There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the
accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his
name. Perhaps not any.
It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to
the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of
an accomplished horse-catcher.
All admitted him to be a fine young fellow--handsome, dashing, devoted
to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman--
free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more
readily believed.
But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His
daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did
his speech degenerate into "small talk."
In his actions there was observable a certain _juste milieu_. His words
were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence
somewhat rare among his countrymen.
No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in
Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer "trade," as that of catching
wild horses--a calling not deemed the most reputable.
It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only
educated, but evidently a "born gentleman"--a phrase, however, of but
slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.
There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where
"born noblemen," both of France and the "Faderland," may oft be
encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.
A fig for all patents of nobility--save those stamped by the true die of
Nature!
Such is the sentiment of this far free land.
And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him--blazoned
like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either
fool or villain.
And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard
him as an assassin--one who in the dead hour of night has spilled
innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!
Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!
Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they
stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.
Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with
interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.
There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression
altogether unlike the rest--a gaze soft, but steadfast--in which fear
and fondness seem strangely commingled.
There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale
face, half hid behind the curtains of a _caleche_, is too fair to escape
observation.
There are few who can interpret it.
But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady
and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost
compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is
enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which
he is placed.
For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that
transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he
had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter
reality of earth.
That woman's face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now
seen through the curtains of the _caleche_; and the expression upon it
tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will
be true to the end--even though it be death!
The trial begins.
There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his
hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.
After half a dozen draws, he takes the "weed" from between his teeth,
lays it still smoking along the table, and says--
"Gentlemen of the jury! We are here assembled to try a case, the
particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has
been murdered,--the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the
prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. It is my
duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is
yours to decide--after hearing the evidence to be laid before you--
whether or not the accusation be sustained."
The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,--"_Guilty, or
not guilty_?"
"Not guilty," is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.
Cassius Calhoun, and some "rowdies" around him, affect an incredulous
sneer.
The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.
The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to
introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.
First called is Franz Oberdoffer.
After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like,
he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the
common routine of a Texan trial.
Oberdoffer's evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how
on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left
his house at a late hour--after midnight. He had settled his account
before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often
Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for
his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he
was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness
only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day
before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule--everything, except what
the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.
What had he carried off?
Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of
his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one--strapped, Mexican
fashion, along the side of his saddle.
He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters,
with a bowie-knife in the mustanger's belt. Gerald was dressed as he
always went--in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He
had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it
strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger,
that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.
He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse--
which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately
after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He
appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his
flask with _Kirschenwasser_; but did not drink of it before leaving the
hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was
excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse--which he did
for himself--he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn't
think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by
somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before
coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but
heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and
down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter's plantation. He had
been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his
sojourn at the hotel--both by day and night--on foot as well as
horseback--several times both ways.
Such are the main points of Oberdoffer's evidence relating to the
movements of the prisoner.
He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.
Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the
hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised
to see him there--partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and
partly on account of the lateness of the hour.
Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the
saloon; and called witness to the door.
He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and,
upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more
excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and
asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande
trace--thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and
went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.
A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer's evidence is exhausted.
On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the
circumstance of Gerald's having changed his intention as to his time of
starting. His manner, described as excited and angry,--perhaps somewhat
exaggerated by the man who naively confesses to a grudge against him.
That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that
it has made this impression.
But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he
have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an
unusual hour--unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts
and habits?
Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after
him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have
been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?
Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the
reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed
between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.
One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is
Captain Cassius Calhoun.
His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It
not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed
tenfold.
After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to
make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the
quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been
accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the
true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout.
These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.
The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise--alike shared by
judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable
manner--here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.
These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against
him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double
crime: the assassination of a son--the defilement of a daughter!
A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came
from a man of more than middle age--of sad subdued aspect--whom all knew
to be the father of both these unfortunates.
But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a
curtained _caleche_, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long
before to have fixed their attention.
Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not
inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.
Is she there of her own accord--by her own free will?
So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow
it.
There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their
answer in the crier's voice, heard pronouncing the name--
"Louise Poindexter!"
Calhoun has kept his word.