They could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble shape, with a man upon his back.
The figure of the man was less easily determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering.
What signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most essential to existence?
A man without a head—on horseback, sitting erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace—with spurs sparkling upon his heels—the bridle-rein held in one hand—the other where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh!
Great God! what could it mean?
Was it a phantom?
Surely it could not be human?
They who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or phantasmagoria.
Many of them had met Nature in her remotest solitudes, and wrestled with her in her roughest moods.
They were not given to a belief in ghosts.
But the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so strange—so absolutely unnatural—and to such an extent, that the stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words:—
“Is it a phantom?
Surely it cannot be human?”
Its size favoured the idea of the supernatural.
It appeared double that of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse.
It was more like a giant on a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory light under which it was seen—the refraction of the sun’s rays passing horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain.
There was but little time to philosophise—not enough to complete a careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present, with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare, was endeavouring to make.
Nothing of colour could be noted—neither the garments of the man, nor the hairy coat of the horse.
Only the shape could be traced, outlined in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned stern towards them, was still the same—still that inexplicable phenomenon: a horseman without a head!
Was it a phantom?
Surely it could not be human?
“’Tis old Nick upon horseback!” cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise. “By the ’tarnal Almighty, it’s the devil himself.”
The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman.
Wheeling suddenly round—his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble—he commenced galloping away.
He went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have puzzled the philosopher—at length altogether disappearing, as though he had ridden into the dazzling disc!
Chapter Forty One. Cuatro Cavalleros.
The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.
Nor was it the earliest to take saddle. Long before—in fact close following the dawn of day—a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.
These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter.
At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing.
The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe.
The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt.
Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two parties of mounted men.
Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian blood; or this commingled with Aztecan. In other words they were Mexicans.
It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this.
A glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips—more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles—the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican costume.
That they were the former there was not a question.
The sallow hue; the pointed Vandyke beard, covering the chin, sparsely—though not from any thinning by the shears—the black, close-cropped chevelure; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the Moctezumas.
One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions.
He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the cuartilla.
He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek—furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker—gave him the appearance of being younger than he was.
But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality—if not with positive cruelty—the individual in question might have been described as handsome.
A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.
It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas. His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet “El Coyote.”
How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning—apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others—when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacale—so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?
The change of situation though sudden—and to some extent strange—is not so difficult of explanation.
It will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun’s leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three conpaisanos.
On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning—El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber.
At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog.
This to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor—all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in.