I hope so; even though the tavern may have been the scene of their reconciliation.
Henry is not much given to dissipation; but after such a burst of passion, followed by his sudden repentance, he may have strayed from his usual habits?
Who could blame him if he has? There can be little harm in it: since he has gone astray in good company?”
How far the string of reflections might have extended it is not easy to say: since it did not reach its natural ending. It was interrupted by the reappearance of Pluto; whose important air, as he re-entered the room, proclaimed him the bearer of eventful tidings.
“Well!” cried his master, without waiting for him to speak, “is he there?”
“No, Mass’ Woodley,” replied the black, in a voice that betrayed a large measure of emotion, “he are not dar—Massa Henry am not.
But—but,” he hesitatingly continued, “dis chile grieb to say dat—dat—him hoss am dar.”
“His horse there!
Not in his sleeping-room, I suppose?”
“No, massa; nor in de ’table neider; but out da, by de big gate.”
“His horse at the gate?
And why, pray, do you grieve about that?”
“’Ecause, Mass’ Woodley, ’ecause de hoss—dat am Massa Henry hoss—’ecause de anymal—”
“Speak out, you stammering nigger!
What because?
I suppose the horse has his head upon him?
Or is it his tail that is missing?”
“Ah, Mass’ Woodley, dis nigga fear dat am missin’ wuss dan eider him head or him tail.
I’se feer’d dat de ole hoss hab loss him rider!”
“What!
Henry thrown from his horse?
Nonsense, Pluto!
My son is too good a rider for that. Impossible that he should have been pitched out of the saddle—impossible!”
“Ho! ho! I doan say he war frown out ob de saddle.
Gorramity! I fear de trouble wuss dan dat.
O! dear ole Massa, I tell you no mo’.
Come to de gate ob do hashashanty, and see fo youseff.”
By this time the impression conveyed by Pluto’s speech—much more by his manner—notwithstanding its ambiguity, had become sufficiently alarming; and not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their way to the outside gate of the hacienda.
A sight was there awaiting them, calculated to inspire all three with the most terrible apprehensions.
A negro man—one of the field slaves of the plantation—stood holding a horse, that was saddled and bridled.
The animal wet with the dews of the night, and having been evidently uncared for in any stable, was snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part.
He was speckled with a colour darker than that of the dewdrops—darker than his own coat of bay-brown. The spots scattered over his shoulders—the streaks that ran parallel with the downward direction of his limbs, the blotches showing conspicuously on the saddle-flaps, were all of the colour of coagulated blood. Blood had caused them—spots, streaks, and blotches!
Whence came that horse?
From the prairies.
The negro had caught him, on the outside plain, as, with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying towards the hacienda.
To whom did he belong?
The question was not asked.
All present knew him to be the horse of Henry Poindexter.
Nor did any one ask whose blood bedaubed the saddle-flaps.
The three individuals most interested could think only of that one, who stood to them in the triple relationship of son, brother, and cousin.
The dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted from the veins of Henry Poindexter.
They had no other thought.
Chapter Thirty Eight. The Avengers.
Hastily—perhaps too truly—construing the sinister evidence, the half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct for the Fort.
Calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after.
The hue and cry soon spread abroad.
Rapid riders carried it up and down the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement.
The Indians were out, and near at hand, reaping their harvest of scalps! That of young Poindexter was the firstfruits of their sanguinary gleaning!
Henry Poindexter—the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all Texas!
Who but Indians could have spilled such innocent blood?