I’ll roust him, an see.
Pheelum!
Pheelum!”
Phelim made no reply.
“Pheelum, I say!
Pheelum!”
Still no reply.
Although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the slumberer to show that he even heard it.
A rude shaking administered by Zeb had no better effect. It only produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same stentorous respiration.
“If ’twa’n’t for his snorin’ I mout b’lieve him to be dead.
He air dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o’ his toe-nails.
Kickin’ him ’ud be no use.
Dog-goned, ef I don’t try this.”
The old hunter’s eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in a corner of the cabin.
It was full of water, which Phelim, for some purpose, had fetched from the creek. Unfortunately for himself, he had not wasted it.
With a comical expression in his eye, Zeb took up the pail; and swilled the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the sleeper.
It had the effect intended. If not quite sobered, the inebriate was thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud cachinnations of the hunter.
It was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit of the two men entering upon a serious conversation.
Phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see Zeb Stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself.
As soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail, as concisely as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses.
It was the first that Zeb Stump had heard of the Headless Horseman.
Although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning broadly scattered around Fort Inge, and along the Leona, Zeb, having passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at Casa del Corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such a startling item of intelligence.
In fact, he had exchanged speech only with Pluto and Louise Poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by the party of searchers.
The planter, for some reason or another, had been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse with any of the others.
At first Zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head. He called it “a fantassy of Pheelum’s brain, owin’ to his havin’ tuk too much of the corn-juice.”
He was puzzled, however, by Phelim’s persistence in declaring it to be a fact—more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known to him.
“Arrah, now, how could I be mistaken?” argued the Irishman. “Didn’t I see Masther Maurice, as plain as I see yourself at this minnit?
All except the hid, and that I had a peep at as he turned to gallop away.
Besides, thare was the Mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth, and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty horse?
An’ havn’t I towld yez that Tara went away afther him, an thin I heerd the dog gowlin’, jist afore the Indyins—”
“Injuns!” exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. “Injuns playin’ wi’ Spanish curds!
White Injuns, I reck’n.”
“Div yez think they waren’t Indyins, afther all?”
“Ne’er a matter what I think.
Thur’s no time to talk o’ that now.
Go on, an tell me o’ all ye seed an heern.”
When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fashion, upon the grass.
His object was, as he said himself, to have “a good think;” which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while “hampered wi’ a house abeout him.”
It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.
Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut—when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before.
Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands!
This last might be a trick. What else could it be?
Still was it a strange time for tricks—when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer—more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should be playing them!
Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation—or rather conglomeration of circumstances—events without causes—causes without sequence—crimes committed without any probable motive—mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.
A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter—a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery—Maurice having departed for the prairies—Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness—in all this the sequence was natural and complete.
Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.
Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter.
More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.
That he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief.
Only by the evidence of his eyes could Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.