failed to satisfy him. More than once before, the myal-man had given him promises which he had failed in keeping; and so might it be with the promise of the death-spell. With this thought was revived in full vigour the apprehension that his enemy might escape; and, consequently, his deep-conceived scheme would result in ignominious failure.

The measures which the myal-man had taken for administering the spell-medicine – that bottle of strong waters which Cynthia carried home in her basket – had been revealed to the Jew. The revelation had been made – as suited the subject – in a low tone of voice; and it was this part of the dialogue between the two conspirators which Cubina had not heard.

But the Coromantee might be mistaken in his skill? The prescription might fail in producing the desired effect? The slave might not find the opportunity to administer it?

Considering the early hour at which the traveller was to start – Jessuron knew the hour – Cynthia might not have a chance to give the medicine? Or, frayed by contemplation of the fearful consequence, which she now knew would follow almost instantaneously upon the act, she might in the end shy from the dangerous duty? The intended victim might, in the meantime, have become suspicious of the mixtures prepared by the mulatta, and decline to drink the deadly draught?

There were many chances that the Custos might escape.

“‘There ish many a shlip between the cup and the lipsh’!” muttered the wicked old man, quoting one of his favourite proverbs. “Ach! that ish true,” he added, with bitter emphasis, as the probabilities of failure passed more palpably before his mind.

“S’help me!” continued he, with an attempt at self-consolation; “I shall not be deprived of my refenge – that ish certain – whether he goesh to Spanish Town, or shtays at home. Ach!” he exclaimed, again changing his tone to one of chagrin, “what dosh that signify, beshide the other? If he could be shtopped, it wash a grand destiny for mine Shoodith, for myshelf – me, old Shacob Shessuron! Mount Welcome wash mine! It musht belong to this young fellow – he belongs to Shoodith – Shoodith belongsh to me! Ach! what a pity if my shkeme ish to fail – after all I hash done to make it succeed!

“If it fail,” he continued, the probabilities of failure presenting a new phase to him, “if it fail, I’m a ruined man! – I am! Shoodith may want to marry this young fellow. I believe she luffs him – I’m afeerd she doesh – and he hasn’t the worth of the shoosh he shstands in. Blesh my shoul! I musht try to prevent it. It musht go no further till I’m sure of the Cushtos. Not a shtep – not a shtep. She musht be seen, and thish very night. Yesh; I musht see Shoodith before I shleep.”

Urged on by the desire of the interview thus announced, the Jew hastened his steps; and soon arrived under the shadow of the dark pile that constituted his dwelling.

Admitted by the black porter at the gate – for that of the courtyard, or slave inclosure, was always kept locked – he mounted the wooden steps, and stole as silently along the verandah, as if he had been a stranger in the house instead of its owner. His object, in this stealthy movement, appeared to be to avoid disturbing some one who slept in a hammock near one end of the long gallery.

It was towards the other end, however, that he went – in the direction of a chamber through the lattice-window of which a light was streaming. It was the sleeping apartment of the Jewess.

On arriving opposite the door, he knocked, not loudly – at the same time pronouncing, in a half-whisper, the name “Shoodith!”

“That you, rabbi?” inquired a voice from within; while a footstep passing across the floor told either that the Jewess had not yet sought her couch, or had sought, and again forsaken it.

The door was opened; and the worthy father of this wakeful daughter passed inside.

“Well,” said she, as he entered, “I won’t inquire what errand you’ve been on, my good papa Jessuron: some slave speculation, I suppose? But what have I to do with it, that you should compel me to sit up for you till this time of the night? It’s now near morning; and I am precious sleepy, I can tell you!”

“Ach! Shoodith, dear,” replied the father, “everything ish goin’ wrong! s’help me, everything!”

“Well, one might think so, from that doleful phiz of yours. What’s troubling you now, my worthy parent?”

“Ach! Shoodith! Don’t dishtress me by your speeches. I hash something of importance to shay to you, before I go to shleep.”

“Say it quick, then: for I want to go to sleep myself. What is it, pray?”

“Well, Shoodith, dear, it ish this: you mushn’t trifle any more with thish young fellow.”

“What young fellow do you mean, my good man?”

“Vochan, of coursh – Mashter Vochan.”

“Ho! ho! you’ve changed your tune. What’s this about?”

“I hash reason, Shoodith; I hash reason.”

“Who said I was trifling with him? Not I, father! Anything but that, I can assure you.”

“That ish not what I mean, Shoodith.”

“Well, then, what do you mean, old gentleman? Come now! make yourself intelligible!”

“I mean thish, Shoodith: you mushn’t let things go any further with the young fellow – that ish, shoost now – till I knowsh something more about him. I thought he wash going to be lich – you know I thought that, mine daughter – but I hash found out, thish very night, that – perhaps – he may never be worth a shingle shilling; and therefore, Shoodith, you couldn’t think of marrying him – and mushn’t think of it till we knowsh more about him!”

“Father!” replied the Jewess, at once throwing aside her habitual badinage, and assuming a serious tone, “it is too late! Did I not tell you that the tarantula might get caught in its own trap? The proverb has proved true; I am that unhappy spider!”

“You don’t say so, Shoodith?” inquired the father, with a look of alarm.

“O do! Yonder sleeps the fly,” – and the speaker pointed along the gallery in the direction of the hammock – “secure from any harm I can ever do him. And were he as poor as he appears to be – as humble as the lowest slave on your estate – he is rich enough for me. Ah! it will be his fault, not mine, if he do not become my husband!”

The proud, determined tone in which the Jewess spoke, was only modified as she uttered the last words. The conjunctive form of the closing speech, with a certain duplexity of expression upon her countenance showed that she was not yet sure of the heart of Herbert Vaughan. Notwithstanding his attentions at the ball – notwithstanding much that had since occurred, there appeared to be a doubt – a trace of distrust that still lingered.

“Never, Shoodith!” cried the father, in a tone of determined authority. “You mushn’t think of it! You shall never marry a pauper – never!”

“Pauper him as much as you like, father; he won’t care for that, any more than I do.”

“I shall disinherit you, Shoodith!” said the Jew, giving way to a feeling of spiteful resentment.

“As you like about that, too. Disinherit me at your pleasure. But remember, old man, it was you who began this game – you who set me to playing it; and if you are in danger of losing your stake – whatever it may be – I tell you you’re in danger of losing me – that is, if he – ”

The hypothetic thought – whatever it was – that at this crisis crossed the mind of the Jewess, was evidently one that caused her pain: as could be seen by the dark shadow that came mantling over her beautiful brow.

Whether or not she would have finished the speech is uncertain. She was not permitted to proceed. The angry father interrupted her: —

“I won’t argue with you now, Shoodith. Go to your bed, girl! go to shleep! Thish I promish you – and, s’help me, I keepsh my promish! – if thish pauper ish to be a pauper, he never marries you with my conshent; and without my conshent he never touches a shilling of my monish. You understand that, Shoodith?”

And without waiting to hear the reply – which was quite as defiant as his own declaration – the Jew hurried out of his daughter’s chamber, and shuffled off along the verandah.

Chapter 33

Where Next?

The Maroon, after mounting to the summit of the cliff, paused for some moments to reflect upon a course of action.

In his bosom were many new emotions, springing from the strange revelations to which he had just listened. His mind was in such a state of chaotic confusion, that it required some time to determine what he ought to do next, or whither he should go.

The thought that thrilled him most, was that which related to the discovery of his maternal relationship to Miss Vaughan. But this matter, however strange it was, required no immediate action to be taken on his part; and though the semi-fraternal affection, now felt for the first time, strengthened the romantic friendship which he had conceived for the young lady – whom he had now seen several times – still, from what he had overheard of the scheme of the conspirators, his new-discovered sister did not appear to be in any danger. At least, not just then: though some horrid hints darkly thrown out by Chakra pointed to a probable peril at some future time.

That her father was in danger, Cubina could not doubt. Some demoniac plot had been prepared for the Custos, which was to deprive him even of life; and from what the Maroon could make out of the half-heard conversation of the conspirators, action was to be taken upon it, so early as the following morning.

Mr Vaughan intended a journey. Yola had herself told him so; and the confabulation between Jessuron and Chakra confirmed it. Cynthia had been their informant; and it was evident that upon that very night she had brought the news from Mount Welcome. Evident, also, that the piece of intelligence thus conveyed had taken both the conspirators by surprise – causing them to hasten the dénouement[557] of some devilish plan that before that night had not been quite ripe for execution.

All this was clear enough to the mind of the Maroon.

Equally clear was it, that the plan was no other than an atrocious plot to murder the proprietor of Mount Welcome; and that poison was the safe, silent weapon to be used – for Cubina was not unacquainted with the signification of the death-spell of Obeah. Before that night he had reason to believe that his own father had fallen by that secret shaft, and reasons to suspect that Chakra had shot it. What he had just heard confirmed his belief; and but that he saw the necessity of hastening to the rescue of the threatened Custos – and knew, moreover, that he could now find Chakra at any time – he would, in all probability, have avenged his father’s death before leaving the Duppy’s Hole.

The young Maroon, however, was a man of mild character – combining prudence with an extreme sang froid – that hindered him from bringing any event to a hasty or ambiguous ending. Though leaving Chakra for the time, he had determined soon to return to him.

The resurrection of the myal-man, though it at first very naturally astonished him, had soon ceased to be a mystery to the mind of the Maroon. In fact, the presence of the Jew had at once explained the whole thing. Cubina conjectured, and correctly, that Jessuron had released the condemned criminal from his chains, and substituted the body of some dead negro – afterwards to become the representative of Chakra’s skeleton.

For this the Jew, well-known for wickedness, might have many motives.

The Maroon did not stay to speculate upon them. His thoughts were directed to the present and future rather than the past – to the rescue of the Custos, over whom a fearful fate seemed to impend.

It need not be denied that Cubina felt a certain friendship for the planter of Mount Welcome. Heretofore it had not been of a very ardent character; but the relations lately established between him and the Custos – in prospect of the process to be taken against their common enemy, the penn-keeper – had, of course, occasioned a fellow-feeling between them. The revelations of that night had strengthened the interest which the Maroon had begun to feel for Mr Vaughan; and it is not to be wondered at that he now felt an honest desire to save the father of her, whom he was henceforth to regard as his own sister. To this end, then, were his thoughts directed.

He stayed not long to speculate upon the motives either of Chakra or Jessuron. Those of the myal-man he could guess to a certainty. Revenge for the sentence that exposed him to that fearful fate on the Jumbé Rock.

The motives of the Jew were less transparent. His deepest did not appear in the confabulation Cubina had overheard. Even Chakra did not know it. It might be fear of the approaching trial: which by some means the Jew had become apprised of.

But no. On reflection, Cubina saw it could not be that: for the conversation of the conspirators betrayed that their plot had been anterior to any information which the Jew could have had of the design of the Custos. It could not be that.

No matter what. Mr Vaughan, the father of the generous young lady – she who had promised to make him a present of his beloved bride, and who now proved to be his own stepsister – her father was in danger!

Not a moment was to be lost. Without regard to motives, measures must be taken to avert that danger, and punish the miscreants who designed it.

For some minutes Cubina remained on the spot, reflecting upon what step should be first taken.

Should he go direct to Mount Welcome and warn the Custos, by reporting to him what he had heard?

That was the first idea that presented itself to his mind; but at that hour Mr Vaughan would be abed, and he – a Maroon – might not be admitted, unless, indeed, he could show, by pleading the urgency of his errand, good cause for arousing the Custos from his slumber.

This, undoubtedly, would he have done, had he known that the scheme of the conspirators had been definitely arranged. But, as already stated, he had not heard Chakra’s concluding speech – referring to Cynthia and the bottle of strong medicine; and all the rest only pointed vaguely at some measures to be taken for frustrating the expedition to Spanish Town.

It would be time enough, thought he, to meet these measures by going to Mount Welcome in the morning. He could get there before Mr Vaughan should start upon his journey. He could go at an early hour, but one when his appearance would not give cause for any unnecessary remark.

It did not occur to him to reflect, that the time of the traveller’s departure from Mount Welcome – of which Cubina had not been apprised – might be anterior to that of his arrival there. The Maroon, thinking that the great Custos was not likely to inconvenience himself by early rising, had no apprehension of missing him by being himself too late.

With this confidence, then, he resolved to postpone his visit to Mount Welcome until some hour after daybreak; and, in the meantime, to carry out the preliminaries of a programme, referring to a very different affair, and which had been traced out the day before.

The first scene in this programme was to be a meeting with Herbert Vaughan. It had been appointed to take place between them on the following morning; and on the same spot where the two young men had first encountered one another – in the glade, under the great ceiba.

The interview was of Herbert’s own seeking, for, although neither had seen the other since the day on which the runaway had been rescued, some items of intelligence had passed between them – Quaco acting as the medium of their correspondence.

Herbert had an object in seeking the interview. He desired a conference with Cubina, in hopes of obtaining from him an explanation of more than one circumstance that had lately arisen to puzzle and perplex him.

His patron’s suspicious story about the red runaway was one of these circumstances. Herbert had heard from Quaco that the slave was still staying with the Maroons in their mountain town; and had been adopted into their little community – in fact, had himself become a Maroon.

This did not correspond with the account given by Jessuron. Of course, Quaco could not state the reasons. The secrecy enjoined by the Custos kept Cubina’s tongue tied upon that theme; and his own men knew nothing of the design which their captain had conceived against the Jew.

This was not the only matter which mystified the young Englishman, and which he was in hopes of having cleared up by Cubina. His own position at the penn – of late developing itself in a manner to surprise and startle him – also needed elucidation. There was no one near of whom he could ask a question in regard to it, and never in his life did he stand more in need of a confidant.

In this dilemma he had thought of his old acquaintance, the Maroon captain. The intelligent mulatto appeared to be the very man. Herbert remembered the promise made at parting, his own conditional acceptance of it, which now appeared prophetic; since the contingency then expressed had come to pass.

He had need to avail himself of the friendly proffer; and for that purpose had he made the appointment under the ceiba.

Equally desirous was the Maroon to meet with the young Englishman. He had preserved a grateful recollection of his generous interference in what appeared a very unequal combat; and, so far from having lost sight of his noble ally, he had been keeping him in mind – after a fashion that was calculated to show the deep gratitude with which Herbert’s conduct had inspired him.

He longed for an opportunity of giving renewed expression to this gratitude; but he had other reasons for wishing to see the young Englishman just then; and the meeting with. Yola on that same night had an object some what different from the mere repetition of love vows – already pronounced over and over again, upon a score of distinct occasions.

Now that the night had nearly passed, and that the morning was nigh, the Maroon, instead of returning to his mountain home, decided on going back to the glen, and spending the few hours of interval under the shadow of the ceiba.

Indeed, the time would not allow of his returning home. The sun would be up in three or four hours. A little after sunrise was the appointed time for the meeting with Herbert Vaughan. Before that hour should arrive, he could scarce reach his own “town” and get back again. The thing, therefore, was not to be thought of.

To sleep under a tree, or on one, was no new thing for Cubina. It would never occur to him to consider such a couch as inconvenient. In his hog-hunting excursions – often continuing for days and even weeks – he was accustomed to repose upon the cold ground – upon the swirl of withered leaves – upon the naked rock – anywhere. Not much did it matter to a Maroon to be sheltered by a roof – not much, whether a tree shadowed his slumbers, or whether on his grassy couch she saw shining over him the starry canopy of the sky. These were but the circumstances of his every-day life.

Having come to the conclusion that his best plan would be to pass the remaining hours of the night under the ceiba, he made no further delay by the Duppy’s Hole; but turning into the path that led down the slope he proceeded back towards the glade.

He moved down the mountain road, slowly, and with some degree of circumspection. He went slowly, because there was no need for haste. It would be several hours before the young Englishman should be abroad. As already stated, a little after sunrise was the time agreed upon, through the messenger Quaco. There was no particular reason for Cubina’s being in a hurry to get to the glade – unless he wished to have more time for his nap under the tree.

For sleep, however, he had but little relish just then. Wild thoughts, consequent on the strange disclosures he had listened to, were passing through his mind; and these were sufficient to deprive him even of the power of sleep.

He moved onward with circumspection from a different motive. He knew that Jessuron, in returning to his penn, must have taken the same path. Should the latter be loitering – since he had only started but a few minutes before – Cubina might overtake him; and he had no wish to see any more of the Jew for that night – or, at all events, to be himself seen by the latter. To avoid all chance of an encounter, he stopped at intervals, and reconnoitred the wood ahead of him.

He arrived in the glade without seeing either Jew, Christian, or living being of any kind. The penn-keeper had passed through a good while before. Cubina could tell this by an observation which he made on coming out into the open ground. A mock-bird, perched on a low tree that stood directly by the path, was singing with all its might. The Maroon had heard its melody long before entering the glade. Had any one passed recently, the bird would have forsaken its perch – as it did on the approach of Cubina himself.

On reaching the rendezvous, his first concern was to kindle a fire. Sleep in a wet shirt was not to be thought of; and every stitch upon his body had been soaked in swimming the lagoon. Otherwise, it would not have mattered about a fire. He had nothing to cook upon it; nor was he hungry – having already eaten his supper.

Kindled by a woodman’s skill, a fire soon blazed up; and the hunter stood erect beside it, turning himself at intervals to dry his garments, still dripping with water.

He was soon smoking all over, like freshly-slaked lime; and, in order to pass the time more pleasantly, he commenced smoking in another sense – the nicotian[558] – his pipe and tobacco-pouch affording him an opportunity for this indulgence.

Possibly the nicotine may have stimulated his reflective powers: for he had not taken more than a dozen puffs at his pipe, when a sudden and somewhat uneasy movement seemed to say that some new reflection had occurred to him. Simultaneous with the movement, a muttered soliloquy escaped from his lips.

“Crambo!” exclaimed he, giving utterance to his favourite shibboleth[559]; “say he should come an hour after sunrise – at least another we should be in getting to Mount Welcome. Por Dios! it may be too late then! Who knows what time the Custos may fancy to set out?” he added, after a pause; “I did not think of that. How stupid of me not to have asked Yola!

“Crambo!” he again exclaimed, after another interval passed in silent reflection. “It won’t do to leave things to chance, where a man’s life is in danger. Who knows what scheme these John Crows have contrived? I couldn’t hear the whole of their palaver. If Master Vaughan was only here, we might go to Mount Welcome at once. Whatever quarrel he may have with the uncle, he won’t wish to let him be murdered – no likelihood of that. Besides, the young fellow’s interference in this matter, if I mistake not, would be likely to make all right between them – I’d like that, both for his sake and hers – ah! hers especially, after what Yola’s told me. Santa Virgen! wouldn’t that be a disappointment to the old dog of a Jew! Never mind! I’ll put a spark in his powder before he’s many days older! The young Englishman must know all. I’ll tell him all; and after that, if he consents to become the son-in-law of Jacob Jessuron, he would deserve a dog’s – . Bah! it cannot be! I won’t believe it till he tells me so himself; and then – .

“Por Dios!” exclaimed he, suddenly interrupting the above train of reflections and passing to another. “It won’t do for me to stay here till he comes. Two hours after sunrise, and the Custos might be cold. I’ll go down to the Jew’s penn at once, and hang about till I see young Vaughan. He’ll be stirring about daybreak, and that’ll save an hour, anyhow. A word with him, and we can soon cross to Mount Welcome.”

In obedience to the thought, and without staying to complete the drying of his habiliments, the Maroon stepped out from the glade; and turning into the track – little used – that led towards the Happy Valley, proceeded in that direction.

Chapter 34

A Dark Compact

On closing so abruptly the stormy dialogue with his daughter, Jessuron proceeded to his own sleeping apartment – like the others, opening upon the verandah.

Before entering the room, he glanced along the gallery, towards the suspended hammock.

In that hammock slept Herbert Vaughan. His long sea-voyage had accustomed him to the use of a swing couch – even to a liking for it; and as the night was warm, he had preferred the hammock to his bed in the contiguous chamber.

Jessuron had a fear that the angry conversation might have been overheard by the occupant of the hammock; for, in the excitement of temper, neither he nor Judith had observed the precaution of speaking low.

The hammock hung motionless, oscillating scarce an inch; and this only under the influence of the night breeze that blew gently along the verandah. Its occupant appeared to be in the middle of a profound slumber.

Satisfied of this, the Jew returned to his own chamber. There was no light, and on entering, he sat down in the darkness. The moon shining in through the window gave him light enough to discover a chair; and into that he had flung himself, instead of seeking his couch.

For a time he displayed no intention either of undressing or betaking himself to bed; but remained in the high-backed chair in which he had seated himself, buried in some reflection, silent as profound. We are permitted to know his thoughts.

“S’help me, she’ll marry him!” was that which came uppermost. “She will, s’help me!” continued he, repeating the reflection in an altered form, “shpite of all I can shay or do to prevent her! She ish a very deffil when raished – and she’ll have her own way, she will. Ach! what ish to be done? – what ish to be done?”

Here a pause occurred in the reflections, while the Jew, with puzzled brain, was groping for an answer to his mental interrogatory.

“It ish of no ushe!” he continued, after a time, the expression on his face showing that he had not yet received a definite reply. “It’sh no ushe to opposhe her. She’d run away with thish young man to a certainty!”

“I might lock her up, but that ish no good. She’d contrive to escape some time. I couldn’t alwaysh keep her under lock and key? No – no, it ish imposhible!

“And if she marriesh him without the monish – without the great shugar eshtate! Blesh me! that ish ruin!

“It musht not be. If she marriesh him, she musht marry Mount Welcome. She musht! she musht!

“But how ish it to be? How ish he to be made the heir?”

Again the Jew appeared to puzzle his brains for an answer to this last interrogatory.

“Ha!” he exclaimed aloud, at the same time starting from his chair, as if the solution had discovered itself; “I hash it! I hash it! – the Spaniards! I hash it!

“Yesh,” he continued, striking the ferrule of his umbrella against the floor, “theesh are the very fellows for the shob – worth a shcore of Shakra’s shpells, and hish bottles to boot! There ish no fear that their medishin will fail. S’help me, no! Now, ash I think of it,” continued he, “that ish the plan – the very besht. There ish no other safe and sure, like that ish. Ha! Cushtos! you shan’t eshcape yet. Ha! Shoodith, mine girl, you ish welcome to your way; you shall have the young man after all!”

On giving utterance to these ambiguous speeches, the Jew dropped back into his chair, and sat for some minutes in silent but earnest meditation.

The matter of his meditation may be known by the act that followed.

“There ishn’t an hour to be losht!” muttered he, starting to his feet, and hurriedly making for the door; “no, not ash much ash a minute. I musht see them now. The Cushtos ish to shtart at sunrishe. The wench hash said it. They’ll joosht have time to get upon hish track. S’help me,” he added, opening the door, and glancing up at the sky, “ash I live, it’sh mosht sunrishe now!”

Sticking his beaver firmly upon his head, and taking a fresh clutch of the everlasting umbrella, he rushed rapidly out of the verandah, crossed the courtyard, re-passed the porter at his own gate, and then traversing the little enclosure outside, stood in the open fields.

He did not stand long – only to look around him, and see that the ground was clear of stragglers.

Satisfied on this head, he proceeded onward.

At the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the outside stockade stood a detached cabin, more than half hidden among the trees.

Towards this he directed his steps.

Five minutes sufficed for him to reach it; and, on arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with the butt of his umbrella.

“Quien es?” spoke a voice from within.

“It’sh me, Manuel – me – Shessuron!” replied the Jew.

“It’s the Dueno,” (master), was heard muttering one of the Spaniards to the other – for the cabin was the dwelling of these notable negro-hunters.

“Carajo! what does the old ladron want at this hour?” interrogated the first speaker, in his own tongue, which he knew was not understood by the Jew. “Maldito!” added he, in a grumbling voice; “it’s not very pleasant to be waked up in this fashion. Besides, I was dreaming of that yellow-skin that killed my dogs. I thought I had my macheté up to the hilt in his carcase. What a pity I was only dreaming it!”

“Ta-ta!” interrupted the other; “be silent, Andres. The old ganadero is impatient. Vamos! I’m coming, Señor Don Jacob!”

“Make hashte, then!” answered the Jew from without. “I hash important bishness with both of yoush.”

At this moment the door opened; and he who answered to the name of Manuel appeared in the doorway.

Without waiting for an invitation, Jessuron stepped inside the cabin.

“Does your business require a candle, señor?” inquired the Spaniard.

“No – no!” answered the Jew, quickly and impressively, as if to prevent the striking of a light. “It ish only talk; we can do it in the darknesh.”

And darkness, black and profound, was most appropriate to the conversation that followed. Its theme was murder – the murder of Loftus Vaughan!

The plan proposed was for the two Spaniards – fit instruments for such purpose – to waylay the Custos upon the road – in some dark defile of the forest – anywhere – it mattered not, so long as it was on this side of Spanish Town.

“Fifty poundsh apeesh; goot Island currenshy,” was the reward promised – offered and accepted.

Jessuron instructed his brace of entrepreneurs in all the details of the plan. He had learnt from Cynthia that the Custos intended to take the southern road, calling at Savanna-le-Mer. It was a roundabout way to the capital; but Jessuron had his suspicions why that route had been chosen. He knew that Savanna was the assize town of Cornwall; and the Custos might have business there relating to himself, Prince Cingües, and his two dozen Mandingoes!

It was not necessary to instruct the caçadores in these multifarious matters. There was no time to spend on any other than the details of their murderous plan; and these were made known to them with the rapidity of rapine itself.

In less than twenty minutes from the time he had entered the cabin the Jew issued out again, and walked back, with joyous mien and agile step, towards his dark dwelling.

Chapter 35

Stalking the Sleeper

Cubina, on arriving near the precincts of the penn, moved forward with increased caution. He knew that the penn-keeper was accustomed to keep dogs and night-watchers around his enclosure, not only to prevent the cattle and other quadrupeds from straying, but also the black bipeds that filled his baracoons.

The Maroon was conscious, moreover, that his own attitude towards the slave-merchant was, at this time, one of extreme hostility. His refusal to restore the runaway had been a declaration of open war between them; and the steps he had since taken in conjunction with the Custos – which he now knew to be no longer a secret to the slave-stealer – could not otherwise than render him an object of the Jew’s most bitter hatred.

Knowing all this, he felt the necessity of caution in approaching the place: for should the penn-keeper’s people find him prowling about the premises, they would be certain to capture him, if they could, and carry him before Jacob Jessuron, J.P., where he might expect to be treated to a little “justice’s justice.”

With this prospect before him, in the event of being detected, he approached the Jew’s dwelling as cautiously as if he had been a burglar about to break into it.

It was towards the back of the house that he was advancing from the fields – or rather, the side of it, opposite to that on which lay the cattle and slave enclosures.

He had made a short circuit to approach by this side, conjecturing that the others would be more likely to be guarded by the slave and cattle watchers.

The fields, half returned to the condition of a forest, rendered it easy to advance under cover. A thick, second growth of logwood, bread-nut, and calabash trees covered the ground; and nearer the walls the old garden, now ruinate, still displayed a profusion of fruit-trees growing in wild luxuriance, such as guavas, mangoes, paw-paws, orange and lemon, sops, custard-apples, the akee, and avocada pear. Here and there a cocoa-palm raised its tufted crown far above the topmost spray of the humbler fruit-trees, its long, feathery fronds gently oscillating under the silent zephyrs of the night.

On getting within about a hundred yards of the house Cubina formed the intention not to go any nearer just then. The plan he had traced out was to station himself in some position where he could command a view of the verandah – or as much of it as it was possible to see from one place. There he would remain until daybreak.

His conjecture was, that Herbert Vaughan would make his appearance as soon as the day broke, and this was all the more probable on account of his engagement with the Maroon himself.

The protégé of Jessuron would show himself in the verandah on leaving his chamber. He could not do otherwise, since all the sleeping-rooms – and Cubina knew this – opened outward upon the gallery.

Once seen, a signal by some means – by Cubina showing himself outside, or calling the young Englishman by name – would bring about the desired interview, and hasten the execution of the project which the Maroon had conceived.

A slight elevation of the ground, caused by the crumbling ruins of an old wall, furnished the vidette station desired; and the Maroon mounting upon this, took his stand to watch the verandah. He could see the long gallery from end to end on two sides of the dwelling, and he knew that it extended no farther.

Though the house glistened under a clear moonlight, the verandah itself was in shade; as was also the courtyard in front – the old grey pile projecting its sombre shadow beyond the walls that surrounded it. At the end, however, the moonbeams, slanting diagonally from the sky, poured their light upon the floor of the verandah, there duplicating the strong bar-like railing with which the gallery was inclosed.

The Maroon had not been many minutes upon the stand he had taken, when an object in the verandah arrested his attention. As his eye became more accustomed to the shadowy darkness inside, he was able to make out something that resembled a hammock, suspended crosswise, and at some height above the balustrade[560] of the verandah. It was near that end where the moonlight fell upon the floor.

As the moon continued to sink lower in the sky, her beams were flung farther along the gallery; and the object which had attracted the attention of Cubina came more into the light. It was a hammock, and evidently occupied. The taut cordage told that some one was inside it.

“If it should be the young Englishman himself!” was the conjectural reflection of Cubina.

If so, it might be possible to communicate with him at once, and save the necessity of waiting till daybreak.

How was the Maroon to be satisfied that it was he? It might be some one else! It might be Ravener, the overseer; and Cubina desired no conversation with him. What step could he take to solve this uncertainty?

As the Maroon was casting about for some scheme that would enable him to discover who was the occupant of the hammock, he noticed that the moonbeams had now crept nearly up to it, and in a few minutes more would be shining full upon it. He could already perceive, though very dimly, the face and part of the form of the sleeper inside. Could he only get to some elevated position a little nearer to the house, he might be able to make out who it was.

He scanned the ground with a quick glance. A position sufficiently elevated presented itself, but one not so easy to be reached. A cocoa-nut palm stood near the wall, whose crest of radiating fronds overlooked the verandah, drooping towards it. Could he but reach this tree unobserved, and climb up to its crown, he might command a close view of him who slept in the swinging couch.

A second sufficed to determine him; and, crawling silently forward, he clasped the stem of the cocoa-tree, and “swarmed” upward. The feat was nothing to Cubina, who could climb like a squirrel.

On reaching the summit of the palm, he placed himself in the centre of its leafy crown – where he had the verandah directly under his eyes, and so near that he could almost have sprung into it.

The hammock was within ten feet of him; in a downward direction. He could have pitched his tobacco-pipe upon the face of the sleeper. The moonlight was now full upon it. It was the face of Herbert Vaughan!

Cubina recognised it at the first glance; and he was reflecting how he could awake the young Englishman without causing an alarm, when he heard a door turn upon its hinges. The sound came up from the courtyard; and on looking in that direction, Cubina saw that the gate leading out to the cattle enclosure was in the act of being opened.

Presently a man passed through, entering from the outside; and the gate, by some other person unseen, was closed behind him.

He who had entered walked directly towards the dwelling; and, mounting the steps, made his way into the verandah.

While crossing the courtyard, the moonlight, for a moment, fell upon his face, discovering to Cubina the sinister countenance of the Jew.

“I must have passed him on the path!” reflected the Maroon. “But no, that couldn’t be,” he added, correcting himself; “I saw his return track in the mud-hole just by. He must have got here before me. Like enough, he’s been back, and out again on some other dark business. Crambo! it’s true enough what I’ve heard say of him: that he hardly ever goes to sleep. Our people have met him in the woods at all hours of the night. I can understand it now that I know the partner he’s got up there. Por Dios! to think of Chakra being still alive!”

The Maroon paused in his reflections; and kept his eye sharply bent upon the shadowy form that, like a spirit of darkness, was silently flitting through the corridor. He was in hopes that the Jew would soon retire to his chamber.

So long as the latter remained outside, there was not the slightest chance for Cubina to communicate with the occupant of the hammock without being observed. Worse than that, the Maroon was now in danger of being himself seen. Exposed as he was upon the cocoa – with nothing to shelter him from observation but its few straggling fronds – he ran every risk of his presence being detected. It was just a question of whether the Jew might have occasion to look upwards; if so, he could scarce fail to perceive the dark silhouette of a man, outlined, as it was, against the light blue of the sky.

That would be a discovery of which Cubina dreaded the consequences, and with reason. It might not only frustrate the intended interview with the young Englishman, but might end in his own capture and detention – the last a contingency especially to be avoided.

Under this apprehension the Maroon stirred neither hand nor foot; but kept himself silent and rigid. In this attitude of immobility he looked like some statue, placed in a sedentary posture upon the summit of a Corinthian column – the crushed crocus represented by the fronds of the palm-tree.

Chapter 36

A Mission for the Man-Hunters

Cubina for some time preserved his constrained position. He dared not derange it; since the Jew still stayed in the shadowy corridor – sometimes moving about; but more generally standing at the head of the wooden stairway, and looking across the courtyard, towards the gate through which he had come in. It seemed as if he was expecting some one to enter after him.

This conjecture of Cubina’s proved correct. The great gate was heard once more turning on its hinges; and, after a word or two spoken by the black porter outside, and answered by a voice of different tone, two men were seen stepping inside the court.

As they passed under the moonlight, Cubina recognised them. Their lithe, supple forms, and swarthy angular lineaments, enabled him to identify the Cuban caçadores.

They walked straight up to the stairway, at the bottom of which both stopped.

The Jew, on seeing them inside the gate, had gone back into a room that opened upon the verandah.

He was gone but for an instant; and, coming out again, he returned to the top of the stairway.

One of the Spaniards, stepping up, reached out, and received something from his hand. What it was Cubina could not have told, but for the words of the Jew that accompanied the action.

“There’sh the flashk,” said he; “it ish the besht brandy in Shamaica. And now,” he continued, in an accent of earnest appeal, “my goot fellish! you hashn’t a minute to shpare. Remember the big monish you’re to gain; and don’t let thish runaway eshcape!”

“No fear about that, Señor Don Jacob,” replied he who received the flask. “Carrai! he’ll have long legs to get out of our way – once we’re well on the trail of him.”

And without further dialogue or delay, the caçador descended the stair, rejoined his comrade, and both hurriedly re-crossing the courtyard, disappeared through the door by which they had entered.

“An expedition after some poor slave!” muttered Cubina to himself. “I hope the scoundrels won’t catch him, anyhow, and I pity him if they do. After all, they’re no great hands at the business, spite of their braggadocio.”

With this professional reflection, the Maroon once more bent his eyes upon the form that remained in the shadow of the verandah.

“Surely,” conjectured he, “the old John Crow will now go to his roost? Or has he more of the like business on hand? Till he’s out of that I can’t make a move. I durstn’t stir, not for the life of me!”

To the joy of Cubina, the Jew at that moment stepped back into his chamber – the door of which had been left standing open.

“Good!” mentally ejaculated the Maroon; “I hope he’ll stay in his hole, now that he’s in it. I don’t want to see any more of him this night. Crambo!”

As the exclamation indicated, the congratulatory speech was cut short by the re-appearance of the Jew; not in his blue body-coat, as before, but wrapped in a sort of gabardine, or ample dressing-gown, the skirts of which fell down to his feet. His hat had been removed – though the skull-cap, of dirty whitish hue, still clung around his temples; for it was never doffed.

To the consternation of Cubina he came out, dragging a chair after him: as if he meant to place it in the verandah and take a seat upon it.

And this was precisely his intention, for, after drawing the chair – a high-backed one – out into the middle of the gallery, he planted it firmly upon the floor, and then dropped down into it.

The moment after, Cubina saw sparks, accompanied by a sound that indicated the concussion of flint and steel. The Jew was striking a light!

For what purpose?

The smell of burning tobacco borne along the gallery, and ascending to Cubina’s nostrils upon the summit of the palm, answered that question. A red coal could be seen gleaming between the nose and chin of the Israelite. He was smoking a cigar!

Cubina saw this with chagrin. How long would the operation last? Half-an-hour – an hour, perhaps? Ay, maybe till daybreak – now not very distant.

The situation had changed for the worse. The Maroon could not make the slightest move towards the awakening of Herbert. He dared not shift his own position, lest his presence should be betrayed to the Jew. He dared not stir upon the tree, much less come down from it!

He saw that he was in a fix; but there was no help for it. He must wait till the Jew had finished his cigar: though there was no certainty that even that would bring the séance to a termination.

Summoning all the patience he could command, he kept his perch, silent and motionless, though anxious, and suffering from chagrin.

For a long hour, at least, did he continue in this desperate dilemma – until his limbs ached underneath him, and his composure was well-nigh exhausted. Still the Jew stuck to his chair, as if glued to the seat – silent and motionless as Cubina himself.

The latter fancied that not only a first cigar, but a second, and, perhaps, a third, had been lighted and smoked; but in the sombre shadow, in which the smoker sat, he could not be certain how many. More than one, however, from the time spent in the operation; for during the full period of an hour a red coal could be seen glowing at the tip of that aquiline proboscis.

Cubina now perceived what troubled him exceedingly – the blue dawn breaking over the tops of the trees! By slightly turning his head he could see the golden gleam of sunlight tinting the summit of the Jumbé Rock!

“Crambo! what was to be done?” so ran his reflections.

If he stayed there much longer he might be sure of being discovered. The slaves would soon be starting to their work – the overseer and drivers would soon be out and about. One or other could not fail to see him upon the tree! He would be lucky now to escape himself, without thinking any longer of the hammock or him who slept within its tight-drawn meshes.

While considering how he might slip unperceived from the tree he glanced once more towards the occupant of the chair. The gradually brightening dawn, which had been filling him with apprehension, now favoured him. It enabled him to perceive that the Jew was asleep!

With his head thrown back against the sloping upholstery, Jessuron had at last surrendered to the powerful divinity of dreams. His goggles were off; and Cubina could see that the wrinkled lids were closed over his sunken orbs.

Undoubtedly he was asleep. His whole attitude confirmed it. His legs lay loosely over the front of the chair – his arms hung down at the sides: and the blue umbrella rested upon the floor at his feet. This last evidence of somnolency was not even counterbalanced by the stump of a cigar, burnt close, and still sticking between his teeth!

End of Volume Two.

Volume III

Chapter 1

A Startling Summons

On the part of Cubina it was now a struggle between prudence and a desire to carry out his original programme – whether he should not go off alone, or still try to communicate with the sleeper in the hammock.

In the former case he could return to the glade, and there await the coming of Herbert Vaughan as at first fixed. But, by so doing, at least two hours would be lost; and even then, would the young Englishman be punctual to his appointment?

Even against his inclination something might occur to cause delay – a thing all the more probable, considering the circumstances that surrounded him; considering the irregularity of events in the domicile where he dwelt.

But even a delay of two hours! In that interval, Loftus Vaughan might have ceased to live!

These thoughts coursed quickly through the mind of the Maroon – accustomed as it was to perceptions almost intuitive. He saw that he must either go by himself to Mount Welcome, or awake the sleeper at once.

Perhaps he would have decided on the former course, but that he had other motives for an interview with Herbert Vaughan, almost as immediate in their necessity as that which related to the safety of the Custos. He had as yet no reason to believe that the peril in which the planter stood was so proximate as it really was: for it never occurred to him that the departure of the two Spaniards had any other object than that which related to their calling – the capture of some runaway slave.

Had he suspected the design of the two ruffians – had he known the mission of murder on which the slave-merchant had dispatched them – he would scarce have stayed for aught else than to have provided the means of intercepting their design.

In the dark about all this, he did not believe there was such necessity for extreme haste; though he knew something was on foot against the Custos which would not allow of much loss of time.

At that moment the occupant of the hammock turned over with a yawn.

“He is going to awake!” thought Cubina; “now is my time.”

To the disappointment of the Maroon, the limbs of the speaker again became relaxed; and he returned to a slumber profound as before.

“What a pity!” murmured the Maroon; “if I could only speak a word. But no. Yonder John Crow is more like to hear it than he. I shall throw something down into the hammock. Maybe that will awake him?”

Cubina drew out his tobacco-pipe. It was the only thing he could think of at the moment; and, guiding his arm with a good aim, he pitched it into the hammock.

It fell upon the breast of the sleeper. It was too light. It awoke him not.

“Crambo! he sleeps like an owl at noontide! What can I do to make him feel me? If I throw down my machete, I shall lose the weapon; and who knows I may not need it before I’m out of this scrape? Ha! one of these cocoa-nuts will do. That, I dare say, will be heavy enough to startle him.”

Saying this, the Maroon bent downward; and extending his arm through the fronds beneath him, detached one of the gigantic nuts from the tree.

Poising it for a moment to secure the proper direction, he flung the ponderous fruit upon the breast of Herbert. Fortunately the sides of the hammock hindered it from falling upon the floor, else the concussion might also have awakened the sleeper in the chair.

With a start, the young Englishman awoke, at the same time raising himself upon his elbow. Herbert Vaughan was not one of the exclamatory kind, or he might have cried out. He did not, however; though the sight of the huge brown pericarp, lying between his legs, caused him considerable surprise.

“Where, in the name of Ceres and Pomona, did you rain down from?” muttered he, at the same time turning his eyes up for an answer to his classical interrogatory.

In the grey light he perceived the palm, its tall column rising majestically above him. He knew the tree well, every inch of its outlines; but the dark silhouette on its top – the form of a human being couchant[561], and crouching – that was strange to him.

The light, however, was now sufficiently strong to enable him to distinguish, not only the form, but the face and features of his ci-devant entertainer under the greenwood tree – the Maroon captain, Cubina!

Before he could say a word to express his astonishment, a gesture, followed by a muttered speech from the Maroon, enjoined him to silence.

“Hush! not a word, Master Vaughan!” spoke the latter, in a half whisper, at the same time that he glanced significantly along the corridor. “Slip out of your hammock, get your hat, and follow me into the forest. I have news for you – important! Life and death! Steal out; and, for your life, don’t let him see you!”

“Who?” inquired Herbert, also speaking in a whisper.

“Look yonder!” said the Maroon, pointing to the sleeper in the chair.

“All right! Well?”

“Meet me in the glade. Come at once – not a minute to be lost! Those who should be dear to you are in danger!”

“I shall come,” said Herbert, making a motion to extricate himself from the hammock.

“Enough! I must be gone. You will find me under the cotton-tree.”

As he said this, the Maroon forsook his seat, so long and irksomely preserved – and, sliding down the slender trunk of the palm, like a sailor descending the mainstay of his ship, he struck off at a trot, and soon disappeared amid the second growth of the old sugar plantation.

Herbert Vaughan was not slow to follow upon his track. Some disclosures of recent occurrence – so recent as the day preceding – had prepared him for a somewhat bizarre finale to the fine life he had of late been leading; and he looked to the Maroon for enlightenment. But that strange speech of Cubina stimulated him more than all. “Those who should be dear to you are in danger!”

There was but one being in the world entitled to this description. Kate Vaughan! Could it be she?

Herbert stayed not to reflect. His hat and cloak hung in the chamber close by; and in two seconds of time both were upon him. Another second sufficed to give him possession of his gun.

He was too active, too reckless, to care for a stairway at that moment, or at that height from the ground – too prudent to descend by that which there was in front, though guarded only by a sleeper!

Laying his leg over the balustrade, he leaped to the earth below; and, following the path taken by the Maroon, like him was soon lost among the second growth of the ruinate garden.

Chapter 2

Blue Dick

In making his hurried departure from the Happy Valley, Herbert Vaughan narrowly escaped observation. A delay of ten minutes longer would have led to his design being interrupted; or, at all events, to his being questioned as to the object of his early excursion; and, in all probability, followed and watched.

He had scarce passed out of sight of the penn, when he heard the jangling tones of a swing bell – harshly reverberating upon the still air of the morning.

The sounds did not startle him. He knew it was not an alarm; only the plantation bell, summoning the slaves to enter upon their daily toil.

Knowing that it must have awakened the sleeper in the chair, he congratulated himself on his good luck at getting away, before the signal had been sounded – at the same time that it caused him to quicken his steps towards the rendezvous given by the Maroon.

Cubina, though from a greater distance, had also heard the bell, and had in a similar manner interpreted the signal, though with a greater degree of uneasiness as to the effect it might have produced. He, too, had conjectured that the sounds must have awakened the sleeper in the chair.

Both had reasoned correctly. At the first “ding-dong” of the bell, the Jew had been startled from his cat-like slumber, and, rising erect in his seat, he glanced uneasily around him.

“Blesh my soul!” he exclaimed, spitting out the bit of burnt cigar that clung adheringly to his lips. “It ish broad daylight. I musht have been ashleep more ash two hours. Ach! theesh are times for a man to keep awake. The Cushtos should be on his road by thish; and if theesh Spanish hunters do their bishness as clefferly as they hash promise, he’ll shleep sounder thish night ash effer he hash done before. Blesh my soul!” he again exclaimed, with an accent that betokened a change in the tenor of his thoughts. “Supposhe they make bungle of the bishness? Supposhe they should get caught in the act? Ha! what would be the reshult of that? There ish danger – shtrike me dead if there ishn’t! Blesh me! I neffer thought of it,” continued he, after some moments spent in reflection of an apparently anxious kind. “They might turn King’sh evidence, and implicate me – me, a shustice! To save themselves, they’d be likely to do ash much ash that. Yesh; and eefen if they didn’t get taken in the act, still there ish danger. That Manuel hash a tongue ash long ash his macheté. He’sh a prattling fool. I musht take care to get him out of the Island – both of them – ash soon ash I can.”

In his apprehensions the Jew no longer included Chakra: for he was now under the belief that the dark deed would be accomplished by the Spanish assassins; and that to steel, not poison, would the Custos yield up his life.

Even should Cynthia have succeeded in administering the deadly dose – a probability on which he no longer needed to rely – even should the Custos succumb to poison, the myal-man was not to be feared. There was no danger of such a confederate declaring himself. As for Cynthia, the Jew had never dealt directly with her; and therefore she was without power to implicate him in the hellish contract.

“I musht take some shteps,” said he, rising from his chair, and making a feint towards retiring to his chamber, as if to adjust his dress. “What ish besht to be done? Let me think,” he added, pausing near the door, and standing in an attitude of reflection; “yesh! yesh! that’s it! I musht send a messensher to Mount Welcome. Some one can go on an excushe of bishness. It will look strange, since we’re such bad neighboursh of late? No matter for that. The Cushtos is gone, I hope; and Rafener can send the message to Mishter Trusty. That will bring ush newsh. Here, Rafener!” continued he, calling to his overseer, who, cart-whip in hand, was moving through the court below, “I wan’t ye, Mishter Rafener!”

Ravener, uttering a grunt to signify that he had heard the summons, stepped up to the stairway of the verandah; and stood silently waiting to know for what he was wanted.

“Hash you any bishness about which you could send a messenger to Mishter Trusty – to Mount Welcome, I mean?”

“Humph! There’s business a plenty for that. Them consarned hogs of the Custos has got into our corn-patch up the valley, and played pitch and toss with the young plants. Ye must get damages for it.”

“That ish right – that ish right.”

“Humph! You won’t say it’s right when once you’ve seen the mess they’ve made. We’ll have a sorry show at crop time, I tell ye.”

“Neffer mind that – we’ll have an action. Ishe not let it pass; but joosh now I hash other bishness on hand. You send a messensher to Mishter Trusty, and tell him about it. And, harksh you, Mishter Rafener! I want this messensher to be dishcreet. I want him to find out whether the Cushtos ish at home – without making a direct ashking about it. I have heard that he ish going on a shourney; and I want to know if he hash set out yet. You undershtands me?”

“All right,” replied Ravener, with an air that betokened comprehension, “All right! I’ll send a fellow that’ll get an answer to that question without asking it. Blue Dick can do that.”

“Ah! true, Blue Dick ish the one! And, harksh you, Mishter Rafener! tell him to try if he can see the mulatta wench, Cynthy.”

“What is he to say to her?”

“He ish to tell her to come ofer here, if she hash an opportunity. I wants to shpeak with her. But, mind ye, Mishter Rafener! Dick ish to be careful what he saysh and doesh. He musht talk with the girl only in whishpers.”

“I’ll instruct him in all that,” replied the overseer, in a tone of confidence. “You want him to go now?”

“Thish minute – thish very minute. I hash a reason for being in a hurry. Send him off as soon ash you can.”

Ravener, without further parley, walked off to dispatch his messenger; and a few minutes after he had gone out of the court, that yellow “complected” Mercury, known by the sobriquet[562] of “Blue Dick,” was seen “streaking” it along the path which conducted from the Jew’s penn to the mansion of Mount Welcome.

Chapter 3

The Mysterious Absence

The brief conversation between Jessuron and his overseer had taken place sotto voce: as it was not desirable that it should be overheard by any one – much less by the nephew of him who was its chief subject, and who was supposed to be suspended in a hammock not ten paces from the spot.

The hammock, however, was not visible from the front stairway – being hung in that part of the verandah that extended along the other side of the house.

On the departure of Ravener from his presence, the Jew proceeded with his original intention – to put his person in order for the day.

His toilette did not take long. After a very brief absence within his room, he reappeared on the gallery in the same pocketed blue coat, breeches, and tops, that served him for all purposes and occasions. The coat was buttoned over his breast, the whitey-brown beaver once more upon his head, and the goggles adjusted on the knife-back ridge of his nose. It was evident he intended a stroll. This was all the more certain as he had regained the umbrella – which had dropped from him during sleep – and, holding it in his grasp, stood by the top of the stairway, as if on the eve of setting forth.

Whither was he going? For what purpose, so early?

His muttered soliloquy declared his design.

“It musht be to-day – yesh, I musht get them married thish very day; and before any newsh can come. The report of the Cushtos’ death might shpoil all my plans. Who knowsh what the young man might do, if he hash only a hint of hish goot luck? After all, may be, Shoodith ish not so shure of him? She hash said something last night. Ha! it musht be thish day. It is no ushe going to the rector of the parish. He ish the Cushtos’ friend, and might make some obsheckshun. That won’t do – s’help me, no! I musht go to the other. Hee’sh poor, and won’t sthand shilly-shally. Besides, hish knot would be shoost as hard to looshe as if it wash tied by the Bishop of Shamaica. He’ll do; and if he won’t, then I knowsh one who will – for monish; ay, anything for monish!”

After this soliloquy he was about setting foot upon one of the steps with the intention of descending, when a thought appeared to strike him; and turning away from the stair, he walked with shuffling gentleness along the gallery, towards that part of the verandah where the hammock was suspended.

“I supposhe the young shentleman is shtill ashleep. Shentleman, indeed! now he ish all that, or will be the next time he goesh to shleep. Well, if he ish, I mushn’t dishturb him. Rich shentlemen mushn’t have their shlumbers interrupted. Ach!”

The exclamation escaped from his lips, as, on rounding the angle of the verandah, he came within sight of the hammock.

“’Tish empty, I declare! He’sh early astir! In hish room, I supposhe?”

Sans cérémonie[563], the Jew kept on along the gallery, until he had arrived in front of his book-keeper’s private apartment. There he stopped, looking inward.

The door was ajar – almost wide open. He could see the greater portion of the interior through the door; the rest of it through the jalousies. There was no one in the room – either sitting, standing, or moving about!

“Mashter Vochan! Are you there?”

The interrogatory was put rather by way of confirming his observation: for he saw there was no one inside.

“Where are you, Mashter Herbert?” continued he, repeating the interrogatory in an altered form – at the same time craning his neck into the apartment, and glancing all around it. “Ash I live, it’sh empty, like the hammock! He musht have gone out. Yesh. Hish hat’s not here – his cloak ish not here; and I see no gun. He alwaysh kept hish gun joosh there. How hash he passed me without my hearing his foot? I shleeps so ash I can hear a cat shtealin’ over the floor! Hash he gone by the shtairway at all? Ash I live, no! Blesh my soul! there is a track where somebody musht have shumped over the railing down into the garden! S’help me, it ish his track! There’sh no other but him to have made it. What the deffil ish the young fellow after this morning? I hope there ish nothing wrong in it.”

On missing the young Englishman out of his hammock and room, the penn-keeper felt at first no particular uneasiness. His protégé had, no doubt, gone out for a stroll in the woods. He had taken his gun along with him, to have a shot at some early bird looking for the early worm. He had done so many a time before – though never at so early an hour.

The hour, however, was not enough of itself to cause any surprise to his patron; nor even the fact of his having leaped over the verandah railing. He might have seen the owner of the house asleep in his chair near the head of the stairway; and, not wishing to disturb him, had chosen the other mode of exit. There was nothing in all this to cause uneasiness.

Nor would the Jew have thought anything of it had it not been for some other circumstances which quickly came under his notice – guiding him to the suspicion that something might be amiss.

The first of these circumstances was that Herbert, although having taken his gun along with him, had left behind his shot-belt and powder-flask! Both were there in his room, hanging upon their peg. They did not escape the sharp glance of the Jew, who at once began to draw conclusions from their presence.

If the young man had gone out on a shooting excursion, it was strange that he did not take his ammunition along with him!

Perhaps, however, he had seen some sort of game near the house, and, in his hurry to get a shot at it, had gone off hastily – trusting to the two charges which his gun contained. In that case he would not go far, and in a few minutes might be expected back.

A few minutes passed, and a great many minutes – until a full hour had transpired – and still nothing was heard or seen of the book-keeper, though messengers had been dispatched in search of him, and had quartered all the ground for half a mile around the precincts of the penn.

Jessuron – whose matutinal visit to the minister had been postponed by the occurrence – began to look grave.

“It ish shtrange,” said he, speaking to his daughter, who had now arisen, and was far from appearing cheerful; “shtrange he should go abroad in thish fashion, without shaying a word to either of ush!”

Judith made no reply: though her silence could not conceal a certain degree of chagrin, from which she was evidently suffering. Perhaps she had even more reason than the “rabbi” to suspect there was something amiss?

Certainly, something disagreeable – a misunderstanding at least, had arisen between her and Herbert on the preceding day. Her speech had already given some slight hint of it; but much more her manner, which, on the night before, and now unmistakably in the morning, betrayed a mixture of melancholy and suppressed indignation.

It did not add to the equanimity of her temper, when the house wench – who was unslinging the hammock in which Herbert had slept – announced it to contain two articles scarce to be expected in such a place – a cocoa-nut and a tobacco-pipe!

The pipe could not have belonged to Herbert Vaughan: he never smoked a pipe; and as for the cocoa-nut, it had evidently been plucked from the tree standing near. The trunk of the palm exhibited scratches as if some one had climbed up it, and above could be seen the freshly-torn peduncle, where the fruit had been wrenched from its stalk!

What should Herbert Vaughan have been doing up the palm-tree, flinging cocoa-nuts into his own couch?

His unaccountable absence was becoming surrounded by circumstances still more mysterious. One of the cattle-herds, who had been sent in search of him, now coming in, announced a new fact, of further significance. In the patch of muddy soil, outside the garden wall, the herd had discovered the book-keepers track, going up towards the hills; and near it, on the same path, the footprint of another man, who must have gone over the ground twice, returning as he had come!

This cattle-herd, though of sable skin, was a skilled tracker. His word might be trusted.

It was trusted, and produced an unpleasant impression both on Jessuron and Judith – an impression more unpleasant as time passed, and the book-keeper was still unreturned.

The father fumed and fretted; he did more – he threatened. The young Englishman was his debtor, not only for a profuse hospitality, but for money advanced. Was he going to prove ungrateful? A defaulter?

Ah! little had that pecuniary obligation to do with the chagrin that was vexing the Jew Jessuron – far less with those emotions, like the waves of a stormy sea, that had begun to agitate the breast of his daughter; and which every slight circumstance, like a strong wind, was lashing into fury and foam.

Blue Dick came back. He had executed his errand adroitly. The Custos was gone upon a journey; he had started exactly at the hour of daybreak.

“Goot!” said Jessuron; “but where is hish nephew?”

Blue Dick had seen Cynthia; and whispered a word in her ear, as the overseer had instructed him. She would come over to the penn, as soon as she could find an opportunity for absence from Mount Welcome.

“Goot!” answered the Jew. “But where is Mashter Vochan? where hash he betaken himshelf?”

“Where?” mentally interrogated Judith, as the noonday sun saw the black clouds coursing over her brow.

Chapter 4

A Shadowed Spirit

The sun was just beginning to re-gild the glittering flanks of the Jumbé Rock, his rays not yet having reached the valley below, when lights streaming through the jalousied windows of Mount Welcome proclaimed that the inmates of the mansion were already astir.

Lights shone through the lattices of several distinct windows – one from the Custos’ sleeping room, another from the apartment of Lilly Quasheba, while a brilliant stream, pouring through the jalousies in front, betokened that the chandelier was burning in the great hall.

From Smythje’s chamber alone came no sign either of light or life. The windows were dark, the curtains close drawn. Its occupant was asleep.

Yes, though others were stirring around him, the aristocratic Smythje was still sleeping as soundly and silently as if dead, perhaps dreaming of the fair “cweeole queetyaws,” and his twelve conquests now happily extended to the desired baker’s dozen, by the successful declaration of yesterday.

Though a light still burned in the sleeping apartment of the Custos, and also in that of Kate, neither father nor daughter were in their own rooms. Both were in the great hall, seated by a table, on which, even at this early hour, breakfast had been spread. It was not the regular matutinal meal, as certain circumstances showed. Mr Vaughan only was eating; while Kate appeared to be present merely for the purpose of pouring out his coffee, and otherwise attending upon him.

The costume in which the Custos appeared differed from his every-day wear. It was that of a man about to set forth upon a journey – in short, a travelling costume. A surtout, of strong material, with ample outside pockets; boots reaching above his knees; a belt, with pistol holsters, around his waist – a guard against any chance encounter with runaway negroes; a felt hat, lying on a chair beside him, and a camlet cloak, hanging over the back of the same chair – all proclaimed the purpose of a journey, and one about to be entered upon within a few minutes of time.

A pair of large silver spurs buckled over his boots, told also the mode of travel intended. It was to be on horseback.

This was further manifested by the fact that two horses were at that moment standing at the bottom of the stone stairs outside, their forms dimly visible through the blue dawn. Both were saddled, bridled, and equipped, with a black groom by their side, holding them in hand – himself in travelling toggery.

Valises, buckled upon the croup, and saddlebags suspended across the cantle, showed that the travellers were to carry their luggage along with them.

The object of the intended journey is already known. Mr Vaughan was about to put into execution a design long delayed – to perform a duty which he owed to his daughter, and which, if left unaccomplished, would seriously imperil the prosperity and happiness of her future life. He was about proceeding to the capital of the Island, to obtain from the Assembly that special act of grace, which they alone could give; and which would free his daughter from those degrading disabilities the Black Code had inflicted upon all of her unfortunate race. Six lines from the Assembly, with the governors signature attached, though it might not extinguish the taint, nor the taunt of malevolent lips, would, nevertheless, remove all obstacles to hereditament; and Kate Vaughan could then become the heiress to her own father’s property, without fear of failure.

To sue for this act and obtain it was the purpose of that journey upon which Loftus Vaughan was on the eve of setting forth. He had no apprehension of a failure. Had he been only a book-keeper or small tradesman, he might have been less sanguine of success; but, Custos of an important precinct, with scores of friends in the Assembly, he knew that he would only have to ask and it would be given him.

For all that, he was not setting out in very high spirits. The unpleasant prospect of having such a long and arduous journey to make was a source of vexation to him: for the Custos liked an easy life, and hated the fatigue of travel.

But there was something besides that dispirited him. For some days past he had found his health giving way. He had lost appetite, and was rapidly losing flesh. A constant and burning thirst had seized upon him, which, from morning to night, he was continually trying to quench.

The plantation doctor was puzzled with the symptoms, and his prescriptions had failed in giving relief. Indeed, so obstinate and death-like was the disease becoming, that the sufferer would have given up his intention of going to Spanish Town – at least, till a more fitting time – but for a hope that, in the capital, some experienced physician might be found who would comprehend his malady and cure it.

Indulging in this hope, he was determined to set forth at all hazards.

There was still another incubus upon his spirits, and one, perhaps, that weighed upon them more heavily than aught else. Ever since the death of Chakra – or rather, since the glimpse he had got of Chakra’s ghost – a sort of supernatural dread had taken possession of the mind of Loftus Vaughan. Often had he speculated on that fearful phenomenon, and wondered what it could have been. Had he alone witnessed the apparition, he might have got over the awe it had occasioned him: for then could he have attributed it to an illusion of the senses – a mere freak of his imagination, excited, as it was at the time, by the spectacle on the Jumbé Rock. But Trusty had seen the ghost, too! and Trusty’s mind was not one of the imaginative kind. Besides, how could both be deluded by the same fancy, and at the same instant of time?

Turn the thing in his own mind as he might, there was something that still remained inexplicable – something that caused the heart of the Custos to tingle with fear every time that he thought of Chakra and his ghost.

This intermittent awe had oppressed him ever since the day of his visit to the Jumbé Rock – that day described; for he never went a second time. Nor yet did he afterwards care to venture alone upon the wooded mountain. He dreaded a second encounter with that weird apparition.

In time, perhaps, the fear would have died out, and, in fact, was dying out – the intervals during which it was not felt becoming gradually more extended. Loftus Vaughan, though he could never have forgotten the myal-man, nor the terrible incidents of his death, might have ceased to trouble himself with the oughts about Chakra’s ghost, but for a circumstance that was reported to him on the day that Smythje sank into the dead-wood.

On the afternoon of that day, as Quashie was making his way homeward through the forest and over the hills, the darkey declared that, on passing near a noted spot called the Duppy’s Hole, he had “see’d de gose ob ole Chakra!”

Quashie, on reaching home, announced the fact, with chattering teeth, and eyes rolling wildly in their sockets; and, though the loutish boy was only laughed at by his fellow-slaves, the statement made a most painful impression on the mind of his master – restoring it to the state of habitual terror that had formerly held possession of it, and from which it had become only partially relieved.

The circumstance related by Quashie – still fresh in the thoughts of the Custos – had contributed not a little to increase that feeling of dejection and discouragement, under which he suffered at the moment of setting out upon his proposed expedition.

Chapter 5

The Stirrup-Cup

If Loftus Vaughan was in low spirits, not more joyful seemed his daughter, as she assisted at that early déjeuner.

On the contrary, a certain sadness overspread the countenance of the young Creole; as if reflected from the spirit of her father.

A stranger to the circumstances that surrounded her might have fancied that it was sympathy – at seeing him so dull and downcast – mingled with the natural regret she might have at his leaving home, and fop so lone: an absence. But one who scrutinised more closely could not fail to note in those fair features an expression of sadness that must have sprung from a different and deeper source.

The purpose of her father’s journey may, in part, explain the melancholy that marked the manner of the young Creole. She knew that purpose. She had learnt it from her father’s lips, though only on the evening before.

Then, for the first time in her life, was she made acquainted with those adverse circumstances that related to her birth and parentage: for up to that hour she had remained ignorant of her position, socially as well as legally. Then, for the first time, was fully explained to her her own true status in the social scale – the disabilities and degradation under which she suffered.

It was to remove these disabilities – and wipe out, as it were, the degradation – that her father was now going forth.

The young girl did not fail to feel gratitude; but perhaps the feeling might have been stronger had her father taken less trouble to make her sensible of the service he was about to perform – using it as a lever to remove that reluctance to the union with Smythje which still lingered.

During the few minutes that Mr Vaughan was engaged in eating his breakfast, not many words passed between them. The viands, luxurious enough, were scarce more than tasted. The intended traveller had no appetite for the solids with which the table was spread, and seemed to care only for drink.

After quaffing off several cups of coffee, solely from a desire to quench thirst, and without eating bread or anything else along with it, he rose from the table, and prepared to take his departure.

Mr Trusty entering, announced that the horses and the attendant groom were ready, and waiting outside.

The Custos donned his travelling hat, and with the assistance of Kate and her maid Yola, put on his sleeved cloak: as the air of the early morning was raw and cold.

While these final preparations were being made, a mulatta woman was seen moving about the room – at times acting as an attendant upon the table, at other times standing silently in the background. She was the slave Cynthia.

In the behaviour of this woman there was something peculiar. There was a certain amount of nervous agitation in her manner as she moved about; and ever and anon she was seen to make short traverses to different parts of the room – apparently without errand or object. Her steps, too, were stealthy, her glances unsteady and furtive.

All this would have been apparent enough to a suspicious person; but none of the three present appeared to notice it.

The “swizzle” bowl stood on the side-board. While breakfast was being placed on the table, Cynthia had been seen refilling the bowl with this delicious drink, which she had mixed in an outside chamber. Some one asked her why she was performing that, her diurnal duty, at so early an hour – especially as master would be gone before the time of swizzle-drinking should arrive: usually during the hotter hours of the day.

“P’raps massr like drink ob swizzle ’fore he go,” was the explanatory reply vouchsafed by Cynthy.

The girl made a successful conjecture. Just as the Custos was about to step outside for the purpose of descending the stairway, a fit of choking thirst once more came upon him, and he called for drink.

“Massr like glass ob swizzle?” inquired Cynthia, stepping up to his side. “I’ve mixed for massa some berry good,” added she, with impressive earnestness.

“Yes, girl,” replied her master. “That’s the best thing I can take. Bring me a large goblet of it.”

He had scarce time to turn round, before the goblet was presented to him, full to the rim. He did not see that the slave’s hand trembled as she held it up, nor yet that her eyes were averted – as if to hinder them from beholding some fearful sight.

His thirst prevented him from seeing anything, but that which promised to assuage it.

He caught hold of the goblet, and gulped down the whole of its contents, without once removing it from his lips.

“You’ve overrated its quality, girl,” said he, returning her the glass. “It doesn’t seem at all good. There’s a bitterish taste about it; but I suppose it’s my palate that’s out of order, and one shouldn’t be particular about the stirrup-cup.”

With this melancholy attempt at appearing gay, Loftus Vaughan bade adieu to his daughter, and, climbing into the saddle, rode off upon his journey.

Ah! Custos Vaughan! That stirrup-cup was the last you were ever destined to drink! In the sparkling “swizzle” was an infusion of the baneful Savannah flower. In that deep draught you had introduced into your veins one of the deadliest of vegetable poisons!

Chakra’s prophecy will soon be fulfilled. The death-spell will now quickly do its work. In twenty-four hours you will be a corpse!

Chapter 6

The Horn Signal

Cubina, on getting clear of the penn-keeper’s precincts, lost little time in returning to the glade; and, having once more reached the ceiba, seated himself on a log to await the arrival of the young Englishman.

For some minutes he remained in this attitude – though every moment becoming more fidgetty, as he perceived that time was passing, and no one came. He had not even a pipe to soothe his impatience: for it had been left in the hammock, into which he had cast it from the cocoa.

Before many minutes had passed, however, a pipe would have been to little purpose in restraining his nervous excitement; for the non-appearance of the young Englishman began to cause him serious uneasiness.

What could be detaining him? Had the Jew been awakened? and was he by some means or other, hindering Herbert from coming out? There was no reason, that Cubina could think of, why the young man should be ten minutes later than himself in reaching the ceiba. Five minutes – even the half of it – might have sufficed for him to robe himself in such garments as were needed; and then, what was to prevent him from following immediately? Surely, the appeal that had been made to him – the danger hinted at to those dear to him, the necessity for haste, spoken in unmistakable terms – surely, all this would be sufficient to attract him to the forest, without a moment’s hesitation!

Why, then, was he delaying?

The Maroon could not make it out: unless under the disagreeable supposition that the Jew no longer slept, and was intercepting his egress.

What if Herbert might have lost his way in proceeding towards the rendezvous? The path was by no means plain, but the contrary. It was a mere cattle-track, little used by men. Besides, there were others of the same – scores of them trending in all directions, crossing and converging with this very one. The half-wild steers and colts of the penn-keeper ranged the thickets at will. Their tracks were everywhere; and it would require a person skilled in woodcraft and acquainted with the lay of the country, to follow any particular path. It was likely enough that the young Englishman had strayed.

Just then these reflections occurred to Cubina. He chided himself for not thinking of it sooner. He should have stayed by the penn – waited for Herbert to come out, and then taken the roads along with him.

“Not to think of that! Crambo! how very stupid of me!” muttered the Maroon, pacing nervously to and fro: for his impatience had long since started him up from the log.

“Like enough, he’s lost his way?

“I shall go back along the path. Perhaps I may find him. At all events, if he’s taken the right road, I must meet him.”

And as he said this, he glided rapidly across the glade, taking the back track towards the penn.

The conjecture that Herbert had strayed was perfectly correct. The young Englishman had never revisited the scene of his singular adventure, since the day that introduced him to the acquaintance of so many queer people. Not but that he had felt the inclination, amounting almost to a desire, to do so; and more than once had he been upon the eve of satisfying this inclination, but, otherwise occupied, the opportunity had not offered itself.

Not greatly proficient in forest lore – as Cubina had also rightly conjectured – especially in that of a West-Indian forest, he had strayed from the true path almost upon the instant of entering upon it; and was at that very moment wandering through the woods in search of the glade where grew the gigantic cotton-tree!

No doubt, in the course of time, he might have found it, or perhaps stumbled upon it by chance, for – made aware, by the earnest invitation he had received, that time was of consequence – he was quartering the ground in every direction, with the rapidity of a young pointer in his first season with the gun.

Meanwhile the Maroon glided rapidly back, along the path leading to the penn, without seeing aught either of the Englishman or his track.

He re-entered the ruinate fields of the old sugar estate, and continued on till within sight of the house, still unsuccessful in his search.

Proceeding with caution, he stepped over the dilapidated wall of the old orchard. Caution was now of extreme necessity. It was broad day; and, but for the cover which the undergrowth afforded him, he could not have gone a step further without the risk of being seen from the house.

He reached the ruin from which he had before commanded a view of the verandah; and, once more stealing a glance over its top, he obtained a full view of the long rambling corridor.

Jessuron was in it – not as when last seen, asleep in his armchair, but on foot, and hurrying to and fro, with quick step and excited mien.

His black-bearded overseer was standing by the stair, as if listening to some orders which the Jew was issuing.

The hammock was still hanging in its place, but its collapsed sides showed that it was empty. Cubina could see that, but no signs of its late occupant – neither in the gallery nor about the buildings.

If still there, he must be in some of the rooms? But that one which opened nearest the hammock, and which Cubina conjectured to be his bedroom, appeared to be unoccupied. Its door stood ajar, and no one seemed to be inside.

The Maroon was considering whether he should stay a while longer upon the spot, and watch the movements of the two men, when it occurred to him that if the young man had gone out, and up the right path, he must have crossed a track of muddy ground, just outside the garden wall.

Being so near the house – and in the expectation of seeing something there to explain Herbert’s delay – he had not stayed to examine this on his second approach.

Crouching cautiously among the trees, he now returned to it; and, almost at the first glance, his eye revealed to him the truth.

A fresh footprint was in the mud, with its heel to the house, and its toe pointing to the path! It was not his own: it must be that of the young Englishman!

He traced the tracks as far as they could be distinguished; but that was only to the edge of the damp earth. Beyond, the ground was dry and firm – covered with a close-cropped carpet of grass, upon which the hoof of a horse would scarcely have left an impression.

The tracks, however, on leaving the moist ground, appeared as if trending towards the proper path; and Cubina felt convinced that, for some distance at least, the young Englishman had gone towards the glade.

That he was no longer by the house was sufficiently certain; and equally so that he had kept his promise and followed Cubina into the woods. But where was he now?

“He may have reached the glade in my absence, and be now waiting for me!” was the reflection of the Maroon.

Stimulated by this, as well as by the chagrin which his mischances or mismanagement were causing him, he started back along the path at a run – as if struggling in a match against time.

Far quicker than before he reached the glade, but, as before, he found it untenanted! No Englishman was under the ceiba – no human being in sight.

As soon as he had fairly recovered breath, he bethought him of shouting. His voice might be of avail in guiding the wanderer to the glade; for Cubina now felt convinced that the young Englishman was straying – perhaps wandering through the woods at no great distance from the spot. His shouts might be heard; and although the stranger might not recognise the voice, the circumstances were such that he might understand the object for which it was put forth.

Cubina shouted, first at a moderate pitch, then hallooed with all the strength of his lungs.

No answer, save the wood echoes.

Again and again: still no response.

“Crambo!” exclaimed he, suddenly thinking of a better means of making his presence known. “He may hear my horn! He may remember that, and know it. If he’s anywhere within a mile, I’ll make him hear it.”

The Maroon raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, loud blast – then another, and another.

There was a response to that signal; but not such as the young Englishman might have been expected to make. Three shrill bugle blasts, borne back upon the breeze, seemed the echoes of his own.

But the Maroon knew they were not. On hearing them, he let the horn drop to his side, and stood in an attitude to listen.

Another – this time a single wind – came from the direction of the former.

“Three and one,” muttered the Maroon; “it’s Quaco. He needn’t have sounded the last, for I could tell his tongue from a thousand. He’s on his way back from Savanna-la-Mer – though I didn’t expect him to return so soon. So much the better – I may want him.”

On finishing the muttered soliloquy, the Maroon captain stood as if considering.

“Crambo!” he muttered after a pause, and in a tone of vexation. “What has become of this young fellow? I must sound again – lest Quaco’s horn may have misled him. This time, lieutenant, hold your tongue!”

So saying, and speaking as if the “lieutenant” was by his side, he raised the horn once more to his lips, and blew a single blast – giving it an intonation quite different from the others.

After an interval of silence, he repeated the call in notes exactly similar, and then, after another pause, once again.

To none of these signals did the “tongue” of Quaco make reply; but shortly after, that worthy responded to the original summons by presenting himself in propria persona[564].

Chapter 7

Quaco’s Queer Encounter

Quaco came into the glade carrying a large bundle upon his back – under which he had trudged all the way from Savanna-la-Mer.

He was naked to the breech-cloth – excepting the hog-skin greaves upon his shanks, and the old brimless hat upon his head. This, however, was all the costume Quaco ever wore – all, indeed, that he owned; for, notwithstanding that he was the lieutenant, his uniform was no better than that of the meanest private of the band.

His captain, therefore, exhibited no surprise at the scantiness of Quaco’s clothing; but what did surprise Cubina was the air with which he entered the glade, and some other circumstances that at once arrested his attention.

The skin of the colossus was covered with a white sweat that appeared to be oozing from every pore of his dark epidermis. This might have been occasioned by his long walk – the last hour of it under a broiling sun, and carrying weight, as he was: for the bag upon his back appeared a fifty-pounder, at least, to say nothing of a large musket balanced upon the top of it.

None of these circumstances, however, would account for that inexplicable expression upon his countenance – the wild rolling of his yellow eyeballs – the quick, hurried step, and uncouth gesticulations by which he was signalising his approach.

Though, as already stated, they had arrested the attention of his superior, the latter, accustomed to a certain reserve in the presence of his followers, pretended not to notice them. As his lieutenant came up, he simply said: —

“I am glad you are come, Quaco.”

“An’ a’m glad, Cappin Cubina, I’ve foun’ ye har. War hurryin’ home fass as my legs cud carry me, ’spectin’ to find ye thar.”

“Ha!” said Cubina; “some news, I suppose. Have you met anyone in the woods – that young Englishman from the Jew’s penn? I’m expecting him here. He appears to have missed the way.”

“Han’t met no Englishman, Cappin. Cussos Vaughan am that – I’se a met him!”

“Crambo!” cried Cubina, starting as he uttered the exclamation. “You’ve met Custos Vaughan? When and where?”

“When – dis mornin’. Where – ’bout fo’ mile b’yond the crossin’ on the Carrion Crow road. That’s where I met him.”

The emphasis upon the last word struck upon the ear of Cubina. It seemed to imply that Quaco, on his route, had encountered others.

“Anybody else, did you meet?” he inquired, hurriedly, and with evident anxiety as to the answer.

“Ya-as, Cappin,” drawled out the lieutenant, with a coolness strongly in contrast with his excited manner on entering the glade. But Quaco saw that his superior was waiting for the coming of the young Englishman, and that he need not hurry the communication he was about to make. “Ya-as, I met ole Plute, the head driver at Moun’ Welcome. He was ridin’ ’longside o’ the Cussos, by way o’ his escort.”

“Nobody else?”

“Not jess then,” answered Quaco, evidently holding back the most interesting item of news he had to communicate. “Not jess then, Cappin Cubina.”

“But afterwards? Speak out, Quaco! Did you meet anyone going on the same road?”

The command, with the impatient gesture that accompanied it, brought Quaco to a quicker confession than he might have volunteered.

“I met, Cappin Cubina,” said he, his cheeks bulging with the importance of the communication he was about to make, while his eyes rolled like “twin jelly balls” in their sockets – “I met next, not a man, but a ghost!”

“A ghost?” said Cubina, incredulously. “A duppy, I sw’ar by the great Accompong – same as I saw before – the ghost of ole Chakra!”

The Maroon captain again made a start, which his lieutenant attributed to surprise at the announcement he had made.

Cubina did not undeceive him as to the cause.

“And where?” interrogated he, in hurried phrase. “Where did you meet the ghost?”

“I didn’t zackly meet it,” answered Quaco. “I only seed it on the road afore me – ’bout a hundred yards or tharaway. I wor near enuf to be sure o’ it – and it was Chakra’s ghost – jess as I seed him t’other day up thar by the Duppy Hole. The old villain can’t sleep in his grave. He’s about these woods yet.”

“How far was it from where you met Mr Vaughan?”

“Not a great way, Cappin. ’Bout a quarrer o’ a mile, I shed think. Soon as it spied me, it tuk to the bushes, and I seed no more on it. It was atter daylight, and the cocks had crowed. I heard ’em crowing at ole Jobson’s plantation close by, and, maybe, that sent the duppy a-scuttlin’ into the river.”

“We must wait no longer for this young man – we must be gone from here, Quaco.”

And as Cubina expressed this intention, he appeared about to move away from the spot.

“Stop, Cappin,” said Quaco, interrupting with a gesture that showed he had something more to communicate; “you han’t heard all. I met more of ’em.”

“More of whom?”

“That same queer sort. But two mile atter I’d passed the place where I seed the duppy o’ the ole myal-man, who dye think I met nex’?”

“Who?” inquired Cubina, half guessing at the answer.

“Them debbil’s kind – like enough company for the duppy – them dam’ Spaniards of de Jew’s penn.”

“Ah! maldito!” cried the Maroon captain, in a voice of alarm, at the same time making a gesture as if a light had suddenly broken upon him. “The Spaniards, you say! They, too, after him! Come, Quaco, down with that bundle! throw it in the bush – anywhere! there’s not a moment to be lost. I understand the series of encounters you have had upon the road. Luckily, I’ve brought my gun, and you yours. We may need them both before night. Down with the bundle, and follow me!”

“Stop and take me with you,” cried a voice from the edge of the glade; “I have a gun, too.”

And at the same moment the young Englishman, with his gun upon his shoulder, was seen emerging from the underwood and making towards the ceiba.

Chapter 8

An Uncle in Danger

“You appear to be in great haste, Captain Cubina,” said Herbert, advancing in double-quick time. “May I know what’s the matter? Anything amiss?”

“Amiss, Master Vaughan? Much, indeed. But we shouldn’t stand to talk. We must take the road to Savannah, and at once.”

“What! you want me to go to Savannah? I’m with you for any reasonable adventure; but my time’s not exactly my own, and I must first have a reason for such a journey.”

“A good reason, Master Vaughan. Your uncle, the Custos, is in trouble.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the young Englishman, with an air of disappointment. “Not so good a reason as you may think, Captain. Was it he you meant when you said, just now, one who should be dear to me was in danger?”

“It was,” answered Cubina.

“Captain Cubina,” said Herbert, speaking with a certain air of indifference, “this uncle of mine but little deserves my interference.”

“But his life’s in danger!” urged the Maroon, interrupting Herbert in his explanation.

“Ah!” ejaculated the nephew, “do you say that? If his life’s in danger, then – ”

“Yes,” said the Maroon, again interrupting him, “and others, too, may be in peril from the same enemy – yourself, perhaps, Master Vaughan. Ay, and maybe those that might be dear to you as yourself.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Herbert – this time in a very different tone of voice, “you have some evil tidings, Captain! pray tell me all at once.”

“Not now, Master Vaughan, not now! There’s not a moment to be wasted in talk; we must take the route at once. I shall tell you as we go along.”

“Agreed, then,” cried Herbert. “If it’s a life and death matter, I’m with you – even to Savannah! No book-keeping to-day, Master Jessuron, and – ” (the speaker only mentally pronounced the name) “Judith may well spare me for one day – especially for such a purpose as the saving of lives. All right; I’m with you, Captain Cubina.”

“Vamos!” cried the Maroon, hastily moving off. “For want of horses we must make our legs do double-quick time. These skulking scoundrels have sadly got the start of us.”

And saying this, he struck into the up-hill path, followed by Herbert – the taciturn lieutenant, no longer embarrassed by his bundle, keeping close in the rear.

The path Cubina had chosen appeared to conduct to Mount Welcome.

“You are not going there?” inquired Herbert, in a significant way, at the same time stopping, and appealing to his conductor for an answer.

It had just occurred to the nephew that a visit to his uncle’s house might place him in a position both unpleasant and embarrassing.

“No!” answered the Maroon; “there is no longer any need for us to go to the house: since the Custos has left it long hours ago. We could learn nothing there more than I know already. Besides, it’s half a mile out of our way. We should lose time; and that’s the most important of all. We shall presently turn out of this path, into one that leads over the mountain by the Jumbé Rock. That’s the shortest way to the Savannah road. Vamos!”

With this wind-up to his speech, the Maroon again moved on; and Herbert, his mind now at rest, strode silently after.

Up to this time the young Englishman had received no explanation of the object of the journey he was in the act of undertaking; nor had he asked any. The information, though as yet only covertly conveyed – that those dear to him were in danger – was motive enough for trusting the Maroon.

Before long, however, it occurred to him that he ought to be informed of the nature of that danger; over whom it impended; and what was the signification of the step they were now taking to avert it.

These questions he put to his conductor, as they hastened together along the path.

In hurried phrase the Maroon made known to him much, though not all, of what he himself knew of the position of affairs – more especially of the peril in which the Custos appeared to be placed. He gave an account of his own descent into the Duppy’s Hole; of the conversation he had overheard there; and, though still ignorant of the motives, stated his suspicions of the murderous plot in which Herbert’s own employer was playing a principal part.

It is needless to say that the young Englishman was astounded by these revelations.

Perhaps he would have been still more astonished, but that the development of these wicked dealings was only a confirmation of a whole series of suspicious circumstances that for some days before had been constantly coming under his notice, and for which he had been vainly seeking an explanation.

From that moment all thoughts of returning to dwell under the roof of Jacob Jessuron vanished from his mind. To partake of the hospitality of such a man – a murderer, at least by intent – was completely out of the question. He at once perceived that his fine sinecure situation must be given up; and, despite the scandal his desertion might bring about, he could never again make his home in the Happy Valley. Even the fascinations of the fair Judith would not be strong enough to attract him thither.

Cubina listened to these resolves, and apparently with great satisfaction. But the Maroon had not yet made known to Herbert many other secrets, of which he had become the depository; and some of which might be to the young Englishman of extremest interest. The communication of these he reserved to a future opportunity – when time might not be so pressing.

Herbert Vaughan, now apprised of the peril in which his uncle stood, for the time forgot all else, and only thought of pressing onward to his aid. Injuries and insults appeared alike forgotten and forgiven – even that which had stung him more sharply than all – the cold, chilling bow at the Smythje ball.

Beyond the Jumbé Rock, and at no great distance from the by-path by which they were travelling, lay the proper country of the Maroons. By winding a horn, it might have been heard by some of the band; who at that hour would, no doubt, be engaged in their usual occupation – hunting the wild hog.

Cubina knew this; and, on arriving at that point on the path nearest to his town, he halted, and stood for a moment reflecting.

Then, as if deeming himself sufficiently strong in the companionship of the robust young Englishman and the redoubtable lieutenant, he gave up the idea of calling any of them to his assistance; and once more moved forward along the route towards the Savannah road.

Chapter 9

An Equestrian Excursion

Throughout the day the penn-keeper kept to his penn. The unexplained absence of his protégé rendered it prudent to postpone his proposed visit to the minister: besides, Cynthia was expected.

From the mulatta he hoped to obtain much information. Her knowledge of events must be fresher than even that of Chakra – else would he have gone up to the Duppy’s Hole to consult the oracle of Obi. Cynthia would be likely to know all. She could at least tell him whether the spell had been administered – how, and when.

These were facts worth knowing, and Jessuron stayed at home to await the advent of Cynthia.

Not so Judith. Devoured by spleen, inaction was too irksome. She could not content herself in the house; and resolved to seek outside, if not solace, at least distraction to her thoughts. Shortly after breakfast she ordered her steed to be saddled, and prepared to set forth.

Strange it was that he should absent himself on that day above any other! Just after his uncle had departed on a journey! That was strange!

Judith summoned the herdsman who had discovered the tracks in the mud.

“You are sure it was the track of young Master Vaughan you saw?”

“Sartin sure, Missa Jessuron – one ob ’em war.”

“And the other? What was it like? Was it also the track of a man?”

“Ya, missa; ’twar a man’s track – leastwise, I nebber seed a woman track big as dat ’ere. Sartin de sole dat make it wor de fut ob a man, though it wa’n’t the boot ob a gen’l’man like young Massa Vaughan.”

Whip in hand, the Jewess stood reflecting.

A messenger might it be? From whom, if not from Kate Vaughan? With whom else was he acquainted? Such strange conditions of relationship! The mysterious mode by which the messenger must have approached him: for fresh mud upon the bark of the tree told that he who had climbed up must have been the same who had made the footmarks by the garden wall. The articles found in the hammock had been flung down to awake and warn the sleeper.

Clearly a secret message, delivered by a crafty messenger! Clearly a surreptitious departure!

And the motive for all this? No common one? – it could not be. No errand after game. The fowling-piece was gone; but that was no evidence of an intention to spend the day in sporting. Herbert was in the habit of taking his gun, whenever he strolled out into the fields or forest. But the other and necessary paraphernalia had been left behind! A shooting excursion? Nothing of the sort!

A messenger with a love message – a summons willingly accepted – promptly responded to!

“Oh, if it be!” cried the proud, passionate woman, as she sprang upon the back of her steed; “if it be, I shall know it! I shall have revenge!”

The horse came in for a share of this jealous indignation. A spiteful cut of the whip, and a fierce “dig” from her spurred heel, set the animal in rapid motion – his head towards the hills.

Judith Jessuron was a splendid equestrian, and could manage a horse as well as the best breaker about her father’s penn.

In the saddle she was something to be seen and admired: her brilliant beauty, enhanced by the charm of excitement, exhibiting itself in the heightened colour of her cheeks, and the stronger flashing of her dark Jewish eyes. The outline of her form was equally attractive. Of full womanly development, and poised in the saddle with an air of piquant abandon, it illustrated the curve of Hogarth in all its luxuriant gracefulness. Such a spectacle was calculated to elicit something more than ordinary admiration; and it required a heart already pre-occupied to resist its fascinations. If Herbert Vaughan had escaped them, it could only have been from having his heart thus defended from a danger that few men might have tempted with a chance of safety!

Galloping across the old garden, with a single leap she cleared the ruined wall; and, arriving at the spot where were still to be seen those tell-tale tracks, she reined up, and leaned over to examine them.

Yes – that was his track – his small foot was easily distinguished! The other? There it was – the footprint of a negro – pegged brogans! White men do not wear them. Some of the slave people of Mount Welcome? But why twice back and forward? Was not once sufficient? Had there been a double message? There might have been – a warning, and afterwards an appointment!

Perhaps, to meet in the forest? Ha! perhaps at that moment!

The bitter conjecture brought her reflections to an abrupt ending; and, once more plying whip and spur, the jealous equestrian dashed rapidly on, up the sloping path that trended towards the hills.

The purpose of this expedition, on the part of the Jewess, was altogether indefinite. It simply sprang from that nervous impatience that would not permit her to rest – a faint hope that during her ride she might discover some clue to the mysterious disappearance. Wretchedness might be the reward of that ride. No matter! Uncertainty was unendurable.

She did not go exactly in the direction of Mount Welcome, though thither went her thoughts. She had never been a guest of the Custos, and therefore had no colourable excuse for presenting herself at the mansion – else she would have ridden direct to it.

Her design was different.

Though she might not approach the house, she could reconnoitre it from a distance; and this had she determined upon doing.

She had fixed upon the Jumbé Rock as the best point of observation. She knew that its summit commanded a bird’s-eye view of Mount Welcome estate, lying under the mountain like a spread map, and that any movement by the mansion, or in the surrounding inclosures, might be minutely marked – especially with the aid of a powerful lorgnette, with which she had taken the precaution to provide herself.

With this intent did she head her horse towards the Jumbé Rock – urging the animal with fierce, fearless energy up the difficult acclivity of the mountain.

Chapter 10

Smythje among the Statues

At that hour, when the heart of Judith Jessuron was alternately torn by the passions of love and jealousy, a passion equally profound, though apparently more tranquil, was burning in the breast of Lilly Quasheba, inspired by the same object – Herbert Vaughan.

In vain had the young creole endeavoured to think indifferently of her cousin: in vain had she striven to reconcile her love with what her father had taught her to deem her duty, and think differently of Mr Smythje – in vain. The effort only ended in a result the very opposite to that intended – in strengthening her passion for the former, and weakening her regard for the latter. And thus must it ever be with the heart’s inclinings, as well as its disinclinings. Curbed or opposed, it is but its instinct in both cases to rebel.

From that hour in which Kate had yielded to the will of her father, and consented to become the wife of Montagu Smythje, she felt more sensibly than ever the sacrifice she was about to make. But there were none to step forth and save her – no strong hand and stout heart to rescue her from her painful position. It had now become a compromise; and, summoning all the strength of her soul, she awaited the unhappy issue with such resignation as she could command.

She had but one thought to cheer her, if cheer it could be called – she had not sacrificed her filial affection. She had performed the wishes of her father – that father who, however harsh he might be to others, had been ever kind and affectionate to her. Now, more than ever, did she feel impressed with his kindness, when she considered the errand on which he had gone forth.

Though thus resigned, or trying to feel so, she could neither stifle her passion for Herbert, nor conceal the melancholy which its hopelessness occasioned; and during all that morning, after her father had left her, the shadow appeared upon her countenance with more than its wonted darkness.

Her lover – that is, her fiancé – for Smythje now stood to her in that relationship – did not fail to observe her unusual melancholy, though failing to attribute it to the true cause.

It was natural that the young lady should feel sad at the absence of her worthy parent, who for many years had never been separated from her beyond the period of a few hours’ duration, or, at most, a single day. She would soon get used to it, and then all would be right again.

With some such reflections did Smythje account for the abstraction which he had observed in the behaviour of his betrothed.

During all the morning he had been assiduous in his attentions – more than wontedly so. He had been left by the Custos in a proud position – that of protector – and he was desirous of showing how worthy he was of the trust reposed in him.

Alas! in the opinion of Kate he was by far too assiduous.

The protégée felt importuned; and his most well-meant attentions had the effect only to weary her. Too glad would she have been to be left alone to her sighs and her sadness.

Shortly after breakfast, Smythje proposed a stroll – a short one. He had no zest for toilsome excursions; and, since the day of his shooting adventure, no zeal again to attempt any distant traverse of the forest.

The stroll was only to extend to the shrubbery and among the statues set there. The weather was temptingly fine. There was no reason why Kate Vaughan should refuse; and, with a mechanical air, she acceded to the proposal.

Smythje discussed the statues, drawing largely from the stock of classic lore which his University had afforded him – dilating more especially on those of Venus, Cupid, and Cleopatra, all suggestive of the tender sentiments that were stirring within his own romantic bosom, and to which, more than once, he took occasion to allude. Though narrowly did he watch to see what effect his fine speeches were producing, he failed to perceive any that gave him gratification. The countenance of his companion obstinately preserved that air of pre-occupation that had been visible upon it all the morning.

In the midst of one of his scholastic dissertations, the classical exquisite was interrupted by the advent of his valet, Thoms – who appeared coming from the house with the air of a servant who brings a message for his master.

The message was declared: a gentleman friend of Mr Smythje – for he had now many such in the Island – had called to see him. No particular business – merely a call of compliment.

The name was given. It was one which should be honoured by a polite reception; else the proud owner of Montagu Castle might have declined leaving the company in which he was upon so trivial a purpose. But the visitor was one of note – a particular friend, too. Miss Vaughan would not deem him rude, leaving her only for a moment?

“By no means,” said Kate, with a free haste that almost said as much as that she was only too glad to get quit of him.

Smythje followed his valet into the house; and the young Creole was left among the statues alone – herself the fairest shape in all that classical collection.

Chapter 11

A Strange Determination

For some moments after Smythje was gone, Kate Vaughan remained where he had left her – silent and motionless as the sculptured marbles by her side. Niobe[565] was near; and, as if by accident, the eyes of the young Creole turned upon the statue of the weeping daughter of Dione[566].

“Ah!” muttered she, struck with a strange thought; “unhappy mother of a murdered offspring! If thy sadness was hard to endure as mine, thy punishment must have been a pleasure. Would that I, like thee, were suddenly turned into stone. Ah, me!”

And finishing her apostrophe[567] with a profound sigh, she stood for some time silently gazing upon the statue.

After a while her thoughts underwent some change; and along with it her eyes wandered away from the statues and the shrubbery. Her glance was turned upward towards the mountain, and rested upon its summit – the Jumbé Rock now glittering gaily under the full sheen of the sunlight.

“There,” soliloquised she, in a low murmur, “upon that rock, and there only, have I felt one hour of true happiness – that happiness of which I have read in books of romance, without believing in; but which I now know to be real – to gaze into the eyes of him you love, and think, as I then thought, that you are loved in return. Oh! it was bliss! it was bliss!”

The remembrance of that brief interview with her cousin – for it was to that her words referred – came so forcibly before the mind of the impassioned young Creole as to stifle her utterance, and for a moment or two she was silent.

Again she continued – “An hour, have I said? Ah! scarce a minute did the sweet delusion last; but had I my choice I would rather live that minute over again, than all the rest of my past life – certainly, than all of it that is to come!” Again she paused in her speech, still gazing upon the rock – whose sparkling surface seemed purposely presented to her eyes, as if to cheer her heart with the sweet souvenir it recalled.

“Oh! I wonder,” she exclaimed at length, “I wonder how it would be, were I but up there again! To stand on the spot where I stood! Could I fancy him, as then, beside me? Could I recall the look he gave me, and my own sweet thoughts as I returned it? Oh! it would be like some delicious dream!”

Passion again called for a pause; but soon after, her reflections found speech.

“And why should I not indulge in it? why not? What harm can it do me? Even if the souvenir should bring sadness, it cannot add to that which now overwhelms me. No; I need not fear to tempt the trial; and I shall. This very hour shall I go up and stand upon that same spot. There shall I invoke the past, and give to memory, to fancy, its fullest play. I need not fear. There will be no witness but the heaven above and the God who dwells in it – alike witness to the sacrifice of a broken heart made in the fulfilment of my duty.”

On completing this impassioned speech, the young girl raised a kerchief of white cambric which she carried in her hand, and hastily adjusting it over the luxuriant plaits of her hair, glided towards the rear of the mansion.

She did not turn aside to enter the house, nor even to warn any one of her sudden determination, but, hastening on, soon reached the back of the garden.

There a small wicket-gate gave her egress into the woods – a path from that point trending in traverses, zigzag fashion, up the mountain slope.

It was the same path she had followed upon the day of the eclipse; but how different were the thoughts that now agitated her bosom from those she had indulged in upon that memorable occasion! Even then, it is true, her spirits were far from being cheerful; but still there was hope ahead. She had not then arrived at the full knowledge of Herbert’s indifference towards her – of his determination towards her more fortunate rival. The circumstances that had since transpired – the scenes that had come under her own observation – the rumours heard and too substantially confirmed – all had combined to extinguish that little gleam of hope so faint and feebly flickering.

Indeed, there was upon that very morning a new thought in her mind, calculated still further to render her sad and humiliated.

The revelations which her father had made before starting on his journey – the admissions as to the inferiority of her race, and contingently of her social rank, which he had been compelled to make – had produced, and no wonder, a painful impression upon the spirits of the quinteroon.

She could not help asking herself whether Herbert’s disregard of her had aught to do with this? Was it possible that her own cousin was slighting her on account of this social distinction? Did he, too, feel shy of the taint? More than once during that day had she mentally put these interrogatories without being able to determine whether they merited a negative or affirmative answer.

And what was her errand now? To resuscitate within her soul the memory of one moment of bliss – to weave still more inextricably around her heart the spell that was threatening to strangle it – to stifle the happiness of her whole life.

But that was already gone. There could be no daring now – no danger worth dread.

The zigzag path she ascended with free step and air undaunted – her fair, bright form gleaming, meteor-like, amid the dark-green foliage of the forest.

Chapter 12

A Jealous Reconnoissance

The ravine leading up the rear of the Jumbé Rock – the only way by which its summit could be reached – though easily scaled by a pedestrian, was not practicable for a person on horseback.

On reaching the base of the cliff the jealous equestrian dismounted, made fast her bridle to the branch of a tree, and, after unbuckling the little spur and removing it from her heel, continued the ascent à pied[568].

Arrived at the summit she took her stand near the edge of the platform, in a position that commanded an unbroken view of the mansion of Mount Welcome, its shrubberies and surroundings.

Satisfied with the situation, she instantly commenced her reconnoissance.

She did not at first make use of her lorgnette.

Any human figures that might be moving around the house could be seen by the naked eye. It would be time enough to use the magnifying lens should there be a difficulty of identifying them.

For some moments after she had taken her stand no one made appearance near or around the dwelling. A complete tranquillity reigned over the spot. A pet axis deer skipping over the lawn, some pea-fowl moving amidst the shrubbery of the parterre – their purple gorgets gaily glittering in the sun – were the only objects animate that could be seen near the house.

Farther off in the fields gangs of negroes were at work among the cane, with what appeared to be a white overseer moving in their midst. These had no interest for the observer upon the rock; and her eye, scarce resting on them for a second, returned to scan the inclosed space approximate to the dwelling, in the hope of there seeing something – form, incident, or scene – that might give her some clue to the mystery of the morning.

In respect to the former, she was not disappointed. Forms, scenes, and incidents were all offered in succession; and though they did but little to elucidate the enigma which had carried her to that aerial post of observation, they had the effect of calming, to some extent, the jealous thought that was distressing her.

First she saw a gentleman and lady step out from the house and take their stand among the statues. At the sight she felt a slight flutter of uneasiness; until through the lorgnette she looked upon hay-coloured hair and whiskers, enabling her to identify the owner as Smythje. This gave her a species of contentment; and her jealous spirit was still further tranquillised when the glass revealed to her the features of Kate Vaughan overspread with an expression of extreme sadness.

“Good!” muttered the delighted spy; “that tells a tale. She cannot have seen him? Surely not, or she would not be looking so woe-begone?”

At this moment another figure was seen approaching across the parterre towards the two who stood among the statues. It was that of a man in a dark dress. Herbert Vaughan wore that colour.

With a fresh flutter of uneasiness, the lorgnette was carried back to the eye.

“Bah! it is not he. A fellow with a common face – a servant, I suppose. Very likely the valet I’ve heard of! He has brought some message from the house. Ha! they’re going in again. No, only the master. She stays. Odd enough he should leave her alone! So much for your politeness, Mr Montagu Smeithjay!”

And, with a sneering laugh as she pronounced the name, the fair spy again took the glass from her eye, and appeared for a moment to give way to the gratification which she had drawn from what she had succeeded in observing.

Certainly there were no signs of the presence of Herbert Vaughan about the precincts of Mount Welcome, nor anything to indicate that he had had an interview with his cousin. If so, it must have ended just as the Jewess might have wished: since the expression observable on the countenance of Kate showed anything but the traces of a reconciliation.

Pleased to contemplate her in this melancholy mood, her jealous rival again raised the glass to her eye.

“Ha!” she exclaimed on the instant. “Whatever is the nigger doing in front of the statue? She appears to be talking to it. An interesting dialogue, I do declare! Ha! ha! ha! Perhaps she is worshipping it? Ha! ha! She seems as much statue as it. ‘Patience upon a monument, smiling’ – Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ah, now,” resumed the hilarious observer, still gazing through the glass, “she turns from the statue. As I live, she is looking up this way! She cannot see me? No, not with the naked eye. Besides, there is only my head and hat above the edge of the rock. She won’t make them out. How steadfastly she looks this way! A smile upon her face! That, or something like it! One might fancy she was thinking of that pretty scene up here, the interesting tableau – Smythje on his knee. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ah! what now?” she continued, interrogatively; at the same time suddenly ceasing from her laughter, as she saw the young creole adjust the scarf over her head, and glide towards the back of the house. “What can it mean? She appears bent on an excursion! Alone, too! Yes, alone, as if she intended it! See! she passes the house with stealthy step – looks towards it, as if fearing some one to come forth and interrupt her! Through the garden! – through the gate in the wall! Ha! she’s coming up the mountain!”

As the Jewess made this observation, she stepped a pace forward upon the rock, to gain a better view. The lorgnette trembled as she held it to her eye: her whole frame was quivering with emotion.

“Up the mountain!” muttered she. “Yes, up the mountain! And for what purpose? To meet – Herbert Vaughan?”

A half-suppressed scream accompanied the thought: while the glass, lowered by her side, seemed ready to fall from her fingers.

Chapter 13

A Spy in Ambush

You have seen a proud bird, whose wing has been broken by the fatal bullet, drop helpless to the earth?

So fell the heart of Judith Jessuron from the high confidence that but the moment before had been buoying it up.

The sight of Kate Vaughan coming up the mountain path at once robbed it of exultation – even of contentment.

What errand could the young Creole have up there, unless that of an assignation? And with whom, but the man who was so mysteriously missing?

Her surreptitious departure from the dwelling – the time chosen, when Smythje was out of the way – her quick gait and backward glances as she stole through the shrubbery: all indicated a fear of being seen and followed.

And why should she fear either, if bent upon an ordinary errand? Mr Smythje was not her father, nor, as yet, her husband. Why should she care to conceal her intentions from him: unless indeed they were clandestine, and pointing to that very purpose which the jealous Jewess had conjectured – a rendezvous with Herbert Vaughan?

Judith felt convinced of it – so fully that, as soon as she saw the young Creole fairly started up the sloping path, she glided to the rear edge of the platform, and looked down, expecting to see the other party to the assignation.

True, she saw no one; but this did little to still the agitation now vibrating through every nerve of her body. He was not in sight, but that signified not. Perhaps he was at that moment within hearing, and might be seen, but for the forest screen that covered the façade of the mountain?

Where was it their design to meet? Where had they named their appointment?

Judith did not doubt that there was design – jealousy did not stay to ask the question. She was convinced that an arrangement had been made, and on that very morning. What else could be the meaning of the double message? First, to demand a meeting; secondly to appoint the place. Yes, that would explain the repetition of those footmarks – that had gone twice to and fro.

What spot had they chosen for the scene of their clandestine encounter?

A sudden apprehension seized upon the spy. She might lose sight of them; and then they would enjoy their meeting in secret and uninterrupted. By Heavens, that must not be! Her spirit, now roused to the extreme pitch of jealousy, cared not for consequences. End as the scene might, she was resolved on its interruption.

The only chance of discovering the place of assignation would be to keep Kate Vaughan in sight. Perhaps Herbert was already there waiting for her? He would be there. The lover is always first upon the ground!

Obedient to this thought, the Jewess rushed back across the platform; and once more directed her glance down the mountain.

She saw what she looked for: the snow-white snood, easily distinguishable among the dark-green foliage – now hidden as the wearer walked under the tall trees – again appearing at the open angles where the road zigzagged.

Most of the path could be seen from the summit of the rock: for, although rarely used, it had once been cleared by the axe, and formed an open tract through the timber, narrow, but perceptible from above.

Judith, still marking the movements of the kerchief, swept the path with her glance and her glass – up to the point where it reached the base of the rock and ran round to the rear. Repeatedly she scanned the track, far in advance of the climber, expecting to see some one appear – Herbert Vaughan, of course.

If aught showed among the trees – a bird fluttering in the foliage, frayed by the approach of the gentle intruder – the heart of the jealous Jewess experienced a fresh spasm of pain. Though certain she was soon to see it, she dreaded to behold the first blush of that clandestine encounter. To see them come together, perhaps rush into each other’s arms, their lips meeting in the kiss of mutual love – oh, agony unendurable!

As she surmised the scene before her fancy, for a moment her proud spirit shrank, quailed, and cowed within her, and her form of bold, noble development shook like a fragile reed.

Up the steep, with springy step, climbed the young Creole, lightly as a bird upon the wing, unconscious that she was observed, and, of all others, by the rival she had most reason to dread.

After completing the numerous windings of the path, she at length arrived within some twenty paces of the rock – where the road turned round to the rear. She knew the way; and, without pausing, kept on till she stood within the embouchure of the sloping ravine.

Up to this point the Jewess had marked her every movement, watching her along the way. Not without some surprise had she perceived her intention to climb the Jumbé Rock – which by the direction she had taken was now evident.

The surprise soon passed, however, with a quick reflection. The summit of the rock – that place already hallowed by a love scene – was the spot chosen for the meeting!

On discovering Kate’s determination to ascend the rock, which she had now divined by seeing her pass round to the rear, the Jewess stayed no longer upon the platform. That would have necessarily led to an encounter between the two. Not that Judith would have shunned it, however awkward, however contra-tiempo[569].

It was not from any feeling of delicacy that she determined on leaving the place; on the contrary, the action that followed betrayed a motive of a very opposite character.

Just where the ravine debouched upward on the platform, a lateral cleft opened to one side. Its bottom was but a few feet below the summit level; covered with a thick growth of evergreen bushes, whose tops, rising to an equal height with the table above, completely filled the hollow with their dense frondage.

The quick eye of Judith Jessuron at once detected the convenience of this covert. There concealed, she could see without being seen. From under the grim shadow of those dark evergreens, she could behold what was like enough to wring her heart: though she was now reckless of the result.

Watching her opportunity – when the eyes of the young Creole were turned downwards – she glided into the lateral ravine, and concealed herself behind the curtain of leaves. Cowering within the covert, she awaited the ascent of her rival.

Amidst the tumult of her emotions, there was no chance to reason calmly. Suspicion of Herbert’s perfidy – for it is not to be denied that the young man had shown her attentions, or, at all events, had passively permitted her to think so – suspicion of his faithlessness had now become certainty. There could be no mistake about the intended meeting between him and his cousin – at least, so Judith, blinded by her passions, believed.

There was Kate coming upon the ground, and Herbert – he would soon be after! Strange, he had not arrived first! But that had not much significance. He could not be far off; and, no doubt, would be there in good time – perhaps, overtake his sweetheart ere she could reach the summit of the rock?

Thus ran the reflections of the rival.

She listened for Herbert’s voice – expecting every moment to hear him hailing from below.

She cast listless glances down the ravine, in the belief she should presently see him following frantically upon the footsteps of his cousin, and chiding himself for not being foremost at the tryst.

Chapter 14

A Fell Purpose Defeated

Judith had as yet traced out no definite plan of action – trusting to circumstances to suggest what course she should pursue.

Only on one thing had she come to a determination – to permit both to pass up on the rock before showing herself.

She resolved, as long as possible, to restrain her instinct of revenge. She would see them meet – be witness of their mutual endearments – be sure of it; and then would be her time to launch forth into the full torrent of recrimination.

Something of this kind was the course she had shaped out for herself – still but vaguely, still dependent on chance.

The young Creole, little suspecting the proximity of her spiteful rival, ascended the ravine – close passing the spot where the latter was concealed. Altogether unconscious of being observed, she stepped lightly upon the platform; and, crossing over, stopped near the opposite edge – precisely upon the spot where she had stood during the eclipse, hallowed by such sweet remembrance.

Undoing the slight knot that had confined the kerchief under her chin, and holding it in both hands, so as to shade her eyes from the sun, she stood for some time gazing into the valley below – not the one where lay the mansion of her father, but that in which dwelt a relative still dearer. As before, her eyes were bent upon the penn – that sombre pile which, despite the dim shadows that surrounded it, seemed to her the brightest spot upon the earth. The sun in the sky above was nothing in brightness to the light that circled there – the light of Herbert’s love. What would she not have given to have lived in that light? What to have been that favourite who now basked in it?

“Would that I could see him once again,” she murmured, “before that hour when we must meet no more: for then even the thought would be a crime! If I could only see him once – only speak with him, I feel as if I should tell him all. Though he cannot love me, I am sure he would pity me. Even that, it seems to me, would soothe – it could not cure. Oh! why did he, upon this very spot – why those glances I can never forget? I can see them now – his eyes as they were then, gazing into mine, as if something passed between us – something that sank into the very depths of my soul. Oh! Herbert! why did you so regard me? But for that it might have passed. But now – never! Ah, Herbert! Herbert!”

In her anguish the young Creole pronounced the last words aloud.

Only the name was heard by Judith Jessuron; but they fell upon her ear with fearful effect, piercing through her heart like a poisoned arrow. If she had any doubts about the purpose of Kate’s presence, that word had decided them. The Creole had now declared it with her own tongue!

On the instant a thought, dread and dire, commenced taking shape in the heart of the jealous woman. She felt her bosom stirred to a purpose bold and black as hell itself.

That purpose was nothing less than the destruction of her rival – the death of Kate Vaughan!

The circumstances suggested the mode. The young Creole was standing upon the escarpment of the cliff – scarce three feet from its edge. A slight push from behind would project her into eternity!

Not much risk either in the committal of the crime. The bushes below would conceal her body – at least, for a length of time; and, when found, what would be the verdict? What could it be, but felo-de-se[570]?

The circumstances would give colour to this surmise. Even her own father might fancy it, as the consequence of his forcing her to be wedded against her will. Besides, had she not stolen surreptitiously from the house, taking advantage of an opportunity when no eye was upon her?

Other circumstances equally favoured the chances of safety. No one seemed to know that Kate had come up to the Jumbé Rock; and not a soul could be aware that she, Judith, was there: for she had neither passed nor met anyone by the way.

No eye was likely to be witness of the act. Even though the forms of the actors might be descried from the valley below, it would be at too great a distance for anyone to distinguish the character of the proceeding. Besides, it was one chance in a thousand if any eye should be accidentally turned towards the summit of the mountain. At that hour the black labourers in the fields were too busy with their task to be allowed the freedom of gazing idly upon the Jumbé Rock.

With a fearful rapidity coursed these thoughts through the mind of the intending murderess – each adding fresh strength to her horrible purpose, and causing it to culminate towards the point of execution.

Her jealousy had long since become a strong passion, to which she had freely abandoned her soul. Already was it yearning for revenge; and now that an opportunity seemed to offer for gratifying it, she could no longer restrain herself. The chance was too tempting – the demoniac desire became uncontrollable.

Casting a glance down the ravine to make sure that no one came that way, and another towards Kate to see that her face was still turned away, Judith stole softly out of the bushes and mounted upon the rock.

Silently, as treads the tigress approaching her prey, did she advance across the platform towards the spot where stood her intended victim, utterly unconscious of the dread danger that was so nigh.

Was there no voice to warn her?

There was – the voice of Smythje!

“Aw-haw, deaw Kate! that yaw up there on the wock! Aw, ba Jawve! what a pwecious chase aw’ve had aftaw yaw! There isn’t a bweath left in my body! Haw! haw!”

Judith heard the voice, and, like a cheated tigress, was about to retreat to her lair, when Kate, half facing about, compelled her to keep her ground. With the suddenness of a thought she had changed her terrific attitude, and, as the eyes of the Creole rested upon her, she was standing with her arms hanging negligently downward, in the position of one who had just stepped forward upon the spot.

Kate beheld her with surprise, not unmixed with alarm; for the wild look that still lingered in the eye of the disappointed and balked murderess could not escape observation.

Before either could say a word, the voice of Smythje was again heard speaking from below.

“Deaw queetyaw, I am coming! Aw shall pwesently be up,” continued he; his voice, constantly changing its direction, proclaiming that he continued to advance round the rock towards the ravine in the rear.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Vaughan,” said the Jewess, with a sweeping curtsey and a cynical glance towards Kate; “most emphatically I beg your pardon. The second time I have intruded upon you in this delightful place! I assure you my presence here is altogether an accident; and, to prove that I have no desire to interfere, I shall bid you a very good morning!”

So saying, the daughter of Jacob Jessuron turned towards the downward path, and had disappeared from the platform before Kate could command words to express either her astonishment or indignation.

“Ba Jaw-aw-ve!” gasped Smythje, breathless, on reaching the platform. “Had yaw company up heaw? Shawly aw saw some one gawing out fwom the wavine – a lady in a widing dwess!”

“Miss Jessuron has been here.”

“Aw, Miss Jessuwon – that veway wemarkable queetyaw! Gawing to be mawied to the – yaw cousin, ’tis repawted. Ba Jawve, she’ll make the young fellaw a fine wife, if she dawn’t want too much of haw awn way. Haw! haw! what do yaw think about it, deaw Kate?”

“I have no thoughts about it, Mr Smythje. Pray let us return home.”

Smythje might have noticed, though without comprehending it, the anguished tone in which these words were uttered.

“Aw, veway well. A’m weady to go back. But, deaw Kate, what a womp yaw are, to be shawr! Yaw thought to pway me a twick, like the young bwide in the ‘Misletaw Bough.’ Haw! haw! veway amusing! Nevaw mind! Yaw are not so unfawtunate as that fair queetyaw was. I saw yawr white scarf amid the gween twees, and that guided me to yaw seqwet hiding-place. Haw! haw!”

Little suspected Smythje how very near had been his affianced to a fate as unfortunate as that of the bride of Lovel[571] – as little as Kate that Smythje had been her preserver.

Chapter 15

Cynthia’s Report

Cynthia was not slow in responding to the summons of the Jew, who possessed an influence over her which, if not so powerful, was also less mysterious than that wielded by the myal-man, since it was the power of money. The mulatta liked money, as most people do, and for the same reason as most – because it afforded the means for indulging in dissipation, which with Cynthia was a habit.

Very easily did she find an opportunity for paying a visit to the penn – the more easily that her master was absent. But even had he been at home, she would have had but little difficulty in framing an excuse, or, rather, she would have gone without one.

In the days of which we write, slavery had assumed a very altered phase in the West Indies – more especially in the Island of Jamaica. The voices of Wilberforce and Clarkson had already reached the remotest corners of the Island, and the plantation negroes were beginning to hear the first mutterings of the emancipation. The slave trade was doomed; and it was expected that the doom of slavery itself would soon be declared.

The black bondsmen had become emboldened by the prospect; and there was no longer that abject submission to the wanton will of the master, and the whip of the driver, which had existed of yore. It was not uncommon for slaves to take “leave of absence” without asking it – often remaining absent for days; returning without fear of chastisement, and sometimes staying away altogether. Plantation revolts had become common, frequently ending in incendiarism and other scenes of the most sanguinary character; and more than one band of “runaways” had established themselves in the remote fastnesses of the mountains; where, in defiance of the authorities, and despite the preventive service – somewhat negligently performed by their prototypes, the Maroons – they preserved a rude independence, partly sustained by pilfering, and partly by freebooting of a bolder kind. These runaways were, in effect, playing a rôle, in complete imitation of what, at an earlier period, had been the métier of the original Maroons; while, as already stated, the Maroons themselves, employed upon the sage but infamous principle of “set a thief to catch a thief,” had now become the detective police of the Island.

Under such conditions of slavery, the bold Cynthia was not the woman to trouble herself about asking leave of absence, nor to be deterred by any slight circumstance from taking it; therefore, at an early hour of the day, almost on the heels of Blue Dick, the messenger, she made her appearance at the penn.

Her conference with Jessuron, though it threw no light either on the whereabouts of the missing book-keeper, or on the cause of his absence, was not without interest to the Jew, since it revealed facts that gave him some comfort.

He had already learnt from Blue Dick that the Custos had started on his journey, and from Cynthia he now ascertained the additional fact, that before starting he had taken the spell. It had been administered in his stirrup-cup of “swizzle.”

This intelligence was the more gratifying, in view of the apprehensions which the Jew was beginning to feel in regard to his Spanish employés. If the spell should do its work as quickly as Chakra had said, these worthies would be anticipated in the performance of their dangerous duty.

Another important fact was communicated by Cynthia. She had seen Chakra that morning – just after her master had taken his departure. There had been an arrangement between her and the myal-man to meet at their usual trysting-place – contingent on the setting out of the Custos. As this contingency had transpired, of course the meeting had taken place – its object being that Cynthia might inform Chakra of such events as might occur previous to the departure.

Cynthia did not know for certain that Chakra had followed the Custos. The myal-man had not told her of his intention to do so. But she fully believed he had. Something he had let fall during their conference guided her to this belief. Besides, on leaving her, Chakra, instead of returning towards his haunt in the Duppy’s Hole, had gone off along the road in the direction of Savanna.

This was the substance of Cynthia’s report; and having been well rewarded for the communication, the mulatta returned to Mount Welcome.

Notwithstanding the gratification which her news afforded, it was far from tranquillising the spirit of Jacob Jessuron.

The absence of Herbert Vaughan still continued – still unexplained; and as the hours passed and night drew near, without any signs of his return, Jessuron – and it may be said Judith as well – became more and more uneasy about his disappearance.

Judith was puzzled as well as pained. Her suspicion that Herbert had had an appointment with his cousin Kate had been somewhat shaken, by what she had seen – as well as what she had not seen: for on leaving the Jumbé Rock she had not ridden directly home. Instead of doing so, she had lingered for a length of time around the summit of the mountain, expecting Herbert to show himself. As she had neither encountered him, nor any traces of him, she was only too happy to conclude that her surmises about the meeting were, after all, but fancy; and that no assignation had been intended. Kate’s coming up to the Jumbé Rock was a little queer; but then Smythje had followed her, and Judith had not heard that part of the conversation which told that his being there was only an accident – the accident of having discovered the retreat to which the young Creole had betaken herself.

These considerations had the effect of soothing the jealous spirit of the Jewess; but only to a very slight extent: for Herbert’s absence was ominous – the more so, thought Judith, as she remembered a conversation that had lately passed between them.

Nor did she feel any repentance for the dark deed she had designed, and would certainly have executed, but for the well-timed appearance of Smythje upon the scene. The words which had fallen from the lips of Kate Vaughan had been a sufficient clue to her reflections; and though he whose name she had mentioned was not present in person, the Jewess did not doubt that he, and only he, was the subject of that soliloquy.

There might have been remorse for the deed, had it been accomplished; but there was no repentance for the design. Jealousy, bitter as ever in the breast of Judith, forbade this.

Judith’s return did not make the matter any clearer to Jessuron. She had no story to tell, except that which she deemed it more prudent to keep to herself. Her not having encountered Herbert during her ride, only rendered his absence more difficult of explanation.

Chapter 16

A Day of Conjectures

Towards sunset a fresh inspection was made of the tracks, Jessuron going in person to examine them. The skilled herdsman was again questioned; and on this occasion a fresh fact was elicited; or rather a conjecture, which the man had not made before, since he had not noticed the circumstance on which he rested it.

It was some peculiarity in the sole of the shoe that had made the strange track, and which guided the herdsman to guess who was the owner. In scouring the forest paths in search of his cattle, he had observed that footmark before, or one very like it.

“If’t be de same, massa,” remarked he, in reply to the cross-questioning of the Jew, “den I knows who owns dat fut. It longs to that ere cappen of Maroons.”

“Cubina?”

“Ah – that’s jest the berry man.”

The Jew listened to this conjecture with marked inquietude; which was increased as another circumstance was brought to his knowledge: that Quaco the Maroon – who had been arrested along with Herbert on the day of his first appearance at the penn – had been lately seen in communication with the latter, and apparently in a clandestine manner. Blue Dick was the authority for this piece of incidental intelligence.

The penn-keeper’s suspicions had pointed to Cubina at an earlier hour of the day. These circumstances strengthened them.

It needed but another link to complete the chain of evidence, and this was found in the tobacco-pipe left in the hammock: a rather unique implement, with an iron bowl, and a stem made out of the shankbone of an ibis.

On being shown the pipe, the herdsman recognised it on sight. It was the “cutty” of Captain Cubina. More than once had he met the Maroon with the identical instrument between his teeth.

Jessuron doubted no longer that Cubina had been the abductor of his book-keeper. Nor Judith, either: for the Jewess had taken part in the analytical process that guided to this conclusion.

Judith was rather gratified at the result. She was glad it was no worse. Perhaps, after all, the young Englishman had only gone on a visit to the Maroon, with whom she knew him to be acquainted: for Judith had been informed of all the circumstances connected with their first encounter. What was more natural than a sort of attachment between them, resulting from such an odd introduction? Curiosity may have induced Herbert to accompany the Maroon to his mountain home; and this was sufficient to explain his absence.

True, there were circumstances not so easily explained. The presence of the Maroon at the penn – his track twice to and fro – the hurried departure of Herbert, without any previous notice either to herself or to her father – all these circumstances were suspicious; and the spirit of the jealous Judith, though partially tranquillised by a knowledge of the new facts that had come to light, was, nevertheless, not quite relieved from its perplexity.

The same knowledge had produced an effect on the spirit of her worthy parent altogether different. So far from being gratified by the idea that his book-keeper was in the company of the Maroon captain, he was exceedingly annoyed by it. He at once remembered how pointedly Herbert had put certain questions to him, in relation to the fate of the flogged runaway – the prince. He remembered, also, his own evasive answers; and he now foresaw, that in the case of the questioner being in the company of Cubina, the latter would give him a very different account of the transaction – in fact, such a statement as could not fail to bring about the most crooked consequences.

Once in possession of those damning facts, the young Englishman – of whose good moral principles the old Jew had become cognisant – would be less likely to relish him, Jessuron, for a father-in-law. Such an awkward affair coming to his knowledge might have the effect, not only to alienate his much-coveted friendship – his equally-solicited love – but to drive him altogether from a house, whose hospitality he might deem suspicious.

Was it possible that this very result had already arisen? Was the whole scheme of the penn-keeper to prove a failure? Had murder – the blackest of all crimes – been committed in vain?

There was but little doubt left on the mind of Jacob Jessuron that the deed was now done. Whether by the poison of Chakra, or the steel of the caçadores, so far as the Custos himself was concerned, that part of the programme would, by this time, be complete; or so near its completion, that no act of the instigator could stay its execution.

How, when, and where was it done? And had it been done in vain?

During the early part of that same night – and on through the midnight hours – thus interrogatively reflected the Jew.

He slept not; or only in short spells of unquiet slumber, taken in his chair – as on the night before, in the open verandah. It was care, not conscience, that kept him awake – apprehension of the future, rather than remorse for the past.

After midnight, and near morning, a thought became uncontrollable – a desire to be satisfied, if not about the last of these interrogatories, at least in relation to the former.

In all likelihood Chakra would, by that time, have returned? – would be found in his lair in the Duppy’s Hole?

Why he had followed the Custos, Jessuron could not tell. He could only guess at the motive. Perhaps he, Chakra, was in fear that his spell might not be sufficient; and, failing, he might find an opportunity to strengthen it? Or, was it that he wished to be witness to the final scene? to exult over his hated enemy in the last hour of life?

Knowing, as the Jew did, the circumstances that had long existed between the two men – their mutual malice – Chakra’s deadly purposes of vengeance – this conjecture was far from improbable.

It was the true one; though he also gave thought to another – that perhaps the myal-man had followed his victim for the purpose of tendering him.

To ascertain that he had succeeded in the preliminary step – that of murdering him – the Jew forsook his chair couch; and, having habited himself for a nocturnal excursion, proceeded in the direction of the Duppy’s Hole.

Chapter 17

The Sick Traveller

After passing beyond the precincts of his own plantation, and traversing for some distance a by-road known as the Carrion Crow, Mr Vaughan at length reached the main highway, which runs between Montego Bay on the north and Savanna-la-Mer on the southern side of the Island.

Here, facing southward, he continued his route – Savanna-la-Mer being the place where he intended to terminate his journey on horseback. Thence he could proceed by sea to the harbour of Kingston, or the Old Harbour, or some other of the ports having easy communication with the capital.

The more common route of travel from the neighbourhood of Montego Bay to Spanish Town, when it is desired to make the journey by land, is by the northern road to Falmouth Harbour, and thence by Saint Ann’s, and across the Island. The southern road is also travelled at times, without the necessity of going to the port of Savanna, by Lacovia, and the parish of Saint Elizabeth. But Mr Vaughan preferred the easier mode of transit – on board ship; and knowing that coasting vessels were at all times trading from Savanna to the ports on the southern side, he anticipated no difficulty in obtaining a passage to Kingston. This was one reason why he directed his course to the seaport of Savanna.

He had another motive for visiting this place, and one that influenced him to an equal or greater extent. Savanna-la-Mer, as already stated, was the assize town[572] of the western district of the Island – otherwise the county of Cornwall – including under its jurisdiction the five great parishes of Saint James, Hanover, Westmoreland, Trelawney, and Saint Elizabeth, and consequently the town of Montego Bay. Thus constituted, Savanna was the seat of justice, where all plaints of importance must be preferred. The process which Mr Vaughan was about to institute against the Jew was one for the consideration of a full court of assize. A surreptitious seizure of twenty-four slaves was no small matter; and the charge would amount to something more than that of mere malversation.

Loftus Vaughan had not yet decided on the exact terms in which the accusation was to be made; but the assize town being not only the seat of justice, but the head-quarters of the legal knowledge of the county, he anticipated finding there the counsel he required.

This, then, was his chief reason for travelling to Spanish Town via Savanna-la-Mer.

For such a short distance – a journey that might be done in a day – a single attendant sufficed. Had he designed taking the land route to the capital, then it would have been different. Following the fashion of the Island, a troop of horses, with a numerous escort of servants, would have accompanied the great Custos.

The day turned out to be one of the hottest, especially after the hour of noon; and the concentrated rays of the sun, glaring down upon the white chalky road, over which the traveller was compelled to pass, rendered the journey not only disagreeable, but irksome.

Added to this, the Custos, not very well on leaving home, had been getting worse every hour. Notwithstanding the heat, he was twice attacked by a severe chill – each time succeeded by its opposite extreme of burning fever, accompanied by thirst that knew no quenching. These attacks had also for their concomitants bitter nausea, vomiting, and a tendency towards cramp, or tetanus.

Long before night, the traveller would have stopped – had he found a hospitable roof to shelter him. In the early part of the day he had passed through the more settled districts of the country, where plantations were numerous; but then, not being so ill, he had declined making halt – having called only at one or two places to obtain drink, and replenish the water canteen carried by his attendant.

It was only late in the afternoon that the symptoms of his disease became specially alarming; and then he was passing through an uninhabited portion of the country – a wild corner of Westmoreland parish, where not a house was to be met with for miles alone: the highway.

Beyond this tract, and a few miles further on the road, he would reach the grand sugar estate of Content. There he might anticipate a distinguished reception; since the proprietor of the plantation, besides being noted for his profuse hospitality, was his own personal friend.

It had been the design of the traveller, before starting out, to make Content the halfway house of his journey, by stopping there for the night. Still desirous of carrying out this design, he pushed on, notwithstanding the extreme debility that had seized upon his frame, and which rendered riding upon horseback an exceedingly painful operation. So painful did it become, that every now and then he was compelled to bring his horse to a halt, and remain at rest, till his nerves acquired strength for a fresh spell of exertion.

Thus delayed, it was sunset when he came in sight of Content. He did get sight of it from a hill, on the top of which he had arrived just as the sun was sinking into the Caribbean Sea, over the far headland of Point Negriee. In a broad valley below, filled with the purple haze of twilight, he could see the planter’s dwelling, surrounded by its extensive sugar-works, and picturesque rows of negro cabins, so near that he could distinguish the din of industry and the hum of cheerful voices, borne upward on the buoyant air; and could see the forms of men and women, clad in their light-coloured costumes, flitting in mazy movement about the precincts of the place.

The Custos gazed upon the sight with dizzy glance. The sounds fell confusedly on his ear. As the shipwrecked sailor who sees land without the hope of ever reaching it, so looked Loftus Vaughan upon the valley of Content. For any chance of his reaching it that night, without being carried thither, there was none: no more than if it had been a hundred miles distant – at the extreme end of the Island. He could ride no further. He could no longer keep the saddle; and, slipping out of it, he tottered into the arms of his attendant!

Close by the road-side, and half hidden by the trees, appeared a hut – surrounded by a kind of rude inclosure, that had once been the garden or “provision ground” of a negro. Both hut and garden were ruinate – the former deserted, the latter overgrown with that luxuriant vegetation which, in tropic soil, a single season suffices to bring forth.

Into this hovel the Custos was conducted; or rather carried: for he was now unable even to walk.

A sort of platform, or banquette, of bamboos – the usual couch of the negro cabin – stood in one corner: a fixture seldom or never removed on the abandonment of such a dwelling. Upon this the Custos was laid, with a horse-blanket spread beneath, and his camlet cloak thrown over him.

More drink was administered; and then the attendant, by command of the invalid himself, mounted one of the horses, and galloped off to Content.

Loftus Vaughan was alone!

Chapter 18

A Hideous Intruder

Loftus Vaughan was not long alone, though the company that came first to intrude on the solitude that surrounded him was such as no man, either living or dying, would desire to see by his bedside.

The black groom had galloped off for help; and ere the sound of his horse’s hoofs had ceased to reverberate through the unclayed chinks of the cabin, the shadow of a human form, projected through the open doorway, was flung darkly upon the floor.

The sick man, stretched upon the cane couch, was suffering extreme pain, and giving way to it by incessant groaning. Nevertheless, he saw the shadow as it fell upon the floor; and this, with the sudden darkening of the door, admonished him that someone was outside, and about to enter.

It might be supposed that the presence of any living being would at that moment have pleased him – as a relief to that lugubrious loneliness that surrounded him; and perhaps the presence of a living being would have produced that effect. But in that shadow which had fallen across the floor, the sick man saw, or fancied he saw, the form of one who should have been long since dead – the form of Chakra the myal-man!

The shadow was defined and distinct. The hut faced westward. There were no trees before the door – nothing to intercept the rays of the now sinking sun, that covered the ground with a reddish glare – nothing save that sinister silhouette which certainly seemed to betray the presence of Chakra. Only the upper half of a body was seen – a head, shoulders, and arms. In the shadow, the head was of gigantic size – the mouth open, displaying a serrature of formidable teeth – the shoulders, surmounted by the hideous hump – the arms long and ape-like! Beyond doubt was it either the shadow of Chakra, or a duplication of his ghost – of late so often seen!

The sick man was too terrified to speak – too horrified to think. It scarce added to his agony when, instead of his shadow, the myal-man himself, in his own proper and hideous aspect, appeared within the doorway, and without pause stepped forward upon the floor!

Loftus Vaughan could no longer doubt the identity of the man who had made this ill-timed intrusion. Dizzy though his sight was, from a disordered brain, and dim as it had been rapidly becoming, it was yet clear enough to enable him to see that the form which stood before him was no phantasy – no spirit of the other world, but one of this – one as wicked as could well be found amid the phalanx of the fiends of darkness.

He had no longer either fancy or fear about Chakra’s ghost. It was Chakra’s self he saw – an apparition far more to be dreaded.

The scream that escaped from the lips of Loftus Vaughan announced the climax of his horror. On uttering it, he made an effort to rise to his feet, as if with the intention of escaping from the hut; but finally overpowered by his own feebleness, and partly yielding to a gesture of menace made by the myal-man – and which told him that his retreat was intercepted – he sank back upon the banquette[573] in a paralysis of despair.

“Ha!” shouted Chakra, as he placed himself between the dying man and the door. “No use fo’ try ’scape! no use wha’somdever! Ef ye wa able get ’way from hya, you no go fur. ’Fore you walk hunder yard you fall down, in you track, like new-drop calf. No use, you ole fool. Whugh!”

Another shriek was the only reply which the enfeebled man could make.

“Ha! ha! ha!” vociferated Chakra, showing his shark-like teeth in a fiendish laugh. “Ha! ha! ha! Skreek away, Cussus Va’ghan! Skreek till you bust you windpipe. Chakra tell you it no use. De death ’pell am ’pon you – it am in you – an’ jess when dat ar sun hab cease shine upon de floor, you go join you two brodder jussuses in de oder world, wha’ you no fine buckra no better dan brack man. Dey gone afore. Boaf go by de death ’pell. Chakra send you jess de same; only he you keep fo’ de lass, ’kase you de grann Cussus, an’ he keep him bess victim fo’ de lass. De Debbil him better like dat way.”

“Mercy, mercy!” shrieked the dying man. “Ha! ha! ha!” scornfully answered Chakra.

“Wha’ fo’ you cry ‘mercy?’ D’you gib mercy to de ole myal-man, when you ’im chain up dar to de cabbage-tree? You show no mercy den – Chakra show none now. You got die!”

“Oh! Chakra! good Chakra!” cried the Custos, raising himself upon the couch, and extending his arms in a passionate appeal. “Save me! save my life! and I will give you whatever you wish – your freedom – money – ”

“Ha!” interrupted Chakra, in a tone of triumphant exultation. “Gib me freedom, would you? You gib me dat arready. You money dis hya nigga doan’ care ’bout – not de shell ob a cocoa. He hab plenty money; he get wha’ he want fo’ de lub spell and de death ’pell. Whugh! De only ting you hab dat he care ’bout, you no can gib. Chakra take dat ’ithout you gibbin.”

“What?” mechanically asked the dying man, fixing his eyes upon the face of Chakra with a look of dread import.

“Lilly Quasheba!” cried the monster, in a loud voice, and leering horridly as he pronounced the name. “Lilly Quasheba!” he repeated, as if doubly to enjoy the fearful effect which his words were producing. “De dawter ob de quaderoom! Da’s only fair, Cussus,” continued he, in a mocking tone. “You had de modder yourseff – dat is, affer de Maroon! You know dat! It am only turn an’ turn ’bout. Now you go die, Chakra he come in fo’ de dawter. Ha! ha! ha!

“Whugh!” he exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone, and bending down over the form of the Custos, now prostrate upon the couch. “Whugh! I b’lieve de buckra gone dead!”

He was dead. On hearing the name “Lilly Quasheba,” accompanied by such a fearful threat, a wild cry had escaped from his lips. It was the last utterance of his life. On giving tongue to it, he had fallen back upon the bamboo bedstead, mechanically drawing the cloak over his face, as if to shut out some horrid sight; and while the myal-man, gloating over him, was endeavouring to procrastinate his pangs, the poison had completed its purpose.

Chakra, extending one of his long arms, raised the fold from off his face; and holding it up, gazed for a moment upon the features of his hated foe, now rigid, blanched, and bloodless.

Then, as if himself becoming frightened at the form and presence of death, the savage miscreant dropped the cover quickly to its place; rose from his stooping position; and stole stealthily from the hut.

Chapter 19

Two Speculative Travellers

The sun was sinking out of sight into the bosom of the blue Caribbean, and the twilight, long since extended over the valley below, was now spreading its purple robe around the summit of the hill, on which stood the hut. The shadows cast by the huge forest trees were being exchanged for the more sombre shadows of the coming night; and the outlines of the hovel – now a house of death – were gradually becoming obliterated in the crepusculous obscurity.

Inside that deserted dwelling, tenanted only by the dead, reigned stillness, solemn and profound – the silence of death itself.

Outside, were sounds such as suited the solemnity of the scene: the mournful loo-who-ah of the eared owl, who had already commenced quartering the aisles of the forest; while from the heaven above came the wild wail of the potoo, as the bird went across the fast-darkening sky, in search of its insect prey.

To these lugubrious utterances there was one solitary exception. More cheerful was the champing of the steel bit – proceeding from the horse that had been left tied to the tree – and the quick, impatient stroke of his hoof, as the animal fretted under the stings of the musquitoes, becoming more bitter as the darkness descended.

The body of Loftus Vaughan lay upon the bamboo bedstead, just as Chakra had left it. No hand had been there to smooth that rude pillow – no friendly finger to close those eyes that were open, and saw not – those orbs glassed and coldly glaring from their sunken sockets!

As yet the attendant had not returned with that succour which would come too late.

Nor was it possible for him to get back in much less than an hour. Content, though in actual distance scarcely a mile from the hut, was full five in point of time. The slope of the mountain road was at an angle with the horizon of at least fifty degrees. There could be no rapid riding on that road – neither up nor down, upon the most urgent errand; and the black groom was not going to risk life by a broken neck, even to save the life of a Custos.

It would be a full hour, then, before the man would return. As yet only twenty minutes had passed, and forty more were to come.

But it was not fated that even for those forty minutes the body of the Custos Vaughan should be permitted to rest in peace.

Twenty minutes had scarcely elapsed after Chakra had stolen away from the side of the corpse, when there came others to disturb it, and with a rude violence almost sufficient to arouse it from the slumber of death!

Had Chakra, on leaving the hut, only taken the main road back to Montego Bay – and that was the direction in which he intended going – he would have met two strange men. Not so strange but that they were known to him; but strange enough to arrest the attention of an ordinary traveller.

But among the proclivities of the myal-man, that of travelling along main roads was one in which he did not indulge, except under the most unavoidable circumstances.

Following his usual practice, as soon as he had cleared the precincts of the negro cabin, he struck off into a by-path leading through the bushes; and by so doing lost the opportunity of an encounter with two individuals, who, although of a different nationality, were as great villains as himself.

The brace of worthies thus described are already known. They were the man-hunters of Jacob Jessuron, Manuel and Andres – caçadores de cimmarones[574] from the Island of Cuba.

With the object for which they were journeying along the Savanna road the reader is equally au fait. Jessuron’s talk with them, on starting them off, has plainly proclaimed the vile intent of his two truculent tools.

All day long had these human bloodhounds been following upon the track of the Custos – now nearer to him – now further off – according to the halts which the traveller had made, and the relative speed of horseman and pedestrian.

More than once had they sighted their intended victim afar off on the white dusty road. But the presence of the stout negro attendant, as well as the broad open daylight, had deterred them from proceeding in their nefarious purpose; and they had postponed its execution till that time which gives opportunity to the assassin – the going down of the sun.

This hour had at length arrived; and just as the real murderer was hastening away from the hut, the intending assassins were hurrying towards it, with all the speed in their power!

“Carrambo!” exclaimed he who was the older, and in consequence the leader of the two, “I shouldn’t be surprised, Andres, if the ingeniero[575] was to slip out of our clutches to-night! Not far beyond lies Content, and the owner of that ingenio[576] is a friend of his. You remember Señor Jacob said he would be like to put up there for the night?”

“Yes,” replied Andres, “the old Judio was particular about that.”

“Well, if he gets there before we can overhaul him, there’ll be nothing done to-night. We must take our chance on the road between that and Savanna.”

“Carajo!” responded Andres, with somewhat spiteful emphasis; “if it wasn’t for them ugly pistols he carries, and that big buck nigger by his side, we might have stopped his breath before this. Supposing he gets to Savanna before we can have a talk with him? what then, compadre[577]?”

“Then,” answered he thus godfatherly addressed, “then our lines won’t lie in pleasant places. Savanna’s a big city; and it isn’t so easy to murder a man in the street of a town as among these trees. People prowling about have tongues, where the trees haven’t; and fifty pounds, Jamaica money, a’nt much for killing a man – more especially a Custos, as they call him. Carajo! we must take care, or we may get our necks twisted for this simple trick! These Custoses are like our alcaldes[578] – kill one, and a dozen others will spring up to prosecute you.”

“But what,” inquired Andres, who, although the younger of the two, appeared to be gifted with a greater degree of prudence than his companion – “what if we don’t find a chance – even in Savanna?”

“Then,” replied the other, “we stand a good chance of losing our fifty pounds – shabby currency as it is.”

“How that, Manuel?”

“How that? Why, because the ingeniero, once in Savanna, will take ship and travel by sea. The dueño[579] said so. If he do that, we may bid adieu to him; for I wouldn’t make another sea-voyage for five times fifty pounds. That we had from Batabano was enough to last me for my life. Carajo! I thought it was the vomito prieto[580] that had seized upon me. But for the fear of another such puking spell I’d have gone home with the rest, instead of staying in this nest of Jews and nigger-drivers; and how I’m ever to get back to Batabano, let alone making a voyage for the purpose of – ”

The Cubano refrained from finishing his speech – not from any delicacy he had about declaring the purpose, but because he knew that the declaration would be supererogatory to an associate who already comprehended it.

“In that case,” counselled the more sagacious Andres, “we must finish our business before Savanna comes in sight. Perhaps, compadre, by pushing on rapidly now, we may overtake the party before they get anchored in Content?”

“You’re right, hombre[581]; you’re right about that. Let us, as you say, push on; and, if it suits you as it does me, let our motto be, ‘Noche o nunca’ (this night or never)!”

“Vamos!” rejoined Andres; and the assassins increased their speed, as if stimulated by the fear of losing their prey.

Chapter 20

No Blood

The sun had already hidden his red disc under the sea horizon, when the man-hunters mounted the hill, and approached the hut where Custos Vaughan had been compelled to make halt, and in which he was now lying lifeless.

“Mira[582], Manuel!” said Andres, as they came within sight of the hovel, and at the same instant saw the horse standing tied to the tree; “un cavallo[583]! saddled, bridled, and with alforjas[584]!”

“A traveller’s horse!” rejoined Manuel, “and that very traveller we’ve been tracking. Yes! it’s the horse of the great alcalde of Mount Welcome! Don’t you remember, when we saw them before us at mid-day, that one of the horses was a bay, and the other a grey? There’s the grey, and it was on that very animal the Custos was riding.”

“Quite true, compadre; but where’s the other?”

“Maybe among the trees, or tied round the other side of the hut. The riders must be inside.”

“Both, do you think, Manuel?”

“Of course, both; though where Blackskin’s horse can be is more than I can say. Carrambo! what’s halted them here? There’s nobody lives in the ranche. I know that: I came this way about a week ago and it had no tenant then. Besides, the ingenio where he was to put up for the night is just below. What, in the name of Saint Mary, has stopped them here?”

“Por Dios, compadre!” said the younger of the two caçadores, looking significantly at the saddlebags still hanging over the cantle of the Custos’s saddle. “There ought to be something valuable in those alforjas?”

“Caval! you’re right; but we mustn’t think of that just yet, camarado! After the other’s done, then we shall have the opportunity – I wonder whether they’re both inside? It’s very odd we don’t see the negro’s horse!”

“Ha!” rejoined Andres, apparently struck with an idea. “What if he’s gone on to the plantation for some purpose? Suppose an accident has happened to the Custos’s steed, or, carrai! suppose he’s himself taken sick? You remember the man we met, who told us about them ugly pistols – he said that one of the travellers – the white man – looked sick. Didn’t the fellow say he saw him puking?”

“Por Dios! he did. As you say, there may be something in it. If Blackskin’s out of the way, now’s our time; for there is more to be feared from that big buck nigger than his master, when it comes to a struggle. If it should prove that the Custos is sick – I hope it is so – he won’t be in a condition to make much use of his weapons; and carrambo! we must get hold of them before he knows what we’re after!”

“Hadn’t we better go round first?” counselled the sagacious Andres. “Let us explore the back of the hut, and see whether the other horse is there. If he’s not, then certainly the negro’s gone off on some errand! We can steal through the bushes to the other side, and get right up to the walls without any danger of being seen!”

“That’s our plan, camarado. Let’s lose no time, then, for, if it be so that Blackskin’s abroad, we’re in luck. We mayn’t find such another chance – not between here and the world’s end. Follow me, hombre! and set down your feet as if you were stepping upon eggs with young birds in them. Vamos!”

So saying, the chief of the two caçadores skulked in among the trees, closely followed by his companion.

After making a circuit through the underwood, the assassins stole silently in towards the back of the hovel.

They saw no other horse – only the grey, which stood tied to the tree in front. The bay was gone, and in all probability his rider. Andres already congratulated himself upon his conjecture being correct: the negro had ridden off upon some errand.

This was put beyond all doubt by their perceiving the fresh tracks of a horse, leading away from the hut along the road towards Content. The hoof-prints were so plain as to be visible at some distance. The turf on the road-edge was torn up, and deeply indented – where the negro groom had urged his horse into a gallop.

The assassins saw this, even without returning to the road; and were now satisfied that the attendant was gone away. It only remained to make sure that the traveller himself was inside the hut.

Creeping cautiously up to the wall, the caçadores peeped through the unclayed chinks of the cabin.

At first the darkness inside hindered them from distinguishing any object in particular. Presently, as their eyes grew more accustomed to the obscurity, they succeeded in making out the bamboo bedstead in the corner, with something that resembled the figure of a man stretched lengthwise upon it. A dark cloak covered the form, the face as well; but the feet, booted and spurred, protruding from under the cover, told that it was a man who was lying in that outstretched attitude – the man who was to be murdered!

He appeared to be sound asleep: there was no motion perceptible – not even as much as would indicate that he breathed!

Lying on the floor, at some distance from the couch, was a hat, and beside it a pair of pistols, in their holsters – as if the traveller had unbuckled them from his belt, and flung them down, before going to sleep. Even if awake he could scarce get hold of the pistols, before his assailants could spring upon him.

The assassins looked towards one another with a significant glance. The fates appeared to favour their attempt; and, as both on the instant were actuated by the same sanguinary instinct, they leaped simultaneously to their feet, drew their sharp machetes, and rushed together through the doorway.

“Mátelo! mátelo!” (kill him!) cried both, in the same voice, each with a view of encouraging the other; and, as they uttered the cruel cry, they buried the blades in the body of the unresisting traveller – stabbing it repeatedly through the cloak.

Convinced that they had finished their bloody work, the murderers were about to rush out again – probably with an eye to the saddlebags outside, when it occurred to them as strange that the victim of their hired villainy should have kept so quiet. In their frenzied excitement – while dealing what they supposed to be his death-blows – they had not stopped to notice anything odd in the behaviour of the man whom they were murdering. Now that the deed was done, and they could reflect more coolly, a sudden surprise seized upon them – springing from the circumstance that the wretched man had made not the slightest motion – had neither stirred nor cried out! Perhaps the first stab had gone right through his heart: for it was so intended by Andres, who had given it. But even that does not produce instantaneous death, and the man-hunters knew it. Besides, on the blade of Andres’ macheté, as well as that of his comrade, there was no blood!

It was very strange. Could the cloak or under-garments have wiped it off? Partially they might, but not altogether! Their blades were wet, but not with blood – of that they showed scarce a stain!

“It’s a queer thing, comrade,” exclaimed Manuel. “I could almost fancy – Vaya! Lift the cloak, and let’s have a look at him.”

The other, stepping closer to the couch, stooped forward, and raised the fold of the camlet from the face of the murdered man.

As he did so, his hand came in contact with the cold skin, while his glance fell upon the stiffened features of a corpse – upon eyes whose dull, blank film showed that the light had long since forsaken them!

The assassin stayed not for a second look. With a cry of terror he let go the garment; and rushed towards the door, followed by his equally terrified companion.

In another moment both would have escaped outside; and perhaps have taken the back track, without thinking any more about the saddlebags; but just as Andres had set foot upon the door-sill, he saw before him something that caused him to pull up, and with a precipitancy that brought his comrade with a violent concussion against his back.

The something which had led to this sudden interruption was the presence of three men, standing in a triangular row, scarce five paces from the door. Each was holding a gun, in such position, that its dark, hollow tube was visible to the eyes of the assassin – pointing directly upon himself.

The three men were of three distinct colours – white, yellow, and black; all three known to the man-hunter and his companion. They were Herbert Vaughan, Cubina, captain of Maroons, and Quaco, his lieutenant.

Chapter 21

The Capture of the Caçadores

The black, though presumably the lowest in rank, was the first to break speech.

“No, ye don’t!” cried he, moving his musket up and down, while still keeping it levelled upon the foremost of the caçadores. “No, Mister Jack Spaniard, not a foot d’you set outside that door till we see what you’ve been a-doin’ ’ithin there. Steady, now, or thar’s an ounce of lead into yer garlicky inside! Steady!”

“Surrender!” commanded Cubina, in a firm, authoritative voice, and with a threatening gesture, which, though less demonstrative than that of his lieutenant, was equally indicative of determination. “Drop your machetes, and yield at once! Resistance will only cost you your lives.”

“Come, my Spanish worthies,” said Herbert, “you know me! I advise you to do as you’re bid. If there’s nothing against you, I promise no harm – Ha! ’ware heels!” he continued, in sharp haste, observing that the Spaniards were looking over their shoulders, as if intending to escape by the back of the hut. “Don’t attempt to run away. You’ll be caught, no matter how fast you go. I’ve got two barrels here; and each is good for a bird on the wing. Show your backs, and they’ll be preciously peppered, I promise you.”

“Carajo!” hissed out the older of the caçadores. “What do you want with us?”

“Ay!” added the other, in a tone of innocent reproach; “what have we been doing to make all this fanfaron[585] about?”

“What have you been doing?” rejoined the Maroon captain: “that’s just what we desire to know, and are determined upon knowing.”

“There is nothing to be known,” answered the man, speaking with an air of assumed simplicity; “at the least, nothing that’s very particular. We were on our way to Savanna – me and my comrade here – ”

“Stach yer palaver!” cried Quaco, becoming impatient, and pushing the muzzle of his musket within an inch of the Spaniard’s ribs. “Did ye hear the cappen tell ye to drop yer toastin’ forks and surrender? Down with ’em this minnit, I say, an’ do yer jaw-waggin’ atterwards!”

Thus threatened, either with a poke in the ribs, or, perhaps, a bullet between them, Andres sulkily let fall his machete upon the floor – an action that was instantly imitated by his senior and superior.

“Now, my braves!” proceeded the black lieutenant, still holding his huge gun to the Spaniard’s breast; “lest ye mout be wantin’ to gie us leg-bail, you muss submit to be trussed a trifle. Down upon yer behinds, both o’ ye; and keep that way till I get the cords and skewers ready.”

The caçadores perfectly understood the order; and, perceiving that there was no chance for disobedience, squatted down upon the floor – each on the spot where he had been standing.

Quaco now picked up the two machetes, placing them beyond the reach of their ci-devant owners. Then, handing his great gun over to the care of Cubina – who with Herbert was left to guard the prisoners – he walked off to a short distance among the trees.

Presently he returned, trailing after him a long creeping plant that resembled a piece of cord, and carrying two short sticks, each about three feet in length.

All this was accomplished with as much celerity, and in as brief a space of time, as if he had simply taken the articles from an adjacent store-room.

Meanwhile, Cubina and Herbert had kept their guns still pointed upon the two caçadores: for it was evident that the villains were most eager to get off; and as it was now nearly night, had the least chance been allowed them, they might have succeeded in escaping through the darkness.

Their captors were determined they should have no chance: for although neither Herbert nor Cubina could see into the obscure interior of the cabin, and were as yet ignorant of the fearful spectacle that there awaited them, they had reason to suspect that the Spaniards had either intended some dark deed, or had already committed it. They had learnt something along the road of the progress of the caçadores, and their mode of journeying, which, to more than one whom they met, had appeared mysterious.

The horse standing tied to the tree – caparisoned as he was for travel – that was the most suspicious circumstance of all. Though none of the three pursuers recognised the animal as belonging to Custos Vaughan, as soon as they set eyes upon it they had felt a presentiment that they had arrived too late.

The wild haste with which the Spaniards were rushing from the cabin when intercepted at the door, almost confirmed their unpleasant foreboding; and before any of the three had entered the hut, they were half prepared to find that it contained a corpse – perhaps more than one, for the disappearance of Pluto was not yet explained.

Quaco, habile in handling cordage of all kinds, more especially the many sorts of supple withes with which the trees of a Jamaica forest are laced together, soon tied the two Spaniards wrist to wrist, and ankle to ankle, as tightly as could have been done by the most accomplished gaoler. A long practice in binding runaway blacks had made Quaco an expert in that department, which, indeed, constitutes part of the professional training of a Maroon.

The captors had already entered within the cabin, now dark as death itself. For some moments they stood upon the floor, their eyes endeavouring to read the gloom around them. Silent they stood – so still, that they could hear their own breathing, with that of the two prisoners upon the floor. At length, in the corner, they could dimly make out something like the form of a man lying stretched upon a low bedstead.

Quaco, though not without some trepidation, approached it. Stooping down, he applied his hand to it with cautious touch.

“A man!” muttered he: “eyther asleep or dead.

“Dead!” he ejaculated the instant after, as, in groping about, his fingers chanced to fall upon the chill forehead – “dead and cold!”

Cubina and Herbert stepping forward, and stooping over the corpse, verified the assertion of Quaco.

Whose body was it? It might not be that of Loftus Vaughan! It might be the black attendant, Pluto!

No! it was not a black man. It needed no light to show that. The touch of the hair was sufficient to tell that a white man lay dead upon the couch.

“Catch me one of those cocuyos!” said the Maroon captain, speaking to his lieutenant.

Quaco stepped outside the hut. Low down along the verge of the forest were flitting little sparks, that appeared to be a galaxy of stars in motion. These were the lampyridae, or small fire-flies. It was not with these Quaco had to do. Here and there, at longer intervals, could be seen much larger sparks, of a golden green colour. It was the great winged beetle – the cocuyo (Pyrophorus Nectilucus.) – that emitted this lovely light.

Doffing his old hat-crown, Quaco used it as an insect-net; and, after a few strokes, succeeded in capturing a cocuyo.

With this he returned into the hut, and, crossing over, held it near the head of the corpse.

He did not content himself with the gold green light which the insect emits from the two eyelike tubercles on its thorax. The forest-craft of Quaco enabled him to produce a brighter and better.

Holding open the elytra with his fingers, and bending back the abdomen with his thumb, he exposed that oval disc of orange light – only seen when the insect is on the wing.

A circle of a yard in diameter was illuminated by the phosphoric glow. In that circle was the face of a dead man; and sufficiently bright was the lamp of the cocuyo, to enable the spectators to identify the ghastly lineaments as those of the Custos Vaughan.

Chapter 22

A Double Murder

None of the three started or felt surprise. That had been gradually passing: for before this their presentiment had become almost a conviction.

Quaco simply uttered one of those exclamations that proclaim a climax; Cubina felt chagrined – disappointed in more ways than one; while Herbert gave way to grief – though less than he might have done, had his relative more deserved his sorrow.

It was natural they should inquire into the circumstances of the Custos’s death. Now, firmly believing he had been murdered, and by the caçadores, they proceeded to make an examination of the body.

Mystery of mysteries! a dozen stabs by some sharp instrument, and no blood! Wounds through the breast, the abdomen, the heart – all clean cut punctures, and yet no gore – no extravasation!

“Who gave the stabs? you did this, you wretches!” cried Herbert, turning fiercely upon the employés of Jessuron.

“Carrambo! why should we do such a thing, master?” innocently inquired Andres. “The alcalde was dead before we came up.”

“Spanish palaver!” cried Quaco. “Look at these blades!” he continued, taking up the two machetes, “they’re wet now! ’Ta’nt blood azzactly; but somethin’ – . See,” he exclaimed, holding his cocuyo over the wounds, and presenting one of the machetés to the light, “they fit to these holes like a cork to a bottle. ’Twere they that made em, nothin’ but they, an’ you did it, ye ugly skinks!”

“By the Virgin, Señor Quaco!” replied Andres, “you wrong us. I’ll swear on the holy evangelists, we didn’t kill the alcalde – Custos, I mean. Carrambo! no. We were as much surprised as any of you, when we came in here and found him lying dead – just as he is now.”

There was an air of sincerity in the declaration of the wretch that rendered it difficult to believe in his guilt – that is, the guilt of him and his companion as the real murderers, though their intention to have been so was clear enough to Cubina.

“Crambo! why did you stab him?” said he to the two prisoners. “You need not deny that you did that.”

“Señor capitan,” answered the crafty Andres, who in all delicate questions appeared to be spokesman, “we won’t deny that. It is true – I confess it with shame – that we did run our blades once or twice through the body.”

“A dozen times, you John Crow!” corrected Quaco.

“Well, Señor Quaco,” continued the Spaniard, “I won’t be particular about the number. There may have been a thrust or two less, or more. It was all a whim of my comrade, Manuel, here – a little bit of a wager between us.”

“A wager for what?” asked Herbert.

“Well, you see, master, we’d been journeying, as I’ve said already, to Savanna. We saw the horse tied outside this little rancho, and thought we would go in and see who was inside. Carrambo! what should we see but the body of a dead man lying stretched out on the bamboos! Santissima! Señores, we were as much startled as you!”

“Terribly surprised, I suppose?” sarcastically spoke Cubina.

“Nearly out of our senses, I assure you, señor.”

“Go on, you wretch!” commanded Herbert. “Let us hear what tale you have to tell.”

“Well!” said the caçadore, resuming his narration, “after a while we got a little over our fright – as one naturally does, you know – and then Manuel says to me, ‘Andres!’ ‘What is it, Manuel?’ said I. ‘Do you think,’ said he, ‘that blood would run out of a dead body?’ ‘Certainly not,’ said I; ‘not a drop.’ ‘I’ll bet you five pesos it will,’ challenged my camarado. ‘Done!’ said I; and then, to settle the thing, we – I acknowledge it – did run our machetés through the body of the Custos – of course, we could do him no harm then.”

“Monsters!” exclaimed Herbert; “it was almost as bad as killing him! What a horrid tale! Ha! you wretches, notwithstanding its ingenuity, it’ll not save your necks from a halter!”

“Oh, señorito,” said Andres, appealingly, “we’ve done nothing to deserve that. I can assure you we are both right sorry for what we’ve done. Ain’t you sorry, Manuel?”

“Carrai! that I am,” earnestly answered Manuel.

“We both regretted it afterwards,” continued Andres, “and to make up for what we had done, we took the cloak and spread it decently over the body – in order that the poor alcalde should rest in peace.”

“Liar!” cried Quaco, throwing the light of his cocuyo on the corpse. “You did no such thing; you stabbed him through the cloak. Look there!”

And as Quaco gave this indignant denial, he pointed to the cuts in the cloth to prove the falsehood of the Spaniard’s statement.

“Carrai-ai-i!” stammered out the confounded Andres. “Sure enough there’s a cut or two. Oh, now I recollect: we first covered him up. It was after we did that, we then made the bet – didn’t we, Manuel?”

Manuel’s reply was not heard: for at that instant the hoof-strokes of horses were heard in front of the hut; and the shadowy forms of two horsemen could be distinguished just outside the doorway.

It was the black groom, who had returned from Content, accompanied by the overseer of the estate.

Shortly after a number of negroes appeared on foot, carrying a stretcher.

Their purpose was to convey the sick man to Content.

Circumstances had occurred to make a change in the character of their duty.

Chapter 23

Chakra on the Back Track

Of the three magistrates who condemned the Coromantee, one had been slumbering in his grave for six months; the second, about that number of days; and the third – the great Custos himself – was now a corpse!

Of all three had the myal-man been the murderer; though in the case of the first two there had been no suspicion of foul play, or, at least, not enough to challenge inquest or investigation. Both had died of lingering diseases, bearing a certain resemblance to each other; and though partaking very much of the nature of a wasting, intermittent fever, yet exhibiting symptoms that were new and strange – so strange as to baffle the skill of the Jamaican disciples of Aesculapius.

About the death of either one Chakra had not felt the slightest apprehension – nor would he even had an investigation arisen. In neither murder had his hand appeared. Both had been accomplished by the invisible agency of Obi, that at this period held mysterious existence on every plantation in the Island.

With the assassination of the Custos, however, it was different. Circumstances had caused that event to be hurried, and there was danger – as Chakra himself had admitted – that the spell of Obi might be mistaken for a spell of poison. A death so sudden, and by natural causes inexplicable, would, undoubtedly, provoke speculation, and lead to the opening and examining of the body.

Chakra knew that inside would be found something stronger than even the sap of the Savanna flower or the branched calalue; and that in all probability the malady to which the Custos had succumbed would be pronounced murder.

With this upon his mind, he was not without apprehension – his fears pointing to Cynthia.

Not that he suspected the honesty of his confederate; but only that her consistency might be too weak to withstand the cross-questioning of a coroner.

Fearing this, he had scarce got out of sight of the Custos’s corpse before he commenced contriving how Cynthia’s tongue could be tied – in other words, how the mulatta was to be made away with.

Upon this design his thoughts were for the moment bent.

He had less, if any, apprehension about his other accomplice in the crime. He fancied that Jessuron was himself too deeply dyed to point out the spots upon his fellow-conspirator; and this rendered him confident of secrecy on the part of the Jew.

Neither did he dwell long upon the danger to be apprehended from Cynthia, and so trivial a matter as the silencing of her tongue soon became obliterated or blended with another and far more important project, to the execution of which he was now hastening.

On leaving the hut where lay the dead body of his victim, he had taken to by-paths and bushes. Only for a short time did he keep to these. The twilight rapidly darkening into night left the highway free to him; and, availing himself of this privilege, he returned to it – showing by his hurried steps, as he regained the road, that he was glad to escape from a circuitous path.

His face once more set towards the Trelawney hills, he walked in silence, and with a rapidity scarce credible – his long, ape-like legs, split trestle fashion to the centre of his body, enabling him to glide over the ground almost as fast as a mule could mince.

Whenever anyone appeared upon the road before him, he adopted his customary plan of betaking himself to the bushes until they had passed; but when travellers chanced to be going the same way – which more than once did happen – he avoided an encounter by making a circuit through the woods, and coming out far ahead of them.

The trouble thus taken to gain time, as well as the earnest manner with which the myal-man was hastening forward, proved that the crime just committed was not the crisis of Chakra’s villainies; but that some other evil purpose – to him of equal or greater import – was yet before him; and soon to be achieved, or, at least, attempted.

Following back the main route between Savanna-la-Mer and the Bay, he at length arrived at the Carrion Crow Road, and, after traversing this for some distance, came within view of the Jumbé Rock, now glancing with vitreous sheen in the clear moonlight.

Almost as soon as he had caught sight of the well-known land-mark, he forsook the road; and struck off into a by-path that led through the woods.

This path, trending diagonally up the side of the Jumbé mountain, and passing near the base of the rock, was the same which Herbert Vaughan and the two Maroons had traversed on their way from the Happy Valley on that same morning.

Chakra, however, knew nothing of this; nor aught either of the design or expedition of Cubina and his comrades. Equally ignorant was he of the errand on which Jessuron had dispatched his Cuban emissaries – by way of having his bow twice stringed.

The Coromantee, fancying himself the only player in that game of murder, had no idea that there were others interested in it as much as he; and although once or twice during the day he had seen men moving suspiciously behind him along the road, it had never occurred to him who they were – much less that they had been deputed to complete his own job, should the “spell” fail to prove sufficiently potent.

A somewhat long détour[586] – which he had taken after leaving the hut – had brought him out on the main road behind both parties; and thus had he remained ignorant of their proximity, at the same time that he had himself escaped the observation both of the villains who intended to assassinate the Custos, and of the men who were pressing forward to save him.

Still continuing his rapid stride, Chakra climbed the mountain slope, with the agility of one accustomed to the most difficult paths.

On arriving under the Jumbé Rock, he halted – not with any intention of remaining there, but only to consider.

He looked up towards the summit of the cliff, in whose dark shadow he was standing; and then, raising his eyes still higher, he gazed for a short while upon the sky. His glance betrayed that interrogative scrutiny characteristic of one who, not being furnished with a watch, endeavours to ascertain the time. Chakra needed no watch. By day, the sun was sufficient to inform him of the hour; by night the stars, which were old and familiar acquaintances.

The sinking of Orion[587] towards the silvered surface of the sea told him that in two hours, or thereabout, no stars would be seen.

“Kupple ob hour!” muttered he, after making the observation; “woan do – woan do. By de time I get to de Duppy Hole fo’ de lamp, an’ den back to de rock fo’ fix um – It woan do! Adam an’ his men de better part ob an hour ’fore dey ked climb up hya; an’ den it be daylight. Daat woan do nohow. Muss be done in de night, else we git follered, an’ de Duppy Hole no longer safe ’treat fo’ Chakra. Mussent risk dat, whasomebber a do.

“Whugh!” he continued, after reflecting a moment, and with a look of villainous chagrin overspreading his countenance; “’tam a piece of cuss crooked luck fo’ me no’ be hya ’bout two hour soona. Dat ’ud ’a been s’fishint to got ’em all up in time; an’ dar wud den a been gobs o’ time to ’complish de whole bizness.

“Nebba mind!” cried he, after a pause, and rousing himself from the attitude of reflection; “nebba mind, ye old Coromantee fool! ’morra night do jess as well. Den dar be plenty ob time. ’Taint like dey get de dead corpus ob de Cussus back to de Buff afore two, tree day; an’ ef dat ere nigga fotch de news, it do no harm. Maybe do good, in de ’fusion it make ’bout de place. Nebba mind. It be all right fo’ ’morr’ night. ’Fore dis time ob de mornin’ de Lilly Quasheba – de beau’ful dauter ob dat proud quaderoom – she sleep in de ’brace o’ ole Chakra de myal-man. Whugh!

“Two hour ’fore day,” added he, after a longer pause, in which he appeared to gloat over his fiendish expectations; “two hour. I’se jess hab time go down to de Jew penn, an’ den back to de Duppy Hole ’fore daylight. Dat ole sinner, he want know what’s a been done; an’ a want get de balance ob dat fifty poun’. A mout stan’ need ob de money, now a’s a-gwine ta hab a wife, an’ take to de keepin’ ob a ’tablishment. Ha! ha! ha!”

And as he gave utterance to the laugh, the prospective bridegroom once more put his hideous form in motion, and followed the path leading to the Jew’s penn.

Chapter 24

The Vigil of Love and the Vigil of Jealousy

Yola, true to her tryst, set forth to meet her beloved Maroon. The hour of midnight was the time that had been appointed; but, in order to secure punctuality, she took her departure from Mount Welcome long before that hour – leaving herself ample time to reach the rendezvous.

Of late these after-night expeditions had become known to Miss Vaughan, and their object as well. To her young mistress, the Foolah maiden had confessed her penchant[588] for Cubina – her belief of its being reciprocated; in short, had told the whole story of her love.

Common report spoke well of the young Maroon captain – Yola warmly; and as everything contributed to proclaim his intentions honourable, Miss Vaughan made no objection to his meetings with her maid.

There was something in her own sentiments to incline her to this liberal line of conduct. The young creole could sympathise with hearts that truly loved – all the better that, by experience, her own heart had learnt the bitterness of being thwarted.

At all times, therefore – so far as she was concerned – the brown-skinned sweetheart of Cubina had free leave to meet her lover.

On that particular night permission was granted to the maid more freely than ever, since, for a certain reason, the mistress herself desired the interview to take place.

The reason may be guessed without difficulty. On the previous night Cubina had thrown out a hint, which his sweetheart had communicated to her mistress.

She had spoken of some news he might have that would interest the latter; and although there was nothing definite in that, still the hint had led to an indulgence in speculations – vague as dreams, it is true, but tinged with a certain sweetness.

Kate knew something of the romantic friendship that had been established between Herbert and Cubina. Yola had long ago told her of this – as well as the incident that had given origin to it. Perhaps that knowledge may explain the interest, almost amounting to anxiety, she now felt to ascertain the nature of the communication which the Maroon had hypothetically promised to make.

It was only in the afternoon of the day – after the excursion to the Jumbé Rock – that the maid had imparted this piece of intelligence to her mistress: and the altered demeanour of the latter during the rest of the evening proved how interesting it must have been to her. Her anxiety was scarce of the sorrowful kind, but rather tinged with an air of cheerfulness – as if some secret instinct had infused into her spirit a certain buoyancy – as if on the dark horizon of her future there was still lingering, or had suddenly arisen, a faint ray of hope.

Yola had not told all she knew. She said nothing of certain surmises that had escaped the lips of Cubina. With a woman’s tact, she perceived that these, being only conjectural, might excite false hopes in the breast of her young mistress: for whom the girl felt a true affection. In fear of this, she kept back the allusion to the marriage of Herbert and Judith, and its probable failure, which Cubina had so emphatically illustrated by a proverb.

Yola intended this reserve to be only temporary – only until after her next meeting with her lover – from which she hoped to return with a fuller power of explaining it.

Neither had she made known to her mistress the circumstance of having seen Cynthia in company with the Jew, and the conference that had occurred between them, overheard by herself and Cubina – much less the suspicions to which the latter had given expression.

Under the apprehension that a knowledge of these strange facts and suspicions might trouble her young mistress, she had withheld them.

The young Creole had not retired to rest when Yola took her departure from the house, nor yet for long after. Anxious to know the result of the interview between her maid and the Maroon, she remained awake within her chamber – burning the midnight lamp far into the hours of morning.

Notwithstanding the more than permission that had been accorded to her, the princess-slave stole softly from the house – passing the precincts of the mansion, and traversing the grounds outside with considerable caution. This partly arose from the habit of that half-barbaric life, to which, in her own country and from earliest childhood, she had been accustomed. But there was also, perhaps, some suspicion of present danger, or, at all events, that fear of interruption natural to one on the way to keep an appointment of the kind towards which she was now betaking herself.

From whatever motive sprung her cautious behaviour, it was not sufficient to prevent her departure from being observed; nor did it enable her to perceive that thing of woman’s shape that, like an evil shadow, flitted after her across the fields, and went following her along the forest path.

Whenever she turned it also turned, only not preserving an erect bearing, nor going in the same continuous gait; but every now and then pausing upon the path, sometimes in crouched attitude, as if seeking concealment under the shadow of the bushes – then gliding rapidly onward to make stop as before.

After having got beyond the surroundings of the house, and some distance into the pimento forest, the Foolah walked with more freedom – as if no longer fearing interruption. She was, therefore, less likely to perceive that ill-omened shadow, that still continued on her track – following, as before, by a series of progressive traverses, and in death-like silence.

On reaching the glade, the young girl advanced towards the ceiba, and took her stand within its shadow – on a spot, in her eyes, “hallowed down to earth’s profound, and up to heaven.”

She merely glanced round to satisfy herself that Cubina was not there. She scarce expected him yet. The hour, though late, was earlier than the time appointed. It had not yet gone twelve – else she would have heard the plantation clock announcing it.

Allowing her eyes to drop to the ground at her feet, she stood for some minutes buried in a reverie of reflection – a sweet reverie, as befitted her situation of pleasant expectancy.

She was startled from this abstraction by the behaviour of a bird – a scarlet tanager, that rose, fluttering and frightened, out of a small clump of bushes about ten paces from the ceiba, and in which it had been reposing.

The bird, uttering a cry of alarm, forsook the shelter, and flew off into the forest.

Yola could see nothing that should have caused the creature to make so abrupt a departure from its roosting-place. Her own presence could scarce have been the cause: since she had been some minutes upon the ground, and standing in tranquil pose. Some of its natural enemies had frayed the bird? Perhaps a rat, an owl, or a serpent? Thus reasoned she; and was so satisfied.

If, instead of contenting herself with this conjecture, she had stepped ten paces forward, and looked into the little copse, she would have seen there something very different from any of the three creatures her fancy had conjured up. She would have seen the form of a woman crouching within the shadow, with features set in suppressed rage, and eyes glowing indignantly upon herself. Easily, too, would she have recognised the face as that of her fellow-slave, Cynthia!

But she saw it not, though Cynthia saw her – though for hours did the two remain in this singular juxtaposition – one occupied with the vigil of love, the other absorbed in the vigil of jealousy.

For long hours did the Foolah maid wait for the coming of her beloved Cubina – her ear keenly bent to catch any sound that might announce his approach; her bosom every moment becoming more and more a prey to painful impatience.

Equally long stayed the spy in her place of concealment – equally suffering torture from jealous imaginings.

To both it was a relief, when a footstep upon the path, and a rustling of branches, proclaimed the approach of some one towards the spot. It was but a momentary relief, mocking the anticipations of both – thwarting the joy of the one, and the vengeful design of the other.

Instead of the expected lover, a very different personage made his appearance; and almost at the same instant another, coming from the opposite side.

Both, at the same time, advanced towards the middle of the glade; and, without exchanging a word, stopped face to face near the ceiba, as if they had met by appointment.

They were out in the open ground, and under the full light of the moon. Both were men, and the faces of both could be distinctly seen.

Yola knew only one of them, and the sight of him hindered her from staying to look upon the other. She merely glanced at a countenance that was fearful – though not more fearful to her than the one she had already recognised, and which had at once determined her to get away from the ground.

Keeping the great trunk between herself and the new comers, and retreating silently under its shadow, she glided back into the underwood of the forest, and was soon far from the presence of the two intruders, who had brought her long and vain vigil to such an unsatisfactory termination.

Cynthia could not have followed her example, even had she been so inclined. The two men had stopped within six paces of the spot in which she lay concealed. On every side of it the ground was clear of cover, with the moon shining full upon it. A cat could not have crept out of the copse without attracting the attention of one or the other.

Cynthia knew both the men – was the confederate of both – though not without fearing them.

At first sight of them she would have discovered herself, but disliked to come under the observation of her rival. Afterwards, when the two men had entered into conversation, she was held in her place by a dread of a different kind. She had already overheard part of what they were saying; and she feared they might punish her for eavesdropping, involuntary though it was.

Better for Cynthia had she then declared herself; but dreaming not of discovery, or the fearful fate that might be involved in it, she determined to be still, and listen to the dark dialogue to its ending.

Chapter 25

Cynthia in Trouble

The two men who had thus interrupted the silent tableau by the ceiba tree were Jacob Jessuron and Chakra the Coromantee.

Just at the time that Chakra departed from the Jumbé Rock to pay his nocturnal visit to the Jew, the latter was leaving his penn to honour the Coromantee with a similar call.

As both were travelling the same path, and in adverse directions, it was more than probable – a necessity, in fact – that each should meet the other before reaching the end of his journey. Also, as the glade, where stood the great ceiba, was on the same path, and midway between the Jumbé Rock and the Jew’s penn, it was natural this encounter should take place not far from that noted trysting-place. In effect, it occurred within the glade: the two men having entered it almost at the same instant of time.

The Jew had got first into the open ground, and was first seen. The myal-man might have had these advantages had he wished: he had been the first to arrive on the edge of the opening; but, true to his instinct of caution, he had kept under cover until making a reconnoissance, in which he saw and recognised his advancing vis-à-vis.

They met near the middle of the glade, just outside the shadow of the great tree, stopping face to face when within a pace or two of each other. Not the slightest salutation was exchanged between the two men – any more than if they had been two tigers who had just come together in the jungle. The secret compact between them precluded the necessity for compliment or palaver. Each understood the other; and not a word was spoken to introduce the dialogue except that which was pertinent to the business between them.

“Well, goot Shakra! you hash news for me?” interrogated the Jew, taking the initiative in the conversation. “You hash been in the direction of Savanna? Ish all right on the road?”

“Whugh!” vociferated the myal-man, throwing out his breast and jerking up his shoulders with an air of triumphant importance. “All right, eh? Well, not azzackly on de road, but by de side ob daat same, dar lie a corp’, wich by dis time oughter be as cold as de heart ob a water-millyum, an’ ’tiff as – ’tiff as – as – de ’keleton ob ole Chakra. Ha! ha! ha!”

And the speaker uttered a peal of fierce laughter at the simile he had had so much difficulty in conceiving; but which, when found, recalled the sweet triumph of his vengeance.

“Blesh my soul! Then it ish all over?”

“Daat’s all ober – Ise be boun’.”

“And the shpell did it? There wash no need – ”

With a start the Jew paused in his speech, as if about to say something he had not intended; and which had been very near escaping him.

“There wash no need – no need for you to haf gone after?”

This was evidently not the question originally upon his tongue.

“No need!” repeated Chakra, a little puzzled at the interrogatory; “no need, so far as dat war consarned. Ob coos de ’pell did de work, as a knowd it wud, an’ jess as a told you it wud. ’Twan’t fo’ dat a went arter, but a puppos ob my own. Who tole ye, Massr Jake, dat I wor gone arter?”

“Goot Shakra, I washn’t quite sure till now. The wench Cynthy thought ash how you had followed the Cushtos.”

“Whugh! dat ’ere gal talk too much. She hab her tongue ’topped ’fore long. She muss hab her tongue ’topp, else she gess boaf o’ us in trouble. Nebba mind! A make dat all right too – by-’m-bye. Now, Massr Jake, a want dat odder twenty-five pound. De job am finish, an’ de work am done. Now’s de time fo’ de pay.”

“That ish right, Shakra. I hash the monish here in red gold. There it ish.”

As the Jew said this, he passed a bag containing gold into the hands of Chakra.

“You’ll find it ish all counted correct. Twenty-five poundsh currenshy. Fifty pounsh altogether, ash agreed. A deal of monish – a deal of monish, s’ help me!”

Chakra made no reply to this significant insinuation; but, taking the bag, deposited it in the lining of his skin kaross, as he did so giving utterance to his favourite ejaculation, “Whugh!” the meaning of which varied according to the accentuation given to it.

“And now, goot Shakra!” continued the Jew: “I hash more work for you. There ish another shpell wanted, for which you shall have another fifty poundsh; but firsht tell me, hash you seen anyone to-day on your travels?”

“Seed any one, eh? Well, dat am a quessin, Massr Jake. A seed a good wheen on my trabbels: more’n seed me, I’se be boun’.”

“But ash you seen anyone ash you know?”

“Sartin a did – de Cussus fo’ one, tho’, by de gollies! a hardly wud a knowd him, he wa’ so fur gone – moas to de bone! He am almos’ as much a ’keleton as ole Chakra hisself. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Anybody elshe that you hash a knowledge of?”

“No – nob’dy – neery one as a know anythin’ bout ’ceppin’ de Cussus’ ’tendant. A seed odder men on de road, but dey wur fur off, and a keep dem fur off as a kud. Oa! yes, dar wa’ one who comed near – mose too near – him I knowd. Dat wa’ one ob dem ’ere Trelawney Maroon – Quaco dey call um.”

“Only Quaco, you shay? You hash seen nothing of hish capt’in, Cubina, nor of a young white gentlemansh along with him?”

“Neider de one nor de todder ob dem two people. Wha fo’ you ask dat, Massr Jake?”

“I hash a good reason, Shakra. The young fellow I speaksh of ish a book-keeper of mine. He hash left the penn thish very morning. I don’t know for why, or whither he ish gone; but I hash a reason to think he ish in company with Capt’in Cubina. Maybe not, and maybe he’ll be back again; but it looksh suspicious. If he’sh gone for goot, the shpell will be all for nothingsh. ’S’help me, for nothingsh!”

“Dat’s a pity! I’m sorry fo’ dat, Massr Jake. A hope he no gone.”

“Whether or not, I mushn’t go to shleep about it. There ish another shpell that will be more needed now ash ever.”

“De Obi am ready. Who d’ye want um set fo’ nex’?”

“For this rashcal Cubina.”

“Ah, dat ere in welkum. De god do him bess to ’pell him.”

“He hash trouble for me. It ish not like to come so soon now, ash the Cushtos ish out of the way. But who knowsh how soon? And better ash the shpell should be set at once. So, good Shakra, if you can manish to do for Cubina in as short a time ash you hash done the Cushtos, there ish another fifty poundsh ready for you.”

“A’ll do ma bess, Massr Jake, to earn you money. All do ma bess – de bess can do no mo.”

“That ish true, goot Shakra! Don’t you think this wench, Cynthy, can help you?”

“Not a bit ob help from dat quar’r – not worth a ’traw for ’pelling Cubina. He no let de m’latta come nigh o’ ’im fo’ no considerashun. He sick ob de sight o’ her. Besides, dat gal, she know too much now. She one ob dese days fotch de white folk to de Duppy Hole. Dat nebba do. No furrer use now. She hab serb her turn, an’ mus’ be got rid ob – muss go ’long wi’ de odders – long wi’ de Cussus. Da’s my way – de only way keep a woman tongue tied, am to ’top ’um waggin’ altogedder. Whugh!”

After uttering the implied threat, the monster stood silent a moment, as if reflecting upon some mode by which he could make away with the life of the mulatta.

“You think, Shakra, you ish likely to find somebody elshe to assist you?”

“Nebba fear, Massr Jake. Leab dat to ole Chakra – ole Chakra an’ ole Obi. Dey do de bizness widout help from any odder.”

“Fifty poundsh, then, Shakra. Ach! I’d give twice the monish – yes, s’help me, ten times the monish – if I knew it wash all right with young Vochan. Ach! where ish he gone?”

The expression of bitter chagrin, almost anguish, with which the villainous old Jew, for at least the tenth time on that day, repeated this interrogative formula, told that, of all the matters upon his mind, the absence of his book-keeper was the one uppermost, and deemed by him of most importance.

“Blesh my soul!” continued he, lifting his umbrella high in air, and continuing to hold it up, “Blesh my soul! if he ish gone for goot, I shall have all thish trouble for nothing – all the cr-r – inconvenience!”

It was “crime” he was about to have said; but he changed the word – not from any delicacy in the presence of Chakra, but rather to still a shuddering within himself, to which the thought had given rise.

“Nebba mind, Massr Jake,” said his confederate, encouragingly; “you hab got rid ob an enemy – same’s masseff. Dat am someting, anyhow; an’ a promise you soon get shot ob one odder. A go at once ’bout dat berry bizness.”

“Yesh! yesh! soon, goot Shakra, soon ash you can! I won’t keep yoush any longer. It ish near daylight. I musht go back, and get some shleep. S’help me! I hash not had a wink thish night. Ach! I can’t shleep so long ash he’sh not found. I musht go home, and see if there ish any newsh of him.”

So saying, and turning on his heel, without “good night,” or any other parting salutation, the Jew strode abstractedly off, leaving Chakra where he stood.

Chapter 26

A Fatal Sneeze

“Whugh!” ejaculated the Coromantee, as soon as his confederate was out of hearing; “dar’s someting heavy on de mind ob dat ere ole Jew – someting wuss dan de death ob de Cussus Va’gh’n. Wonder now wha’ em be all ’bout? ’Bout dis yar book-keeper a knows it am. But wha’ ’bout him? A’ll find out ’fore a’m many hour older. Daat a’ll do. Gollies! A muss go an’ git some sleep too. A’m jess like de Jew masseff – han’t had ne’er a wink dis night, nor de night afore neider; nor doan expeck get de half ob a wink morrer night! Dat will be night ob all odder! Morrer night, if all ting go well, Chakra he no sleep him ’lone – he sleep no more by hisseff – he hab for him bedfellow de beauty ob all de Island ob Jamaica. He sleep wi’ de Lilly – .”

Ere the full name of the victim threatened with this horrid fate had passed from his lips, the menace of the myal-man was interrupted.

The interruption was caused by a sound proceeding from the little clump of bushes close to where Chakra stood.

It sounded exactly as if some one had sneezed – for it was that in reality. Cynthia had sneezed.

She had not done so intentionally – far from it. After what she had heard, it was not likely she would have uttered any sound to proclaim her presence.

At that instant she would have given all she possessed in the world – all she ever hoped to possess, even the love of Cubina – to have been miles from the spot, within the safe kitchen of Mount Welcome – anywhere but where she then was.

Long before the conversation between the Jew and Chakra had come to a close, she had made up her mind never to see the myal-man again – never willingly. Now an encounter appeared inevitable: he must have heard the sneeze!

The wretched woman reasoned aright – he had heard it.

A fierce “whugh!” was the ejaculation it called forth in response; and then the myal-man, turning suddenly in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded, stood for a short time silent, and listening.

“By golly!” said he, speaking aloud; “dat ’ere soun’ berry like a ’neeze! Some ob dem ’ere trees ha’ been a-takin’ snuff. A’d jess like know wha’ sort ob varmint made dat obstropolus noise. It wan’t a bush – dat’s sartin. Nor yet wa’ it a bird. What den? It wan’t ’t all onlike de ’neeze ob a nigga wench! But what wud a wench be a-doin’ in tha? Da’s what puzzles me. Lookee hya!” added he, raising his voice, and addressing himself to whoever or whatever might have produced the noise; “les’s hear dat ag’in, whosomebber you be! Take anodder pince ob de snuff – louder dis time, so a can tell whedder you am a man or whedder you be femmynine.”

He waited for a while, to see if his speech would elicit a response; but none came. Within the copse all remained silent, as if no living thing was sheltered under its sombre shadows.

“You wan’t ’neeze agin,” continued he, seeing there was no reply; “den, by golly, a make you, ef you am what a ’speck you is – someb’dy hid in dar to lissen. No snake can’t a ’neeze dat way, no’ yet a lizzart. You muss be eyder man, woman, or chile; an’ ef you be, an’ hab heerd wha’s been say, by de great Accompong! you life no be worth – Ha! ha!”

As he entered upon this last paragraph of his apostrophe he had commenced moving towards the copse, which was only six paces from his starting-point. Before the speech was completed he had passed in among the bushes; and, bending them over with his long, ape-like arms, was scrutinising the ground underneath.

The exclamation was called forth by his perceiving the form of a woman in a crouching attitude within the shadow.

In another instant he had seized the woman by the shoulder, and with a quick wrench jerked her into an erect position.

“Cynthy!” he exclaimed, as the light fell upon the countenance of the mulatta.

“Yes, Chakra!” cried the woman, screaming ere she spoke; “it’s me, it’s me!”

“Whugh! Wha’ you do hya? Youb been lissenin’. Wha’ fo’ you lissen?”

“Oh, Chakra! I did not intend it. I came here – ”

“How long you been hya? Tell dat quick!”

“Oh, Chakra – I came – ”

“You hya ’fore we came in’ de glade. Needn’t axe dat. You no kud git hya atterwad. You heer all been said? You muss hab heer it.”

“Oh, Chakra, I couldn’t help it. I would have gone – ”

“Den you nebba hear nodder word more. Won’t do let you go now. You come hya; you stay hya. You nebba go out ob dis ’pot. Whugh!”

And giving to the monosyllable an aspirate of fierceness, that caused it to sound more like the utterance of a wild beast than a human being, the monster threw out his long dark arms, and rushed towards his intended victim.

In another instant his long muscular fingers were clutched round the throat of the mulatta, clamping it with the tightness and tenacity of an iron garotte.

The wretched creature could make no resistance against such a formidable and ferocious antagonist. She tried to speak; she could not even scream.

“Chak-r-a, de-ar Chak-r-r-a,” came forth in a prolonged thoracic utterance, and this was the last articulation of her life.

After that there was a gurgling in her throat – the death-rattle, as the fingers relaxed their long-continued clutch – and the body, with a sudden sound, fell back among the bushes.

“You lie da!” said the murderer, on seeing that his horrid work was complete. “Dar you tell no tale. Now for de Duppy Hole; an’ a good long sleep to ’fresh me fo’ de work of de morrer night. Whugh!”

And turning away from the image of death he had just finished fashioning, the fearful Coromantee pulled the skirts of his skin mantle around him, and strode out of the glade, with as much composure as if meditating upon some abstruse chapter in the ethics of Obi.

Chapter 27

Chakra Trimming his Lamp

Day was dawning when the tiger Chakra returned to his lair in the Duppy’s Hole. With him night was day, and the dawn of the morn the twilight of evening.

He was hungry: having eaten only a morsel of food since starting out on his awful errand, just twenty-four hours ago.

The remains of a pepper-pot, still unemptied from the iron skillet in which it had been cooked, stood in a corner of the hut.

To warm it up would require time, and the kindling of a fire. He was too much fatigued to be fastidious; and, drawing the skillet from its corner, he scooped up the stew, and ate it cold.

Finally, before retiring to rest, he introduced into his stomach something calculated to warm the cold pepper-pot – the “heel-tap” of a bottle of rum that remained over from the preceding night; and then, flinging himself upon the bamboo bedstead, so heavily that the frail reeds “scrunched” under his weight, he sank into a profound slumber.

He lay upon his hunched back, his face turned upward. A protuberance on the trunk of the tree, of larger dimensions than that upon his own person, served him for a bolster – a few handfuls of the silk cotton laid loosely upon it constituting his pillow.

With his long arms extended loosely by his side – one of them hanging over until the murderous fingers rested upon the floor – and his large mouth, widely agape, displaying a double serrature of pointed, shining teeth, he looked more like some slumbering ogre than a human being.

His sleep could not be sweet. It was far from being silent. From his broad, compressed nostrils came a sonorous snoring, causing the cartilage to heave outward, accompanied by a gurgling emission through his throat that resembled the breathing of a hippopotamus.

Thus slumbered Chakra throughout the livelong day, dreaming of many crimes committed, or, perhaps, only of that – the sweetest crime of all – which was yet in abeyance.

It was near night when he awoke. The sun had gone down – at least, he was no longer visible from the bottom of the Duppy’s Hole – though some red rays, tinting the tops of the trees upon the summit of the cliff, told that the orb of day was still above the horizon.

Extended on his couch, Chakra saw not this. His hut was dark, the door being shut close; but through the interstices of the bamboos he could see to some distance outside, and perceived that twilight was fast deepening among the trees. The cry of the bittern, coming up from the lagoon, the shriek of the potoo, heard through the sough of the cataract, and the hoot of the great-eared owl – all three true voices of the night – reaching his ears, admonished him that his hour of action had arrived.

Springing from his couch, and giving utterance to his favourite ejaculation, he set about preparing himself for the adventure of the night.

His first thought was about something to eat, and his eyes fell upon the skillet, standing where he had left it, near the middle of the floor. It still contained a quantity of the miscellaneous stew – enough for a meal.

“Woan do eat um cold,” he muttered, proceeding to kindle a fire, “not fo’ de second time. Gib me de ager chills, it wud. Mus’ fortify de belly wi’ someting warm – else a no be fit to do de work dat am to be done.”

The kindling of the fire, the warming up of the pepper-pot, and its subsequent consumption, were three operations that did not take Chakra any very great amount of time. They were all over just as the darkness of night descended over the earth.

“Now fo’ get ready de signal,” soliloquised he, moving about over the floor of his hut, and looking into crannies and corners, as if in search of some object.

“As de good luck hab it, dar be no moon to-night – leastways, till atter midnight. Atter den a doan care she shine as bright as de sun hisseff. Dare be plenty ob dark fo’ Adam to see de signal, and plenty fo’ de odder bizzness at Moun’ Welc’m’. Dar’ll be light ’nuf ’bout dat ere ’fore we takes leab o’ de place. Won’t dat be a blaze? Whugh!

“Wha hab a put dat ere tellemgraff lamp?” said he, still searching around the hut. “I’se fo’got all ’bout wha it am, so long since a use de darned ting. Muss be un’er de bed. Ya – hya it am!”

As he said this, he drew from under the bamboo bedstead a gourd shell, of nearly egg shape, but of the dimensions of a large melon. It had a long, tapering shank – part of the fruit itself, where the pericarp narrowed towards its peduncle – and through this a string had been passed, by which the gourd could be suspended upon a peg.

Holding it by the handle, he raised the shell to the light of his lard lamp, already kindled, and stood for some time silently inspecting it.

The gourd was not perfect – that is, it was no longer a mere empty shell, but a manufactured article, containing within a most singular apparatus. On one side appeared a hole, several inches in diameter, and cut in a shape nearly pyramidal, the base being above the thick end of the oval, and the apex, somewhat blunt, or truncated, extending towards the shank.

Up to the level of the opening the shell was filled with lard, in the middle of which appeared a wick of silk cotton staple; and behind this were two hits of broken looking-glass, set slanting to each other.

The whole apparatus bore some resemblance to a reflecting lamp; and that was in reality the purpose for which the rude contrivance had been constructed.

After a careful examination, its owner appeared to be satisfied that it was in good order; and having “trimmed” it, by adding a little fresh lard, and straightening up the wick, he set the lamp aside, and proceeded with the preparation of some other paraphernalia necessary for the night’s expedition.

A stick, some four feet in length, and a piece of strong cord, were the next articles procured; and these were also put on one side.

To these succeeded a long-bladed knife, and a stout pistol, with flint lock, which the Coromantee loaded and primed with great care. Both were stuck behind a belt which he had already buckled around his ribs, under the skin kaross.

“A doan ’ticipate,” said he, as he armed himself with these formidable weapons, “dar a-gwine be much need fo’ eider ob ’em. Dar ain’t nob’dy down dar am like show fight. Dat ere gran’ buckra ob late come to Moun’ Welc’m’ de say he be ’fraid ob de shadda ob danger; an’ as fo’ de brack folks, de look ob dese weapon be suffishient fo’ dem. Ef dat woan do, den a trow off my mask. De sight ob ole Chakra, dat dribe ’em into fits. Dat send ebbery nigga on de plantashun into de middle ob next week. Whugh!”

Another weapon appeared to be wanting, in the shape of a large black bottle, containing rum. With this the Coromantee soon supplied himself, drawing one out from its secret hiding-place, and holding it before the light, to make sure that it was full.

“Dis bottle,” said he, as he thrust it into a pouch in his kaross, “I hab kep fo’ dis ’pecial ’casion; it am de bess weapon fo’ my puppos. When dem fellas get dar dose ob de rum, dar’ll be no back out in ’em den. Golly!” he added, glancing out, and seeing that it was now quite dark, “a muss be gone fro’ hya. By de time ole Adam sees de tellemgraff, an’ gets ’cross dem ’ere mountains, it be late ’nuf for de bizness to begin.”

Finishing with this reflection, the sable conjuror took up his “telegraphic apparatus,” and, stepping over the threshold, hurried away from the hut.

Chapter 28

Setting the Signal

The short tropic twilight had passed, and night had descended upon the Island of Jamaica. It promised to be a night of deepest darkness. The moon would not rise before midnight; and even then she might not be seen, as the canopy was covered with a thick curtain of black cumulus clouds, through which neither star nor speck of blue sky was visible.

Alike lay valleys and mountains shrouded in amorphous darkness; and even the Jumbé Rock – the highest and most conspicuous summit for miles around – was wrapped in complete obscurity. Its vitreous flanks no longer sparkled in the light, since there was none; and its dark mass was so dimly outlined against the equally sombre background of the sky, as to be invisible from the valley below.

The form of a man, groping his way up the narrow ravine that debouched upon the summit of the rock, could not have been distinguished, much less the black hue of his skin, the deformity that marked his figure, or the hideous aspect of his countenance. And yet a man so characterised climbed up there, about half-an-hour after the going down of the sun.

It need scarce be said that that man was Chakra, the Coromantee. Who else would be seeking the Jumbé Rock at that hour?

What was his errand up there? Let the sequel declare.

On setting foot upon the platform, he undid the knot that fastened the skin mantle over his shoulders; and then taking off the garment, he spread it out upon the rock.

The stick he had brought up with him he placed along one edge, and there made it fast with some pieces of string. When this was accomplished, he lifted both stick and cloak from the rock, and, proceeding to the palm, he laid the stick transversely across the stem, at about the height of his own hand, and then lashed it fast to the tree.

The kaross now hung down the stem, in a spread position, the transverse stick keeping it extended to its full width.

While arranging it thus, Chakra evidently had an eye to the direction – that is, the plane represented by the spread garment had one face fronting the valley of Mount Welcome and the cultivated lowlands between that and Montego Bay, while the reverse side was turned towards the “black grounds” of Trelawney – a tract of wild country in which not a single estate, plantation, or penn had been established, and where no such thing as a white settlement existed. In this solitude, however, there were black colonies of a peculiar kind; for that was the favourite haunt of the absconded slave – the lurking-place of the outlaw – the retreat of the runaway.

There, even might the assassin find an asylum, secure from the pursuit of justice. There had he found it: for among those dark, forest-clad mountains more than one murderer made his dwelling.

Robbers there were many – even existing in organised bands, and holding the authorities of the Island at defiance.

All these circumstances were known to Chakra; and some of the robbers, too, were known to him – some of the fiercest who followed that free calling.

It was to communicate with one of these bands that the preparations of the myal-man were being made. Chakra was preparing the signal.

Satisfied that the skin cloak was extended in the proper direction, the Coromantee next took up his reflector-lamp; and having attached it against that side of the kaross facing towards the mountains, he took out his flint, steel, and tinder, and, after striking a light, set the wick on fire.

In an instant the lamp burned brightly, and the light, reflected from the bits of looking-glass, might have been seen from the back country to the distance of many miles; while, at the same time, it was completely screened from any eye looking from the side of the plantations. The projecting edges of the calabash hindered the rays from passing to either side; while the interposed disc of the spread kaross further prevented the “sheen” that otherwise might have betrayed the presence of the signal.

It was not meant for the eyes of honest men in the direction of Montego Bay, but for those of the robbers among the far hills of Trelawney.

“Jess de sort ob night fo’ dem see it,” muttered the myal-man, as with folded arms foe stood contemplating the light. “De sky brack as de Debbil’s pitch-pot. Ole Adam, he sure hab some ’un on de look-out. De sure see ’im soon.”

Chakra never looked more hideous than at that moment.

Stripped of the ample garment, that to some extent aided in concealing his deformity a scant shirt, of coarse crimson flannel, alone covering the hunch; most part of his body naked, exposing to the strong light of the reflector his black corrugated skin; the aspect of his ferocious features compressed by the snake-encircled turban upon his temples, the long-bladed knife and pistol appearing in his waist-belt – all combined to produce a fearful picture, that could not fail to strike terror into whoever should have the misfortune to behold it.

Standing immovable under the glare of the lamp, his misshapen figure projected across the surface of the summit platform, he might easily have been mistaken for a personification of the fiend – that African fiend – after whom the rock had been named.

In this situation he remained, observing perfect silence, and with his eyes eagerly bent upon the distant mountains, dimly discernible through the deep obscurity of the night. Only for a few minutes was this silence preserved, and the attitude of repose in which he had placed himself.

“Whugh!” he exclaimed, dropping his arms out of their fold, as if to set about some action. “I know’d dey wud soon see um. Yonner go’ de answer!”

As he spoke, a bright light was seen suddenly blazing up on the top of a distant eminence, which was suddenly extinguished.

After a short interval another, exactly similar, appeared in the same place, and in a similar manner went out again; and then, when an equal interval had elapsed, a third.

All three resembled flashes produced by powder ignited in a loose heap.

The moment the third response had been given to his signal, the Coromantee stepped up to his reflector and blew out the light.

“Dar’s no use fo’ you any mo’,” said he, apostrophising the lamp; “dar am some danger keepin’ you dar. B’side, it am a gettin’ cold up hya. A want my ole cloak.”

So saying, he took down the reflector, and after it the kaross; and, separating the latter from the piece of stick, he once more suspended the garment around his shoulders. This done, he moved forward to the front of the platform; and dropping his legs over, sat down upon the edge of the rock.

Chapter 29

The Cry of the Solitaire

From the spot where he had seated himself, the mansion of Mount Welcome was in view – that is, it would have been, had it been daytime, or even a moonlight night. As it was, however, darkness veiled the whole valley under its opaque shadows; and the situation of the house could only have been guessed at, had it not been for the light streaming through the jalousied windows. These revealed its position to the eyes of the Coromantee.

More than one window showed light – several that were side by side giving out a strong glare. These Chakra knew to be the side windows of the great hall, or drawing-room. Its front windows could not be seen from the Jumbé Rock: since they faced towards the valley and not to the mountain.

The myal-man knew all this. A forty years’ residence on the estate of Mount Welcome had rendered perfectly accurate his knowledge of the topography of the place.

So much light shining out suggested the idea of cheerfulness, as if company were entertained within.

“Whugh!” ejaculated Chakra, as his eye caught the lights. “Doan look berry much like dey war grievin’. Dey can’t hab heer’d o’ dat ’fair yet. P’raps de hab take de body to de plantashun ob Content? Leetle dey know down dar wha’s been done. Leetle dey dream dat de proud masser ob dat ere Buff am jess at dis minnit a cold corpus. Da’s no house ob mournin’. Dar’s feas’in a-gwine on da’, a be boun’? Nebba mind! Nebba mind! Patience, ole nigga! maybe you come in fo’ share ob dem wittle ’fore he gits cold; and maybe you hab share of the dishes on which de wittle am sa’v’d up – de forks, an’ de ’poons, and de silber plate generumly. Daat will be a haul. Whugh!

“But wha’ care I fo’ de forks an’ de ’poons? Nuffin! Dar’s but one ting a care fo’, an’ dat am more dan silber, more na gold, more na Moun’ Wele’m, itseff! Dat am de Lilly Quasheba. Whugh! A hab lub her fo’ many long year – lub her more’n ebba; yes, a lub her wi’ de whole ’trength ob my soul. Once a git dat bewfu’ gal in dese arms, a no care for de forks and de ’poons. Ole Adam be welc’m take all dem rubbish.

“No,” continued he, after a pause, apparently relenting of his liberality; “dat no do, neider. A soon need boaf de forks and de ’poons. A’ll want him fo’ de housekeepin’. A’ll want de silber an’ de gold to buy odder ting. Muss hab m’ share ’long wi’ de ress.

“Wha am de bess place take my wife to?” muttered the intended husband, continuing the same strain of reflections. “Muss leab de Duppy Hole. Dat place no longer safe. Too near de ole plantashun. Boun’ to be a debbil ob a rumpus atter she carried ’way – daat are ef dey b’lieve she am carried away. Guess a know de way make um b’lieve diff’rent. Nebba mind. A know how manage dat!”

At this moment the reflections of the Coromantee were interrupted by a sound that caused him to draw his legs up on the rock, and assume an attitude as if about to spring to his feet.

At the repetition of the sound, he started up, and rapidly re-crossed to the opposite side.

At the point where the upward path debouched upon the platform, he stopped to listen.

For the third time the sound was repeated.

There was nothing strange in it – at least, to ears familiar with the voices of a Jamaica forest. It was the call of a common yet peculiar bird – the solitaire. The only thing strange was to hear it at that hour of the night. It was not the time when the soft and flute-like note of the solitaire should fall upon the ear of the forest wanderer. Hearing it at that hour was by no means strange to Chakra. It was not that which had startled him from his seat, and caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the platform. On the contrary, it was because he knew that what he had heard was not the note of the solitaire, but a counterfeit call from his confederate, Adam!

Chakra’s private slogan was different – more mournful and less musical. It was an imitation of that melancholy utterance heard at night from the sedgy shores of the dark lagoon – the cry of the wailing bittern.

With a small reed applied to his lips, the Coromantee produced an exact imitation of this cry, and then remained silent, awaiting the result.

At the bottom of the ravine could be heard a murmur of voices, as if several men were together, talking in guarded tones. Following this came a sound of scratching against the stones, and a rustling of branches, each moment becoming more distinct. Shortly after, the form of a man emerged out of the shadowy cleft, stepping cautiously upon the platform. Another followed, and another, until six in all stood upon the summit of the rock.

“Dat you, brodder Adam?” said Chakra, stepping forward to receive the first who presented himself at the head of the sloping path.

“Ya – ya! Am it Chakra?”

“Dat same ole nigga.”

“All right, kommarade. We’ve see yar signal as soon as it war hoisted. We wan’t long a comin’, war we?”

“Berry quick. A didn’t ’speck ye fo’ half an hour mo’.”

“Well, now we’re hya, what’s the game? I hope dar’s a good big stake to play for! Our stock of stuff wants remplenishin’ berry badly. We haven’t had de chance of a job fo’ more dan a month. We’re a’most in want o’ wittles!”

“Wittles!” exclaimed the myal-man, laying a scornful emphasis on the word. “Dar’s a ting for ye do dis night dat’ll gib ye mo’ dan wittle – it gib you wealth – ebbery one ob ye. Whugh!”

“Good!” ejaculated Adam, simultaneously with a chorus of like exclamations; “glad to hear dat ere bit o’ intelligence. Am it dat ere little job you speak me ’bout last time I see you? Dat it, ole humpy?”

“Dat same,” laconically answered Chakra, “only wi’ dis diffurence,” added he; “dat a call um de big job in’tead of de little un.”

“Big or little,” rejoined the other, “we’ve come ready to do it – you see we hab?”

The speaker, who appeared to be the leader of the party who accompanied him, pointed to the others as he made this remark.

The hint was scarce regarded by Chakra. Notwithstanding the murky gloom that enveloped the forms of Adam and his companions, the myal-man could see that they were all armed and equipped, though in the most varied and uncouth fashions. The weapons of no two were alike. One carried an old musket, red with rust; another a fowling-piece, in like condition. Others were provided with pistols, and nearly all had long knives, or machetés. Thus provided, it was scarce probable that the job for whose execution Chakra had summoned them could be one of a pacific character.

Had a light been thrown upon the group that surrounded Chakra, it would have revealed a collection of faces, each provided with a set of features but little less sinister than those of Chakra himself. In not one of them would have been found a line indicative of either peace or mercy – for it was the band of the black robber Adam, celebrated as the most notorious cut-throats in the Island.

Chakra expressed no surprise at seeing them armed, nor felt any. He had expected it; and the flourish which their leader had made of this fact was only intended to make manifest that they were ready for the ordinary requirements of their vocation.

Eagerly willing were they for the extremest action; but, in order to make more certain of their compliance, Chakra thought it prudent to ply them with a little rum.

“Ma frien’s,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “you hab had de fatigue ob a long walk troo de darkness ob de night. A hab got hya a leetle drop ob someting dat’s berry good fo’ keep de cold out ob you. ’Pose we all take a wet from dis bottle?”

To this proposition there was a general assent, expressed in varied phraseology. There was no teetotaller in that crowd of worthies.

Chakra had not thought of providing himself with either drinking-cup or calabash; but the want was scarcely felt. The robbers each in turn refreshed himself directly from the neck of the bottle, until the rum ran out.

“Well, ole humpy,” said Adam, drawing Chakra aside, and speaking in that familiar phrase that betokened a thickness of thieves between them. “I suppose the chance you spoke ’bout hab come round at las’?”

“Da’s a fack, brodder Adam. It hab come now.”

“De great buckra gone from home?”

“He gone from home, and gone to home, ha! ha!”

“Come, dat’s a riddle. What you mean by gone to home?”

“To ’im long home. Da’s wha’ I mean.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Adam; “you don’t say the Cussos – ”

“Nebber mind ’bout the Cussus now, brodder Adam. Dat you know all ’bout atter wards. It am the Cussus’ silber plate dat consarn you now; and dar’s no time to was’e in p’laverin’. By de time we gets down da, an’ puts on de masks, dey’ll be a-gwine to bed. Better dey wa’ gone to bed; but by dat time, you see, de moon ’ud be up, an’ fo’ all dese clouds mout shine out. Dat, as you know, won’t nebba do. We must ’ticipate de risin’ ob de moon.”

“True enuf. All right! I’m ready, and so are de rest.”

“Den foller me, all ob you. We can plan de mode ob ’tack as we trabbel ’long. Plenty ob time fo’ dat, when we find out how de land lie down below. Foller me!”

And with this injunction, the Coromantee commenced descending the ravine, followed by Adam and his band of burglars.

Chapter 30

A Sad Procession

On that same evening, about half-an-hour before sunset, a singular procession was seen moving along the Carrion Crow Road, in the direction of Mount Welcome. Its slow progress, with the staid looks and gestures of those who composed the procession, betokened it to be one of a melancholy character.

A rude litter, carried upon the shoulders of four men, confirmed this impression; more especially when the eye rested upon a human form stretched along the litter, and which could easily be identified as a dead body, notwithstanding the camlet cloak that covered it.

There were ten individuals forming this funeral cortège; though all were not mourners. Two were on horseback, a little in advance of the rest. Four followed, carrying the litter; while close behind these came four others, two and two – the foremost pair being lashed arm and arm to one another – each also with his hands tied behind his back, and both evidently prisoners. The two that brought up the rear appeared to be guarding them.

The individuals composing this mournful procession may be easily identified.

The two riding in advance were Herbert Vaughan and the Maroon captain; the horses they bestrode being the same that had passed over that road the day before, carrying the Custos and his negro attendant. The prisoners were the Spanish caçadores – their guards, Quaco and the before-mentioned attendant; while the four men bearing the body were slaves belonging to the plantation of Content.

It need scarce be added that the corpse, stretched stark and stiff upon the litter, was all that remained of the grand Custos Vaughan.

Strictly describing them, not one of the procession party could be called a mourner. None of them had any reason to be greatly aggrieved by the fate that had befallen the owner of Mount Welcome – not even his relative. Notwithstanding this absence of a cause for grief, the faces of all – the prisoners excepted – wore a look of decent gravity becoming the occasion.

Perhaps the nephew would have more keenly felt the situation – for now that his uncle was no more, every spark of hostility had become extinguished – perhaps he might even have mourned, but for certain circumstances that had just come to his knowledge; and which had the effect not only to counteract within his heart all tendency towards sorrow, but almost to overpower it with joy.

It was only with an effort, therefore, that he could preserve upon his features that expression of sadness, due to the melancholy position in which he was placed.

Despite the presence of death, his heart was at that moment filled with a secret satisfaction – so sweet that he could not deny himself its indulgence. The source of this satisfaction may be easily traced. It will be found in the information communicated to him by the Maroon captain. During their journey of the preceding day, their vigil of the night, and, still further, their long, slow march of that morning, Cubina had made known to him many circumstances of which he had been hitherto ignorant; among other items of intelligence, one of the most interesting that language could have imparted.

It need scarce be said what this was. It may be guessed at by recalling the conversation between the Maroon and his mistress Yola, occurring at the last tryst under the ceiba – that part of it which related to the Lilly Quasheba. Though Cubina’s knowledge was only second-hand, it was sufficiently definite to inspire Herbert with hope – something more than hope; and hence that secret joy whose outward manifestation he found it difficult to suppress.

Every word of the conversation that had passed between the Maroon and his mistress – every word that referred to her mistress – Cubina had been compelled to repeat over and over again; till Herbert knew it as well as if he had been present during the dialogue. No wonder he was not in a condition to feel very profoundly for the sad fate that had befallen his uncle – hitherto only known to him as a relative harsh and hostile.

Other secrets had Cubina disclosed to him – among the rest, the true character of his patron, Jessuron – which Herbert had already begun to suspect, and which was now revealed to him in all its hideous wickedness. The history of the Foolah prince – hitherto unknown to Herbert – besides his own experiences during the last twenty-four hours, was sufficient to confirm any suspicion that might point to Jacob Jessuron. Though it was plain that the two prisoners in the custody of Quaco had not actually assassinated the Custos, it was equally clear that such had been their intention, anticipated by a death of another kind. This both Cubina and Herbert conjectured to have proceeded from the same hand – the hand of Herbert’s ci-devant host.

The phrase is appropriate. Long before Herbert had heard one half of Cubina’s disclosures, he had resolved never more voluntarily to set foot in the Happy Valley – much less return to seek shelter under the roof of Jessuron.

If he should hereafter have aught to do with the Israelite, it would be in the course of justice; as avenger of the death of his murdered relative. That Loftus Vaughan was the victim of assassination neither he nor the Maroon for a moment doubted. The conversation which the latter had listened to between Chakra and the Jew – and which, unfortunately, at the time he had not clearly comprehended – was no longer mysterious; only its motive remained so. The deed itself had now furnished the terrible interpretation.

Neither Herbert nor Cubina had any idea of permitting the matter to drop. An event of such fearful significance called for the fullest investigation; and they were now proceeding with the preliminary step – carrying the body to Mount Welcome, in order that the authorities might be called together, and an inquest instituted.

How different were the feelings of Herbert from those he experienced on his former and first approach to the mansion of his haughty relative! He was now the victim of emotions so varied and mingled as to defy description!

Chapter 31

The Abduction

To Chakra, viewing them from the summit of the Jumbé Rock, the well-lighted windows of Mount Welcome had proclaimed the presence of company within the mansion. In this, however, the Coromantee was mistaken. In the past such an appearance might have had that signification, or up to a very late period – that is, up to the date of the arrival of the distinguished Smythje. Since the latter had become the guest of Mount Welcome, however, the illumination of the mansion with chandelier and candelabra was not only not unusual, but had been the nightly practice.

This was Mr Vaughan’s pleasure; which, in his absence, the house steward had injunctions to carry out. The grand hall was only lit up as usual, its lustrous floor glistening in the brilliant light, while the profusion of cut glass and silver plate sparkled upon the sideboards, loudly proclaiming the opulence of the planter. There was no strange company present – none expected – no one who did not belong to the family, except Mr Smythje; and he could scarcely be considered a stranger. Rather might he be regarded – for the time at least – as the master of the mansion: since in that charge had the Custos left him.

The only individuals occupying this splendid apartment were Smythje and the young mistress of Mount Welcome – both yet ignorant of what had occurred upon the Savanna Road – that fearful event which had left Kate Vaughan a fatherless orphan, at the same time depriving her of the proud title we have just bestowed upon her.

Yola, her attendant, went and came at intervals, and Thoms occasionally presented himself in the apartment, in obedience to a summons from his master.

Notwithstanding the absence of company, Smythje was in full evening dress – body-coat, breeches, silk stockings, and pumps, with silver buckles. It was his custom to dress, or be dressed, every evening – a custom so scrupulously observed, that had there been no one in the house except the negro domestics of the establishment, Smythje would have appeared in full fashionable costume all the same. With him the exigencies of fashion were as rigorous as to a holy friar would be the observances of his religion.

The gentleman was in high spirits – merry, indeed; and, strange to say, his companion was less melancholy than of late. No doubt this had given him his cue for mirth.

Why she had been enabled to escape from her habitual dejection was not known to Smythje; but he was fain to attribute the improvement in her spirits to the near prospect of that pleasant ceremony which in a few days must indubitably take place. In a week, or a fortnight at most, Mr Vaughan might be expected back; and then it was understood by all – tacitly by the young lady herself – that the union of Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle should be no longer delayed.

Smythje had even begun to talk of the wedding trousseau[589]; of the honeymoon tour – which was to extend to the grand metropolis; and as Kate, at his request, seated herself to the harp, suggesting a musical conversation, he commenced enlarging upon the theme of the grand “opwa,” and its attractions – so dear and delightful to himself.

This sort of talk, upon other occasions, had invariably the effect of making his listener more sad; but, strange to say, on that evening, it produced no such a disagreeable consequence. Kate’s fingers flitted over the strings of the instrument, drawing music from them that was far from melancholy.

In truth, the young creole was not listening to the couleur de rose[590] descriptions of the “metwopolis,” and its “opwa,” which Smythje was so strenuously endeavouring to impart to her.

Though seated by the harp, and striking mechanically upon its trings, she was dwelling upon thoughts of a far different character – thoughts suggested by some further intelligence which Yola had communicated to her, and which was the true source of that joy – perhaps but a transitory gleam – that overspread her countenance.

Little did Kate Vaughan suspect that the corpse of her father – lying cold and lifeless upon a stretcher, and surrounded by strange mourners – was at that moment scarce five miles distant from where she sat, and slowly approaching the now masterless mansion of Mount Welcome!

Little did she suspect, while making that music for Smythje, that, from another direction, monsters in human form were moving towards that mansion – their dark shadows projected across the glare of the window-lights – now stationary, now flitting stealthily onward – at each progressive movement drawing nearer and nearer to the walls!

She saw not these shadowy, demon-like men – had no suspicion either of their approach or intent – an intent which comprehended robbery, rapine of a far more fearful kind – murder, if need be.

Neither its mistress, neither Smythje, nor any one else of Mount Welcome, saw or suspected this mysterious circumvallation, until the movement had been successfully executed.

Not a word of warning, not a sign or gesture, was given to the occupants of the apartment, until, with wild, unearthly yells, half-a-dozen fiend-like forms – men of horrid aspect – some with black masks, others with naked visage even more hideous to behold – burst into the grand hall, and commenced the work of pillage.

One, of gigantic size, masked from crown to throat, and wrapped in an ample covering of skin – though not sufficient to conceal the deformity of a hunched back – rushed directly up to where the fair musician was seated; and, dashing the harp to one side, seized upon her wrist before she could disengage herself from her chair.

“Whugh!” came the ejaculation, in loud aspirate, from behind the mask, “I’se got ye at lass, ma Lilly Quasheba – atter many’s de yea’ ob longin’ fo’ hab ye. Ef de quaderoom, ya mudder, she ’cape an’ ’corn me, I’se take care de dauter doan’ get de same chance. You come ’long wi’ me!”

And as the ravisher pronounced these words, he commenced dragging his shrieking victim across the room towards the stair entrance.

Smythje’s half irresolute interposition was of no avail. With one sweep of his long, flail-like arm, he in the skin cloak sent the exquisite sprawling upon the floor.

The terrified Cockney no longer thought of resistance; but after scrambling awhile over the polished planks at length succeeded in gaining his feet. Then, without waiting to receive a second knock-down, he shot out through the open doorway, and, descending the stone stairs, in a couple of skips, disappeared in the darkness below.

Meanwhile the alarm had been communicated to the kitchen and all over the house. Shouts of surprise were succeeded by screams of terror. The domestics came running in from all directions; but a shot or two from the muskets and pistols of the black burglars, fired for the purpose of increasing the confusion, scattered the whole establishment of servants, Thoms among the rest, and sent them in full flight towards the sugar-works and negro village beyond.

In less than a score of seconds, Adam and his confederates had the mansion to themselves.

It was but the work of a few minutes to fling, open the buffets and sideboards, and plunder them of their most valuable contents. In less than a quarter of an hour the black burglars had finished their “job,” and were ready to depart.

While his confederates were thus engaged, Chakra had secured his victim at the bottom of the front stairway, where he was impatiently awaiting the completion of the pillage. Though determined upon having his share of the booty, he cared less for that than for the gratification of that wicked desire that had so long possessed his savage soul – so long by circumstances restrained.

Notwithstanding his eagerness for this demoniac indulgence, he still possessed a certain degree of prudence. As soon as Adam and his associates made their appearance, loaded with spoils, he placed his prisoner under the charge of one of the robbers, and, commanding the others to follow him, rapidly re-ascended the stairway, and once more entered the plundered apartment.

In an incredibly short space of time the harp, the chairs, the ottomans, and other articles of light furniture, were piled up in the middle of the floor; the jalousies were wrenched from their fastenings, flung upon the heap, and then set on fire.

Quick as tinder the dry wood blazed up; and in five minutes the noble mansion of Mount Welcome was in flames!

In five minutes more, under the red glare, flung far out into the distant fields, the robbers were seen, slowly and laboriously seeking concealment within the shadows beyond – six of them burdened with shining utensils that gave back the gleam of the blazing mansion; while the seventh, the most formidable figure of all, carried in his arms an object of a far different kind – the body of a beautiful woman – the fainting form of Lilly Quasheba!

Chapter 32

Burglars! Robbers! Murderers!

In solemn pace the procession which accompanied the corpse of Custos Vaughan moved silently on along the lonely road. The Jumbé Rock was now in sight, encarmined by the last rays of the sinking sun. Beyond lay Mount Welcome – a house to which the sad cortège was about to carry the cue for wailing and desolation.

Ah! little dreamt they who composed it that the demon was already there before them – if not of death, of a doom equally as dark!

Could Herbert only have known that at that moment the beautiful being he loved with his whole heart, and now more than ever – she who loved him, was struggling in the arms!

No matter. The terrible truth will reach him but too soon. It will meet him on his way. In another hour the sweet dreams in which, throughout that long day, he has been indulging, will meet with a dread dissipation.

At a turning of the road there stood several gigantic trees, offering a grand canopy of foliage. Under these the party halted, by the joint command of Herbert and Cubina, who at the same moment dismounted from their horses.

It was not the shade that had tempted them, for the sun had now gone down; nor yet that the bearers might obtain rest; the men were strong, and the wasted form was far from being a heavy burden. It was not for that reason that the halt had been ordered, but on account of a thought that had suggested itself to Herbert, and which was approved of by Cubina.

It was the apprehension of the dread impression which their arrival might produce at Mount Welcome – of course, on her whose father’s corpse they were carrying.

They had stopped to consider what was best to be done.

A plan soon suggested itself. A messenger could be sent forward upon one of the horses to communicate the sad tidings to Trusty, the overseer, and through him the melancholy news might be more gradually made known to her whom it most concerned.

Herbert would have gone himself, but was hindered by certain delicate considerations, based on the conflicting emotions that were stirring within him.

It mattered little who should bear the melancholy tidings to Trusty; and the negro attendant was finally chosen.

The man received his instructions; and, having mounted his own horse, rode off at such speed as the darkness, now down upon the earth, would permit.

For another hour the party remained in the place where they had halted, to give time for the messenger to execute his commission. Then, once more taking the road, they moved forward at a slow pace, Herbert alongside Cubina – now a-foot, and leading the horse upon which he had hitherto ridden.

Quaco alone guarded the prisoners; a duty to which the Maroon lieutenant was quite equal, and which he had rendered the more easy of accomplishment, by pressing into his service a piece of rope, attached round the neck of the one that was nearest, and which, held halter-fashion in his hand, enabled him to prevent either of them from straying in the darkness. Neither, however, made any attempt to escape, knowing as both did, that the slightest movement in that direction would cost them a “thwack” from a stout cudgel – an additional implement carried in the hands of Quaco.

In this way the cortège had proceeded for some half-mile or so beyond its last resting-place, when it was again brought to a halt by the orders of those in the lead.

The cause of this interruption was declared to all of the party at once. All heard the hoof-strokes of a horse coming rapidly along the road, and from the opposite direction to that in which they were moving.

Going, as he appeared to be, at full gallop, in five minutes more, or in half the time, the horseman should be in their midst.

Was he a stranger? Or could it be their own messenger coming back? He had not been directed to return. It was deemed sufficient for him to see Mr Trusty, and make known the news which he had been entrusted to communicate.

It was not without a feeling of surprise therefore, as the horseman dashed forward upon the ground, and pulled up in front of the procession, that Herbert and Cubina recognised the returned attendant.

He left them no time to speculate on the mystery of his re-appearance. The white froth upon the flanks of his steed, shining through the gloom, told of fast riding; while the stammering and terrified accents in which the man proclaimed the purpose of his return rendered more startling the news he had come to communicate.

Mount Welcome was, at that moment, attacked by a band of burglars, robbers, and murderers!

There were men in masks, and men without them – equally terrible to look upon. They were plundering the great hall, had murdered Mr Smythje, were ill-treating the young mistress of the mansion, and firing guns and pistols at every one who came in their way!

The messenger had not stayed to see Mr Trusty. He had learnt all this from the domestics, who were hurrying in flight from the mansion. Confounded by the shouting and shots he had himself heard, and thinking that the likeliest chance of assistance would be found in the party he had just left – and which he believed to be much nearer – he had galloped back along the road.

These were the main facts of the attendant’s story – not communicated, however, with any regard to sequence, but in the most incoherent manner, and liberally interspersed with exclamations of alarm.

It was a fearful tale, and fell with a terrible effect upon the ears of those to whom it was told – Herbert and Cubina.

Burglars – robbers – murderers! Mr Smythje killed! The young mistress of Mount Welcome in the act of being abused! and Yola? she, too —

“Quaco!” cried the Maroon captain, rushing to the rear, and addressing himself to his lieutenant, “think you our men can hear us from here? Sound your horn on the instant: your blast is stronger than mine. There is trouble at Mount Welcome. We may need every man of them. Quick – quick!”

“The devil!” cried Quaco, dropping his hold of the halter, and raising the horn to his mouth, “I’ll make them hear, if they’re in the Island of Jamaica. You keep your ground, ye pair of John Crows!” he added, as he held the horn an inch or two from his lips. “If either of you budge a foot out of your places, I’ll send a brace of bullets through your stinkin’ carcadges, and stop you that away. See if I don’t!”

And with this emphatic admonition, the colossus applied the horn to his mouth, and blew a blast that might have been heard for miles.

In echoes it rang from the sides of the Jumbé Rock, and from many a peak lying far beyond. So loud and shrill rang it, that one might almost have believed in Quaco’s affirmation: that it could be heard to the extremities of the Island!

At all events, it was heard by some not so far off: for scarce had its echoes ceased to reverberate, when half-a-dozen similar sounds, proceeding from different directions, and apparently from different distances, came back in response.

Cubina waited not to hear their repetition.

“Enough,” cried he, “there are half-a-dozen of them anyhow. That will no doubt be enough. You, Quaco, stay here till they come up, and then follow to Mount Welcome. Sound again, to direct them; and see that these two murderous villains don’t escape you.”

“Hadn’t I better put a brace of bullets through them?” naïvely inquired Quaco. “It’ll save trouble if I do that! What say you, Capen Cubina?”

“No, no, Quaco! Justice will settle accounts with them. Bring them on along with you; and follow as soon as our men get up!”

Before Quaco could offer any further suggestions, the Maroon captain had mounted the messenger’s horse – Herbert having already leaped into the saddle of the other – and both, without further speech, rode forward as fast as their steeds could carry them.

Chapter 33

Dread Conjectures

Observing a profound silence, the two young men pressed forward. Neither liked to put question to the other. Each dreaded the answer the other might make – each was thinking only of the danger of her who was dearest to him.

They urged on their steeds with equal eagerness, for both were alike interested in the dénouement of the dreadful drama at that moment being enacted at the mansion of Mount Welcome.

Their reflections were similar, and similarly painful.

They might be too late! Ere they could arrive upon the scene, the stage might be deserted – the tragedy played out – the players gone!

It needed not these thoughts to stimulate them to increased speed: they were already riding as if life or death rested on the issue.

They had neared the flank of the Jumbé mountain, and were heading for the ridge that separated the estates of Montagu Castle and Mount Welcome.

At this point the road debouched from the forest, and the ridge came in sight. At the same instant, a cry escaped from the lips of Cubina, as with a quick wrench he drew his horse to a halt.

Herbert echoed the cry of his comrade – at the same time imitating his action.

Neither thought of questioning the other. Both had halted under the same impulse. The evil omen had been seen simultaneously by both.

Over the summit of the ridge a yellow light glared, halo-like, against the sky.

“Fire!” exclaimed Cubina. “Just over Mount Welcome! Santa Madre! the mansion is in flames!”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Herbert; “we shall be too late!”

Not another word passed between the two horsemen. Stirred by the same instinct, they renewed their gallop; and silently, side by side, urged their horses up the hill.

In a few minutes they had attained the summit of the ridge, whence they could command a full view of the valley of Mount Welcome.

The mansion was in flames.

There was no further utterance of surprise: that was past. It was scarce a conjecture which Cubina had pronounced, on seeing that glare against the sky, but a conviction; and the crackling sounds which had assailed their ears, as they were riding upward to the crest of the ridge, had fully confirmed the event before their eyes looked on the fire itself.

There was no more a mansion of Mount Welcome. In its place a blazing pile – a broad sheet of flame, rising in gigantic jets to the sky, crowned with huge sparks and murky smoke, and accompanied by a continuous roaring and crackling of timbers, as if fiends were firing a feu-de-joie[591] in the celebration of some terrible holocaust.

“Too late! – too late!” muttered both the horsemen in the same breath; and then, with despair on their faces and black fear in their hearts, they once more gave rein to their steeds; and, riding recklessly down the slope, galloped on towards the conflagration.

In a few seconds’ time they had crossed the inclosures, and halted in front of the blazing pile; as near to it as their frayed steeds would consent to carry them. Both at the same instant sprang from their saddles; and, with guns grasped and ready to defend themselves against whatever enemy, approached nearer and nearer to the building.

No one appeared in front of the house. They hurried round to the rear: no one was there. Equally deserted were the grounds and the garden. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere – not a voice to be heard, except their own, as they called aloud; and this only feebly, through the hissing and roaring of the flames.

Back and forth rushed the two men in eager haste, going round and round the house, and exploring every spot that might be expected to conceal either friend or foe. But in spite of their most eager search, and the constant summons of their shouts, not a creature appeared, and no response reached them.

For a moment they paused to consider.

It was evident the conflagration had been going on for some time. The upper storey – which was but a framework of light timber – was now nearly consumed, and only the stonework below left standing. Over this the larger beams had fallen – no longer emitting flame, but lying transversely upon each other, charred, red, and smouldering.

On finding no one near the dwelling, Cubina and Herbert made for the works. These were all standing untouched; and it was evident that no attempt had been made to fire them. Only the mansion had been given to the flames.

On arriving among the out-buildings, the two men again raised their voices; but as before, without receiving a reply.

Here everything was dark and silent as the tomb – a silence more impressive by contrast with the awe-inspiring sounds of the conflagration raging at a distance. Neither in the curing-house, nor the mill, nor the mash-house, nor the stable, could anyone be discovered. Not an individual to be seen, not a voice to respond to their oft-repeated halloos.

On rushed they to the negro cabins. Surely there someone would be found? All could not have fled through fear of the robber-band?

As the two men turned in the direction of the negro village, a figure started up in the path – having just emerged out of the bushes. In that semblance to the imp of darkness, seen under the distant glare of the conflagration, Herbert recognised his old acquaintance Quashie.

Quashie had already identified him.

“Oh, young massr!” cried the darkey, as he rose to his feet; “de Buff am a-blazin’! It be all burn up!”

“Crambo! tell us something we don’t know!” impatiently demanded Cubina. “Who has set it on fire? Do you know that!”

“Did you see the incendiaries?” hurriedly added Herbert.

“See who, massr?”

“Those who set the house on fire?” inquired Herbert, still speaking with anxious haste.

“Yes – massr, I seed dem – when dey first rush up de front ’tairway.”

“Well – speak quickly – who and what were they? What were they like?”

“Law, massr, dey war like so many debbils. Dey were nigga men, an’ some had mask on dar faces. Folks say it war de Maroon ob de mountains. Black Bet she deny dat, and say no. She say ’twar some robbers of de mountains, an’ dat dey come fo’ carry off – ”

“Your young mistress? Miss Vaughan? Where? where?” interrupted Herbert, gasping out the unfinished interrogatory.

“And Yola, my lad! have you seen her?” added Cubina.

“No, genlums,” replied Quashie; “I seen neider de young missa, no’ de brown gal Yola. Dey war boaf up in de great hall. I no go up dar myseff. I’se afeard dey’d kill dis chile ef he go up da. I stayed down below, till I see Mr ’Mythje a comin’ down de stair. Lor – how de did streak it down dem dere stone step! He run in under de arch below. I guess he go hide dere. Den I took to ma heels, ’long wif de oder folk; an’ we all go hide in de bushes. Massa Thom an’ de house people dey all run for de woods – dey none o’ em nebber come back yet.”

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Herbert, in a voice of anguish; “can it be possible? You are sure,” said he, once more appealing to the darkey, “you are sure you saw nothing of your young mistress?”

“Nor of Yola?” asked the Maroon, equally as distressed as his companion.

“I decla’ I didn’t – neider o’ ’em two,” emphatically exclaimed Quashie. “See yonner!” he added, pointing towards the burning pile, and speaking in an accent of alarm. “Golly! dey a’n’t gone ’way yet – de robbers! de robbers!”

Herbert and Cubina, who, while in conversation with Quashie, had been standing with their backs towards the fire, faced suddenly round. As they did so, they perceived several dark forms moving between them and the bright background of the flames; their shadows projected in gigantic outlines up to the spot where the spectators stood. There were about half-a-dozen in all – just about the number at which Quashie had roughly estimated the incendiaries.

Both sprang forward, regardless of consequences, resolved upon knowing the worst; and, if their apprehensions should prove true, determined upon death or vengeance.

Chapter 34

Smythje Still Living

With their pieces cocked, and ready for instant execution, Cubina and Herbert were pressing to get within range, when the notes of a horn, sounded by one of the men before the fire, came swelling upon their ears.

The sounds were re-assuring. Cubina knew the signal of his lieutenant, and they were now near enough to recognise the colossal Quaco standing in the glare of red light, surrounded by some half-dozen of his comrades.

Quaco had left the corpse upon the road, and the prisoners well guarded by a couple of his followers; and, thinking he might be wanted at Mount Welcome, had hurried forward close upon the heels of the horsemen.

This accession of strength might have proved useful had the enemy been upon the ground. Where were the robbers – the incendiaries – perhaps the murderers? Where was Miss Vaughan? Where the maid Yola?

Had they escaped among the domestics, or – ?

The alternative thought was too horrible for utterance. Is either Herbert nor Cubina could trust themselves to give speech to it. Only in their minds did the interrogatory shape itself: had they perished in the flames?

Fearful as was the thought, it could not fail to be entertained; and, in the solemn silence which the reflection produced, all stood hopelessly gazing upon the ruthless fire that was fast reducing the noble mansion to a shapeless and smouldering ruin.

At that moment the stillness was interrupted by a voice proceeding from an unexpected quarter. It appeared to come from out the great arched vault under the stone stairway, from a corner shrouded in comparative darkness. It was partly an exclamation – partly a groan.

Quaco was the first to seek an explanation. Seizing a faggot that still flared, he rushed under the archway, regardless of the scorching heat.

Herbert and Cubina quickly followed, and all three stood within the vault.

Quaco waved the torch in front of his body, to illuminate the place.

The eyes of all three simultaneously rested upon an object that, at any other time, might have elicited from them peals of laughter.

In the corner of the vault stood a half-hogshead, or large tub – its head covered with a heavy lid. Near the upper edge a square hole had been sawed out; so that a hand containing a quart measure might be inserted, without the necessity of raising the lid. Inside, and directly opposite this opening, appeared the face of a man, with ample whiskers and moustaches; which face, despite the bedaubment of something that resembled treacle or tar, was at once identified as that of the aristocratic Smythje!

“Mr ’Mythje!” cried Quashie, who had followed the others under the archway. “I seed him – .”

“Fact, ma fwends, it’s nawbody else but maself,” interrupted the ludicrous image within the hogshead, as soon as he recognised his ancient deliverer, Quaco. “Aw took wefuge here fwom those howid wobbers. Be so good as waise the wid, and pawmit me to get out of this queeaw situation. Aw was afwaid aw should be dwowned. Ba Jawve! aw bwieve it’s tweakle?”

Quaco, endeavouring to suppress his laughter, lost no time in throwing up the lid, and extracting the sufferer from his sweet, though unpleasant position – for it was, in reality, a hogshead of molasses into which the terrified Smythje had soused himself, and in which, during the continuance of the tragedy enacted over his head, he had remained buried up to the neck!

Placed upright upon his legs on the flagged floor of the vault, glistening from neck to heel with a thick coat of the slimy treacle, the proud proprietor of Montagu Castle presented even a more ludicrous appearance than when Quaco had last seen him upon the summit of the hollow stump.

The latter, recalling this scene to memory, and unrestrained by other sentiments, could no longer restrain himself from giving way to loud laughter, in which Quashie, equally free from sorrow, took part.

With Herbert and Cubina it was not the moment for mirth; and, as soon as Smythje had been fairly deposited on his feet, both eagerly questioned him as to the circumstances that had transpired.

Smythje admitted having fled – at the same time making an awkward attempt to justify himself. According to his own account, and the statement was perfectly true, it was not till after he had been overpowered and struck down, that he betook himself to flight. How could he do otherwise? His antagonist was a giant, a man of vast magnitude and strength.

“A howid queetyaw,” continued Smythje; “a queetyaw with long arms, and a defawmity – a pwotubewance upon his shawders, like the haunch of a dwomedawy!”

“And what of Kate, my cousin?” cried Herbert, interrupting the exquisite, with contemptuous impatience.

“Aw – aw – yes! yaw cousin – ma paw Kate! A feaw the wobbers have bawn her off. A know she was bwought outside. Aw heard haw scweam out as they were dwagging’ haw down the staiw – aw – aw – .”

“Thank Heaven, then!” exclaimed Herbert; “thank Heaven, she still lives!”

Cubina had not waited for the whole of Smythje’s explanation. The description of the robber had given him his cue: and, rushing outside, he blew a single blast upon his horn – the “assembly” of his band.

The Maroons, who had scattered around the ruin, instantly obeyed the signal, and soon stood mustered on the spot.

“Upon the scent, comrades,” cried Cubina. “I know the wild boar that has been making this havoc. I know where the monster makes his den. Crambo! Ere an hour passes over his head, he shall answer for this villainy with his accursed life. Follow me!”

Chapter 35

On the Track of the Destroyer

As Cubina pronounced this command, he faced towards the mountain, and was hastening to gain the wicket in the garden wall, when an object came before his eyes that caused him to halt. Amidst the gloom, it was a sight that gave him joy.

He was not the only one to whom it brought gladness. Among the Maroons that had come with Quaco was one who had been suffering anguish equally with Herbert and Cubina – one who had equal cause for grief – if not for the loss of sweetheart or cousin, for that which should be dear as either – a sister.

A sister for whose sake he had crossed the wide ocean – had been sold into slavery – robbed by ruthless men – branded as a felon – chastised by the cruel scourge – had suffered every indignity which man could put on man. In this individual may be identified the young Foolah prince – the unfortunate Cingües.

What was it that gave Cubina joy – shared thus by Cingües?

It may be easily guessed. It was the sight of a female form, recognised by both – the sweetheart of the one, the sister of the other – Yola!

The girl was at that moment seen coming through the wicket-gate. Once inside, she made no stop, but hastened across the garden towards the group of men.

In another instant she was standing between her brother and lover, sharing the embrace of both.

Her story was soon told, and by all listened to with breathless attention – by Herbert Vaughan with emotions that wrung blood-drops from his heart. It was short, but far too long for the impatience of apprehension and revenge.

The girl had been in one of the chambers as the robbers entered the great hall. Regardless of consequences, she had rushed out among them. Like Smythje, she had been struck down, and lay for some minutes insensible, unconscious of what was transpiring.

When her senses returned, and she could look around her, she perceived that her young mistress was no longer in the room. The monsters were at that moment in the act of setting fire to the mansion.

A scream outside directed her. She recognised the voice of her mistress.

Springing to her feet, she glided through the open door, and down the stairway. The robbers were too much occupied – some with their booty, others with their scheme of incendiarism; they either did not observe or did not think it worth while – further to molest her.

On getting outside, she saw her young mistress borne off in the arms of a huge, misshapen man. He wore a mask over his face; but, for all this, she could tell that it was the same individual she had seen upon the preceding night in company with the Jew. The masked man, whose attention seemed wholly engrossed by his precious prize, went off alone, leaving the others to continue their work of plunder and devastation.

The African maid, in her native land habituated to similar scenes, with a quick instinct perceived the impossibility of rescuing her mistress at that moment; and, abandoning the idea of making an idle attempt, she determined to follow and ascertain to what place the robber was taking her. She might then return to Mount Welcome, and guide those who would be sent upon the pursuit.

Gliding silently along the path, and taking care not to show herself, she had kept the robber in view, without losing sight of him for a moment. The darkness was in her favour, as also the sloping path – enabling her to see from below, while she was herself in little danger of being seen.

In this way had she followed the robber up the declivity of the mountain, and in an oblique direction across it, still keeping close behind him; when all at once, and to her astonishment, she saw him suddenly disappear into the earth – bearing her young mistress upon his arm – like some monstrous fiend of the other world, who had stolen a sweet image of this, and was carrying her to his dread home in the regions of darkness.

Notwithstanding the supernatural fear with which the sudden disappearance had inspired her, the bold maiden was not deterred from proceeding to the spot.

Both her terror and astonishment were in some degree modified when she looked over a cliff, and saw the sheen of water at the bottom of a dark abysm yawning beneath her feet. In the dim light, she could trace something like a means of descent down the face of the cliff, and this at once dispelled all idea of the supernatural.

She made no attempt to follow further. She had seen enough to enable her to guide the pursuit; and, instantly turning back upon the path, she hastened down the declivity of the mountain.

She was thinking of Cubina and his Maroons – how soon her courageous sweetheart with his brave band would have rescued her unfortunate mistress – when at that moment, in the light of the flickering fire, she recognised the very image that was occupying her thoughts.

Her story was communicated in hurried phrase to Cubina and his comrades, who, without losing a moment of time, passed through the wicket-gate, and, with all the speed in their power, commenced ascending the mountain road.

Yola remained behind with Quashie and the other domestics, who were now flocking around the great fire, looking like spectres in the flickering light.

Cubina required no guide to conduct him. Forewarned by that wild conversation he had overheard, as well as by the events of the preceding day, he had already surmised the author of that hellish deed. More than surmised it: he was satisfied that, whatever head had planned, the hand that had perpetrated it was that of Chakra, the Coromantee.

Chapter 36

Too Late

Eager as hounds upon a fresh trail – quick as young, strong limbs could carry them – pressed the pursuers up the steep path that led to the Duppy’s Hole.

Words could but feebly express the agony rankling in the heart of Herbert Vaughan. He knew not Chakra in person; but a full description of him, morally as well as physically, had been imparted to him by Cubina on the day before. It was not strange he should tremble with fear for the fate of her who was now in the power of a monster so fell and fiend-like – not strange that his soul should be filled with anguish.

That conditional phrase – “We may be too late!” – spoken as he urged his horse along the road; repeated as he came within sight of the burning mansion – once more found utterance on his lips; but now more emphatically and with a far more fearful significance.

His was a situation to stir the soul to its profoundest depths. Even had the victim of the vile abduction been no more than his cousin, he could not have failed to feel keenly the danger that threatened her.

But now that he viewed Kate Vaughan in another and very different light – certain, from what Cubina had told him, that she reciprocated his love – under the influence of this sentiment, his distress was tenfold greater. So late, too, had he become possessed of that knowledge – so sweet had been the ecstasy it produced – that the sudden revulsion was all the more dreadful to endure.

While murmuring the words “We may be too late,” he dare scarce trust himself to give thought to the form of danger whose dread was thus hypothetically predicted.

Cubina, though, perhaps, a little less anxious than before, was equally earnest in the pursuit; and, indeed, every one of the Maroon band showed to some extent the feelings of painful apprehension that actuated their leader, whom they knew to be the friend of the young Englishman. No one showed a disposition to lag. All were alike eager to aid in the rescue of the unfortunate young lady, known to most of them, and honoured by those to whom she was known.

The horses had been left behind. On the steep and tangled path, they would have been only an encumbrance.

Perhaps, never before, by man on foot, had that path been traversed in so short a space of time. There was no delay on account of the darkness. As if by Divine favour, the moon had opportunely arisen, just as they were passing through the wicket-gate, and by her light they were able to proceed without pause or interruption. No stop was made anywhere, till the pursuers stood upon the edge of the Duppy cliff, and looked down into that dark abysm, where they hoped to find the spoiler and his victim.

Scarce a moment there, either. One after another they descended the tree stairway, Cubina going first, Herbert next, the others following, with like rapidity.

With the instinct of trained hunters all made the descent in silence. Only on arriving at the bottom of the cliff did an exclamation escape from the lips of their chief – Cubina.

The sight of a canoe, drawn up under the bushes, had elicited this exclamation – which expressed surprise mingled with disappointment.

Herbert saw the canoe almost at the same instant of time, but without drawing the inference that had caused Cubina to utter that cry. He turned to the latter for an explanation.

“The canoe!” whispered Cubina, pointing down to the little craft half hidden under the leafy branches.

“I see it,” said Herbert, also speaking in a whisper. “What does it signify?”

“They have gone out again.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Herbert, in an accent of anguish, the more expressive from the low tone in which the words were uttered. “If that be so, then we are too late – she is lost! – lost!”

“Patience, comrade! Perhaps it is only Chakra himself who has gone out; or, maybe, some one of the robbers who have been helping him, and who may be expected to return again. In any case, we must search the valley and make sure. Step into the canoe! You can’t swim in your clothes, while my fellows are not embarrassed in that way. Here, Quaco! get your guns aboard this cockle-shell, and all of you take to the water. Swim silently. No splashing, do you hear? Keep close under the cliff! Swim within the shadow, and straight for the other side.”

Without more delay the guns were passed from hand to hand, until all were deposited in the canoe. Cubina and Herbert had already stepped into the frail craft, the former taking possession of the paddle.

In another instant the little vessel shot out from the bushes, and glided silently under the shadow of the cliff.

Some half-dozen human forms, their heads just appearing above the surface of the water, followed in its wake – swimming with as little noise as if they had been a brood of beavers.

There was no need to direct the canoe to its old landing-place under the tree. Cubina knew that this had been chosen for concealment. Instead of going thither, he made for the nearest point of the opposite shore. On touching land he stepped out, making a sign to his fellow-voyager to imitate his example.

The Maroons waded out the moment after; and once more getting hold of their guns, followed their captain and his companion – already on their route to the upper cascade.

There was no path from the point where they had landed; and for some time they struggled through a thicket almost impervious. There was no danger, however, of their losing the way. The sound of the falling water was an infallible guide; for Cubina well remembered the proximity of the hut to the upper cascade, and it was for this point they were making.

As they advanced, the underwood became easier to traverse; and they were enabled to proceed more rapidly.

There was something lugubrious in the sound of the cataract. Cubina was painfully impressed by it, and equally so his companion. It sounded ominous in the ears of both; and it was easy to fancy sighs of distress, wild wailings of a woman’s voice, mingling with the hoarser tones of the torrent.

They reached at length the edge of the opening that extended for some distance beyond the branches of the cotton-tree. The hut was before their eyes. A light was shining through the open door. It cast its reflection across the ground shadowed by the great tree, till it met the surface silvered by the moon. Though faint, and apparently flickering, the light gave joy to the eyes that beheld it. It was evidence that the hut was occupied.

Who but Chakra could be there? And if Chakra, there too must be his victim.

Oh! was she his victim? Had the rescue arrived too late?

Cubina’s bosom was filled with sad forebodings. Herbert’s heart was on fire. It was with difficulty that either could control his emotion to approach with that caution that prudence required.

Making a sign to his followers to stay among the trees, the Maroon captain, with Herbert by his side, crept up towards the cotton-tree.

Having got fairly under its shadow, they rose to their feet, and, with the silence of disembodied spirits, glided close up to the entrance of the hut.

In another instant the silence was broken by both. A simultaneous cry escaped them as they arrived in front of the open door and looked in. It was a cry that expressed the extreme of disappointment. The hovel was empty!

Chapter 37

The Corpse of a Cousin

Yes, the temple of Obi was untenanted, save by those dumb deities that grinned grotesquely around its walls.

To ascertain this fact it was not necessary to enter within the shrine of the Coromantee Pantheon. Nevertheless, Cubina and Herbert, as if moved by a mechanical impulse, rushed inside the door.

They looked around with inquiring glances. There were signs of late occupation. The lighted lamp was of itself sufficient evidence of this. Who save Chakra could have lit it? It was a lamp of lard, burning in the carapace of a tortoise. It could not have been loner alight: since but little of the lard was consumed.

There was no doubt that Chakra had been there, with his captive. That added nothing to the knowledge they possessed already: since Yola had witnessed their descent into the Duppy’s Hole.

But why had the robber so suddenly forsaken this apparently safe retreat? That the lamp was left burning betokened a hasty departure. And whither could he have gone?

“Oh, where? – oh, where?” distractedly interrogated Herbert.

Cubina could make no answer. He was equally astonished at not finding the Coromantee within his hut.

Had he once more gone out from the Duppy’s Hole? The position of the canoe gave colour to this conjecture. But why should he have done so? Had he caught sight of that agile girl gliding like a shadow after him? and, becoming suspicious that his retreat might be discovered, had he forsaken it for some other at a greater distance from the scene of his crime?

In any case, why should he have left in such haste, not staying to put out the light – much less to carry with him his peculiar Penates?

“After all,” thought Cubina, “he may still be in the Duppy’s Hole. The canoe may have been used by some one else – some confederate. Chakra might have seen his pursuers crossing the lagoon, or heard them advancing through the thicket, and, taking his captive along with him, may have hastily retreated into some dark recess among the trees.”

His sudden abandonment of the hovel rendered this view of the case the more probable.

Quick as came the thought, Cubina once more rushed out of the hut, and summoning his men around him, directed them to procure torches and search every corner of the wood. Quaco was despatched back to the canoe, with orders to stay by it, and prevent any chance of escape in that direction.

While the Maroons proceeded to procure the torchwood, their chief, accompanied by Herbert, commenced quartering the open ground in search of any trace which Chakra might have left. By the edge of the water, where the trees stood thinly, the moon afforded ample light to favour the investigation.

On advancing towards the cascade, an object came under the eyes of Cubina that caused him to utter a quick ejaculation. It was something white that lay by the side of the cauldron into which the stream was precipitated. Within the pool itself were broad flakes of white foam floating upon the water; but this was not in the water, but above it, on one of the boulders; and all the more conspicuous from the black colour of the rock.

Herbert had seen the white object at the same instant of time, and both simultaneously ran forward to examine it.

A scarf!

It bore evidence of ill-usage. It was tossed and torn, as if it had fallen from someone who had been struggling!

Neither could identify the scarf, but neither doubted to whom it had belonged. Its quality declared it to have been the property of a lady. Who else could have owned it but she for whom they were in search?

Cubina appeared to pay less attention to the scarf than to the place in which it lay. It was close up to the cliff, on the very edge of the pool into which the stream was projected.

Behind this pool, and under the curved sheets of the falling water, a sort of ledge ran across, by which one could pass under the cascade.

Cubina knew this: for, while on his hunting excursions, he had gone under it. He knew, moreover, that, half way across, there was a large cave or grotto in the cliff, several feet above the water in the pool.

As the scarf was found lying upon the ledge that conducted to this grotto, the circumstance caused the Maroon to remember it, at the same time that it guided him to the conjecture that Chakra might be there. Alarmed by their approach, there was nothing more likely than for the Coromantee to have chosen the cave for his place of retreat – the last place where anyone, not aware of its existence, would have thought of looking for him.

These reflections cost Cubina scarce two seconds of time. Quick as the conjecture had shaped itself, he ran back to the hut; and, seizing a torch, which one of his men had prepared, he hurried back towards the cascade.

Then, signing to Herbert, and one or two others to follow him, he glided under the canopy of falling waters.

He proceeded not rashly, but with due caution. There might be others within the cave besides Chakra! His robber confederates might be there; and these the Maroon knew to be desperate characters – men of forfeit lives, who would die before suffering themselves to be captured.

With his drawn machete in one hand, and the torch in the other, Cubina advanced silently and stealthily towards the entrance of the grotto. Herbert was close behind, grasping his double-barrelled gun, in readiness to fire, in case resistance should be offered from within.

Holding the torch in advance of him, Cubina entered first, though Herbert, anxious and eager, was close upon his heels.

The glare of the torch was reflected back from a thousand sparkling stalactites, and for a while the sight of both was bewildered.

Soon, however, their eyes became accustomed to the dazzling coruscation; and then a white object, lying along the floor of the cave, seen by both at the same instant, caused them to utter a simultaneous cry – as they did so, turning to each other with looks of the most painful despair.

Between two large masses of stalagmite was the body of a woman, robed in white. It was lying upon its back, stretched out to its full length – motionless; apparently dead!

They needed not to pass the torch over that pale face to identify it. It was not necessary to scrutinise those wan, silent features. On first beholding the prostrate form, too easily had Herbert rushed to the sad conclusion – that it was the corpse of his cousin!

Chapter 38

The Sleep-Spell

During all this time where was Chakra?

As soon as he had seen the mansion of Mount Welcome fairly given to the flames, the Coromantee, bearing its young mistress in his arms, hurried away from the spot. Outside the garden wicket he made stop: only for a moment, which was spent in a hasty consultation with the chief of the black bandits.

In the brief dialogue which there took place between them, Adam was enjoined to carry the whole of the booty to his mountain home, where Chakra promised in due time to join him. The Coromantee had no intention to resign his share of the spoils; but just then he was in no mood for making the division. He was at that moment under the influence of a passion stronger than the love of plunder.

Adam was only too eager to accede to these terms; and the confederates parted company – the robber and his followers at once shouldering their booty, and setting out for their forest dwelling among the far mountains of Trelawney.

Like the tiger who has killed his prey – and, not daring to devour it on the spot, bears it to his jungle covert – so Chakra, half dragging, half carrying Kate Vaughan, proceeded up the mountain path in the direction of the Duppy’s Hole.

Lifeless as the victim of the ferocious beast appeared the form of Lilly Quasheba, hanging supple and unconscious over the arm of the human monster – equally ferocious.

Her screams no longer fell upon the ear. Her terror had exhausted her strength. Syncope[592], resembling death, had succeeded.

It continued, happily for her, during the whole of the transit up the mountain. The wild forest path had no terrors for her: neither the descent into the dank solitudes of the Duppy’s Hole. In the traverse over that dark lagoon, she was not frightened by the scream of the startled night bird, nor the threatening roar of the close cataract. She knew no fear, from the moment she was earned away in the arms of a hideous monster, on a path lighted by the blaze of the roof under which she had been born and reared: she experienced no feeling of any kind, until she awoke to consciousness in a rude triangular hut, lit by a feeble lamp, whose glare fell upon a face hitherto well-known – the face of Chakra, the myal-man.

His mask had been removed. The Coromantee stood before her in all his deformity – of soul as of person.

Terror could go no further. It had already produced its ultimate effect. Under such circumstances reproach would have been idle; indignation would only have been answered by brutal scorn.

Though she might not clearly comprehend her situation, the young Creole did not think she was dreaming. No dream could be so horrid as that! And yet it was difficult to believe that such a fearful scene could be real!

O God! it was real. Chakra stood before her – his harsh voice was ringing in her ears. Its tone was mocking and exultant.

She was upon the bamboo bedstead, where the myal-man had placed her. She had lain there till, on her senses returning, she discovered who was her companion. Then had she started up – not to her feet, for the interposition of the Coromantee had hindered her from assuming an erect position, but to an attitude half reclining, half threatening escape. In this attitude was she held – partly through fear, partly by the hopelessness of any attempt to change it.

The Coromantee stood in front of her. His attitude? Was it one of menace? No! Not a threat threw out he – neither by word nor gesture. On the contrary, he was all softness, all suppliance – a wooer!

He was bending before her, repeating vows of love! Oh, heavens! more fearful than threats of vengeance!

It was a terrible tableau – this paraphrase of the Beast on his knees before Beauty.

The young girl was too terrified to make reply. She did not even listen to the disgusting speeches addressed to her. She was scarce more conscious than during the period of her syncope.

After a time, the Coromantee appeared to lose patience. His unnatural passion chafed against restraint. He began to perceive the hopelessness of his horrid suit. It was in vain to indulge in that delirious dream of love – in the hope of its being reciprocated – a hope with which even satyrs are said to have been inspired. The repellent attitude of her, the object of his demoniac adoration – the evident degoût too plainly expressed in her frightened features – showed Chakra how vain was his wooing.

With a sudden gesture he desisted, raising himself into an attitude of determination that bespoke some dreadful design – who knows what?

A shrill whistle pealing from without prevented its accomplishment, or, at all events, stayed it for the time.

“’Tam de signal ob dat ole Jew!” muttered he, evidently annoyed by the interruption. “Wha he want dis time ob de night? ’Pose it somethin’ ’bout dat ere loss book-keeper? Wa! a know nuffin ’bout him. Dere ’tam ’gain, and fo’ de tree time. Dat signify he am in a hurry. Wha’s dat? Foth time! Den da be some trouble, sa’tin. Muss go to him – muss go. He nebba sound de signal fo’ time ’less da be some desp’rate ’casion fo’ do so. Wonder what he want!”

“Nebba mind, Lilly Quasheba!” added he, once more addressing his speech to his mute companion. “Doan bex yaseff ’bout dis interupshun. De bisness ’tween you ’n me ’ll keep till a gets back, an’ den, p’raps, a no find you so ob’tinate. You come – you ’tay out hya – you muss no be seen in dis part ob de world.”

As he said this, he seized the unresisting girl by the wrist, and was about leading her out of the hut.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping to reflect; “dat woan do, neider. De ole Jew mussn’t know she hya – no account. She mout run back in de shanty, darfur she muss be tied. An’ den she mout ’cream so he hear her, darfur she muss be gagged.”

Still holding her wrist in his grasp, he looked around the hut as if in search of the means to put this design into execution.

“Ha!” he ejaculated, as if inspired by some new thought, “what hab a been bodderin’ ma brains ’bout? Dar’s a better plan dan eider tyin’ or gaggin’ – better dan boaf put togedder! De sleepin’ draff. Da’s de berry ting keep her quiet. Wha’s de bottle, a wonder? Dar um be.”

With this, he stretched forth his disengaged hand, and drew something out of a sort of pocket cut in the palm-leaf thatch. It appeared to be a long narrow phial, filled with a dark-coloured fluid, and tightly corked.

“Now, young missa!” said he, drawing out the cork with his teeth, and placing himself as if intending to administer a draught to his terrified patient; “you take a suck out ob dis hya bottle. Doan be ’feerd. He do no harm – he do you good – make you feel berry comf’able, I’se be boun’. Drink!”

The poor girl instinctively drew back; but the monster, letting go her wrist, caught hold of her by the hair, and, twisting her luxuriant tresses around his bony fingers, held her head as firmly as if in a vice. Then, with the other hand, he inserted the neck of the phial between her lips, and, forcing it through her teeth, poured a portion of the liquid down her throat.

There was no attempt to scream – scarce any at resistance – on the part of the young creole. Almost freely did she swallow the draught. So prostrate was her spirit at that moment, that she would scarce have cared to refuse it, even had she known it to be poison!

And not unlike to poison was the effect it produced – equally quick in subduing the senses – for what Chakra had thus administered was the juice of the calalue, the most powerful of narcotics.

In a few seconds after the fluid had passed her lips, the face of the young girl became overspread with a death-like pallor – all through her frame ran a gentle, tremulous quivering, that bespoke the sudden relaxation of the muscles. Her lithe limbs gave way beneath her; and she would have sunk down upon the floor, but for the supporting arm of the weird conjuror who had caused this singular collapse.

Into his arms she sank – evidently insensible – with the semblance rather of death than of sleep!

“Now, den!” muttered the myal-man, with no sign of astonishment at a phenomenon far from being strange to him – since it was to that same sleeping-spell he was indebted for his professional reputation – “now, den, ma sweet Lilly, you sleep quiet ’nuff ’till I want wake you ’gain. Not hya, howsomedever. You muss take you nap in de open air. A muss put you wha de ole Jew no see you, or maybe he want you fo’ himself. Come ’long, disaway!”

And thus idly apostrophising his unconscious victim, he lifted her in both arms, and carried her out of the hut.

Outside he paused, looking around, as if searching for some place in which to deposit his burden.

The moon was now above the horizon, and her beams were beginning to be reflected feebly, even through the sombre solitude of the Duppy’s Hole. A clump of low bushes, growing just outside the canopy of the cotton-tree, appeared to offer a place of concealment; and Chakra was proceeding towards them, when his eye fell upon the cascade; and, as if suddenly changing his design, he turned out of his former direction, and proceeded towards the waterfall.

On getting close up to the cliff over which the stream was precipitated, he paused for an instant on the edge of the seething cauldron; then, taking a fresh hold of the white, wan form that lay helpless over his arm, he glided behind the sheet of foaming water, and suddenly disappeared from the sight – like a river-demon of Eld, bearing off to his subaqueous cavern some beautiful victim, whom he had succeeded in enticing to his haunt, and entrancing into a slumber more fatal than death.

In a few seconds the hideous hunchback reappeared upon the bank, no longer embarrassed by his burden; and hearing the whistle once more skirling along the cliffs, he faced down stream, and walked rapidly in the direction of his canoe.

Chapter 39

A New Job for Chakra

Chakra, on reaching the crest of the cliff, found Jacob Jessuron in a state of impatience bordering upon torment. The Jew was striding back and forth among the trees, at intervals striking the ground with his umbrella, and giving utterance to his favourite exclamatory phrases – “Blesh my soul!” and “Blesh me!” – with unusual volubility.

Now and then also could be heard the Teutonic ejaculation, “Ach!” proving that his soul was under the influence of some unpleasant passion, that was vexing him even to torture.

“Wha’s de trouble, Massr Jake?” inquired the myal-man, scrambling over the edge of the rock. “Dar’s something go wrong, a ’pose, from de way you hab soun’ de signal? A hear de whissel fo’ time.”

“There ish something wrong – a great deal ish wrong – s’help me, there ish! What hash kept you, Shakra?” he added, with a show of vexation.

“Golly, Massr Jake, a war asleep; da’s wha’ d’layed me.”

“How, then, hash you heard the signal four times?”

The query appeared slightly to puzzle Chakra.

“O – a – de signal fo’ time,” stammered he, after a pause of reflection. “Wa, ye see, a hear de fuss time in ma sleep – den de second time he wake me – de third a got to ma feet; and when de fo’th – ”

The Jew – either satisfied with the explanation, or too much hurried to hear the end of it – interrupted Chakra at “de fo’th.”

“It ish no time for talk when Mount Welcome ish in flames. You knowsh that, I supposhe?”

Chakra hesitated, as if considering whether to make a negative or affirmative reply.

“Of course you knowsh it. I needn’t haf ashked. Who wash it? Adam hash been there. Wash it him?”

“Ole Adam hab a hand in dat ere bizness, a b’lieve.”

“You knowsh it, Shakra; and I knowsh another that hash had a hand in it. That ish not my bishness, nor what I hash come here about. There ish worse than that.”

“Wuss, Massr Jake?” inquired the myal-man, with an air of feigned surprise. It might have been real. “Wuss dan dat? Hab de young man no come back?”

“Ach! that ish nothings. There ish far worse – there ish danger: s’help me, there ish!”

“Danger! Wha from, Massr Jake?”

“Firsh tell me where ish Adam now? I want him, and all his fellish.”

“He am gone back to de mountains.”

“Ach! Gone back, you shay? How long ish he gone? Can you overtake him, Shakra?”

“Possab’e a mout; dey won’t trabbel fass. Dey am too hebby load fo’ dat. But wha’ fo’ you want ole Adam, Massr Jake?”

“Bishness of the greatesht importance. It ish life and death. Blue Dick hash been over to Mount Welcome. He hash heerd shtrange news – ach! terrible news! A messhenger who came in from the Saffana road hash brought the newsh of many dishagreeable things – among the resht that my Shpaniards haf been made prisoners by Cubina and thish ungrateful villain of a Vochan. They are accushed of murdering the Cushtos. Blesh my soul!”

“What harm dat do you, Massr Jake? Wha’s de danger?”

“Danger! Dosh you not see it, Shakra? If theesh hunters ish brought to trial, do you supposhe they would hold their tongues? S’help me, no! They will turn Shtate’s efidence; and then I should be exshposed – arreshted – ruined! Oh! why hash I ever trushted theesh clumshy fellish with a bishness of such importance?”

“Dey am clumsy fellas, jess as you say, Massr Jake.”

“Ach! it ish too late to shpeak of regretsh. It ish necessary to take some shteps to prevent thish terrible mishfortune. You musht go after Adam, and find him thish instant – thish instant, Shakra.”

“All right, Massr Jake. A do whatebber you bid me, nebba fear. A soon track up Adam; but wha d’ye want me say to de ole nigga when a hab foun’ ’im?”

“You needn’t shay anything – only bring him back with you to the Shumbé Rock. I shall wait there for you till you come. Don’t keep me long in sushpense, Shakra. Make all the shpeed in your power. If you don’t get back before sunrishe, all will be losht! I’ll be ruined – I will, s’help me!”

“Nebba fear, Massr Jake. A woan lose a minnit. A doan tink dat ere ole nigga’s got far ’way jess yet. A soon obertake ’im. A go atter him at once. Whugh!”

As Chakra uttered the exclamation, he turned on his heel, and was about to start up the mountain, in the direction of the Jumbé Rock, near which he would have to pass on his way towards the haunt of the black robbers.

“Shtay!” cried the Jew, “I’she going with you ash far ash the Shumbé Rock. I may ash well wait there ash anywhere elshe. It ish no ushe my going home now. S’help me! I cannot resht till thish thing ish settled. And now, when I thinksh of it, you may ash well let Adam know for what he ish wanted – so ash he may come prepared. Say to him he ish to go shtraight to Mount Welcome – that ish, where it ushed to be. He’sh not to show hishelf there, but prosheed along the road, till he meets the Cushtos’ body, and them that ish with it. Then he ish to find some way to rescue the Shpaniards, an’ let them eshcape to me. You musht go along with Adam and hish men, elshe they may shpoil all. He musht bring his fellish well armed; you may shtand in need of them all. The messenger said there were some negroes from the eshtate of Content. Theesh won’t signify. They will all run away ash soon as you show yourselves; but the others may be inclined to make fight. There ish Cubina, and the young raschal of an Englishman, besides that giant Quaco, and the messenger hishself. You thinksh you can manage them, Shakra?”

“Sure ob dat.”

“You musht take them by an ambushcade.”

“P’raps we kill some o’ dem.”

“Ash many ash you like. Only make shure to get the Shpaniards off.”

“Be no great harm to kill dem too – atter de fool dey hab made ob demselves, lettin’ dem fellas take um pris’ner dat a way. Whugh!”

“No, no, goot Shakra! – we mushn’t kill our friendsh – we may need them again. You may promish Adam goot pay for the shob. I don’t care for the cosht, so long as it ish clefferly done.”

“All right, Massr Jake; leab dat to me an’ Adam. We do de ting clebberly ’nuf, I’se be boun’.”

And with this assurance Chakra strode off up the mountain, the Jew having set the example by starting forward in advance of him.

Chapter 40

Dead, or Asleep?

On beholding what he believed to be the dead body of his cousin, the grief of Herbert Vaughan proclaimed itself in a wild cry – in tones of the bitterest agony. He flung his gun upon the rock – knelt down by the side of the corpse – raised her head upon his arm, and, gazing upon that face, in death beautiful as ever, drew it nearer to his own, kissed the cold, unconscious lips – kissed them again and again, as though he had hopes that the warmth of his love might re-animate the fair form over which he was bending.

For some time his frenzied caresses were continued – their fervour unchecked by the presence of his rude companions who stood around. Respecting the sanctity of his grief, all observed a solemn silence. Nor word nor sound escaped the lips of any one. Sobs alone proceeded from Cubina. The Maroon had also cause to sorrow at that sad spectacle – but these were not heard. They were drowned by a more powerful voice – the melancholy monotone of the cataract – that had been speaking incessantly since the creation of the world.

It was a long time before the heart of Herbert consented to his discontinuing those cold but sweet kisses – the first he had ever had; the last he was destined to have – from those pale lips; long before he could withdraw his supporting arm from beneath that beautiful head, whose shining tresses lay dishevelled along the rock.

The torch held in the hands of Cubina was burning to its base. Only when warned by its flickering light, did the chief mourner rise once more to his feet; and then making a feeble signal to those who stood around, he moved in solemn silence towards the entrance of the grotto.

His gesture was understood, and promptly obeyed. By the authority of his greater grief he had become master of the mournful ceremonies now to be observed.

The Maroons, quietly crossing their arms under the inanimate form, raised it from the rock; and, following him who had given them their silent direction, they bore it to the hut – there placing it upon the cane couch. With instinctive delicacy all retired upon the completion of their task, leaving Herbert and Cubina alone with the body.

An interval elapsed before either essayed to speak. Both were under the influence of a profound grief, that almost stifled reflection, Cubina was the first to have other thoughts, and to give expression to them.

“Santa Virgen!” said he, in a voice husky with emotion, “I know not how she has died, unless the sight of Chakra has killed her. It was enough to have done it.”

The suggestive speech received no other answer than a groan.

“If the monster,” continued the Maroon, “has used other violence, I see no trace of it. There is no wound – no appearance of anything that should have produced death. Poor young creature! – there’s something dark inside her lips – but it’s not blood – ”

“O God!” cried Herbert, interrupting the speaker with a fresh paroxysm of grief. “Two corpses to be carried home to the same house – father and daughter on the same day – in the same hour: both the victims of villainy. O God!”

“Both victims of the same villain, I have my belief,” rejoined Cubina. “The same hand that has laid low the Custos, if I mistake not, has been at the bottom of this horrible crime. Chakra is but the weapon. Another has dealt the blow – you know who, Master Vaughan?”

Herbert was hindered from making reply. A dark form appearing in the door, distracted the attention of both from the theme of their conversation.

Quaco had heard the melancholy tidings; and, relieved from his duty by the canoe, had hurried back to the hut. He it was who now appeared in the doorway, filling it from post to post – from step to lintel.

Neither his chief nor Herbert offered any remark. Quaco’s presence did not surprise them. It was natural he should come to the hut – if only to satisfy his curiosity. Weighted with their sorrow, neither took any notice of his arrival, nor of his movements after he had entered the hut – which he did without waiting to be invited.

Having stepped inside, the colossus stood for some moments by the couch, gazing down upon the sweet, silent face. Even on his features was depicted an expression of sorrow.

Gradually this became more subdued, or rather appeared to undergo a total change – slowly but surely altering to an expression of cheerfulness.

Slight at first, and imperceptible on account of the large scale upon which Quaco’s features were formed, the expression was every moment becoming more pronounced; until at length it attracted the notice of the others, notwithstanding the abstraction caused by their poignant grief.

Both observed it at the same instant, and to both it caused a feeling of annoyance – amounting almost to indignation.

“Lieutenant,” said Cubina, addressing his subaltern in a tone of reproach, “it is not exactly the time for being gay. May I ask you what is making you smile, while others around you are overwhelmed with sorrow?”

“Why, cappen!” rejoined Quaco, “I can’t see what yar all a-grievin’ ’bout. Can’t be the Custos: since, sartinly, you’ve got over grievin’ for him long afore this!”

The reply – grotesque in character, and almost jovial in the manner of its delivery – could not fail still further to astonish those to whom it was addressed. Both started on hearing it; and for some moments bent their eyes on the speaker in an expression of wonder, mingled with indignation.

Had Quaco gone mad?

“In the presence of death, sir,” said the young Maroon captain, directing a severe glance upon his lieutenant, “you might lay aside that merry mood, too common with you. It ill becomes you – ”

“Death, do ye say, cappen?” interrupted Quaco; “who’s gone dead here?”

There was no reply to this abrupt interrogatory. Those to whom it was addressed were too much taken by surprise to say a word.

“If you mean the young buckra lady,” continued Quaco, “I’d give all the barbecued hog I ever owned nebber to be more dead than she jess now. Dead, i’deed? nonsense dat: she only sleep!”

Herbert and Cubina started from their seats, each uttering a cry of astonishment, in which might be detected the accents of hope.

“Who’s got a piece o’ lookin’-glass!” continued Quaco, turning his glance interrogatively around the hut. “Good,” he exclaimed, as the sparkle of a piece of broken mirror came under his eyes; “here’s the thing itself!

“Now, lookee hyar!” resumed he, taking the bit of glass from the place where it had been deposited, and rubbing its surface with a piece of rag: “you see thar’s ne’er a speck upon it?”

The others, still held silent by surprise, made answer only by nodding their assent.

“Wal, now,” continued Quaco, “watch me a bit.”

Placing the smooth surface of the mirror to the mute lips, he held it there for a minute or more; and then, turning, he raised it up, and held it close to the light of the lamp.

“Ye see,” he cried, triumphantly pointing to a white filmy bloom that appeared upon the glass, partially obscuring its sheen, “that’s her breath! She no gone dead, else how she hab breath?”

His listeners were too excited to make reply. Only by exclamations did they signify their assent to the truth of his hypothesis.

“Ho!” exclaimed Quaco, suddenly dropping the bit of glass, and clutching hold of a phial that lay upon the floor – now for the first time noticed.

“What we got here?” continued he, drawing the cork with his teeth, and thrusting the neck up his wide nostril. “Sleepin’ draugh’! I thought so. So this is the spell that’s put the young buckra lady to rest. Well, there’s another that’ll wake her, if I can only find it. It’s boun’ be hya, somewheres about; and if I can git my claws on it, I’ll make this hya young creatur’ talk to ye in less than ten minutes!”

So saying, the colossus commenced searching around the hut, looking into the numerous chinks and crannies with which both walls and roof were provided.

Restrained by surprise, blended with hopeful anticipation, neither Herbert nor Cubina offered to interrupt his actions, by word or gesture. Both remained in their respective places – silently but anxiously awaiting the event.

Chapter 41

Quaco Turned Myal-Man

To Herbert Vaughan it was a moment of tumultuous emotions – joy springing up in the midst of utter woe. That his cousin still breathed he could not doubt; that she lived he was only too ready to believe. Though mystified beyond measure by what appeared the perfect semblance of death, the words of Quaco had given him some clue to a remarkable mystery – at the same time inspiring him with the belief that in that motionless form the soul was yet present. Her breathing upon the mirror had made him sure of it.

The mystery to which Quaco’s speeches had introduced him was that of myalism. In this the Maroon lieutenant claimed to have skill almost equalling the regular professors of the art. In addition to being Cubina’s deputy on all important occasions, Quaco was the doctor of the band; and in his medical experience he had picked up some knowledge of the system of Obeah – more especially of the trick by which, in the belief of the ignorant, a dead body can be brought to life again – that dread secret of the Coromantee charlatan, known in the West Indies as myalism.

“Only a sleep-spell,” said Quaco, still continuing his search; “nothin’ more than that – a draught given her by the myal-doctor. I know it well enough; and I knows what’ll make all right again; though ’ithout that she’d come to of herself. A-ha! hyar it is! hyar’s the anecdote!”

A small bottle glistened between his fingers; which in another instant was uncorked and brought in contact with his nostrils.

“Yes, dis is the stuff that’s a-goin’ to countrack that spell. In ’less ’n ten minutes’ time you see her wake up, brisk as ebber she been in her life. Now, young master, if you jess hold up the young lady’s head while I spill a drop or two down her throat – It must go down to do her good.”

Herbert, with joyful willingness, obeyed the request; and the beautiful head once more received the support of his arm.

Quaco, with all the gentleness of which his huge, coarse fingers were capable, parted the pale lips; and, inserting the neck of the phial, poured out a portion of its contents into the mouth of the sleeper. This done, he held the bottle for some minutes to her nostrils; and then, laying it aside, he commenced chafing her hands between his own broad, corrugated palms.

With heart wildly beating, and eyes alternately scanning the face of Quaco and the countenance of the silent sleeper, Herbert made no effort to conceal his terrible solicitude.

It would have been far more terrible, but for the confident manner of the negro, and the triumphant tone in which he predicted the result.

Scarce five minutes had elapsed from the time of administering the antidote – to Herbert they appeared fifty – when the bosom of the sleeper was seen to swell upward; at the same time that a sigh, just audible, escaped from her lips!

Herbert could no longer restrain his emotions. With a cry of supreme joy, he bent his face nearer to that of the young girl, and pressed his lips to hers, at the same time gently murmuring her name.

“Be quiet, young master!” cautioned Quaco, “else you may keep her longer from wakin’ up. Hab patience. Leave the anecdote to do its work. ’Tan’t goin’ to be very long.”

Herbert, thus counselled, resumed his former attitude; and remained silently but earnestly gazing upon the beautiful face, already showing signs of re-animation.

As Quaco had predicted, the “anecdote” was not long in manifesting its effects. The bosom of the young girl began to rise and fall in quick spasmodic motion, showing that respiration was struggling to return; while, at shorter intervals, sighs escaped her, audible even amidst the sounds, so similar, heard from without.

Gradually the undulations of the chest became more regular and prolonged, and the lips moved in soft murmuring – as when one is endeavouring to hold converse in a dream!

Each instant these utterances became more distinct. Words could be distinguished; and, among others, one that filled the heart of Herbert with happiness indescribable – his own name!

Despite the prudent counsel of Quaco, he could no longer restrain himself; but once more imprinting a fervent kiss upon the lips of his beloved cousin, responded to her muttering by loudly pronouncing her name, coupled with words of love and exclamations of encouragement.

As if his voice had broken the charm – dispelling the morphine from out her veins – the eyes of the young girl all at once opened.

The long, crescent-shaped lashes displayed through their parting those orbs of lovely light, brown as the berry of the theobroma, and soft as the eyes of a dove.

At first their expression was dreamy – unconscious – as if they shone without seeing – looked without recognising.

Gradually this appearance became changed. The spark of recognition betrayed itself fast spreading over pupil and iris – until at length, it kindled into the full flame of consciousness.

Close to hers was the face of which she had been dreaming. Looking into hers were those eyes she had beheld in her sleep, and with that same glance with which, in her waking hours, they had once regarded her – that glance so fondly remembered!

Again was it fixed upon her; but no longer in silence, and unexplained. Now it was accompanied by words of love – by phrases of endearment – spoken with all the wild abandon of an impassioned heart.

“Herbert! cousin!” she exclaimed as soon as speech was restored to her. “It is you? Where am I? No matter, since you are by me. It is your arm that is around me?”

“Yes, dearest cousin – never more to part from this sweet embrace. Oh, speak to me! Tell me that you live!”

“Live? Ah! you thought me dead? I thought so myself. That horrid monster! He is gone? I see him not here! Oh! I am saved! It is you, Herbert? you who have delivered me from worse than death?”

“Mine is not the merit, cousin. This brave man by my side – it is he to whom we are both indebted for this deliverance.”

“Cubina! and Yola? – poor Yola? She, too, has escaped? Oh! it is a fearful thing. I cannot comprehend – ”

“Dearest cousin! think not of it now. In time you shall understand all. Know that you are safe – that all danger is past.”

“My poor father! if he knew – Chakra alive – that fearful monster!”

Herbert was silent, Cubina, at the same time, withdrawing from the hut to give some orders to his followers.

“Ah, cousin, what is that upon your breast?” inquired the young girl, innocently touching the object with her fingers. “Is it not the ribbon you took from my purse? Have you been wearing it all this time?”

“Ever since that hour! Oh, Kate! no longer can I conceal the truth. I love you! I love you! I have heard. But tell me, dearest cousin! – with your own lips declare it – do you return my love?”

“I do! I do!”

Once more Herbert kissed the lips that had given utterance to the thrilling declaration.

In that kiss two loving souls were sealed for ever!

Chapter 42

The Rescue

On starting off from the Duppy’s Hole, it had been the intention of the Jew to wait by the base of the Jumbé Rock for the return of Chakra with the robbers. Before arriving at the rock, a better plan presented itself.

In the absence of Chakra – which might be a prolonged one – it occurred to him that he might profitably pass the interval of time by making a reconnoissance of Mount Welcome and its precincts.

Before parting from Chakra, therefore, a new place of rendezvous was arranged between them – at a particular place upon the mountain slope, only a short distance from the rear of the garden.

This point being settled, Chakra continued on after the home-returning bandits; while his fellow-conspirator, facing down the mountain, proceeded towards the valley of Mount Welcome.

He soon came upon the path habitually used in the ascent and descent of the mountain. Only for a short distance did he follow it, however. He conjectured that a pursuit would be already set on foot; and, apprehensive of encountering the pursuers, he preferred making his approach to the house by working his way through the woods, where no path existed. By this means he should advance more slowly, but with greater safety.

Favoured by an occasional flash from the smouldering fires – seen at intervals through the trees – he had no difficulty in guiding himself in the right direction; and in due time he arrived at the rearward of the garden.

Crouching behind the wall, and looking cautiously over its top, he could command a full view of the grounds – no longer containing a grand house, but only a smouldering mass of half-consumed timbers.

There was still sufficient flame springing up amidst the smoke to reveal to the eyes of Jessuron a terrible tableau.

Under the light could be seen a number of human figures grouped around an object resembling a rude bier. On this lay the body of a white man, whose ghastly visage – ghastlier under the glare of the unnatural light – betokened it to be a corpse.

A white man stood beside it, bent over the body, and looking thoughtfully on the face. Jessuron recognised in this individual the overseer of the estate. The others were blacks – both men and women – easily known as the domestics and field slaves of the plantation.

At a short distance from these was another group – smaller in individual numbers, but equally conspicuous.

Two men lay along the grass in attitudes that showed them to be fast bound. They were white men, in colonial phraseology, though their complexions of dark olive were but a shade or two lighter than those of the negroes who surrounded them. Jessuron easily identified them as his own employés, the Cuban caçadores.

Some three or four black men stood around them, apparently acting as guards. The costume, arms, and accoutrements of these last – but quite as much their bold, upright bearing – proclaimed them to be men of a different caste from the negroes who encompassed the corpse. They were the Maroons whom Quaco had left in charge of the prisoners.

As soon as Jessuron had finished making these observations, he returned to the place of rendezvous, where he was soon joined by Chakra and the robbers. The latter, on their homeward route, having halted for a rest not far beyond the Jumbé Rock, were there overtaken by the myal-man, and brought instantaneously back.

The report of Jessuron was delivered to Chakra, who, along with Adam and his followers, advanced to the garden wall, and became himself a spectator of the scene already described.

The circumstances suggested the necessity of immediate action. It was evident that Cubina and the main body of the Maroons had gone off in pursuit of the incendiaries at once. No account was made of the presence of the plantation negroes, and the weak guard of the Maroons that had been left could be easily overpowered.

Such were the reflections of Chakra and Adam, acted upon almost as soon as conceived; and, leaving Jessuron to await their return, they and their followers crept forward through the shrubbery of the garden.

A volley from their guns, fired from an ambush, was heard shortly after. It caused most of the Maroon guard to fall dead by the side of their prisoners, at the same time putting to flight the people of the plantation, with their overseer at their head.

Nothing then remained but to relieve the captives from their cords; and this being readily accomplished, both robbers and caçadores retreated up the mountain.

On nearing the Jumbé Rock, the confederates once more separated. Adam and his followers continued on towards their mountain home, while Chakra, accompanied by the Jew, and followed by Manuel and Andres, proceeded in the direction of the Duppy’s Hole.

It was the design of Jessuron that the two Cubanos should remain in that safe asylum – as guests of the Coromantee – until such time as he might find an opportunity for shipping them back to the country whence they had come.

Chakra’s consent to this arrangement had not yet been obtained, and it was to this end that the Jew was now on his errand – for the second time that night – to the sombre solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

Chapter 43

Down the Mountain

The midnight hour had passed ere the lovers forsook the solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

From mingled motives Herbert had lingered on that wild spot. He feared the dread development which he knew must take place on their return to Mount Welcome. What a terrible blow to that young bosom, now in the full enjoyment of earth’s supremest happiness! He knew the fatal truth could not loner be concealed; nevertheless, he was desirous of keeping it back as long as possible – at least until his cousin had further recovered from the shock which her spirit had that night sustained.

In concert with Cubina, he had spent some time in reflecting how this temporary concealment might be effected.

Only one way suggested itself – to conduct his cousin to the house of the overseer; there to remain until, as she might suppose, her rather could receive the news of the conflagration that had occurred, and return home again.

The young girl knew that the mansion was burnt down. Its blaze was before her eyes when they ceased to see – lighting her ravisher along the forest path. The roof that had sheltered her childhood was a ruin. She knew all that.

It was therefore but natural that a temporary home should be sought elsewhere, and in the house of the overseer. She could have no suspicion of any design in their taking her thither.

Neither Herbert nor Cubina knew whether the corpse of the Custos had yet reached its destination. Quaco, on hurriedly parting with it, had given no orders, either to the bearers or the Maroons left in charge of the two prisoners, to move forward.

The funeral cortège might still be upon the road, where it had been left by Herbert and Cubina.

If so, it might be possible for them to pass the ruined dwelling, and reach the house of the overseer, without any news of the assassination being communicated to her – the only one likely to be profoundly affected by that dread disaster.

Once under the roof of Mr Trusty, means could be taken to keep silent the tongues of those who should be brought in contact with her.

Such was the scheme, hastily concerted between Herbert and Cubina; and which they now proceeded to execute, by conducting the young creole out of the Duppy’s Hole and commencing their descent towards the valley of Mount Welcome.

Only the two accompanied her. The Maroons, under their lieutenant, Quaco, remained behind; and for an important purpose – the capturing of Chakra.

Cubina would himself have stayed, but for a certain impatience once more to enjoy the company of his beloved Yola, who had been left among the other domestics of the desolated establishment.

The Maroon captain had perfect confidence – both in the skill of his lieutenant, and the courage of his followers. He could trust them for an affair like that; and as he parted from the Duppy’s Hole he had very little doubt that by daybreak, or perhaps before that time, Chakra would be the captive of Quaco.

Slowly Herbert and his cousin moved down the mountain. The moon, now shining sweetly upon the perfumed path, favoured their descent; but there was no need – no desire for haste. Cubina kept ahead, to secure them from surprise or danger. The young girl walked side by side with Herbert, leaning upon his arm – that strong arm, once so freely and affectionately promised. The time had arrived when that offer was accepted and welcomed – a proud time for the young Englishman – a happy time, as he walked on, thrilled by the touch of that round arm softly pressing his own – at times more heavily leaning upon him, not from any physical weakness on the part of his companion, but rather out of the pure fondness of her affection.

The strength of the young Creole had become almost restored – the effects of the narcotic having completed disappeared. She had also recovered from the prostration of spirit which it had produced – perhaps all the sooner from the cheering presence of him who was by her side.

The terrible sufferings she had endured were succeeded by a happiness tranquil and profound. She now knew that Herbert loved her: more than once within the hour had he given her that sweet assurance.

On her part there was no coyness – not a shadow of coquetry. She had responded to his vows by a full, free surrender of her heart.

And her hand? Was it still free?

Herbert sought an answer to this question as they passed onward – only indirectly, and with all the delicacy that circumstances would permit.

Was it true, what he had heard, that a promise had been given to Smythje?

With downcast eyes the young girl remained for some moments without vouchsafing any reply. Her trembling arm betrayed the painful struggle that was agitating her bosom.

Presently the storm appeared to have partially subsided. Her features became fixed, as if she had resolved upon a confession; and in a firm, but low, murmured voice, she made answer, —

“A promise! yes, Herbert, wrung from me in my darkest hour – then, when I thought you cared not for me – when I heard that you also had made such promise – to another. Oh, Herbert! oh, cousin! believe me it was against my will; it was forced from me by threats, by appeals – ”

“Then it is not binding!” eagerly interrupted the lover. “There was no oath – no betrothal between you? Even if there had been – ”

“Even if there had been!” cried the young girl, repeating his words – the hot Creole blood mounting suddenly to her cheeks, while her eyes expressed a certain determination. “There was no oath. Even if there had been, it could no longer bind me. No! After what has occurred this night – in the hour of danger deserted by him – no, no! After that, I could never consent to be the wife of Mr Smythje. Rather suffer the charge of perjury, from which my own conscience would absolve me, than to fulfil that promise. Rather shall I submit to the disinheritance which my father threatens, and which upon his return he will doubtless execute. Yes, death itself, rather than become the wife of a coward!”

“How little danger of that disinheritance!” thought Herbert. “How shall I tell the fearful tidings? How reveal to her that she is at this moment the mistress of Mount Welcome? Not yet – not yet!”

For a while the young man remained silent, scarce knowing how to continue the conversation.

She noticed his air of thoughtful abstraction. It guided her to unpleasant conjectures.

“Cousin! are you angry with me for what I have said? Do you blame me – ”

“No – no!” cried Herbert, impressively; “far from it. By the conduct of this man – woman, I should call him, were it not for disgracing the name – by his behaviour to you, you would be released from the most solemn of oaths – much more a mere promise given against your will. It was not of that I was thinking.”

“Of what, Herbert?”

As she put this question she leant towards him, and gazed into his eyes with a look of troubled inquiry.

The young man was puzzled for a reply. His thoughtful silence was evidently causing her uneasiness that each moment increased. Her glances betokened some painful suspicion.

She did not wait for his answer; but, in a voice that trembled, put the additional interrogative, —

“Have you made a promise?”

“To whom?”

“Oh, Herbert! do not ask me to pronounce the name. You must know to whom I allude.”

Herbert was relieved by the interrogatory. It changed the current of his thoughts, at the same time giving him a cue for something to say.

“Ha! ha!” laughed he; “I think, cousin, I comprehend you. A promise, indeed! Nothing of the sort, I assure you; though, since you have been good enough to make confession, neither shall I conceal what has passed between her to whom you refer and myself. There was no love between us – at least, none upon my side, I can assure you, cousin. But, I will confess that, stung by what I fancied was your coldness to me – misled by a thousand reports, now happily found to be false – I had nearly committed myself to the speaking of a word which no doubt I should have rued throughout all the rest of my life. Thank fortune! circumstances have saved me – saved us both, may I say?”

“Oh, happiness! Herbert – Herbert! then you will be mine – mine only?”

Yielding to the promptings of an all-absorbing passion, the young creole gave utterance to this bold interrogatory.

“Dearest Kate!” replied the lover, half delirious with joy, “my heart is yours – all yours. My hand – oh, cousin, I scarce dare to offer it! You are rich – grand – and I – I poor – penniless – even without a home!”

“Alas! Herbert, you know not. Were I rich – ten times as rich as you, believe me, you would be welcome to all. But no. Perhaps I may be poor as yourself. Ah me! you do not know; but you shall. I shall conceal nothing. Know, then, dearest cousin, that my mother was a quadroon, and I am only a mustee. I cannot inherit my father’s property, except by will; and not even that till an act is obtained from the Assembly. That is the errand upon which my father is gone. But whether he succeed or not, matters not now. Too surely will he disinherit me; for never shall I consent to become the wife of the man he has commanded me to many – never!”

“Oh, cousin!” cried Herbert, enraptured by the emphatic tone in which she had declared her determination, “if you consent to become mine, I care not for your riches. Your heart is the wealth I covet – that will be enough for me. What matters it even should we both be poor? I am young. I can work. I can strive. We may yet find friends, or, if not, we can do without them. Be mine!”

“Yours for any fate! – for life, Herbert! for life!”

Chapter 44

An Orphan

These earnest utterances of love exchanged between the two cousins were suddenly interrupted. Sounds of woe broke upon the stillness of the night, and in the same place as before.

They had arrived within view of what was once the mansion of Mount Welcome.

Through the foliage that fringed the path, they could see glancing some remnants of red light, here and there flickering into a faint blaze. Now and then, as they descended the slope, they had heard the crash of falling timbers, as they gave way under the wasting fire.

A murmur of human voices, too, had reached their ears; but only as of men engaged in an ordinary conversation; or, at all events, not exhibiting excitement beyond what might be expected at the finale of such a scene as had there transpired.

All at once abruptly breaking upon this comparative tranquillity – at the same time interrupting the dialogue of the lovers – were heard utterances of a far different import: the cries of men, the screaming of women, shots, and loud shouting!

All these sounds appeared to proceed from the spot that but a few hours before had echoed to the clangour of a chorus equally diabolical in its accents.

Cubina, who had been moving some paces in advance, sprang instantly back upon the path; and, with troubled look, stopped in front of the lovers.

“What can it mean?” asked Herbert, equally showing signs of apprehension.

“The robbers! Master Vaughan! They have returned; but for what purpose I cannot guess. It must be they. I know that voice, louder than the rest. Do you hear it? ’Tis the voice of the brigand Adam! Crambo! I’ll silence it some day ere long – maybe, this very night. Hark! there’s another, still louder and wilder. Ho! that, too, I can distinguish. It’s the hellish shriek of Chakra!”

“But why should they have come again? They took everything a robber would care for. What can have brought them back? There is nothing – ”

“There is!” cried Cubina, with a quick gesture, as though the solution had just then presented itself to his mind. “There is Yola!” As he said this he faced around, as if about to rush towards the fray, still strepitant – its noise rather on the increase.

For an instant he appeared to be undecided; though not from any fear of going forward.

No, it was another thought that had caused that indecision; which was soon made manifest by his words.

“Master Herbert Vaughan!” he exclaimed, in a tone of appeal; “I have helped you to rescue your sweetheart. Mine is in danger!” The young Englishman stood in no need of this appeal. Already he had disengaged his arm from that of his cousin, and stood ready for action.

“Oh, Herbert!” cried the young girl, in wild accents of distress; “there is fearful danger! Oh, you must not go. Oh, do not leave me!”

Cubina looked as if regretting the challenge he had thrown out.

“Perhaps you had better not?” said he, with no sarcasm meant by the words. “There is danger, but you must not share it. Your life now belongs to another. I did not think of that, Master Vaughan.”

“In the eyes of that other,” replied Herbert, “my life would be worthless, as it would to myself, were I to play the poltroon. Brave Cubina! I cannot fail you now. Dear Kate! it is Yola who is in danger – Yola, to whom we are both indebted. But for her I should not have known that you loved me; and then we should both – ”

“Ah! Yola in danger!” interrupted the young Creole, her affection for her maid half stifling the fear for her beloved. “Oh, Herbert! go if you will, but let me go with you. I should die if you returned not. Yes, yes; if death comes to you, it shall be mine also. Herbert, do not leave me behind!”

“Only for a moment, Kate! I shall soon return. Fear not. With right on our side, the brave Cubina and I can conquer a score of these black robbers. We shall be back before you can count a hundred. There! conceal yourself in these bushes, and wait for our coming. I shall call out for you. Behind the bushes you will be safe. Not a word, not a movement, till you hear me calling your name.”

As he uttered these admonitions, the brave young man gently guided his cousin into the thicket. Causing her to kneel down in a shaded covert, he imprinted a hurried kiss upon her forehead, and then hastily leaving her, followed Cubina towards the fight.

In a few seconds they ran down to the garden wall, and passed rapidly through the wicket-gate, which they found standing open; on through the garden, and straight towards the place from which they imagined the sounds had proceeded.

Strange enough, these had ceased as abruptly as they had risen – the cries of the men, the screaming of the women, the shots, and the loud shouting!

All, as if by a simultaneous signal, had become silent; as though the earth had opened and swallowed not only the noises, but those who had been causing them!

Unheeding the change, Herbert and Cubina kept on; nor came to a stop until they had passed the smoking remains of the mansion, and stood upon the platform that fronted it.

There halted they.

There was still some fitful light from the burning beams; but the beams of the moon told a truer tale. They illumined a tableau significant as terrible.

Near the spot was a stretcher, on which lay the corpse of a white man, half uncovered, ghastly as death could make it. Close to it were three others, corpses like itself, only that they were those of men with a black epidermis.

Herbert easily identified the first. It had been his companion on that day’s journey. It was the corpse of his uncle.

As easily did Cubina recognise the others. They were, or had been, men of his own band – the Maroons – left by Quaco to guard the prisoners.

The prisoners! where were they? Escaped?

It took Cubina but little time to resolve the mystery. To the practised eye of one who had tied up many a black runaway, there was no difficulty in interpreting the sign there presented to his view.

A tangle of ropes and sticks brought to mind the contrivances of Quaco for securing his captives. They lay upon the trodden ground, cast away, and forsaken.

The caçadores had escaped. The affair had been a rescue!

Rather relieved by this conjecture, which soon assumed the form of a conviction, Herbert and Cubina were about returning to the place where they had left the young Creole – whom they supposed to be still awaiting them.

But they had not calculated on the bravery of love – much less upon its recklessness.

As they faced towards the dark declivity of the mountain, a form like a white-robed sylph was seen flitting athwart the trunks of the trees, and descending towards the garden wall. On it glided – on, and downward – as the snow-plumed gull in its graceful parabola.

Neither was mystified by this apparition. At a glance both recognised the form, with its soft, white drapery floating around it.

Love could no longer endure that anxious suspense. The young Creole had forsaken her shelter, to share the danger of him she adored.

Before either could interfere to prevent the catastrophe, she had passed through the wicket – a way better known to her than to them – and came gliding across the garden, up to the spot where they stood.

An exclamation of joy announced her perception that her lover was still unharmed.

Quick as an echo, a second exclamation escaped from her lips – but one of a far different intonation. It was a cry of wildest despair – the utterance of one who suddenly knew herself to be an orphan. Her eyes had fallen upon the corpse of her father!

Chapter 45

An Involuntary Suicide

On seeing the dead body of her father, Kate Vaughan sank to the earth beside it; not unconsciously, but on her knees, and in an agony of grief. Bending over it, she kissed the cold, speechless lips – her sobs and wilder ejaculations following each other in rapid succession.

Only the face of the corpse was uncovered. The camlet cloak still shrouded the body, and its gaping but bloodless wounds. She saw not these; and made no inquiry as to the cause of her father’s death. The wasted features, now livid, recalled the disease under which he had been suffering previous to his departure. It was to that he had succumbed; so reasoned she.

Herbert made no attempt to undeceive her. It was not the time to enter into details of the sad incident that had transpired. The most mournful chapter of the story was now known – the rest need scarce be told: Kate Vaughan was fatherless.

Without uttering a word – not even those phrases of consolation so customary on such occasions, and withal so idle – the young man wound his arms round the waist of his cousin, gently raised her to an erect attitude, and supported her away from the spot.

He passed slowly towards the rear of the ruined dwelling.

There was still enough light emitted from the calcined embers to make plain the path – enough to show that the little summer-house in the garden still stood there in its shining entirety. Its distance from the dwelling-house had saved it from the conflagration.

Into this Herbert conducted his protégée, and, after placing her on a settee of bamboos, which the kiosk contained, seated himself in a chair beside her.

Yola, who had once more appeared upon the scene, followed them, and flinging herself on the floor, at her young mistress’s feet, remained gazing upon her with sympathetic looks, that evinced the affectionate devotion of the Foolah maiden.

Cubina had gone in search of the overseer, and such of the domestics as might still have concealed themselves within a reasonable distance.

The Maroon might have acted with more caution, seeing that the second attack of the robbers had unexpectedly been made. But he had no fear of their coming again. The escape of the prisoners explained their second appearance – the sole object of which had been to rescue the caçadores.

For a while the three individuals in the kiosk appeared to be the only living forms that remained by the desolated mansion of Mount Welcome. The return of the robbers had produced even a more vivid feeling of affright than their first appearance; and the people of the plantation – white as well as black – had betaken themselves to places of concealment more permanent than before. The whites – overseer, book-keepers, and all – believing it to be an insurrection of the slaves, had forsaken the plantation altogether, and fled towards Montego Bay.

Among these panic-struck fugitives, or rather at the head of them, was the late distinguished guest of Mount Welcome – Mr Montagu Smythje.

On being left alone, after the departure of the pursuing party, he had made a rapid retreat towards the stables; and there, by the assistance of Quashie, had succeeded in providing himself with a saddled horse.

Not even staying to divest himself of his sacchariferous envelope, he had mounted and ridden at top speed for the port, announcing his fixed determination to take the first ship that should sail for his “deaw metwopolis.”

Smythje had seen enough of Jamaica, and its “queeole queetyaws,” and more than enough of “its howid niggaws.”

Cubina, returning with Quashie – who again, imp-like, had started up in his path – the only living being the Maroon could discover, announced the fact that Mr Smythje was no longer on the ground.

From those who occupied the kiosk, the intelligence elicited no response. Notwithstanding the many jealous pangs he had cost Herbert Vaughan, and the important part he had played in the history of the young Creole’s life, the great lord of Montagu Castle was no longer regarded even as a unit in the situation. Neither spoke of him – neither gave a thought to him. With perfect indifference, both Herbert and his cousin listened to the report that he was no longer on the ground.

But there was at that very moment one upon the ground who might have been better spared – one whose proximity was a thousand times more perilous than that of the harmless Smythje.

As we have said, Cubina had no apprehensions about the return of the robbers; but there was a danger near, and equally to be dreaded – a danger of which neither he nor any of the others could have had even the slightest suspicion.

The Maroon had delivered his report at the kiosk, and with Quashie attending on him, had gone back to the spot where the dead body still rested. He had gone thither to ascertain which of his own men had fallen in the late struggle, and also the better to acquaint himself with the direction which the robbers might have taken.

Just as he had turned his back upon the kiosk, a human figure – gliding so softly that it might have been mistaken for a shadow – passed through the wicket-gate in the rear of the garden, and, with stealthy step, advanced in the direction of the summer-house.

Notwithstanding an ample cloak in which the figure was enveloped, its contour could be distinguished as that of a woman – one of boldly-developed form.

The blaze of the still-burning timbers was no longer constant. At intervals some piece – losing its equilibrium under the effect of the consuming fire – would fall with a crushing sound; to be followed by a fresh glare of light, which would continue for a longer or shorter period of time, according to the circumstances that created it.

Just as the silent figure, approaching along the path, had arrived within a few paces of the summer-house, one of these sudden coruscations arose, lighting up not only the interior of the summer-house, but the whole enclosure to its furthest limits.

Under that light, had anyone been looking rearwards across the garden, they would have beheld a beautiful face – beautiful, yet disfigured by an expression of mingled rage and pain, that rendered it even hideous. It was the face of Judith Jessuron.

It is not necessary to explain why she was there. The fire of jealousy was still burning in her breast – more furiously, more bitterly than ever.

In another instant she had placed herself in a position that commanded a view of the interior of the kiosk.

What she saw there was not calculated to extinguish the fearful fire that consumed her. On the contrary, like the collision of the falling timbers, it had the effect of stirring it to increased strength and fierceness.

Kate Vaughan had raised herself from her reclining position, and was sitting upright on the bamboo settee. Herbert was by her side, also seated. Their bodies were in contact – the arm of the young man softly encircling the waist of his cousin. It would have been evident to the most uninterested observer that their hearts were equally en rapport; that between them was a tie – the strongest on earth – the tie of mutual love!

It needed no reasoning on the part of Judith Jessuron to arrive at this conclusion.

The tableau was typical. It was a picture that required no explanation, nor did she who looked upon it ask for any.

She did not even stay to notice the brown-skinned damsel, who seemed to be guarding the entrance of the kiosk; but, springing past her, she stood in a defiant attitude in the presence of the lovers.

“Herbert Vaughan!” cried she, in a tone of bitter abandonment; “traitor! perjured villain! you have been false to me – ”

“It is not true, Judith Jessuron!” cried the young man, interrupting her, and, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise, springing to his feet. “It is not true. I – I never intended – ”

“Ha!” screamed the Jewess, her rage apparently becoming more fierce at the attempted explanation; “never intended what?”

“Never intended to marry you. I never gave you promise – ”

“False!” cried Judith, once more interrupting him. “No matter now – it is all past; and since you never intended to marry me, she at least will never be your wife!”

The action that followed rendered the menace of the mad woman too easily intelligible.

As she gave utterance to it she passed her hand under the mantle in which her figure was enveloped; and, as she drew it forth again, a shining object appeared between her fingers.

It was a pistol, with silver sheen and ivory handle – small, but large enough to take life at such close quarters.

It was presented as soon as drawn, but not at Herbert Vaughan. It was towards his companion that its muzzle was pointed!

Scarce a second passed before the report was heard; and, for a time, the kiosk was filled with smoke.

When this cleared away, and the shining light once more penetrated the apartment, a woman was seen extended on the floor, her form quivering in the last throes of life. In another instant it was motionless – a corpse!

The shot had proved fatal; but the victim was not Kate Vaughan, but Judith Jessuron!

The transposition was due to the Foolah maid. Seeing the life of her mistress in such imminent peril, she had sprung up from her seat by the door; and, bounding forward with the supple quickness of a cheetah, had seized the wrist of the intended murderess, with the intention of averting her aim, and, in doing so, had directed it upon herself.

It was by accident, therefore, and not from design on the part of Yola, that Judith Jessuron thus terminated her life by an involuntary suicide.

Chapter 46

Quaco in Ambush

The Maroon captain, before leaving the Duppy’s Hole, had given official orders to his lieutenant about the capture of Chakra. There could no longer be any question of the absence of the myal-man from his haunt. The Maroons had continued their search after the discovery in the cave, still thinking that he might be concealed somewhere in the wood. The bushes were well beaten – the trees, where it was possible for a man to have climbed, were all scrutinised; and the search had ended without their finding any other trace of the Coromantee than what had been already discovered.

Beyond doubt, Chakra had gone abroad – though in what direction, no one could guess; and to have attempted tracking him at night, and through a pathless forest, would have been labour lost.

The correct scheme for capturing him was for the Maroons to remain in the Duppy’s Hole, against his return; and, by keeping in ambuscade until he should have re-crossed the lagoon, they would have him, as it were, in a trap.

This was the plan chosen – with the execution of which Quaco was intrusted.

Indeed, the initiatory steps had been taken already: for ever since the search by torchlight had been abandoned, Quaco and his men had been placed in ambush.

Cubina perceived the error he had committed in causing the search to be made.

Chakra might have been upon the cliff above, where he could not have failed to see the light of the torches.

If so, there would not be the slightest hope of his returning for that night. After witnessing such an invasion of his secret haunt, his caution would be upon the qui vive – enough to hinder him from venturing down into the Duppy’s Hole, notwithstanding the attractive lure he had there left behind him.

Cubina thus reflected with regret – with chagrin. The capture of Chakra had now become an object of primary importance.

After all, the apprehension that he had seen the torches, or in any way become aware of the intrusion of strangers upon his solitary domain, may have been an idle one. If so, then he would be certain to come back. The presence of his prisoner was earnest of his return, and at no distant period of time.

To make sure of his capture, the Maroon captain had himself planned the ambush. Quaco and his men were placed under the great tree – where the myal-man was accustomed to moor his craft. Some of them were stationed on the tree, among its branches, with the design that they should drop upon the shoulders of the Coromantee, as soon as he should arrive at his anchorage.

The canoe itself was to be left at the bottom of the stairway, after being taken thither by the Maroon captain and his two companions, on their departure from the place. All this was done as designed.

Before parting from the canoe, Cubina had taken the precaution to place it in the exact position in which it had been left by Chakra: so that the latter could have no suspicions that the craft had been used during his absence.

These arrangements having been completed, Quaco and his comrades – Cingües among the number – from their station by the edge of the lagoon, with eyes bent alternately upon the water and the face of the cliff, awaited the coming of the Coromantee.

The Maroons were armed with guns, loaded and primed. Not that they intended to kill Chakra. On the contrary, Cubina’s orders were to capture him. Criminal as was the outlawed myal-man, it was not their province to decide upon his criminality – at least, not so far as to the depriving him of his life. Free as was the licence enjoyed by these mountain rovers, there were laws around them by which even they were bound to abide. Besides, there would be no danger of his escaping from the punishment that was his due. They knew that Chakra’s capture would be but the prelude to his execution.

They had a different reason for being attentive to their arms. It was just possible the Coromantee might not return alone. They knew he had been in the company of others – Adam and his band of desperate robbers. These confederates might come back along with him. In that case, the quiet scheme of their capture might be transformed into a sanguinary encounter.

It was not necessary all should keep awake. One-half of the little band were appointed sentinels, while the others went to sleep.

The lieutenant himself was among the number of those who were entitled to the latter privilege: since for two days and nights he had scarce slept a wink.

Speedily surrendering himself to the drowsy god, Quaco indulged in a profound slumber – snoring in such fashion, that, but for the louder intonation of the waters surging through the gorge below, his huge nostrils would have betrayed his presence to the expected Chakra – even before the latter should have set foot in his canoe.

As it was, however, the roaring of the cataract quite drowned the nasal music of the sleeping Quaco, and his companions suffered him to snore on.

Chapter 47

The Doom of Destiny

Until daybreak was Quaco permitted to continue his snoring and his slumber. Up to that time, no Chakra appeared; but just as the red aurora began to tinge the tops of the forest trees, a dark form was distinguished upon the summit of the cliff, just over the tree stairway.

It had scarce made its appearance, when another was seen coming forward by its side; and, in the rear of both, another – and then a fourth.

All four halted for a moment upon the brow of the precipice. Whether they were in conversation could not be told. Likely they were, but their voices could not be heard above the mutterings of the moving water.

Presently, he who had first made his appearance commenced descending the cliff, followed by the others, apparently in the same order in which they had arrived upon its edge.

Cingües had already shaken Quaco from his slumbers. The other sleepers had also been aroused by their companions; and, perceiving the numbers of the enemy, had grasped their guns with a firmer hold.

Though the day had now dawned, none of the four shadowy figures, outlined against the façade of the cliff, could be identified. The dark rock and the bramble hindered them from being fairly seen. Not even when they had reached the bottom of the stair could they be recognised: for there also the frondage afforded them cover.

It was only after the two foremost had entered the canoe, and the craft was seen gliding out into the open water, that Quaco could tell who were the two individuals thus seeking the solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

“Chakra!” said he, in a whisper to Cingües. “The t’other? Prince! if my eyes don’t bamboozle me, it’s your old acquaintance, the penn-keeper!”

To the Fellatah this piece of information was superfluous: he had already recognised the well-known features of the man who had so deeply injured him.

The memory of all his wrongs rushed into his heart, accompanied by a thirst for vengeance – keen, irresistible.

With a wild cry – and before Quaco could interpose – he raised his piece and fired.

The young African was a marksman of unerring aim; and but for the upraised arm of Quaco, that had disturbed the level of that deadly tube, the hours of Jacob Jessuron would have been numbered.

And numbered they were. Despite the interruption – despite the accident that guided that leaden missile far wide of its mark – destiny had determined upon having its victim.

Neither of the occupants of the canoe appeared to have been wounded; but as the smoke cleared away, it could be seen that the shot had not passed them without effect. Chakra’s hands were empty; the paddle had been struck by the bullet; and, carried clean out of them, was now seen on the surface of the water, fast gliding towards the gorge!

A shrill cry escaped from the lips of the Coromantee. He alone understood the danger to which this accident had exposed him. He alone knew of the whirl that threatened to overwhelm both himself and his companion.

Instantly he threw himself upon his knees, and, with an arm extended on each side of the canoe, and his body bent down to the gunwale, he commenced heating the water with his broad palms. His aim was to prevent the craft from being drawn into the centre of the current.

For some moments this strange struggle was kept up – the canoe just holding its own – making way neither upwards nor downwards.

The Maroons watched the movement with mute surprise; and no doubt would have continued to do so, but that the two men left by the bottom of the stairway – perhaps stirred by a like curiosity – had rushed forward to the edge of the water, and thus permitted their faces to be seen. At the same instant were they recognised by one who had an old account to settle with them.

“The jack Spaniards!” cried Quaco, surprised beyond measure at the sight of his ci-devant prisoners. “They have got loose from our guard. Fire upon them, comrades! Don’t let them escape a second time!”

The stentorian voice of the Maroon lieutenant, audible above all other sounds, at once awakened the caçadores to a sense of their dangerous situation; and, like a brace of baboons, they commenced sprawling up the tangled stairway.

Too late had they taken this resolution. Before they had got a third of the way to the summit, half-a-dozen triggers were pulled; and their bodies, one after the other, fell with a heavy plunge into the water below.

Meanwhile Chakra, in the canoe, had kept up his life and death struggle, now going against the current – and now the watery element appearing to prevail.

For the moment the Maroons could not have decided that strife. They were engaged in re-loading their guns; and the Coromantee was left free to continue his struggles without interruption.

Chakra’s bitterest enemies could scarce have desired to bring that scene to a speedy termination. No avenger need have wished his victim in a more terrible situation than were he and his confederate at that moment.

The former, acting under the instinct of self-preservation, had not yet given way to despair; while the terrified look of the latter, who appeared to have already succumbed to it, might have restrained his deadliest foe from interference.

Between the long, sinewy arms of Chakra and the strength of the current, it was difficult to decide which would conquer. For many minutes the forces appeared to be equally balanced. But the strength of the man was declining, while that of the element remained the same. In the end, the waters must prevail. Chakra at length appeared to become convinced of this; and cast round him a glance of mingled inquiry and despair.

At that moment an idea seemed to strike him – some thought, perhaps, that promised him a chance of escape.

All at once he desisted from his hopeless efforts to stay the canoe, as if some resolution had suddenly become fixed; and, turning towards his companion, he bent down, apparently with the intention of whispering to him. His wild, dark look, however, declared his design to be far different.

When fairly within reach, he threw out his long arms with a sudden jerk, and, clutching the Jew by both shoulders, drew him up into his embrace, like some gigantic spider seizing upon its prey.

Suddenly changing his hold, he grasped an arm and limb; and, raising the body high in air, with an immense muscular effort, he projected it clear over the gunwale of the canoe.

One shriek from the Jew – emitted in the extremest accent of grief – was heard simultaneously with the plunge; and then the body of the unfortunate man disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lagoon.

His hat and umbrella alone floated on the surface, both rapidly carried along by the current.

The wretched creature rose again, but not to discover any chance of saving himself from destruction. The only gratification he could have drawn from his temporary emergence was to perceive that his false confederate must perish as well as himself.

Chakra had hoped that by lightening the canoe he might contend more successfully with the current; but it soon became evident that his hopes would prove vain.

In disembarrassing himself of his compagnon du voyage[593] he had lost way; and, before he could recover it, the canoe was sucked into a charybdis[594], from which even the power of the paddle could not have extricated it.

In less than ten seconds the craft entered the embouchure of the gorge, gliding downward with the velocity of an arrow.

It was but a despairing effort on the part of its occupant to seize upon a tree that grew horizontally from the rocks; though in his despair Chakra clutched it. Even had the bush been firmly rooted, his strength would not have sustained him against the fierce, resistless flood.

But it was not. The roots gave way; and, in another instant, the Coromantee and his canoe were precipitated an hundred feet sheer among the black rocks below!

His confederate had preceded him only by two seconds of time; and the dead bodies of both came once more in close contact – circling round and round, amidst the frothy spume that creamed over the cauldron below!

Chapter 48

Conclusion

On the morning that succeeded the occurrence of these tragic events, one entering at the great gate of Mount Welcome estate, and directing his eye up the long, palm-shaded avenue, would have beheld but a mass of black, smoking ruins.

On any other morning, twelve months after, the eye of a person looking in the same direction, would have been gladdened by a sight far different. Smiling in all its splendour, at the end of that vegetable vista, once more could be seen the proud mansion of Mount Welcome – renaissant in every respect – its stone stairway still standing – its white walls and green-jalousied windows looking as if they had sprung, phoenix[595]-like, from the flames – every item of the architecture so closely in imitation of the former structure, that even the eye of an old acquaintance could have detected no trace of the transformation.

Outside, everything appeared as before. It was only upon entering the mansion that you might perceive a change, and this chiefly relating to its occupancy and ownership. Instead of a stout, red-faced, and somewhat plebeian personage, of over forty years old, you would see in the present proprietor of Mount Welcome a youth of noble mien, by age scarce claiming the privileges of manhood, but in aspect and demeanour evidently fit for the performance of its duties – deserving to be the master of that aristocratic mansion.

Near him – oh! certain to be near him – there is one upon whom the eye rests with still greater interest; one who had graced the old mansion – yet more gracing the new – the daughter of its former proprietor, the wife of its present one.

She has not even changed her name – only her condition. Lilly Quasheba is no longer Miss but Mrs Vaughan!

Both these personages may be seen seated in that great hall, with floor as smooth and furniture as resplendent as ever.

It is the hour after breakfast, and also, as of yore, the hour when the post may be expected. Not that either cared to look abroad for that diurnal messenger – more welcome to those around whom Hymen[596] has not yet wound his golden chain.

Equally indifferent were these two happy individuals to the actions of the outside world: neither cared for its news. Their love, still in the fresh flush of its honeymoon, was world enough for them; and what interest could either feel in the arrival of the mail?

But the post has no respect either for indifference or anxiety. It is transmitted alike to the grave and the gay. It brings joy to the heart heavy laden, and sorrow to that which the moment before its arrival may have been bounding with bliss.

In that great hall in the mansion of Mount Welcome there were two bosoms brimful of bliss, or a feeling near akin to it. Nay, why should we say akin to it, since they were two hearts in the enjoyment of a mutual love? If that be not bliss, there is no other – either on earth or in heaven.

Without any attempt at concealment, the eyes of both betrayed their mutual delight. Gazing on each other, in sweet reciprocal admiration, they saw not that dark form – rudely centaurean – that approached up the long avenue.

Had they seen it, it would have created no surprise. It was only the post-boy, Quashie, on his shaggy cob, returning from the Bay.

After this speculative peroration, the reader may be apprehensive of some dire development springing from the letter-bag slung over the shoulders of the darkey.

Nothing of the kind. There was a letter, but not one that might be unwelcome. But for the post-mark, it might have remained for hours unopened.

But the impress was peculiar. It was African. The letter was stamped with the name of a port near the mouth of the Gambia. It was addressed to “Herbert Vaughan, Esquire, Mount Welcome, Jamaica.”

The young planter broke the seal, and rapidly ran over the contents of the letter.

“From your brother, Cubina,” said he, though he knew that he imparted no information by this. “He writes to say he is coming back again to Jamaica.”

“Oh! I am so glad of that! I knew he would never live contented among those wild people, notwithstanding he has been made a prince over them; but Yola – ”

“She comes with him, of course. It is not likely he would leave her behind. She longs for her island-home again. I don’t wonder, dearest Kate. There is one spot on the earth hallowed beyond all others – the spot where heart meets heart in the free confession of a mutual love. No wonder the African maiden should desire to return to it. Human nature is everywhere the same. To me this Island is the elysium of earth!”

“Ah! to me also!”

On giving utterance to this mutual confession, the young husband and wife bent towards each other, and pressed lips as fervently as if they had never been married!

After this fond embrace, Herbert continued the reading of the letter.

“Oh!” exclaimed he, when he had perused another portion of the epistle; “your brother wants to know whether he can either become our tenant or purchase that piece of land that lies beyond the Jumbé Rock. The old king has given him a capital to start with, and he wants to turn coffee-planter.”

“I am glad he has such intentions. Then he will settle down, and be near us.”

“He must not be permitted to purchase it. We shall present it to him, since we have enough without it. What say you, Kate? It is yours, not mine to give.”

“Ah!” returned the young wife, in a tone of playful reproach, “do not distress me with those sad souvenirs. You know that I gave it to you when I might have believed myself its mistress; and – ”

“Stay, dearest. Do not you distress me by such an appeal! You were its rightful owner, and should have been. Even had we not become joint proprietors, I could never have thought of dispossessing you. Say, then, that the land shall be Cubina’s!”

A repetition of that sweet embrace pronounced the consent of both to the proposal of Cubina.

Herbert resumed the reading of the letter. “Good heavens!” cried he, on finishing its perusal, “what a singular story! The captain of the slaver, who brought Yola’s brother over to Jamaica, has been back again to the coast. What a terrible retaliation!”

“What, dear Herbert?”

“Only that they have eaten him!”

“Oh, merciful Father!”

“Sad and terrible though it be, it is true; else Cubina would not have written it. Hear what he says: —

“‘Jowler’ – that was the name of the slaver’s captain – ‘presented himself before old Foolah-foota, in search of a fresh cargo of slaves. The king, already apprised of the skipper’s treason to Cingües, instantly ordered him to be seized; and, without trial or other formality, caused him to be chopped to pieces upon the spot. He was afterwards cooked and eaten, at the grand national feast, which was held on the celebration of my nuptials with the princess Yola. Crambo! it was a painful scene; and one might have felt sympathy for the unfortunate wretch, had he been anything else than a dealer in human flesh; but, under that reflection, I stood by without feeling any great desire to interfere in his behalf. In fact, my Fellatah father-in-law was so furious, I could not have saved the wretch from a fate which, after all, was perhaps not more than he deserved; and to which, no doubt, the poor victims he had carried across the Atlantic would have been only too glad to have seen him consigned.’”

“It is well,” said Kate, with a thoughtful air, “that Cubina has determined upon leaving a land where, I fear, such scenes are too common. I shall be so happy to see them both once more in our dear, beautiful Island. And you, Herbert, I am sure, will rejoice at their return.”

“Most certainly I shall. Ah, Kate! did it ever occur to you how much we are indebted to them?”

“Often, Herbert – often. And were it not that I am a firm believer in destiny, I should fancy that but for them – ”

“Nonsense, Kate!” playfully interrupted the young husband. “None of your Creole superstitions. There is no such thing as destiny. It was not that which ruled my heart to believe you the fairest thing in creation – but because you are so. Don’t be ungenerous to Cubina and Yola. Give them all the credit that is due to them. Say frankly, love, that but for them you might have become Mrs Smythje, and I – I – ”

“Oh, Herbert! speak not of the past. Let that be buried in oblivion, since our present is everything we can desire!”

“Agreed! But for all that, dearest, do not let us forget the gratitude we owe to Cubina and his dark-skinned bride. And to prove it to them, I propose something more than giving them the piece of land. Let us build them a house upon it; so that upon their arrival they may have a roof to shelter them.”

“Oh, that would be a pleasant surprise for them!”

“Then we shall bring it about. What a lovely morning! Don’t you think so, Kate?”

As Herbert put this interrogatory, he glanced out through the open jalousies.

There was nothing particularly fine about the morning – at least, for Jamaica, but Kate saw with Herbert’s eyes; and just then, to the eyes of both, everything appeared couleur-de-rose.

“Indeed, a beautiful morning!” answered the young wife, glancing inquiringly towards her husband.

“What say you, then, to a little excursion, à pied?”

“I should be delighted, Herbert. Where do you think of going?”

“Guess now!”

“No – you must tell me.”

“You forget. According to Creole custom, our honeymoon is to last for twelve months. Until that be terminated, you are to be master, sweet Kate. Where would you most like to go?”

“I have no choice, Herbert. Anywhere. In your company it is all the same to me. You must decide.”

“Well, then, dearest, since you leave it to me, I declare for the Jumbé Rock. Its summit overlooks the piece of land we intend presenting to our brother, Cubina. While we are there we can select the site for his house. Is it agreeable to you?”

“Dearest Herbert,” replied the young wife, entwining her arm around that of her husband’s, and gazing fondly into his eyes – “the very place I was thinking of.”

“Why of it? Tell me, Kate!”

“Shame, Herbert! Must I tell you? You know that I have told you before.”

“Tell me again. It gives me pleasure to hear you speak of that hour.”

“Hour! scarce a minute was it, and yet a minute worth all the rest of my life! A minute in which I learnt that the language of your eyes was truer than that of your tongue! But for that belief, Herbert, I might, indeed, have yielded to despair. The memory of that sweet glance haunted me – sustained me through all. Despite all, I continued to hope!”

“And I, too, Kate. That remembrance is as dear to me as it can be to you. Let us seek the hallowed spot.”

An hour after, and they stood upon the Jumbé Rock, on that spot so consecrated in their hearts.

Herbert appeared to have forgotten his purpose. Not a word was said about Cubina or the site of his dwelling. Not a word of the Happy Valley, or the unpleasant recollections it was calculated to call up. All the past appeared to be forgotten, except that one sweet scene; and on this were concentrated the thoughts of both – their words as well.

“And you loved me then?” inquired he, only to enjoy the luxury of an affirmative answer. “You loved me then?”

“Oh, Herbert! how could I help loving you? Your eyes were so beautiful then!”

“What! Are they not so now?”

“How cruel to ask the question! Ah! far more beautiful now! Then I beheld them only with anticipation; now I look into them with the consciousness of possession. That moment was pleasure – this is ecstasy!”

The last word was perfectly appropriate – not a shade too strong to express the mutual feeling that existed between Herbert Vaughan and his cousin-wife. As their rounded arms became entwined, and their young bosoms pressed fondly together, both believed that even in this unhappy world ecstasy may exist.

Примечания

1

Texas – a state in the South West of the USA (678,358 square kilometres); till 1836 Texas belonged to Mexico; after the independence from Mexico had been declared, the territory was included in the USA and became a state in 1845

2

savannah – a plain with grass and no trees

3

prairie – a level treeless land covered with grass

4

the Leona – the river in Texas, USA

5

serape – a bright, coloured Mexican shawl or plaid

6

cicada – a flying insect which produces a shrill sound in hot, dry weather

7

nimbus – a light or golden circle round the saint’s head; a rain cloud

8

azure – (poet.) bright blue (usually about the sky)

9

centaurean – from centaur – in Greek mythology, a strange creature, half man and half horse

10

San Antonio de Bejar – the city in south-central Texas; it was founded by the Spanish expedition from Mexico in 1718

11

Osnaburgh – a linen cloth of a certain trademark

12

Pittsburgh – the city in Pennsylvania on the Monongahela River; the first settlement was founded in 1758

13

Kentucky – the state in the south of the United States (104,664 square kilometres); it was admitted as the 15th state in 1792

14

Jehu – the King of Israel (842–815 BC) who was a great chariot driver

15

Indianola – the city in central Iowa founded in 1849; there used to be a town of the same name in Texas

16

the Gulf of Matagorda – the Bay of Matagorda, an inlet of the Gulf of Mexico in southern Texas

17

en route – on the way to/from (French)

18

cortège – a procession (French)

19

nankin – a kind of rich cloth

20

A Leghorn hat is a hat made of straw imported from Livorno, a town in Italy

21

A Panama hat is a light hat made of plaited palm leaves; the name comes from Panama, a Spanish-speaking republic in Central America

22

entourage – people accompanying a respected or high-ranking person

23

carriole – a light, covered carriage drawn by one horse

24

a Jersey wagon – a light two-wheeled carriage

25

a barouche – a four-wheeled carriage for four passengers and the driver, with two seats facing each other

26

the Mississippi – the largest river in North America; it flows south to the Gulf of Mexico. Together with its tributary, the Missouri River, the Mississippi is the longest river in the world

27

Louisiana – the US state (123,366 square kilometres) admitted to the union in 1812 as the 18th member; it borders Arkansas, Mississippi and Texas

28

a Creole – in the old French or Spanish states in the south of the USA, a person of pure European or mixed European origin; descendants of the French and Spanish settlers

29

penates – home, household; in Roman mythology, Penates were household gods who protected the house

30

Erebus – in Greek mythology, Erebus (Darkness) is the offspring of Chaos (the Greek for Abyss)

31

gramineae – grass

32

algarobias – a kind of wood species

33

mezquites – a name of a bush with thorns

34

Fort Inge – a settlement built in 1849 on the eastern bank of the Leona River, 135 kilometres south-west of San Antonio

35

lazo – lasso – a long rope used for catching horses and cattle

36

ranchero – rancher (Spanish)

37

calzoneros – trousers (Spanish)

38

calzoncillos – men’s underwear (Spanish)

39

botas – boots (Spanish)

40

Moorish – related to the Moors, a population of medieval Spain and Portugal of Moroccan, Algerian or Berber origin; the Moorish style is typical for architecture and decorative art of medieval Spain

41

the Conquistadores – participants of the Spanish conquest of America in the 16th century

42

cavallero – a nobleman; originally: a cavalry man, a military man on horseback

43

mustangs – North American wild horses; they descended from Spanish horses brought to America in the 16th century. Tamed mustangs are known for their speed and strength

44

a Jack – a common man, a plebeian

45

a tête-à-tête – a private meeting of two persons

46

piccaninny – (US) a small child; an African baby

47

Lucifer – in Greek and Roman mythology, the Lightbearer – the morning star, symbol of dawn; in Christianity, the name of Satan before his fall

48

Tartarus – in Greek mythology, the deepest part of the underworld

49

Pluto – in Greek mythology and religion, the son of Cronus, and brother of Zeus; he ruled the underworld, the dark land of the dead

50

Proserpine or Persephone – in Greek mythology and religion, the wife of Pluto, king of the underworld

51

hullabalooing – making a lot of noise about smth; expressing excitement

52

ambuscade = ambush – an unexpected attack from a hidden place

53

lorgnette = binoculars, field-glasses (French)

54

ghouls – in Arabic folklore, demonic spirits who inhabit cemeteries and deserted places

55

ogres – in fairy-tales, giants eating human beings

56

Titans – in Greek mythology, the children of Uranius (Heaven) and Gaea (Earth)

57

Bacchus – in Greek mythology and religion, the god of vegetation, better known as the god of wine and ecstasy; in Roman mythology this god is known as Dionysus

58

musketry – from musket – a firearm of the 16th–18th centuries; in the 19th century it was replaced by a rifle

59

crape – black silk or cotton material

60

sombrero – a broad-brimmed Spanish or Mexican hat made of straw or felt

61

Cimmerian – related to the Cimmerians, the ancient people of unknown origin who lived north of the Caucasus till the 8th century BC; later they were driven by the Scythians to Anatolia

62

Aeolus – in Greek mythology, the god of wind

63

the Rio Grande – the river in North America; it forms the border between Texas and Mexico. The river starts in the Rocky Mountains and flows to the Gulf of Mexico

64

mustanger – a man who catches, tames and sells mustangs

65

Satan – the prince of evil forces, the enemy of God; he is also identified with the devil

66

Mon Dieu! = My God! (French)

67

the Rio de Nueces – the Nueces River in Texas and Mexico

68

Fouquiera splendens – ocotillo, or wine cactus, a flowering shrub which grows in Texas, California and Mexico

69

Lipano – the Lipan people – the Indian nomad tribe of western Texas

70

Comanche – North American Indian tribe of the Great Plains; they were skilled horsemen and led a nomadic life

71

Rangers – in the USA, soldiers, trained to make rapid attacks on the enemy territory; in Texas, Rangers were formed into regiments and used in federal service as law-enforcement forces

72

moccasin – a shoe of soft leather worn by North American Indians, hunters and traders; also a common name of Agkistrodon vipers

73

tarantula – a poisonous spider

74

centipede – a long, many-segmented insect; each segment has one pair of legs

75

the Alamo – one of the tributaries of the Nueces River; also the old chapel of the Franciscan mission, founded in 1716–1718, the place of the historic resistance of fighters for the independence of Texas from Mexico

76

papeterie – a set of writing materials (French)

77

portmanteau – a suitcase consisting of two parts that fold together

78

demijohn – a large glass wine bottle

79

corduroy – a durable fabric, used for breeches, coats, jackets and trousers

80

calico – a cotton fabric with simple designs; it first appeared in the 11th century in Calicut, India

81

brogues – strong leather shoes with stitches

82

Milesian – related to Milesians, the ancestors of the Celtic population of Ireland

83

Galway – a county in western Ireland, the largest Gaelic-speaking region of the country; a seaport and the county town of County Galway

84

Connemara – a region in County Galway, a lowland with bogs, lakes and uplands

85

manada – herd of horses (Spanish)

86

ci-devant – 1. former; 2. before (French)

87

Howly Vargin – Holy Virgin, Mother of Jesus

88

Saint Patrick – bishop and patron saint of Ireland, national apostle who brought Christianity to the country in the 5th century

89

Yankees – citizens of the USA, or more precisely of the six New England states; the origin of the word is unknown; it came into use during the Civil War in 1861–1865

90

Galwegian – inhabitant of Galway

91

grog – an alcoholic drink mixed with water

92

Nothing in his tout ensemble means nothing in his cloths

93

métier – profession, occupation, business (French)

94

Orleens – New Orleans – the largest city and port on the Mississippi River, founded in 1718 by the French settlers; in 1763 New Orleans was given to the Spanish government, but in 1803 it was returned to France. In the same year Napoleon sold it to the United States

95

Saint Looey – St. Louis – the largest city in Missouri, located on the bank of the Mississippi River; it used to be the Gateway of the West at the time of the first settlers. The Missouri River joins the Mississippi to the north of St. Louis

96

Loozeyanner – Louisiana

97

cabriesto – a kind of rope

98

the garden of Eden – in the Bible, an earthly paradise where the first people, Adam and Eve, lived

99

fracas – noise; noisy quarrel

100

Alacran – Alacran tartarus, a kind of poisonous insects

101

revanche – compensation, satisfaction (French)

102

cantata penserosa – a short musical work for a choir and a soloist

103

hydrophoby – fear of water

104

cavallada – a mare (female horse) (Spanish)

105

mise-en-scène – a scene; view (French)

106

jacalés – a hut with walls covered with clay

107

faro, monté – the names of card games

108

hacienda – an estate and an estate house in Texas, Mexico and South America (Spanish)

109

the Guadalupe mountains – the mountains in western Texas and New Mexico

110

the Llano Estacado – a region in the USA on the border of Texas and New Mexico

111

Ethiopia – the country in eastern Africa (1,063,652 square km)

112

the Mexican war – the war between Mexico and the United States in 1846–1848; after the victory, the USA acquired over 1,300,000 square km of Mexican territory

113

Scott’s campaign – a military campaign in the course of Mexican war

114

monté-table – here: a table used for gambling (French)

115

Colt – Samuel Colt (1814–1868), American firearms manufacturer who perfected and patented a revolver

116

corps-d’armée – army corps (French)

117

Morisco – Moorish (Spanish)

118

Andalusia – a historic region in the south of Spain (87,590 square km); the capital is Seville; Andalusian culture was greatly influenced by many centuries of Moorish rule

119

Teutonic tongue – a Germanic language; Germanic languages belong to the Indo-European family

120

peons – workmen hired by the day, who worked in the fields

121

vaquero – a shepherd (Spanish)

122

Azteca – the historical land of the Aztec in the northwest of Mexico; in the 15th–16th centuries the Aztec ruled a large empire; their origin is uncertain; after the Spanish conquest the Aztec empire came to an end

123

Anahuac – the part of Aztec Mexico (4,000 square km) where Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital, was located

124

Phidias – the Greek sculptor of the 5th century BC who created the impressive images of the Greek gods; he supervised the construction of Parthenon and initiated a building program in Athens

125

Praxiteles – the greatest of the Greek sculptors of the 4th century BC; gentle charm and grace of his works greatly influenced the development of Greek sculpture

126

éclaircissement – explanation (French)

127

muslin – a thin cotton fabric; it was first made in Mosul, Iraq

128

Geehosofat – Jehoshaphat, king of Judah in the 9th century BC, who tried to centralize the country with the help of religious and legal reforms

129

cocina – kitchen (Spanish)

130

chez soi-même – here: alone in her room (French)

131

Xeres – sherry, the wine of Spanish origin; the name comes from Jerez, the province in Andalusia

132

Madeira – Portuguese fortified wine from the island of Madeira

133

hidalgo – a hereditary member of the gentry in Spain (Spanish)

134

Coahuila – a state in northern Mexico

135

éclat – magnificence (French)

136

belle – a beauty

137

majoress – wife of a major

138

douceur – here: gift (French)

139

Hibernian – Irish

140

caballeriza – stable (Spanish)

141

aurora – a morning star, the symbol of dawn; the Roman goddess of dawn

142

valet de tout – a manservant who looks after his master’s clothes, weapon, etc.

143

paraphernalia – numerous objects used for a certain activity or event

144

impedimenta – provisions, stores

145

Lucullus – Lucius Licinius Lucullus (117–56 BC), a Roman general; he is remembered for his extravagant and luxurious life and great feasts

146

manada – a herd (Spanish)

147

vidette – an observer (Spanish)

148

Hola! – Hello! (Spanish)

149

machete – a large heavy knife used both as a tool and weapon (Spanish)

150

tapis vert – a green carpet (French)

151

caracara – a large bird of a falcon group (Spanish)

152

yegua pinta – here: a spotted mare (Spanish)

153

en paz – at peace (Spanish)

154

braverie – bravery (French)

155

sang froid – composure, coolness (French)

156

Hartford – the capital of Connecticut, located in the north-central part of the state, a major industrial and commercial centre, founded in 1635

157

corral – a trap for catching wild animals, or an enclosure for cattle and horses

158

embonpoint – plumpness, stoutness (French)

159

the Emerald Isle – Ireland (poet.)

160

stampede – a sudden rash of frightened animals or people

161

palthogue – here: an amusing speech

162

mésalliance – unequal marriage

163

presidio – a fortress (Spanish)

164

General Zachariah Taylor (1786–1850) – the American general who took part in the Mexican War of 1846–1848; later he became the US president

165

Lethean – related to Lethe – in Greek mythology, the river in Hades that gives forgetfulness of the past

166

asterisks – marks used to call attention

167

bivouac – a temporary camp, usually military

168

a Joseph – a chaste man; from Joseph, a biblical figure of the Old Testament

169

sotto voce – in a low voice (Italian)

170

with his arms akimbo – with hands on the hips and elbows outwards

171

six-shooter – a revolver with six bullets

172

ma bohil – my friend (Irish)

173

billet doux – a love letter (French)

174

bravoes – brave men (Spanish)

175

salvo – salvation (Spanish)

176

cuadrilla – a gang or band (Spanish)

177

salteadores – robbers (Spanish)

178

Helen – in Greek mythology, an extremely beautiful woman, the daughter of Zeus, and the cause of the Trojan War

179

siesta – rest or sleep in the afternoon, when it is very hot outside

180

rebozo, topado – a cape or a scarf (Spanish)

181

outré – exaggerated (French)

182

equestrienne – a horse woman (Spanish)

183

escalera – staircase (Spanish)

184

cared a straw – did not care at all (idiom)

185

Pandora’s box – in Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman made out of earth; she had a box with all kinds of evil and misery, and she opened it

186

haciendado – owner of the estate or the land (Spanish)

187

inamorata – a sweetheart, a beloved one (Spanish)

188

tomahawks – Indian weapons, small battle axes; to bury (entomb) a tomahawk means to achieve peace

189

desayuno – breakfast (Spanish)

190

almuerzo – lunch (Spanish)

191

comida – dinner (Spanish)

192

y cena – and supper (Spanish)

193

piazza – here: place, open place (Italian)

194

peccary – a wild swine

195

Seminole – North American Indian tribe, known under this name since 1775

196

sala – sitting-room (Spanish)

197

Siéntese! – Sit down! (Spanish)

198

Pesos in this very sentence mean dollars. Peso was a monetary unit in Mexico and many Spanish-speaking countries

199

Maldita! – Damn it! (Spanish)

200

Carrambo!, Carajo!, Carrai! = Deuce take it! (Spanish)

201

Santíssima Virgen! – Holy Virgin! (Spanish)

202

Adiós! – Goodbye! (Spanish)

203

chiripé – good luck (Spanish)

204

claco – a trifle (Spanish)

205

Viva la guerra de los Indios! – Long live the Indian war! (Spanish)

206

Houma – one of the North American Indian tribes

207

bayou Atchafalaya – Atchafalaya Bay, a part of the Gulf of Mexico along the southern coast of Louisiana

208

Condé – Louis II de Bourbon, Prince Condé (1621–1686), one of the greatest French generals of the times of King Louis XIV

209

the Campeador (1043–1099) – also called the Sid, the byname of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, Castilian national hero and military leader

210

Ferdinand – Ferdinand II, king of Aragon and Castile; he united different Spanish kingdoms into one nation and supported Columbus’ expeditions to America

211

Cortez – Hernán Cortés (1485–1547), Spanish conquistador who ruined the Aztec empire and expanded Spanish territories on the American continent

212

Pizarro – Francisco Pizarro (1475–1541), Spanish traveller who led many successful expeditions in Central and South America, conquired the Inca empire and founded the city of Lima

213

Malinché – also called Marina (1501–1550), an Indian princess; she was interpreter and mistress to Cortés during his conquest of Mexico

214

Eve – in the Bible, the first woman on earth, created from Adam’s rib by God; Adam and Eve lived happily in the Garden of Eden until Eve yielded to the temptation of the evil serpent

215

Elysium – in Greek mythology, a land of perfect happiness, the paradise to which immortal heroes were sent after death

216

sylph – an imaginary soulless creature that lives in the air

217

the old Scratch – the devil

218

Jehovah or Jahweh – in Judaism, the name of God; the name is thought too sacred to be said aloud

219

negligé – any kind of informal dress

220

robe de chambre = dressing-gown (French)

221

reja – an iron or wooden grate (Spanish)

222

Hyperion – in Greek mythology, one of the Titans

223

Satyr – in Greek mythology, half man, half goat; Satyrs were associated with the god Dionysus and his cult

224

cottonade – cotton (Spanish)

225

patio – an inner courtyard in a Spanish American home

226

the Almighty – God; the Almighty God

227

saguan – here: gates (Spanish)

228

sangre – blood (Spanish)

229

Madre de Dios – the Holy Virgin, Mother of Jesus (Spanish)

230

Popish – Catholic

231

leperos – rascals (Spanish)

232

table-d’hôte – 1. a large dinner table for many people in hotels and restaurants; 2. a fixed menu at a fixed price

233

bon vivant – a person who enjoys life and lives to his/her own pleasure

234

Scouts – rangers, reconnoiterers

235

carcass – a dead body of a human being or animal

236

phantasmagoria – fantastic, unreal pictures; ghostly images

237

Iberian – Iberian people used to live in the southeast of Spain; in the text, Iberian means Spanish

238

Aztecan – related to the Aztec people

239

Vandyke – Anthony Van Dyck (1599–1641), the most famous Flemish painter; beards and collars in the portraits by Van Dyck came into fashion under his name: Vandyke beard, Vandyke collar

240

cuartilla – the four of them (Spanish)

241

conpaisanos – here: compatriots (Spanish)

242

mezcal – a strong alcoholic drink (Spanish)

243

pueblita – a small settlement (Spanish)

244

Mein Gott – My God! (German)

245

Aguardiente – Mexican rum (Spanish)

246

musteños – mustangs (Spanish)

247

tasajo – here: meat

248

confrères – comrades, friends (French)

249

gringo – a contemptuous name for Americans in Latin American countries

250

Saurian – one of lizard species

251

Ochone! – Oh, my God! (Irish)

252

goblins – in European folklore, goblin is a malicious spirite attached to a household, who makes noise, disturbs people, punishes disobedient children, etc.

253

Ishmaelites – also called Medianites, in Old Testament, nomadic tribes living in the Arabic deserts and engaged in banditry

254

butt – a target of or for smth

255

Castilian – the Castilian dialect of the Spanish language; in the 15th century it became the literary language of Spain and its colonies

256

camarados = camaradas – comrades (Spanish)

257

Cervantes – Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616), the most famous and celebrated Spanish writer, the author of ‘Don Quixote’

258

boracho = borracho – drunk (Spanish)

259

the Lady of Guadaloupe – also called the Virgin of Guadeloupe, patron saint of Mexico; the Virgin Mary appeared in vision to one of the citizens in 1531, and since then her image has become a national symbol of Mexico

260

Váyate! – an exclamation which here means Hurry up! (Spanish)

261

albur – a game (Spanish)

262

vagabondo – tramp, vagrant (Spanish)

263

Toledos – swords made of Toledo steel; Toledo is the city in Spain southwest of Madrid, famous for its steel, swords and knives since the 1st century BC

264

cañada – canyon, gorge (Spanish)

265

Navajo – also spelled Navaho, one of the largest North American Indian peoples in the USA

266

Santos Dios! – God Almighty! (Spanish)

267

Mil demonios! – A thousand devils! (Spanish)

268

papelcito – a note (Spanish)

269

Hasta luego! – See you soon! (Spanish)

270

hijo de algo – someone’s son (Spanish)

271

estribo – stirrup (Spanish)

272

petto – miniature (Spanish)

273

cuesta – slope, rise (Spanish)

274

salteador – robber, villain (Spanish)

275

Ay de mi – an exclamation of sorrow, disappointment, grief (Spanish)

276

Canova – Antonio Canova (1757–1822), a famous Italian sculptor, the representative of Neoclassicism in art

277

coup d’éclair – a bolt of lightning (French)

278

herradero – branding of cattle (Spanish)

279

Amazonian – related to the Amazons, the nation of women warriors in Greek mythology

280

coup d’oeil – view, sight, look, glance (French)

281

Quién sabe? – Who knows? (Spanish)

282

Mil gracias – Many thanks (Spanish)

283

“Doesn’t that bate Banagher?” – ‘Isn’t it incredible?’; from the expression ‘Well, that beats Banagher.’; Banagher is a town in Ireland famous for its historical places of interest

284

Moses – Hebrew prophet, religious and national leader of the 14th–13th centuries BC, who saved his people from Egyptian slavery

285

douche – shower (French)

286

nolens volens – volens nolens (Latin) – whether one wishes or not

287

Webster – Noah Webster (1758–1843), American lexicographer, the author of ‘American Spelling Book’ and ‘ American Dictionary of the English Language’; he was also a teacher, lecturer, grammarian and journalist

288

un día de novedades – a day of news (Spanish)

289

ricos – rich men (Spanish)

290

ganadería – pastures (Spanish)

291

corrales – corals (Spanish)

292

sobrina – niace (Spanish)

293

douce – sweet, pretty (French)

294

bravourie – courage (French)

295

vicuña or lama – a sort of wool; South American animal of the camel group covered with long, soft, fine wool

296

ladron – robber (Spanish)

297

mayor-domo – house-manager (Spanish)

298

Gracias a Dios! – Thank God! (Spanish)

299

Vamos! – Let’s go! (Spanish)

300

Entiende? – Do you understand? (Spanish)

301

Yo entendo – I understand (Spanish)

302

beau-ideal – a perfect example

303

enagua – petticoat (Spanish)

304

Symon Stylites – Saint Simeon Stylites (390–459), a Christian monk who lived on top of a column in Syria in 423

305

posada – inn, hotel (Spanish)

306

la lengua Americana – the American language (Spanish)

307

congeries – a lot of, plenty

308

paroxysm – a sudden outburst of some feeling or pain

309

chiaro (Italian) – claro (Spanish) – clear

310

oscuro – here: black darkness (Spanish)

311

cosmorama – a theatre of shadows

312

nopal – a species of cactus

313

patois – a local dialect; here: accent (French)

314

Stentor – a kind of genus found in fresh water and remarkable for its regenerative power

315

el güero – here: this nice man (Spanish)

316

maîtresse – beloved, dear (French)

317

the cloisters of the Sacré Coeur – the cloisters of the Sacred Heart

318

querido – beloved (Spanish)

319

Ephesian goddess – Artemis, in Greek mythology, the goddess of animals, hunt, chastity and childbirth; Ephesos – a very important city in Asia Minor, famous for its Temple of Artemis

320

Athenaia – Athena, in Greek religion, the daughter of Zeus, the goddess of war and handicraft

321

after the award of the apple – in Greek mythology, Paris awarded the apple to one of the three most beautiful goddesses, and the apple became the apple of discord

322

caballada – cavalcade (Spanish)

323

Los Tejanos – the Texans (Spanish)

324

vestido de caballo – a riding costume (Spanish)

325

alhuehuete – cypress (Spanish)

326

niña – a girl or an unmarried woman (Spanish)

327

catré – here: bed (French)

328

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael – in the Bible, the God’s archangels

329

Dido – in Greek mythology, the founder of Carthage; Dido fell in love with Aeneas, to escape an unwanted marriage with Iarbas, she committed suicide

330

iodons – the yodel singers; yodel is a specific manner of singing with rapid changing of voice register

331

cotillon – a French dance of the 18th century; music for this dance

332

Judge Lynch – Charles Lynch (1736–1796), the American planter who headed the revolutionary court to punish those loyal to Great Britain; lynching is mob violence, punishment without a legal trial

333

harangue – a long, loud (often insulting) speech

334

viva voice – orally

335

filibuster v – to plunder, to maraud

336

filibuster n – a pirate, a robber

337

commissariat – department that supplies food to troops

338

sophism – false arguments that mislead and deceive

339

mad as a March hare – mad, acting silly (idiom)

340

cache – hide-out, place of concealment (French)

341

laryette – here: lasso

342

triste – sad, depressed (French)

343

lay figure – a wooden figure of a human body used by artists for arranging the drapery they are going to paint

344

au fait – here: used to (French)

345

personnel – here: appearance (French)

346

outre-monde – supernatural (French)

347

Yäger (correct spelling is jäger) rifle – a hunting rifle

348

hieroglyphic – written in hieroglyphics, the system of writing in which pictures of objects represent words, syllables or sounds

349

the Eturnal – here: God

350

Bayard – Pierre Terrail, seigneur de Bayard (1473–1524), French soldier known as ‘the knight without fear and reproach’

351

Dan’l Boone – Daniel Boone (1735–1820), American traveler and explorer

352

arroyo – stream (Spanish)

353

frison – a horse of the Friesian breed (French)

354

chevaux-de-frise – cheval de frise, (military) a protective wall with nails and pins (French)

355

pari passu – here: at an even pace (Latin)

356

Collosus – an immense person; a statue that is much larger than life-size

357

mastodon – a large elephant-looking animal, now extinct

358

the Scripter – the (Holy) Scripture – 1. the Bible; 2. a sacred book of any other religion

359

Dublin – the capital of Ireland, founded in the 9th–10th centuries by the Vikings, the country’s main port, cultural, financial and commercial centre

360

Boniface – Saint Boniface (675–754), often called the apostle of Germany; in the text the name means a German

361

lunacy – madness

362

quidnunc(s) – a gossip, a tale-bearer

363

pettifogger – a person who worries about small and unimportant details

364

the Mexican Gulf – the Gulf of Mexico is located in the southeast of the North American continent; it is connected to the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea

365

zephyr(s) – wind(s) from the West; in poetical texts, the word means gentle breeze

366

trafficker(s) – illicit trader(s)

367

homonym – a word, the same in form and sound as the other, but with a different meaning

368

guerillas – men, fighting in small groups, not in the regular army

369

Havannah cigars – Havana is the capital of Cuba; the country’s world-famous Havana cigars are made from local tobacco leaves

370

lucifer matches – popular matches of the 19th century with white phosphorus on the tip; the Greek name for Lucifer (the Venus, the morning star) is Phosphorus

371

dragoon – a cavalryman

372

jaqueta – a jacket (Spanish)

373

picaresque – amusing; adventurous (French)

374

onza(s) – an ounce, a monetary unit (Spanish)

375

alguazil(s) – bailiff (Spanish)

376

travestie – travesty – parody; an imitation on purpose

377

juste mileu – here: temperance (French)

378

calèche – a carriage (French)

379

Kirschenwasser – cherry liqueur (German)

380

bonne fortune – good, happy fortune; luck (French)

381

coup de théâtre – an unexpected turn of the plot (in a play) (French)

382

nemine dissentiente – no one dissenting (Latin)

383

Cis-Atlantic attorney – the attorney from Europe

384

looking daggers – the idiom to look daggers means to look with a piercing and disapproving glance

385

débandade – in disorder, in confusion (French)

386

claque(rs) – people hired for a certain purpose (to applaud, to whistle, etc.)

387

Gauchos – in Latin America, cowboys of mixed (European and Indian) origin

388

the Pampas – in Latin America, a flat plain without trees, and covered with grass

389

Si non vero e ben trovato – Even if it is not true, it is a good story. (Latin)

390

the Sierra Madre – a large mountain system in Mexico and the United States

391

the battle of Buena Vista – one of the battles in the Mexican-American War of 1846–1848

392

steeds of Arabia – Arabian horses were developed in the 7th century in Arabia; for their qualities they are still considered one of the best breeds

393

Tamaulipas – the state in the northwest of Mexico on the border with Texas

394

gage d’amour – a token of love (French)

395

ricochet – a movement of the bullet after hitting some solid surface

396

a Benedict – a married man

397

scion – a young member of the family

398

souvenir(s) – reminiscence(s) (French)

399

Montego Bay – a city in northwestern Jamaica

400

the West Indies – a group of islands separating the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean

401

Jamaica – a country of the West Indies and one of the largest islands in the Caribbean Sea

402

escalier – staircase (French)

403

cheffonier – chiffonier – a small cupboard or a chest of drawers

404

fauteuil(s) – armchair(s) (French)

405

ottoman(s) – a long bench with cushions and without back, often used as a chest

406

Quasi means something that is not wholly genuine

407

the Caribbean Sea – a part of the Atlantic Ocean in Central America

408

the Blue Mountains – a mountain range covered with trees in eastern Jamaica; the highest peak is 2,256 metres

409

Cofre di Peroté – a mountain peak in Mexico

410

Franciscan – related to the Franciscans, a Christian religious order founded by St. Francis of Assisi in the 13th century

411

terra incognita – an unknown land (Latin)

412

Chimborazo – the highest mountain peak (6,310 metres) in Ecuador

413

the Montezumas – the Aztec emperors, Montezuma I and Montezuma II (1466–1520); the latter was famous for his struggle against the Spanish conquistadors

414

myal-man – a sorcerer, shaman or wizard

415

the Emancipation – the Abolition of Slavery

416

Obeah, Obi – African traditional cults brought to America by the slaves

417

caladium – a group of tropical plants in Central and South America

418

piuche – a sorcerer, shaman or wizard

419

the Cape – the Cape of Good Hope, a rocky southern end of the African continent and the province in South Africa

420

fetish – an object worshiped for its supernatural powers

421

Guinea – a country in western Africa on the Atlantic coast

422

Coromantee – the name of an African tribe

423

custos rotulorum – here: chairman of the court (Latin)

424

Prometheus – in Greek mythology, a Titan who stole gods’ fire to share it with the mortals; for that crime he was punished by Zeus who chained him to the mountain and sent an eagle to eat his liver

425

déjeuner – lunch or dinner (usually official) (French)

426

entrées – entries; here: meals (French)

427

Quamoclit – a tropical American plant with pink or white blooms

428

sang-mêlée – a metis, a half-breed (French)

429

Hindoo – Hindu, a people which lives in India

430

quadroon – in America, a person who has an African ancestor in the third generation

431

damask – bright pink, the colour of a damask rose originally brought from Damascus

432

Madras – a city in India

433

à la toque – as a brimless hat

434

dandyism – a way of life; from dandy – a man who pays too much attention to his appearance and clothes

435

canaille – common people (French)

436

slaver – a ship that carries slaves

437

cannibal – a person who eats human flesh; in early human history, cannibalism was a widespread custom on most continents

438

Mandingo, Jolof, Pawpaw, Ebo, Moco, Lucumi – the names of different African ethnic groups and tribes

439

Koomi – a legendary land of giants and cannibals

440

Anthropophagi – cannibalism

441

cra-cra – the word used by the slaves for a whip

442

en profil – in profile (French)

443

Israelite of Germanic breed – a Jew from Germany

444

Florentine – related to Florence, a city in central Italy, an important cultural and artistic centre

445

burnous (cloth) – a striped cloth worn by the Arabs around the body; later a similar mantel was called a burnous

446

Kordofan – a region in central Sudan between Dafur and the White Nile River

447

East Indiens – the peoples of India, a large country in Asia

448

Lascars – an ethnic group in India

449

Foolahs – an ethnic group of nomadic herders in western Africa

450

Darfur – a historical region in Africa, on the west of the present-day Sudan

451

Sockatoo, Timbuctoo – ancient cities in western Africa, on the southern edge of Sahara

452

the false prophet – Muhammad, the prophet of Islam; the Christian period of history ended in Darfur in 1200 with the advance of Islam

453

Laing – Alexander Gordon Laing (1793–1826), a Scottish explorer of western Africa and the first European who reached Timbuctu

454

Mungo Park (1771–1806) – a Scottish explorer of Africa, famous for exploration of the Niger River, the Gambia River and the Senegal River basin

455

the Quorra – the name of the lower part of the Niger River

456

parapluie – an umbrella (French)

457

Hebraic – Jewish, Hebrew

458

Judah – one of the twelve tribes of Israel

459

rabbi – a title of a spiritual teacher in a Jewish community

460

Aesculapius – the Greco-Roman god of medicine, the son of Apollo; a medical man

461

sardonism – a scornful attitude

462

kerseymere – cashmere, a fine soft wool

463

savoir faire – dexterity, skill (French)

464

distingué – distinguished (French)

465

impedimenta – burden

466

sui generis – unique, rare (Latin)

467

vertu – virtue (French)

468

buckra – buck, male (often contemptuously)

469

Maroon – a descendant of a runaway slave of African origin; former slaves, the Maroons formed communities and had a language of their own – a combination of English and African languages strongly influenced by Portuguese

470

Endymion – in Greek mythology, a beautiful mortal loved by moon goddess Celene

471

cockney – a native of the East End of London

472

dégout – repulsion (French)

473

Apicius – a rich Roman merchant famous for his feasts and banquets

474

Wilberforce – William Wilberforce (1759–1833), British politician known for his struggle against slave trade and slavery in the British colonies

475

Pomona – the Roman goddess of fruit that grow on trees

476

parterres – flower beds (French)

477

Clarkson – Thomas Clarkson (1760–1846), one of the representatives of the English movement against slave trade and slavery

478

Proteus – in Greek mythology, the prophet of the sea who knew past, present and future, but disliked to share what he knew with people

479

Adonis – in Greek mythology, a remarkably beautiful youth, the favourite of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty

480

jack-a box – a toy with something inside which springs when the box is opened

481

penn – a grazing farm

482

barbacoa – a grating of green wood for cooking or drying meat over a slow fire; the word barbecue originated from the Arawak Indian term barbacoa

483

vis-à-vis – facing one another

484

calabash – a container for water or grain made of hard skin or shell of fruit or vegetables

485

Abraham – the first of Hebrew patriarchs, a figure equally revered by Judaism, Christianity and Islam

486

gladiator – in ancient Rome, a man who took part in public shows fighting with wild animals or other men in an arena

487

ceiba – a tropical plant with long and strong fibres from which bombax cotton is made

488

chou de palmiste – palm cabbage (French)

489

Canarian – related to the Canarian Islands, an archipelago in the Atlantic Ocean; the Canaries belong to Spain

490

débris – scraps, remains (French)

491

coup de grâce – the last (often fatal) blow (French)

492

the Land of Eire – Ireland

493

bounty – reward or payment for smth

494

Batabano – the Gulf of Batabano, a part of the Caribbean Sea near southwestern Cuba

495

braggadocio – boastfulness (Spanish)

496

Caspita! – Oh, devil! (an exclamation of unpleasant surprise) (Italian)

497

Cuarito – a small coin, ¼ of a peso (Spanish)

498

caçadores = hunters (Spanish)

499

bandan(n)a – a brightly coloured kerchief

500

chaussure – shoes; a shoe, a boot (French)

501

Lincoln green – bright green

502

Sherwood Forest – a former royal hunting place in Nottinghamshire, England; the forest is well known for the events described in medieval English ballads

503

Robin – Robin Hood, a legendary outlaw and rebel, the main character of the 14th century English ballads

504

redivivus – revived (Latin)

505

Little John – Robin Hood’s friend and associate, a giant man of great strength

506

Sèvres – a town in central France famous for the porcelain manufactured at the royal factory from 1756

507

al fresco – in a fresco (Spanish)

508

protégé – someone under smb’s protection or patronage (French)

509

posse comitatus – a group of armed men gathered by the sheriff to protect public order (Latin)

510

gaucherie – clumsiness, awkwardness (French)

511

Trelawny – Edward Trelawny (1699–1754), governor of Jamaica in 1738–1752; he put an end to a long war between the white planters and the Maroons in 1739

512

valet de chamber – valet (French)

513

à la matelot – as a sailor (French)

514

costume de bal – ball dress (French)

515

claret – Bordeaux wine from the region of the city of Bordeaux in France; the word claret is not used nowadays

516

eau de vie – vodka (French)

517

non esset inventus —here: was not found (Latin)

518

Facilus descensus Averni, sed revocare gradum.– here: It is easy to descend to hell but it is difficult to come back. (Latin)

519

cavatina – a small lyrical opera aria

520

débonnaire – good-natured, generous (French)

521

Carthaginian – related to Carthage, a great ancient city in northern Africa on the Mediterranean coast, founded in 814 BC by the Phoenicians

522

Veni, vidi, vici! (Latin) – Julius Caesar’s famous words ‘I came, I saw, I conquered!’

523

muscovado – raw cane-sugar

524

fêtes = holidays, festivals (French)

525

pit-a-pat – beating, palpitation

526

tableau – picture, view (French)

527

the Rhone – the river in France and Switzerland, one of the largest rivers in Europe; it flows to the Mediterranean Sea

528

dos-y-dos – two and two (Spanish)

529

sine die – for an uncertain period of time (French)

530

monde – the world, society, environment, humanity (French)

531

Anthony – Mark Anthony (83 BC–30 BC), Roman general; he was defeated by Octavian (the future emperor) and committed suicide

532

Cleopatra (70 BC–30 BC) – the Egyptian queen, wife of Mark Anthony; she committed suicide together with her husband

533

vanessa – one of the butterfly species

534

apropos – appropriate, timely

535

cynosure – the centre of attention

536

on the qui vive – on the alert, on the look-out

537

duppy – here: devil

538

tillandsia – a grassy tropical or subtropical American plant

539

sylva – forest

540

canoe – a light boat, usually with one paddle

541

phrenological – here: related to a skull; phrenology is a way of judging of a person’s abilities and character from the shape of the skull

542

oracle – in ancient Greece, a person who asked the gods the questions about the future and gave the answers

543

myalizm – a kind of local witchcraft

544

en perdu – frenzy, fury (French)

545

neophyte – a person recently converted to some cult or religion

546

Mohammedans – the followers of Islam

547

quinteroon – in America, a person who has an African ancestor in the fourth generation

548

litterateur(s) – writer(s) (French)

549

Hecate – in ancient Greek religion, the chief goddess of magic and spell; she is also the goddess responsible for wealth and happiness of daily life

550

pharmacopoeia – here: substances used for preparing some drug; usually: an official list of medicines and descriptions how to use them

551

crescendo – a piece of music or voice with gradually increasing of the intensity of sound

552

exorcism – here: calling out some deity; usually: practice of driving out an evil spirit by prayers or magic

553

en rapport – in connection with; here: together (French)

554

trialogue – a conversation of three persons (French)

555

reconnoissance – survey, reconnaissance (French)

556

embouchure – entrance, point (French)

557

dénouement – here: end (of the affair), outcome (French)

558

nicotian – tobacco

559

shibboleth – speech characteristics, typical for a certain group of people

560

balustrade – a row of stone or wooden joined balusters round a balcony or terrace

561

couchant – lying (French)

562

sobriquet – a nickname

563

sans cérémonie – without ceremony (French)

564

in propria persona – in person (Italian)

565

Niobe – in Greek mythology, a symbol of a bereaved mother; Niobe had twelve children and was too proud of the fact; as punishment for her pride the gods killed her children

566

Dione – in Greek mythology, a cult partner of Zeus; some authors mention her as the mother of Aphrodite

567

apostrophe – a passage in a speech or a poem addressed to some definite person; here: a passage

568

à pied – on foot (French)

569

contra-tiempo – incongruous, improper (Spanish)

570

felo-de-se – suicide (a legal term)

571

Lovel – Samuel Lovel (1797–1868), an Irish novelist and painter; he also wrote songs and plays

572

assize town – a town in which sessions, or sittings, of a court of justice are held

573

banquette – an upholstered bench standing along the wall

574

caçadores de cimmarones – here: villains, scoundrels (Spanish)

575

ingeniero – here: man (Spanish)

576

ingenio – here: estate (Spanish)

577

compadre – old chap ( a form of address) (Spanish)

578

alcalde(s) – city judge(s) in South America and Spain

579

dueño – master, owner (Spanish)

580

vomito prieto – vomit(ing) (Spanish)

581

hombre – man (Spanish)

582

Mira – here: Listen! (Spanish)

583

un cavallo – a horse (Spanish)

584

alforjas – here: trunks, suitcases (Spanish)

585

fanfaron – boaster, braggart; here: bragging (French)

586

détour – a roundabout way (French)

587

Orion – the major and one of the brightest constellations in the sky

588

penchant – love or inclination for smth/smb (French)

589

trousseau – dowry (French)

590

couleur de rose – rose colour (French)

591

feu-de joie – fire of joy (French)

592

syncope – loss of consciousness, fainting

593

compagnon du voyage – voyage companion (French)

594

charybdis – in Greek mythology, the personification of a whirlpool, fatal for shipping

595

phoenix – in mythology, a bird which burned itself and then rose young from the ashes

596

Hymen – in Greek mythology, the god of marriage

Content

The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

The Headless Horseman

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Burnt Prairie

Chapter 2 The Trail of the Lazo

Chapter 3 The Prairie Finger-Post

Chapter 4 The Black Norther

Chapter 5 The Home of the Horse-Hunter

Chapter 6 The Spotted Mustang

Chapter 7 Nocturnal Annoyances

Chapter 8 The Crawl of the Alacran

Chapter 9 The Frontier Fort

Chapter 10 Casa Del Corvo

Chapter 11 An Unexpected Arrival

Chapter 12 Taming a Wild Mare

Chapter 13 A Prairie Pic-Nic

Chapter 14 The Manada

Chapter 15 The Runaway Overtaken

Chapter 16 Chased by Wild Stallions

Chapter 17 The Mustang Trap

Chapter 18 Jealousy upon the Trail

Chapter 19 Whisky and Water

Chapter 20 An Unsafe Position

Chapter 21 A Duel within Doors

Chapter 22 An Unknown Donor

Chapter 23 Vows of Vengeance

Chapter 24 On the Azotea

Chapter 25 A Gift Ungiven

Chapter 26 Still on the Azotea

Chapter 27 I Love You! – I Love You!

Chapter 28 A Pleasure Forbidden

Chapter 29 El Coyote at Home

Chapter 30 A Sagittary Correspondence

Chapter 31 A Stream Cleverly Crossed

Chapter 32 Light and Shade

Chapter 33 A Torturing Discovery

Chapter 34 A Chivalrous Dictation

Chapter 35 An Uncourteous Host

Chapter 36 Three Travellers on the same Track

Chapter 37 A Man Missing

Chapter 38 The Avengers

Chapter 39 The Pool of Blood

Chapter 40 The Marked Bullet

Chapter 41 Cuatro Cavalleros

Chapter 42 Vultures on the Wing

Chapter 43 The Cup and the Jar

Chapter 44 A Quartette of Comanches

Chapter 45 A Trail Gone Blind

Chapter 46 A Secret Confided

Chapter 47 An Intercepted Epistle

Chapter 48 Isidora

Chapter 49 The Lazo Unloosed

Chapter 50 A Conflict with Coyotes

Chapter 51 Twice Intoxicated

Chapter 52 An Awakener

Chapter 53 Just in Time

Chapter 54 A Prairie Palanquin

Chapter 55 Un Día de Novedades

Chapter 56 A Shot at the Devil

Chapter 57 Sounding the Signal

Chapter 58 Recoiling from a Kiss

Chapter 59 Another Who Cannot Rest

Chapter 60 A Fair Informer

Chapter 61 Angels on Earth

Chapter 62 Waiting for the Cue

Chapter 63 A Jury of Regulators

Chapter 64 A Series of Interludes

Chapter 65 Still another Interlude

Chapter 66 Chased by Comanches

Chapter 67 Los Indios!

Chapter 68 The Disappointed Campaigners

Chapter 69 Mystery and Mourning

Chapter 70 Go, Zeb, and God Speed You!

Chapter 71 The Sorell Horse

Chapter 72 Zeb Stump on the Trail

Chapter 73 The Prairie Island

Chapter 74 A Solitary Stalker

Chapter 75 On the Trail

Chapter 76 Lost in the Chalk

Chapter 77 Another Link

Chapter 78 A Horse-Swop

Chapter 79 An Untiring Tracker

Chapter 80 A Doorway Well Watched

Chapter 81 Heads Down – Heels Up

Chapter 82 A Queer Parcel

Chapter 83 Limbs of the Law

Chapter 84 An Affectionate Nephew

Chapter 85 A Kind Cousin

Chapter 86 A Texan Court

Chapter 87 A False Witness

Chapter 88 An Unwilling Witness

Chapter 89 The Confession of the Accused

Chapter 90 A Court Quickly Cleared

Chapter 91 A Chase through a Thicket

Chapter 92 A Reluctant Return

Chapter 93 A Body Beheaded

Chapter 94 The Mystery Made Clear

Chapter 95 The Last Witness

Chapter 96 Stole Away!

Chapter 97 The Chase of the Assassin

Chapter 98 Not Dead yet

Chapter 99 Attempted Murder and Suicide

Chapter 100 Joy

The Maroon

Volume I

Chapter 1 A Jamaica Sugar Estate

Chapter 2 The Myal-Man

Chapter 3 A Jamaica Déjeuner

Chapter 4 Two Letters

Chapter 5 The Slaver

Chapter 6 Jowler and Jessuron

Chapter 7 The Foolah Prince

Chapter 8 A Handsome Offer

Chapter 9 Judith Jessuron

Chapter 10 The Sea Nymph

Chapter 11 Loftus Vaughan on the Look-Out

Chapter 12 Kate and Yola

Chapter 13 Quashie

Chapter 14 Travelling at the Tail

Chapter 15 A Slippery Floor

Chapter 16 The Kiosk

Chapter 17 A Bold Resolve

Chapter 18 The Encounter of the Cousins

Chapter 19 A Surly Reception

Chapter 20 The Jew’s Penn

Chapter 21 A Fiery Baptism

Chapter 22 A Couch of Silk-Cotton

Chapter 23 The Tree Fountain

Chapter 24 The Hog-Hunter

Chapter 25 The Runaway

Chapter 26 A Combat Declined

Chapter 27 The Maroons

Chapter 28 A Forest Breakfast

Chapter 29 Quaco

Chapter 30 A Jamaica Justice

Chapter 31 An Unexpected Patron

Chapter 32 A Plotting Parent

Chapter 33 Another of the Same

Chapter 34 A Sweetheart Expected

Chapter 35 A Love Scene under the Ceiba

Volume II

Chapter 1 Smythje in Shooting Costume

Chapter 2 A Cockney Sportsman

Chapter 3 Stalking a Turkey

Chapter 4 Smythje Embarrassed by his Boots

Chapter 5 A Tropic Shower

Chapter 6 A Dangerous Dance

Chapter 7 Quashie in a Quandary

Chapter 8 A Scarcity of Trousers

Chapter 9 Herbert in the Happy Valley

Chapter 10 In Search of Justice

Chapter 11 Magistrate and Maroon

Chapter 12 The Smythje Eclipse

Chapter 13 A Proposal Postponed

Chapter 14 The Obscuration

Chapter 15 An Encounter of Eyes

Chapter 16 The Smythje Ball

Chapter 17 After the Ball

Chapter 18 Paving the Way

Chapter 19 The Duppy’s Hole

Chapter 20 Chakra, the Myal-Man

Chapter 21 The Resurrection

Chapter 22 The Love-Spell

Chapter 23 Chakra Redivivus

Chapter 24 The Bargain of Obeah

Chapter 25 The Mysterious Motive

Chapter 26 The Death-Spell

Chapter 27 The Invocation of Accompong

Chapter 28 Midnight Wanderers.

Chapter 29 Tracking the Strollers

Chapter 30 Cynthia in the Way

Chapter 31 Strange Disclosures

Chapter 32 A Stormy Scene

Chapter 33 Where Next?

Chapter 34 A Dark Compact

Chapter 35 Stalking the Sleeper

Chapter 36 A Mission for the Man-Hunters

Volume III

Chapter 1 A Startling Summons

Chapter 2 Blue Dick

Chapter 3 The Mysterious Absence

Chapter 4 A Shadowed Spirit

Chapter 5 The Stirrup-Cup

Chapter 6 The Horn Signal

Chapter 7 Quaco’s Queer Encounter

Chapter 8 An Uncle in Danger

Chapter 9 An Equestrian Excursion

Chapter 10 Smythje among the Statues

Chapter 11 A Strange Determination

Chapter 12 A Jealous Reconnoissance

Chapter 13 A Spy in Ambush

Chapter 14 A Fell Purpose Defeated

Chapter 15 Cynthia’s Report

Chapter 16 A Day of Conjectures

Chapter 17 The Sick Traveller

Chapter 18 A Hideous Intruder

Chapter 19 Two Speculative Travellers

Chapter 20 No Blood

Chapter 21 The Capture of the Caçadores

Chapter 22 A Double Murder

Chapter 23 Chakra on the Back Track

Chapter 24 The Vigil of Love and the Vigil of Jealousy

Chapter 25 Cynthia in Trouble

Chapter 26 A Fatal Sneeze

Chapter 27 Chakra Trimming his Lamp

Chapter 28 Setting the Signal

Chapter 29 The Cry of the Solitaire

Chapter 30 A Sad Procession

Chapter 31 The Abduction

Chapter 32 Burglars! Robbers! Murderers!

Chapter 33 Dread Conjectures

Chapter 34 Smythje Still Living

Chapter 35 On the Track of the Destroyer

Chapter 36 Too Late

Chapter 37 The Corpse of a Cousin

Chapter 38 The Sleep-Spell

Chapter 39 A New Job for Chakra

Chapter 40 Dead, or Asleep?

Chapter 41 Quaco Turned Myal-Man

Chapter 42 The Rescue

Chapter 43 Down the Mountain

Chapter 44 An Orphan

Chapter 45 An Involuntary Suicide

Chapter 46 Quaco in Ambush

Chapter 47 The Doom of Destiny

Chapter 48 Conclusion

Примечания