"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 _monte_--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.