The Headless Horseman Part 131

"But where is he?"

The question is beginning to be asked.

"What's your explanation, Mr Stump?" is another question put by the counsel for the accused.

"Don't need much, I reck'n," is the reply. "He'd be a durnationed greenhorn as can't see, clur as the light o' day, thet young Peint war plugged by thet ere bullet."

"By whom fired, do you think?"

"Wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. When a man signs his name to a message, thar's no chance o' mistakin' who it k.u.ms from. Thar's only the ineeshuls thur; but they're plain enuf, I reck'n, an speak for theirselves."

"I see nothing in all this," interposes the prosecuting counsel.

"There's a marked bullet, it is true--with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the Settlement. For the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his--as also the ball before us. What of that? It wouldn't be the first time that a murder has been committed--by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. It is but a piece of ordinary cunning--a common trick. Who can say that this is not something of the same sort?"

"Besides," continues the specious pleader, "where is the motive for a murder such as this would be--supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? Without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. I don't suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. But that signifies nothing: since there is no other circ.u.mstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime."

"Ain't thar though?" asks Stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer's speech. "What do ye call this?"

Zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper--crumpled--scorched along the edges--and blackened as with gunpowder.

"This I foun'," says he, surrendering it to the jury, "stuck fast on the thorn o' a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o' the barrel o' a gun. It kim out o' the same gun as discharged thet bullet--to which it hed served for waddin'. As this chile takes it, it's bin the backin' o'

a letter. Thur's a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi'

the ineeshuls on the bit o' lead. The jury kin read the name for tha.r.s.elves."

The foreman takes the sc.r.a.p of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud:--

Captain Ca.s.sius Calhoun!

CHAPTER NINETY SIX.

STOLE AWAY!

The announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the Court.

It is accompanied by a cry--sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment.

It is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. It has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers.

Against the latter, the testimony of Zeb Stump has done more than direct suspicion. It confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that Maurice Gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of Henry Poindexter.

Equally is it believed that Calhoun is the man. The sc.r.a.p of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circ.u.mstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed.

After a short time spent in examining the envelope--pa.s.sed from hand to hand among the jurymen--the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration.

He proceeds to give an account of his suspicions--those that originally prompted him to seek for "sign" upon the prairie. He tells of the shot fired by Calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. Last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the Headless Horseman has been caught--giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it.

This done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the Court to question him.

But the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. They know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions.

They do not even stay for the deliberations of the Court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. Its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped--themselves along with it; and--swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit--revenge, proceeding from self-reproach--they call loudly for a change in the programme.

The Court is a.s.sailed with the cries:--

"Let the Irishman go--he is innocent! We don't want any farther evidence. We're convinced of it. Let him go free!"

Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.

It is followed by other speeches equally earnest:--

"Let Ca.s.sius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It's he that's done the deed! That's why he's shown so bitter against the other! If he's innocent, he'll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we're waiting upon you!

Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man's been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!"

The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the a.s.semblage.

The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Ca.s.sius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.

The summons of the crier, thrice loudly p.r.o.nounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.

There is only one pair that looks in the right direction--those of Zeb Stump.

The _ci-devant_ witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare--still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.

With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare's back, and spurs her from under the tree.

At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.

Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate--making for a particular quarter of the _cavallada_.

"'Tis he! 'Tis Calhoun!" cries the voice of one who has recognised him.

"Trying to steal off!" proclaims another.

"Follow him!" shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. "Follow, and bring him back!"

There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed--by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.

Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his--a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the _cavallada_.

It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman.

The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.

From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal--the "hue and cry."

Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal's back.