He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence—a flock of black vultures upon the wing.
An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations—now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal—anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part—their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky—they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.
The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.
There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature—quadruped, or it may be man—dead, or it may be dying.
On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.
At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.
A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.
Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.
Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.
At that early hour there was no traveller—Texan, or stranger—to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.
At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.
It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being—a man!
A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape—so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form—with a face fair to look upon, even in death.
Was he dead?
At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.
He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky—no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.
A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face—paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.
His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?
Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.
Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.
Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.
The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.
“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?”
The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.
“Trees above—around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?
“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is—the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!”
As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint—either shattered or dislocated.
“Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.
“The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!
“What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one—a hundred—a thousand—against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds. Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!
“How long have I been lying here? The surf don’t seem very high. It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle. I suppose I’ve been unconscious about an hour. By my faith, I’m in a serious scrape? In all likelihood a broken limb—it feels broken—with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal—the thicket around me, perhaps for miles—no chance to escape from it of myself—no hope of human creature coming to help me—wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein? I may have ridden my last ride!”
The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.
Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.
Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. He only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him.
The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite—surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received.
The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else—even the pain of his wounds—became of trifling consideration.
“It will kill me, if I stay here?” reflected the sufferer. “I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there’s a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! There’s no help for it but try. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. It already burns into my brain. I may lose my senses, and then—the wolves—the vultures—”
The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:
“If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It runs towards the chalk prairie. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!”
With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket—creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge Saurian whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow!
Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.
The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.
He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst—almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.
Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.
At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.
His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.
He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted—one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.
“Perhaps,” said he, “I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there’s a sapling of the right size—a bit of blackjack. It will do.”
Drawing the knife—a “bowie”—from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.
Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.
He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.
It was not so easy. The sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. Moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant détours to take advantage of its openings. He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.
After proceeding about a mile—not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between—he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. It was slight, but running in a direct line—a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration—in all likelihood a watering-place—stream, pond, or spring.
Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail—now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.
The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. It became blind. In other words it ran out—ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. He saw, to his dismay, that it led from the glade, instead of towards it. He had been following it the wrong way!
Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. To stay in the glade would have been to die there.
He retraced the trodden path—going on beyond the point where he had first struck it.
Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. And this was every moment becoming more unendurable.
The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. They afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.
The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst—until the appetite became an agony!
Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the mezquites, filled with mellifluous moisture. The agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. The former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.
He was acquainted with the character of both. He knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.
He passed the depending pods, without plucking them. He passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.
To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. It had swollen to enormous dimensions. Every step caused him a spasm of pain. Even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? If not, there was no hope for him. He could but lie down in the thicket, and die!
Death would not be immediate. Although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. He might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. Thirst would be his destroyer—of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.
The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make—despite the pain experienced in making it—he toiled on.
The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. Now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there—their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. Instinct—perhaps rather experience—told them it must soon succumb.
Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced—filling him with ominous fears for the end.
There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight—even when excited by the prospect of a repast. The hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. Even the hideous “horned frog” reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones.
The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself—the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.
By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. The spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.
He was near to the point of despondence—in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.
In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. Lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound—so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible.
Slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which his senses were sharpened. It was the murmur of moving water!
With an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound.
He plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy. Even the disabled leg appeared to sustain him. It was strength and the love of life, struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death.
The former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet—wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable agony!
Once more the mustanger’s hut! Once more his henchman, astride of a stool in the middle of the floor! Once more his hound lying astretch upon the skin-covered hearth, with snout half buried in the cinders!
The relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same—as when seen on a former occasion—their attitudes almost identical. Otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted—a transformation at once striking and significant.
The horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls. The slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the “shake down” of the servitor.
But the other “chattels” wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry are either out of sight, or displaced. The double gun has been removed from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and serapés are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and papeterie have entirely disappeared.
At first sight it might be supposed that Indians have paid a visit to the jacalé, and pillaged it of its penates.
But no. Had this been the case, Phelim would not be sitting so unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head.
Though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away. The articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor—among which is the leathern portmanteau—proclaims the purpose of the transposition.
Though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is intended.
In the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was still seen in its accustomed corner—the demijohn. It was seen by Phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the angle.
“Ach! me jewel, it’s there yez are!” said he, apostrophising the demijohn for about the twentieth time, “wid more than two quarts av the crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin’ ye a bit av good, nayther. If the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty binnefit to me intistines. Trath wud it that same. Wudn’t it, Tara?”
On hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him.
Perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he resumed his attitude of repose.
“Faix! I don’t want any answer to that, owld boy. It’s meself that knows it, widout tillin’. A hape av good a glass of that same potyeen would do me; and I dar’n’t touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid to me about it. Afther all that packin’, too, till me throat is stickin’ to me tongue, as if I had been thryin’ to swallow a pitch plaster. Sowl! it’s a shame av Masther Maurice to make me promise agaynst touchin’ the dhrink—espacially when it’s not goin’ to be wanted. Didn’t he say he wudn’t stay more than wan night, whin he come back heeur; an shure he won’t conshume two quarts in wan night—unless that owld sinner Stump comes along wid him. Bad luck to his greedy gut! he gets more av the Manongahayla than the masther himsilf.
“There’s wan consolashun, an thank the Lord for it, we’re goin’ back to the owld sad, an the owld place at Ballyballagh. Won’t I have a skinful when I get thare—av the raal stuff too, instid of this Amerikyan rotgut! Hooch—hoop—horoo! The thought av it’s enough to sit a man mad wid deloight. Hooch—hoop—horoo!”
Tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came down again, the excited Galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous shibboleth. Then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence—his thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited him at Ballyballagh.
They soon reverted to the objects around him—more especially to the demijohn in the corner. On this once more his eyes became fixed in a gaze, in which increasing covetousness was manifestly visible.
“Arrah, me jewel!” said he, again apostrophising the vessel, “ye’re extramely bewtifull to look at—that same ye arr. Shure now, yez wudn’t till upon me, if I gave yez a thrifle av a kiss? Ye wudn’t be the thraiter to bethray me? Wan smack only. Thare can be no harum in that. Trath, I don’t think the masther ’ud mind it—when he thinks av the throuble I’ve had wid this packin’, an the dhry dust gettin’ down me throat. Shure he didn’t mane me to kape that promise for this time—which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin’ away. A dhry flittin’, they say, makes a short sittin’. I’ll tell the masther that, whin he comes back; an shure it ’ll pacify him. Besoides, there’s another ixcuse. He’s all av tin hours beyant his time; an I’ll say I took a thriflin’ dhrap to kape me from thinkin’ long for him. Shure he won’t say a word about it. Be Sant Pathrick! I’ll take a smell at the dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist. Loy down, Tara, I’m not agoin’ out.”
The staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door.
But the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose—which was simply to take a survey of the path by which the jacalé was approached, and make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his intended dealings with the demijohn.
Becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed something more than a “thriflin’ dhrap av its contints.”
Then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool.
After remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more proceeded to soliloquise—now and then changing his speech to the apostrophic form—Tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured by his discourse.
“In the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, I wondher what’s kapin’ the masther! He sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the marnin’, and it’s now good six in the afthernoon, if thare’s any truth in a Tixas sun. Shure thare’s somethin’ detainin’ him? Don’t yez think so, Tara?”
This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative “sniff”—having poked his nose too far into the ashes.
“Be the powers! then, I hope it’s no harum that’s befallen him! If there has, owld dog, fwhat ’ud become av you an me? Thare might be no Ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage wid these thraps av the masther’s. The drinkin’ cup—raal silver it is—wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage. Be japers! now that it stroikes me, I niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel. I’m shure the liquor must taste swater that way. Does it, I wondher—trath, now’s just the time to thry.”
Saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion of its contents—of about the measure of a wineglassful.
Quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips—as if to assure himself of the quality of the liquor.
“Sowl! I don’t know that it does taste betther,” said he, still holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other. “Afther all, I think, it’s swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as I cyan remimber. But it isn’t givin’ the gawblet fair play. It’s so long since I had the jar to me mouth, that I a’most forget how it tasted that way. I cowld till betther if I thryed thim thegither. I’ll do that, before I decoide.”
The demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several “glucks” was again taken away.
Then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion, with the head held reflectingly steadfast.
“Trath! an I’m wrong agane!” said he, accompanying the remark with another doubtful shake of the head. “Althegither asthray. It’s swater from the silver. Or, is it only me imaginayshin that’s desavin’ me? It’s worth while to make shure, an I can only do that by tastin’ another thrifle out av the cup. That wud be givin’ fair play to both av the vessels; for I’ve dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the silver. Fair play’s a jewil all the world over; and thare’s no raison why this bewtiful little mug showldn’t be trated as dacently as that big basket av a jar. Be japers! but it shall tho’!”
The cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it—to be poured immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied connoisseur.
Whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he retained his preference for the jar, is not known. After the fourth potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside.
Instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master.
“Come, Tara!” cried he, striding towards the door. “Let us stip up to the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain. If masther’s comin’ at all, he shud be in sight by this. Come along, ye owld dog! Masther Maurice ’ll think all the betther av us, for bein’ a little unazy about his gettin’ back.”
Taking the path through the wooded bottom—with the staghound close at his heels—the Galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.
From this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was standing.
The sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a cloudless sky. There was nothing to interrupt his view. Here and there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain. Otherwise the surface was smooth; and a coyoté could not have crossed it without being seen.
Beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of trees—where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream stretched transversely across the llano.
The Galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him.
Ere long his vigil was rewarded. A horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.
He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. The striped serapé of brilliant hues—a true Navajo blanket, which Maurice was accustomed to take with him when travelling—was not to be mistaken. It gleamed gaudily under the glare of the setting sun—its bands of red, white, and blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain.
Phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to the cantle of his saddle!
“Trath, Tara! it looks quare, doesn’t it? It’s hot enough to roast a stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don’t seem to think so. I hope he hasn’t caught a cowld from stayin’ in that close crib at owld Duffer’s tavern. It wasn’t fit for a pig to dwill in. Our own shanty’s a splindid parlour to it.”
The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman—by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer.
When his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed. It was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment. But it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under restraint.
“Mother av Moses!” cried he. “What can the masther mane? Not contint with havin’ the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he’s got it over his head!
“He’s playin’ us a thrick, Tara. He wants to give you an me a surproise. He wants to have a joke agaynst us!
“Sowl! but it’s quare anyhow. It looks as if he had no head. In faix does it! Ach! what cyan it mane? Be the Howly Virgin! it’s enough to frighten wan, av they didn’t know it was the masther!
“Is it the masther? Be the powers, it’s too short for him! The head? Saint Patrick presarve us, whare is it? It cyan’t be smothered up in the blankyet? Thare’s no shape thare! Be Jaysus, thare’s somethin’ wrong! What does it mane, Tara?”
The tone of the speaker had again undergone a change. It was now close bordering upon terror—as was also the expression of his countenance.
The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. He stood a little in advance—half cowering, half inclined to spring forward—with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman—now scarce two hundred yards from the spot!
As Phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer.
Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally puzzling him.
Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger.
If Phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still further astonished by what now appeared to him.
As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay—which the ex-groom had long before identified as his master’s horse—turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!
While performing the wheel, Phelim saw—or fancied he saw—that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.
It was a head—that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider’s hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!
As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face—ghastly and covered with gore—half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster!
He saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!
With his flame-coloured curls bristling upward—almost raising the hat from his head—the Galwegian continued his retreat—pausing not—scarce looking back, till he had re-entered the jacalé, closed the skin door behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near.
Even then he did not feel secure. What protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly?
And surely what he had seen was not of the earth—not of this world! Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle—a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? Who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? Certainly not “Phaylim Onale.”
His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks.
At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes—as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him.
One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. He had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo, going on at a gallop.
But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still more terrified—if that were possible—while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacalé.
For a long time he was speechless—not knowing what to say—and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips.
As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. They were all addressed to himself. Tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation.
They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacalé.
“Ochone! Ochone! it cyan’t av been him! Sant Pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin?
“Thare was iverything av his—the horse—the sthriped blankyet—them spotted wather guards upon his legs—an the head itself—all except the faytures. Thim I saw too, but wasn’t shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood?
“Ach! it cudn’t be Masther Maurice at all, at all!
“It’s all a dhrame. I must have been aslape, an dhramin? Or, was it the whisky that did it?
“Shure, I wasn’t dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan—not over a kupple av naggins in all! That wudn’t make me dhrunk. I’ve taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still?
“Thare’s not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I’m as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates.
“Sowl! a dhrap ’ud do me a power av good just now. If I don’t take wan, I’ll not get a wink av slape. I’ll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin’ about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An’ where cyan the masther be, if it wasn’t him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that’s lift all alone be himself, wid nothin’ but ghosts an goblins around him!”
After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.
His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god—represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky—he was shrived of all his sufferings—if not of his sins—and lay stretched along the floor of the jacalé, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul’s existence.
There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger—not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.
There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.
Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.
Passing through these alternations of light and shadow—apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible—goes a group of mounted men.
Though few in number—as there are only four of them—they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind.
Whence come they?
They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts—everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the maraud.
They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.
Whither go they?
This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt of their expedition.
That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.
Their stealthy tread—taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves—the precaution to keep inside the shadow—the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening—the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader—all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.
In this they are successful—so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen.
The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. There is nothing heard—not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.
And yet the hut is inhabited. But a man may get drunk beyond the power of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is the tenant of the jacalé.
The four Comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking attitudes scrutinise it.
It is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears—all at the same time—and stand silently listening.
No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!
“It is possible,” says their chief to the follower nearest him—speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Castilian, “just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this. He may have ridden out again? Now I remember: there’s a horse-shed at the back. If the man be inside the house, the beast should be found in the shed. Stay here, camarados, till I go round and see.”
Six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. No horse in it.
As many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it. No horse has been there—at least not lately.
These points determined, the chief returns to his followers—still standing by the doorway in front.
“Maldito!” he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, “he’s not here, nor has he been this day.”
“We had better go inside, and make sure?” suggests one of the common warriors, in Spanish fairly pronounced. “There can be no harm in our seeing how the Irlandes has housed himself out here?”
“Certainly not!” answers a third, equally well versed in the language of Cervantes. “Let’s have a look at his larder too. I’m hungry enough to eat raw tasajo.”
“Por Dios!” adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. “I’ve heard that he keeps a cellar. If so—”
The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him—stimulating to immediate action.
He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open.
It resists the effort.
“Carrambo! it’s barred inside! Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes—perhaps Indians. Ha! ha! ha!”
Another kick is given with greater force. The door still keeps its place.
“Barricaded with something—something heavy too. It won’t yield to kicking. No matter. I’ll soon see what’s inside.”
The macheté is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.
Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction.
The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.
The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.
A man lying in the middle of the floor!
“Carajo!”
“Is he asleep?”
“He must be dead not to have heard us?”
“Neither,” says the chief, after stooping to examine him, “only dead drunk—boracho—embriaguado! He’s the servitor of the Irlandes. I’ve seen this fellow before. From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. I hope the brute hasn’t used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition. Ah! a jar. And smelling like a rose! There’s a rattle among these rods. There’s stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!”
A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn. There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. In a trice the jar is empty. What next?
The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him—particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit. The chief is especially anxious to see him.
What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?
Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there.
They have come to murder him!
Their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and assistants.
The business is too important to permit of his trifling. He will gain a thousand dollars by the deed—besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. His three braves will earn a hundred each—a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a Comanche, and purchase him for any purpose.
The travesty need not be carried any further. By this time the mask must have fallen off. Our Comanches are mere Mexicans; their chief, Miguel Diaz, the mustanger.
“We must lie in wait for him.”
This is the counsel of El Coyote.
“He cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. You, Barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. The rest remain here with me. He must come that way from the Leona. We can meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree. ’Tis the best place for our purpose.”
“Had we not better silence him?” hints the bloodthirsty Barajo, pointing to the Galwegian—fortunately unconscious of what is transpiring around him.
“Dead men tell no tales!” adds another of the conspirators, repeating the proverb in its original language.
“It would tell a worse tale were we to kill him,” rejoins Diaz. “Besides, it’s of no use. He’s silent enough as it is, the droll devil. Let the dog have his day. I’ve only bargained for the life of his master. Come, Barajo! Vayate! vayate! Up to the cliff. We can’t tell the moment Don Mauricio may drop in upon us. A miscarriage must not be made. We may never have such a chance again. Take your stand at the top of the gorge. From that point you have a view of the whole plain. He cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. As soon as you’ve set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know. Be sure you give us time to get under the cypress.”
Barajo is proceeding to yield obedience to this chapter of instructions, but with evident reluctance. He has, the night before, been in ill luck, having lost to El Coyote a large sum at the game of monté. He is desirous of having his revanche: for he well knows how his confrères will spend the time in his absence.
“Quick. Señor Vicente!” commands Diaz, observing his dislike to the duty imposed upon him; “if we fail in this business, you will lose more than you can gain at an albur of monté. Go, man!” continues El Coyote, in an encouraging way. “If he come not within the hour, some one will relieve you. Go!”
Barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacalé, proceeds to his post upon the top of the cliff.
The others seat themselves inside the hut—having already established a light.
Men of their class and calling generally go provided with the means of killing time, or, at all events, hindering it from hanging on their hands.
The slab table is between them, upon which is soon displayed, not their supper, but a pack of Spanish cards, which every Mexican vagabondo carries under his serapé.
Cavallo and soto (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monté table is established; the cards are shuffled; and the play proceeds.
Absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without note being taken of the time.
El Coyote is banker, and also croupier.
The cries “Cavallo en la puerta!” “Soto mozo!” “The queen in the gate!” “The knave winner!”—at intervals announced in set phrase—echo from the skin-covered walls.
The silver dollars are raked along the rough table, their sharp chink contrasting with the soft shuffle of the cards.
All at once a more stentorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game.
It is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacalé.
The players spring to their feet, and draw their machetés. Phelim stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long Toledos.
He is only saved by a contingency—another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent.
Barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath.
It is scarce necessary for him to announce his errand, though he contrives to gasp out—
“He is coming—on the bluff already—at the head of the cañada—quick, comrades, quick!”
The Galwegian is saved. There is scarce time to kill him—even were it worth while.
But it is not—at least so think the masqueraders; who leave him to resume his disturbed slumber, and rush forth to accomplish the more profitable assassination.
In a score of seconds they are under the cliff, at the bottom of the sloping gorge by which it must be descended.
They take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the approach of their victim.
They listen for the hoofstrokes that should announce it.
These are soon heard. There is the clinking of a shod hoof—not in regular strokes, but as if a horse was passing over an uneven surface. One is descending the slope!
He is not yet visible to the eyes of the ambuscaders. Even the gorge is in gloom—like the valley below, shadowed by tall trees.
There is but one spot where the moon throws light upon the turf—a narrow space outside the sombre shadow that conceals the assassins. Unfortunately this does not lie in the path of their intended victim. He must pass under the canopy of the cypress!
“Don’t kill him!” mutters Miguel Diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest tone. “There’s no need for that just yet. I want to have him alive—for the matter of an hour or so. I have my reasons. Lay hold of him and his horse. There can be no danger, as he will be taken by surprise, and unprepared. If there be resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first.”
The confederates promise compliance.
They have soon an opportunity of proving the sincerity of their promise. He for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the slope, and is passing under the shadow of the cypress.
“Abajo las armas! A tierra!” (“Down with your weapons. To the ground!”) cries El Coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the saddle.
There is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no blade drawn; no shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest!
They see a man standing upright in the stirrups; they lay their hands upon limbs that feel solid flesh and bone, and yet seem insensible to the touch!
The horse alone shows resistance. He rears upon his hind legs, makes ground backward, and draws his captors after him.
He carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the shadow.
Merciful heaven! what does it mean?
His captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout. It is a scream of wild terror!
Not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have been left tied.
Mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away.
They have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more courageous than theirs—a horseman without a head!