None of them has been near enough to the Headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him.
His entity remains mythical as ever!
It is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared.
They are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers.
The latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him. No one saw either of them afterward. Are they still continuing on?
Perhaps they may have been successful?
All eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances.
There is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back—with a hope that the Headless Horseman may be along with them.
An hour elapses, and there is no sign of them—either with or without the wished-for captive.
Is the trial to be further postponed?
The counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. The latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of Zeb Stump, who has not yet been examined.
There are voices that clamour for the case to be completed.
There are paid claquers in the crowd composing a Texan Court, as in the pit of a Parisian theatre.
The real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham!
The clamourers succeed in carrying their point.
It is decided to go on with the trial—as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.
So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent.
The spectators do the same.
The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.
“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement.
What was it you saw?”
“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”
“Asleep?”
“Yes; in the sleep of death.”
“Dead?”
“More than dead; if that were possible.
On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”
“What! His head cut off?”
“Just so.
I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him.
He was upon his face—with the head in its natural position.
Even the hat was still on it!
“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss.
The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs.
Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.
“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour—the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.
“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.
“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood.
I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”
A sensation of horror runs through the auditory—accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.
“Did you know the man?”
“Alas! yes.”
“Without seeing his face?”
“It did not need that.
The dress told who it was—too truly.”
“What dress?”
“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head.
They were my own.
But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself.
It was Henry Poindexter.”