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!
Chapter XLV. A Trail gone Blind
Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?
So questioned El Coyote and his terrified companions. So, too, had the scared Galwegian interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the terror.
In a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others, to whom the headless horseman had shown himself — the party of searchers who accompanied the major.
It was at an earlier hour, and a point in the prairie five miles farther east, that to these the weird figure had made itself manifest.
Looking westward, with the sun-glare in their eyes, they had seen only its shape, and nothing more — at least nothing to connect it with Maurice the mustanger.
Viewing it from the west, with the sun at his back, the Galwegian had seen enough to make out a resemblance to his master — if not an absolute identification.
Under the light of the moon the four Mexicans, who knew Maurice Gerald by sight, had arrived at a similar conclusion.
If the impression made upon the servant was one of the wildest awe, equally had it stricken the conspirators.
The searchers, though less frightened by the strange phenomenon, were none the less puzzled to explain it.
Up to the instant of its disappearance no explanation had been attempted — save that jocularly conveyed in the bizarre speech of the borderer.
“What do you make of it, gentlemen?” said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: “I confess it mystifies me.”
“An Indian trick?” suggested one. “Some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?”
“A most unlikely lure, then;” remarked another; “certainly the last that would attract me.”
“I don’t think it’s Indian,” said the major; “I don’t know what to think. What’s your opinion of it, Spangler?”
The tracker shook his head, as if equally uncertain.
“Do you think it’s an Indian in disguise?” urged the officer, pressing him for an answer.
“I know no more than yourself, major,” replied he. “It should be somethin’ of that kind: for what else can it be? It must eyther be a man, or a dummy!”
“That’s it — a dummy!” cried several, evidently relieved by his hypothesis.
“Whatsomever it is — man, dummy, or devil,” said the frontiersman, who had already pronounced upon it, “thar’s no reason why we should be frightened from followin’ its trail. Has it left any, I wonder?”
“If it has,” replied Spangler, “we’ll soon see. Ours goes the same way — so fur as can be judged from here. Shall we move forr’ad, major?”
“By all means. We must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. Forward!”
The horsemen again advanced — some of them not without a show of reluctance. There were among them men, who, if left to themselves, would have taken the back track. Of this number was Calhoun, who, from the first moment of sighting the strange apparition, had shown signs of affright even beyond the rest of his companions. His eyes had suddenly assumed an unnatural glassiness; his lips were white as ashes; while his drooping jaw laid bare two rows of teeth, which he appeared with difficulty to restrain from chattering!