The headless horseman

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The headless horseman

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Headless Horseman, by Mayne Reid This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Headless Horseman A Strange Tale of Texas Author: Mayne Reid Release Date: March 16, 2011 [EBook #35587] Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Captain Mayne Reid "The Headless Horseman" "A Strange Tale of Texas" Prologue The stag of Texas, 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, 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, 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, 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 serapé, one edge of which, flirted up by the wind, displays a portion of his figure: his limbs encased in “waterguards” 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 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, 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 is seen the imperfect centaurean shape gradually dissolving in the distance, till it becomes lost to view, under the mystic gloaming of the moonlight! Chapter One The Burnt Prairie On the great plain of Texas, about a hundred miles southward from the old Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar, 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 snowwhite “Osnaburgh.” 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 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 mules, and driven by a black Jehu, 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, on the Gulf of Matagorda; and is now travelling overland—en route for his destination In the cortège 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 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 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 upon his head, is equally becoming The cousin, an ex-officer of volunteers, affects a military undress of dark “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, excaptain 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 One Hundred 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—the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place—turned aside the shot, causing it to ricochet! 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; and there was a young scion 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 It is the story of the Headless Horseman | Prologue | | Chapter 1 | | Chapter 2 | | Chapter 3 | | Chapter 4 | | Chapter 5 | | Chapter 6 | | Chapter 7 | | Chapter 8 | | Chapter 9 | | Chapter 10 | | Chapter 11 | | Chapter 12 | | Chapter 13 | | Chapter 14 | | Chapter 15 | | Chapter 16 | | Chapter 17 | | Chapter 18 | | Chapter 19 | | Chapter 20 | | Chapter 21 | | Chapter 22 | | Chapter 23 | | Chapter 24 | | Chapter 25 | | Chapter 26 | | Chapter 27 | | Chapter 28 | | Chapter 29 | | Chapter 30 | | Chapter 31 | | Chapter 32 | | Chapter 33 | | Chapter 34 | | Chapter 35 | | Chapter 36 | | Chapter 37 | | Chapter 38 | | Chapter 39 | | Chapter 40 | | Chapter 41 | | Chapter 42 | | Chapter 43 | | Chapter 44 | | Chapter 45 | | Chapter 46 | | Chapter 47 | | Chapter 48 | | Chapter 49 | | Chapter 50 | | Chapter 51 | | Chapter 52 | | Chapter 53 | | Chapter 54 | | Chapter 55 | | Chapter 56 | | Chapter 57 | | Chapter 58 | | Chapter 59 | | Chapter 60 | | Chapter 61 | | Chapter 62 | | Chapter 63 | | Chapter 64 | | Chapter 65 | | Chapter 66 | | Chapter 67 | | Chapter 68 | | Chapter 69 | | Chapter 70 | | Chapter 71 | | Chapter 72 | | Chapter 73 | | Chapter 74 | | Chapter 75 | | Chapter 76 | | Chapter 77 | | Chapter 78 | | Chapter 79 | | Chapter 80 | | Chapter 81 | | Chapter 82 | | Chapter 83 | | Chapter 84 | | Chapter 85 | | Chapter 86 | | Chapter 87 | | Chapter 88 | | Chapter 89 | | Chapter 90 | | Chapter 91 | | Chapter 92 | | Chapter 93 | | Chapter 94 | | Chapter 95 | | Chapter 96 | | Chapter 97 | | Chapter 98 | | Chapter 99 | | Chapter 100 | End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Headless Horseman, by Mayne Reid *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN *** ***** This file should be named 35587-h.htm or 35587-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/5/8/35587/ Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Updated editions will replace the previous one the old editions will be renamed Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these 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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 reassume... 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... 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

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  • Captain Mayne Reid

  • "The Headless Horseman"

  • "A Strange Tale of Texas"

    • Prologue.

    • Chapter One.

      • The Burnt Prairie.

      • Chapter Two.

        • The Trail of the Lazo.

        • Chapter Three.

          • The Prairie Finger-Post.

          • Chapter Four.

            • The Black Norther.

            • Chapter Five.

              • The Home of the Horse-Hunter.

              • Chapter Six.

                • The Spotted Mustang.

                • Chapter Seven.

                  • Nocturnal Annoyances.

                  • Chapter Eight.

                    • The Crawl of the Alacran.

                    • Chapter Nine.

                      • The Frontier Fort.

                      • Chapter Ten.

                        • Casa Del Corvo.

                        • Chapter Eleven.

                          • An Unexpected Arrival.

                          • Chapter Twelve.

                            • Taming a Wild Mare.

                            • Chapter Thirteen.

                              • A Prairie Pic-Nic.

                              • Chapter Fourteen.

                                • The Manada.

                                • Chapter Fifteen.

                                  • The Runaway Overtaken.

                                  • Chapter Sixteen.

                                    • Chased by Wild Stallions.

                                    • Chapter Seventeen.

                                      • The Mustang Trap.

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