Текст книги "The Headless Horseman"

Автор книги: Captain Reid

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Chapter LXXXVIII. 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 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.

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.

Chapter LXXXIX. 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. “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, 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!