Phelim's second slumber was destined to endure for a more protracted
term than his first. It was nearly noon when he awoke from it; and then
only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered
him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages.
It was Zeb Stump who administered the _douche_.
After parting from the precincts of Casa del Corvo, the old hunter had
taken the road, or rather _trail_, which he knew to be the most direct
one leading to the head waters of the Nueces.
Without staying to notice tracks or other "sign," he rode straight
across the prairie, and into the avenue already mentioned.
Prom what Louise Poindexter had told him--from a knowledge of the people
who composed the party of searchers--he knew that Maurice Gerald was in
danger.
Hence his haste to reach the Alamo before them--coupled with caution to
keep out of their way.
He knew that if he came up with the Regulators, equivocation would be a
dangerous game; and, _nolens volens_, he should be compelled to guide
them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer.
On turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the
searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently
engaged in the examination of "sign."
At the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was
rewarded, by himself remaining unseen.
"Durn them!" he muttered, with bitter emphasis. "I mout a know'd they'd
a bin hyur. I must go back an roun' the tother way. It'll deelay me
better'n a hour. Come, ole maar! This air an obstruckshun _you_, won't
like. It'll gi'e ye the edition o' six more mile to yur journey.
Ee-up, ole gal! Roun' an back we go!"
With a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and
rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue.
Once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering
it by the path which on the day before had been taken by Diaz and his
trio of confederates. From this point he proceeded without pause or
adventure until he had descended to the Alamo bottom-land, and arrived
within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger's
dwelling.
Instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and
leaving her behind him, approached the _jacale_ with his customary
caution.
The horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the
middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out. What was
the meaning of that?
Zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture.
It increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much
stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope.
He kept round by the rear--so as to avail himself of the cover afforded
by the trees; and at length, having crouched into the horse-shed at the
back, he knelt down and listened.
There was an opening before his eyes; where one of the split posts had
been pushed out of place, and the skin tapestry torn off. He saw this
with some surprise; but, before he could shape any conjecture as to its
cause, his ears were saluted with a sonorous breathing, that came out
through the aperture. There was also a snore, which he fancied he could
recognise, as proceeding from Irish nostrils.
A glance through the opening settled the point. The sleeper was Phelim.
There was an end to the necessity for stealthy manoeuvring. The hunter
rose to his feet, and stepping round to the front, entered by the door--
which he found unbolted.
He made no attempt to rouse the sleeper, until after he had taken stock
of the paraphernalia upon the floor.
"Thur's been packin' up for some purpiss," he observed, after a cursory
glance. "Ah! Now I reccollex. The young fellur sayed he war goin' to
make a move from hyur some o' these days. Thet ere anymal air not only
soun' asleep, but dead drunk. Sartin he air--drunk as Backis. I kin
tell that by the smell o' him. I wonder if he hev left any o' the
licker? It air dewbious. Not a drop, dog-gone him! Thur's the jar,
wi' the stop plug out o' it, lyin' on its side; an thur's the flask,
too, in the same preedikamint--both on 'em fall o' empiness. Durn him
for a drunken cuss! He kin suck up as much moister as a chalk purayra.
"Spanish curds! A hul pack on 'em scattered abeout the place. What kin
he ha' been doin' wi' them? S'pose he's been havin' a game o' sollatury
along wi' his licker."
"But what's cut the hole in the door, an why's the tother broken out at
the back? I reckon he kin tell. I'll roust him, an see. Pheelum!
Pheelum!"
Phelim made no reply.
"Pheelum, I say! Pheelum!"
Still no reply. Although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud
enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the
slumberer to show that he even heard it.
A rude shaking administered by Zeb had no better effect. It only
produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same
stentorous respiration.
"If 'twa'n't for his snorin' I mout b'lieve him to be dead. He _air_
dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o' his
toe-nails. Kickin' him 'ud be no use. Dog-goned, ef I don't try
_this_."
The old hunter's eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in
a corner of the cabin. It was full of water, which Phelim, for some
purpose, had fetched from the creek. Unfortunately for himself, he had
not wasted it.
With a comical expression in his eye, Zeb took up the pail; and swilled
the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the
sleeper.
It had the effect intended. If not quite sobered, the inebriate was
thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came
from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud
cachinnations of the hunter.
It was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit
of the two men entering upon a serious conversation.
Phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, was still under the
influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump,
notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced
himself.
As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without
waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail, as concisely
as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of
strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.
It was the first that Zeb Stump had heard of the _Headless Horseman_.
Although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning
broadly scattered around Fort Inge, and along the Leona, Zeb, having
passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at Casa
del Corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such
a startling item of intelligence. In fact, he had exchanged speech only
with Pluto and Louise Poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard
anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by
the party of searchers. The planter, for some reason or another, had
been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse
with any of the others.
At first Zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head.
He called it "a fantassy of Pheelum's brain, owin' to his havin' tuk too
much of the corn-juice."
He was puzzled, however, by Phelim's persistence in declaring it to be a
fact--more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known
to him.
"Arrah, now, how could I be mistaken?" argued the Irishman. "Didn't I
see Masther Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minnit? All
except the hid, and that I had a peep at as he turned to gallop away.
Besides, thare was the Mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth,
and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty
horse? An' havn't I towld yez that Tara went away afther him, an thin I
heerd the dog gowlin', jist afore the Indyins--"
"Injuns!" exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head.
"Injuns playin' wi' Spanish curds! White Injuns, I reck'n."
"Div yez think they waren't Indyins, afther all?"
"Ne'er a matter what I think. Thur's no time to talk o' that now. Go
on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern."
When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question
him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon
the grass.
His object was, as he said himself, to have "a good think;" which, he
had often declared, he could not obtain while "hampered wi' a house
abeout him."
It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian
groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.
Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be
accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the
non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had
started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant,
have been there at an early hour on the day before.
Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding
about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands!
This last might be a trick. What else could it be?
Still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered,
and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the
murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should
be playing them!
Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather
conglomeration of circumstances--events without causes--causes without
sequence--crimes committed without any probable motive--mysteries that
could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.
A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter--a
quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery--Maurice having
departed for the prairies--Henry having followed to sue for
forgiveness--in all this the sequence was natural and complete.
Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.
Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry
Poindexter. More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the
young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had
frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.
That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin,
was too improbable for belief. Only by the evidence of his eyes could
Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.
After spending a full half hour at his "think," he had made but little
progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected,
circumstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession
of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational
solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.
The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men--he did not
believe them to be Indians--had been making free with the mustanger's
hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with
the murder that had been committed. But the presence of these men at
the _jacale_, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner,
conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that
more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the
thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!
A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction
forced itself upon his mind. He entertained for the young Irishman a
peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son;
and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure
corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard
and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of
his heart.
He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he
could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet,
he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his
purpose of vengeance.
So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the
staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.
It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque
Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature's presence. And
then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled
with his own name, attracted his attention.
"What is it, Pheelum? What's wrong? Hes a snake bit ye?"
"Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara! See! thare's somethin' tied about his
neck. It wasn't there when he lift. What do yez think it is?"
The hunter's eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there
was something around the animal's neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But
there was something besides--a tiny packet attached to the thong, and
hanging underneath the throat!
Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in
fear.
A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he
came up again.
The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a _card_!
There was a name upon the card, and writing--writing in what appeared to
be red ink; but it was _blood_!
The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. Even Zeb Stump was no
exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of
pasteboard.
As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the
groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!
"Thank the Almighty for this!" he added; "and thank my ole Katinuck
schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my Webster's spellin'-book. He
lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, _you_ can't read. No
matter. He lives! he lives!"
"Who? Masther Maurice? Thin the Lord be thanked--"
"Wagh! thur's no time to thank him now. Get a blanket an some pieces o'
horse-hide thong. Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar. Quick!
Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!"