“You are my cousin,” she continued, “but you are nothing more – nothing more – Captain Cassius Calhoun! You have no claim to be my counsellor. I shall remain mistress of my own thoughts – and actions, too – till I have found a master who can control them. It is not you!”
The closing curtains indicated that further conversation was not desired.
***
The travellers felt no further uneasiness about the route. The snake-like trail was continuous; and so plain that a child might have followed it.
Cheered by the prospect of soon terminating a toilsome journey – as also by the pleasant anticipation of beholding his new purchase – the planter was in one of his happiest moods. The planter’s high spirits were shared by his party, Calhoun alone excepted.
However this joyfulness should was after a time interrupted by causes and circumstances over which they had not the slightest control.
“Look, father! don’t you see them?” said Henry in a voice that betokened alarm.
“Where, Henry – where?”
“Behind the waggons. You see them now?”
“I do – though I can’t say what they are. They look like – like – I really don’t know what.”
Against the northern horizon had suddenly lifted a number of dark columns – half a score of them – unlike anything ever seen before. They were constantly changing size, shape, and place.
In the proximity of phenomena never observed before – unknown to every individual of the party – it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm.
A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. The animals – mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand. The danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!
Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers. The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!
At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief – despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered.
Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop – riding direct towards them.
The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. For all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.
“Onward!” he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. “On – on! as fast as you can drive!”
“What is it?” demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. “Is there a danger?”
“There is. I did not anticipate it, as I passed you. It was only after reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it.”
“Of what, sir?”
“The norther.”[11]
“I never heard of its being dangerous,” interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but—”
“You’ll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, “I tell you, that you and your party are in peril. A norther is not always to be dreaded. Those black pillars are nothing – only the precursors of the storm. Look beyond! Don’t you see a black cloud spreading over the sky? That’s what you have to dread. You have no chance to escape it, except by speed. If you do not make haste, it will be too late. Order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can!”
The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. The order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed.
The travelling carriage moved in front, as before. The stranger alone threw himself in the rear – as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger.
At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.
Perceiving it, the planter approached, and asked him:
“Is there still a danger?”
“I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative,” said he: “Are your mules doing their best?”
“They are: they could not be driven faster.”
“I fear we shall be too late, then!”
“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”
The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting – his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.
“There is!” joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. “There is a chance. I did not think of it before. We cannot shun the storm – the danger we may. Quick, Mr Poindexter! Order your men to muffle the mules – the horses too – otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. When that’s done, let all seek shelter within the waggons.”
The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage.
Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle.
“Once again, sir, I adjure you to get inside! If you do not you’ll have cause to repent it. Within ten minutes’ time, you may be a dead man!”
The ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance – intended to save appearances – he clambered into the carriage.
To describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen. No eye beheld the spectacle: for none dared look upon it. In five minutes after the muffling of the mules, the train was enveloped in worse than Cimmerian darkness[12].
In another instant the norther was around them; and the waggon train was enveloped in an atmosphere, akin to that which congeals the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean! Nothing more was seen – nothing heard, save the whistling of the wind, or its hoarse roaring.
For over an hour did the atmosphere carry this cinereous cloud.
At length a voice, speaking close by the curtains of the carriole, announced their release.
“You can come forth!” said the stranger. “You will still have the storm to contend against. But you have nothing further to fear. The ashes are all swept off.”
“Sir!” said the planter, hastily descending the steps of the carriage, “we have to thank you for – for—”
“Our lives, father!” cried Henry, supplying the proper words. “I hope, sir, you will favour us with your name?”
“Maurice Gerald!” returned the stranger; “though, at the Fort, you will find me better known as Maurice the mustanger”.[13]
“A mustanger!” scornfully muttered Calhoun, but only loud enough to be heard by Louise.
“For guide, you will no longer need either myself, or my lazo,” said the hunter of wild horses. “The cypress is in sight: keep straight towards it. After crossing, you will see the flag over the Fort. I must say goodbye.”
Satan himself, astride a Tartarean steed,[14] could not have looked more like the devil than did Maurice the Mustanger, as he separated for the second time from the planter and his party. But neither his ashy envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, could damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already predisposed in his favour – Louise Poindexter.
“Maurice Gerald!” muttered the young Creole, “whoever you are – whence you have come – whither you are going – what you may be – henceforth there is a fate between us! I feel it – I know it– sure as there’s a sky above!”
Answer the following questions:
1) What was the reason of the quarrel between Captain Calhoun and Louise?
2) What frightened Woodley Poindexter and his companions? How did they avoid the danger?
3) What is the horseman’s name? How is he known at the Fort? Why?
4) What is Louise’s attitude to Maurice?
Chapter Three
On the banks of the Alamo stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.
The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. It could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. Its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its inconspicuousness.
The house was a mere cabin – with only a single aperture, the door – if we except the flue of a chimney. The doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it.
In the rear was an open shed, around this was a small enclosure.
A still more extensive enclosure, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. Its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints told of its use: a “corral”[15] for wild horses – mustangs.
The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. The sheeting of mustang-skins covered the walls. The furniture consisted of a bed, a couple of stools and a rude table. Something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner.
What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and also a newspaper lying upon the table.
Further proofs of civilization presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun, a drinking cup, a hunter’s horn, and a dog-call.
Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn,[16] evidently containing something stronger than the water of the Alamo.
Such was the structure of the mustanger’s dwelling – such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants – two in number.
On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.
He was a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish.
Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire was a huge Irish staghound,[17] that looked as if he understood the speech of the man.
Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.
“Oh, Tara, my jewel!” exclaimed the man fraternally interrogating the hound; “don’t you wish now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wouldn’t you like to be once more in the courtyard of the old castle! But there’s no knowing when the young master will go back, and take us along with him.
“I’d like a drop now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the jar. “No-no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out of the demijohn, and take a smell at it. Sure the master won’t know anything about that; and if he did, he wouldn’t mind it!”
During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.
He took up the demijohn and drew out the stopper. After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.
“Tara, you old thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that tempted me! No matter, man: the master will never miss it; besides, he’s going soon to the Fort, and can lay in a fresh supply.
“I wonder,” muttered he, “what makes Master Maurice so anxious to get back to the Settlements. He says he’ll go whenever he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. I suppose it must be something beyond the common. He says he won’t give it up, till he catches it. Hush! what’s that?”
Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.
“Phelim!” called a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”
“It’s the master,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.
Phelim was not mistaken. It was the voice of his master, Maurice Gerald. As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse.
The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo – drawn from the saddle tree – was a captive. It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen. The colour of the mustang was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black – with white spots distributed over it.
The creature was of perfect shape. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse.
Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back – as he often did – with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.
“Master Maurice, you have caught the spotty at last!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive. “It’s a mare! Where will you put her, master? Into the corral, with the others?”
“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim – I mean in the way of horseflesh?”
“Never, Master Maurice; never, in all my life!
The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree.
The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the spotted mustang had cost him a long and arduous chase – such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.
Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.
For several nights he had slept uneasily till not only his henchman[18] Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.
At length Phelim determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude.
“Master Maurice, what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Phelim – nothing! What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Why, that whenever you close your eyes and think you are sleeping, you begin palavering! You are always trying to pronounce a big name that appears to have no ending, though it begins with a point!”
“A name! What name?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. It’s too long for me to remember, seeing that my education was entirely neglected. But there’s another name that you put before it; and that I can tell you. It’s Louise that you say, Master Maurice; and then comes the point.”
“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard – somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!”
“In your dreams, master, you talk about a girl looking out of a carriage with curtains to it, and telling her to close them against some danger that you are going to save her from.”
“I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head? But come! You forget that I haven’t tasted food since morning. What have you got?”
“There’s only the cold venison and the corn-bread. If you like I’ll put the venison in the pot”.
“Yes, do so. I can wait.”
Phelim was about stepping outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution.
The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger’s cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other.
He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin. A deerskin undershirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a “blanket coat,” that had once been green. He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter. There was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing. Everything was plain almost to rudeness.