Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.
He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal “gowl,” and come running scared-like into the hut.
Extinguishing the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.
There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound?
What had caused it?
The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.
There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be.
He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky—broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest.
There were about fifty paces of clear space, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice.
The line separating the chiaro from the oscuro could be traced distinctly as in the day. A brilliant moon was beyond it. A snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.
There was nothing to be seen there.
But there was something to be heard.
As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. It resembled the clinking of a horse’s shoe struck against a loose stone. So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repetition.
It was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct—a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff.
There was a man upon his back—both horse and man distinctly seen in dark silhouette against the clear sapphire sky.
The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.
That of the man could be traced—only from the saddle to the shoulders. Below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there.
Above, there was nothing—not even the semblance of a head!
Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. It did not change the character of the apparition.
If he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same—a horseman without a head.
This very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving—saw the horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace—without footfall—without sound of any kind—as if gliding rather than walking—like the shifting scene of a cosmorama!
Not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every detail—long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the eye, or in any way a deception of his senses.
Nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually: first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering tail!
“Geehosophat!”
It was not surprise at the disappearance of the headless horseman that extorted this exclamation from the lips of Zeb Stump.
There was nothing strange about this.
The spectacle had simply passed behind the proscenium—represented by the tope of tree tops rising above the bluff.
“Geehosophat!”
Twice did the backwoodsman give utterance to this, his favourite expression of surprise; both times with an emphasis that told of an unlimited astonishment. His looks betrayed it.
Despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame; while the pallor upon his lips was perceptible through their brown priming of tobacco juice.
For some time he stood speechless, as if unable to follow up his double ejaculation.
His tongue at length returned to him.
“Dog-gone my cats!” he muttered, but in a very low tone, and with eyes still fixed upon the point where the horse’s tail had been last seen. “If that ere don’t whip the hul united creashun, my name ain’t Zeb’lon Stump! The Irish hev been right arter all.
I tho’t he hed dreemt o’ it in his drink.
But no.
He hev seed somethin’; and so hev I meself.
No wonner the cuss war skeeart.
I feel jest a spell shaky in my own narves beout this time.
Geehosophat! what kin the durned thing be?”
“What kin it be?” he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. “Dog-goned, ef I kin detarmine one way or the tother.
Ef ’t hed been only i’ the daylight, an I ked a got a good sight on’t; or eft hed been a leetle bit cloaster!
Ha! Why moutn’t I git cloaster to it?
Dog-goned, ef I don’t hev a try!
I reck’n it won’t eet me—not ef it air ole Nick; an ef it air him, I’ll jest satersfy meself whether a bullet kin go custrut thro’ his infernal karkidge ’ithout throwin’ him out o’ the seddle.
Hyur go for a cloaster akwaintance wi’ the varmint, whatsomiver it be.”
So saying, the hunter stalked off through the trees—upon the path that led up to the bluff.
He had not needed to go inside for his rifle—having brought that weapon out with him, on hearing the howl of the hound.
If the headless rider was real flesh and blood—earthly and not of the other world—Zeb Stump might confidently count upon seeing him again.
When viewed from the door of the jacale, he was going direct towards the ravine, that permitted passage from the higher level to the bottom lands of the Alamo.
As Zeb had started to avail himself of the same path, unless the other should meantime change direction, or his tranquil pace to a trot or gallop, the backwoodsman would be at the head of the pass as soon as he.