The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas. Reid Mayne
behind them! He could hear the silvery tones of his cousin’s voice bearing the better part of the conversation. How interesting it must be to both to have hindered them from perceiving his approach!
If he could but overhear what they were saying?
It seemed a most unpropitious place for playing eavesdropper; and yet there might be a chance?
The seeming interest of the dialogue to the individuals engaged in it gave promise of such opportunity. The turf of the savannah was soft as velvet. The hoof gliding slowly over it gave forth not the slightest sound.
Calhoun was still too impatient to confine himself to a walk; but his chestnut was accustomed to that gait, peculiar to the horse of the South-Western States – the “pace”; and into this was he pressed.
With hoofs horizontally striking the sward – elevated scarce an inch above the ground – he advanced swiftly and noiselessly; so quick withal, that in a few seconds he was close upon the heels of the spotted mustang, and the red steed of the mustanger!
He was then checked to a pace corresponding to theirs; while his rider, leaning forward, listened with an eagerness that evinced some terrible determination. His attitude proclaimed him in the vein for vituperation of the rudest kind – ready with ribald tongue; or, if need be, with knife and pistol!
His behaviour depended on a contingency – on what might be overheard.
As chance, or fate, willed it, there was nothing. If the two equestrians were insensible to external sounds, their steeds were not so absorbed. In a walk the chestnut stepped heavily – the more so from being fatigued. His footfall proclaimed his proximity to the sharp ears, both of the blood-bay and spotted mustang; that simultaneously flung up their heads, neighing as they did so.
Calhoun was discovered.
“Ha! cousin Cash!” cried the lady, betraying more of pique than surprise; “you there? Where’s father, and Harry, and the rest of the people?”
“Why do you ask that, Loo? I reckon you know as well as I.”
“What! haven’t you come out to meet us? And they too – ah! your chestnut is all in a sweat! He looks as if you had been riding a long race – like ourselves?”
“Of coarse he has. I followed you from the first – in hopes of being of some service to you.”
“Indeed! I did not know that you were after us. Thank you, cousin! I’ve just been saying thanks to this gallant gentleman, who also came after, and has been good enough to rescue both Luna and myself from a very unpleasant dilemma – a dreadful danger I should rather call it. Do you know that we’ve been chased by a drove of wild steeds, and had actually to ride for our lives?”
“I am aware of it.”
“You saw the chase then?”
“No. I only knew it by the tracks.”
“The tracks! And were you able to tell by that?”
“Yes – thanks to the interpretation of Zeb Stump.”
“Oh! he was with you? But did you follow them to – to – how far did you follow them?”
“To a crevasse in the prairie. You leaped over it, Zeb said. Did you?”
“Luna did.”
“With you on her back?”
“I wasn’t anywhere else! What a question, cousin Cash! Where would you expect me to have been? Clinging to her tail? Ha! ha! ha!”
“Did you leap it?” inquired the laugher, suddenly changing tone. “Did you follow us any farther?”
“No, Loo. From the crevasse I came direct here, thinking you had got back before me. That’s how I’ve chanced to come up with you.”
The answer appeared to give satisfaction.
“Ah! I’m glad you’ve overtaken us. We’ve been riding slowly. Luna is so tired. Poor thing! I don’t know how I shall ever get her back to the Leona.”
Since the moment of being joined by Calhoun, the mustanger had not spoken a word. However pleasant may have been his previous intercourse with the young Creole, he had relinquished it, without any apparent reluctance; and was now riding silently in the advance, as if by tacit understanding he had returned to the performance of the part for which he had been originally engaged.
For all that, the eye of the ex-captain was bent blightingly upon him – at times in a demoniac glare – when he saw – or fancied – that another eye was turned admiringly in the same direction.
A long journey performed by that trio of travellers might have led to a tragical termination. Such finale was prevented by the appearance of the picknickers; who soon after surrounding the returned runaway, put to flight every other thought by the chorus of their congratulations.
Chapter Nineteen.
Whisky and Water
In the embryo city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the “hotel” was the most conspicuous building. This is but the normal condition of every Texan town – whether new or founded forty years ago; and none are older, except the sparse cities of Hispano-Mexican origin – where the presidio and convent took precedence, now surpassed by, and in some instances transformed into, the “tavern.”
The Fort Inge establishment, though the largest building in the place, was, nevertheless, neither very grand nor imposing. Its exterior had but little pretence to architectural style. It was a structure of hewn logs, having for ground-plan the letter T according to the grotesque alphabet – the shank being used for eating and sleeping rooms, while the head was a single apartment entirely devoted to drinking – smoking and expectorating included. This last was the bar-room, or “saloon.”
The sign outside, swinging from the trunk of a post-oak, that had been pollarded some ten feet above the ground, exhibited on both sides the likeness of a well known military celebrity – the hero of that quarter of the globe – General Zachariah Taylor. It did not need looking at the lettering beneath to ascertain the name of the hotel. Under the patronage of such a portrait it could only be called “Rough and Ready.”
There was a touch of the apropos about this designation. Outside things appeared rough enough; while inside, especially if you entered by the “saloon,” there was a readiness to meet you half way, with a mint julep, a sherry cobbler, a gin sling, or any other mixed drink known to trans-Mississippian tipplers – provided always that you were ready with the picayunes to pay for them.
The saloon in question would not call for description, had you ever travelled in the Southern, or South-Western, States of America. If so, no Lethean draught could ever efface from your memory the “bar-room” of the hotel or tavern in which you have had the unhappiness to sojourn. The counter extending longitudinally by the side; the shelved wall behind, with its rows of decanters and bottles, containing liquors, of not only all the colours of the prism, but every possible combination of them; the elegant young fellow, standing or sidling between counter and shelves, ycleped “clerk” – don’t call him a “barkeeper,” or you may get a decanter in your teeth – this elegant young gentleman, in blouse of blue cottonade, or white linen coat, or maybe in his shirt sleeves – the latter of finest linen and lace – ruffled, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty – this elegant young gentleman, who, in mixing you a sherry cobbler, can look you straight in the face, talk to you the politics of the day, while the ice, and the wine, and the water, are passing from glass to glass, like an iris sparkling behind his shoulders, or an aureole surrounding his perfumed head! Traveller through the Southern States of America you; cannot fail to remember him?
If so, my words will recall him, along with his surroundings – the saloon in which he is the presiding administrator, with its shelves and coloured decanters; its counter; its floor sprinkled with white sand, at times littered with cigar stumps, and the brown asterisks produced by expectoration– its odour of mint, absinthe, and lemon-peel, in which luxuriate the common black fly, the blue-bottle, and the