Headless Horseman by Mayne Reid - Chapter Sixty. 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 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!” 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?”
“Quien sabe?”
“You don’t know her? What was she like?”
“Like?—like?”
“Yes; how was she dressed?”
“Vestido de caballo.”
“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. 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,” 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!