Part 59 (1/2)

A SECRET CONFIDED.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of Casa del Corvo. The courtyard was crowded with men--armed, though not in the regular fas.h.i.+on. They carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel s.h.i.+rts, coats of coloured blanket, and ”Kentucky jeans,” trowsers of brown ”homespun,” and blue ”cottonade,” hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck--these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an a.s.semblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of Texas.

Despite the _bizarrerie_ of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. Others had now joined the a.s.semblage--settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day--even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the a.s.sembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. Irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. These were the ”_Regulators_.”

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any other individual. They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder--of the murder of Henry Poindexter--coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not--of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony--and the serious manner in which it was given-- could not long be resisted; and the existence of the _headless horseman_ became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested.

The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman--that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside--some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most ”hitched” to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter--on this occasion their chief--to give the signal for setting forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo--who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.

There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service--old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.

There was a _woman_, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track--to the very hearthstone of the supposed a.s.sa.s.sin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. Had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda without him. The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth.

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the ”plunder”--as he was wont to term it--procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home. She was even eager for the interview--so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare--the latter laden with the spoils of the chase--slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.