The Headless Horseman

But the conjecture would not have done justice to him of Connemara. In his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master — much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him. He knew he could do nothing of himself. His hope lay in summoning Zeb Stump, and it was to sound that signal — which had proved so effective before — that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and execution.
On getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether.
The other horses standing “hitched” to the twigs, formed a tolerably compact tier all round the edge of the timber. This aided in screening his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of the mare, without being seen by any one.
Just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary to carry out his design. The cactus branch had been dropped where he was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his captors. He could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end.
He had no knife — no weapon of any kind — wherewith he might procure another nopal.
He paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do. Only for an instant. There was no time to be lost. His master’s life was in imminent peril, menaced at every moment. No sacrifice would be too great to save him; and with this thought the faithful Phelim rushed towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem.
His fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that, when weighed against the life of his beloved master? With equal recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument of torture!
By this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger’s neck, carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure. The other end, leading over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded bullies — whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it. In their eyes and attitudes was an air of deadly determination. They only waited for the word.
Not that any one had the right to pronounce it. And just for this reason was it delayed. No one seemed willing to take the responsibility of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long account. Criminal as they might regard him — murderer as they believed him to be — all shied from doing the sheriff’s duty. Even Calhoun instinctively held back.
It was not for the want of will. There was no lack of that on the part of the ex-officer, or among the Regulators. They showed no sign of retreating from the step they had taken. The pause was simply owing to the informality of the proceedings. It was but the lull in the storm that precedes the grand crash.
It was a moment of deep solemnity — every one silent as the tomb. They were in the presence of death, and knew it, — death in its most hideous shape, and darkest guise. Most of them felt that they were abetting it. All believed it to be nigh.
With hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the tree-trunks around them. Surely the crisis had come?
It had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves decreed. Instead of seeing Maurice Gerald jerked into the air, far different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness, — one so ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings.
The old mare — that they knew to be Zeb Stump’s — appeared to have gone suddenly mad. She had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might. She had given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly responding to her screams!
 
Enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacalé hut. Not only was the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the condemned captive.
Nor was the change of a comical character. On the contrary, it was accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!
The Regulators rushed to their arms — some towards their horses.
“Indians!” was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din. Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a commotion — threatening to result in a stampede of the troop!
For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances.
Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them — using them by way of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.
There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror.
It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard — the wretched creature that had given them the cue.
Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the Connemara man had stolen off.
Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes. Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master.
A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy, — their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare.
But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.
Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design. The Regulators are still in the same temper.
The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary.
Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial.
They return to it with increased vindictiveness — as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations.
Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned — the terrible tableau is reconstructed.
Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:
“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”
Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.
How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows, — flashing out into the open sunlight.
“A woman! a beautiful woman!”
’Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.
Like a meteor she pauses through their midst — glides on without giving a glance on either side — without speech, without halt — till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.
With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.
Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”
 
They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues: —
“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel — condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My scorn upon you — not men, but murderers!”
“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad — Loo — mad! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away — this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”