A SECRET CONFIDED.

The first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of Casa del Corvo. The courtyard was crowded with men--armed, though not in the regular fashion. They carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks!

In their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of coloured blanket, and "Kentucky jeans," trowsers of brown "homespun," and blue "cottonade," hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck--these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an a.s.semblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of Texas.

Despite the _bizarrerie_ of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. Had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same.

But their object is known.

A number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. Others had now joined the a.s.semblage--settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home.

The muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day--even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers.

Though all were civilians, there was one portion of the a.s.sembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. Irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. These were the "_Regulators_."

There was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. A stranger would not have known a Regulator from any other individual. They knew one another.

Their talk was of murder--of the murder of Henry Poindexter--coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.

Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not--of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.

Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony--and the serious manner in which it was given-- could not long be resisted; and the existence of the _headless horseman_ became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested.

The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman--that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.

For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.

For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.

Their horses were outside--some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most "hitched" to whatever would hold them.

They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter--on this occasion their chief--to give the signal for setting forth.

He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo--who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.

There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.

There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service--old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.

There was a _woman_, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track--to the very hearthstone of the supposed a.s.sa.s.sin.

Woodley Poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. Had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the Alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter.

The last messenger sent in search of Stump came back to the hacienda without him. The thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth.

They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.

There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the "plunder"--as he was wont to term it--procured by his unerring rifle.

Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home. She was even eager for the interview--so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare--the latter laden with the spoils of the chase--slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.

A glad sight to her--that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood.

She recognised in it the form of a true friend--to whose keeping she could safely entrust her most secret confidence. And she had now such a secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully pent up within her bosom.

Long before Zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she had gone out into the verandah to receive him.

The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house. There was just perceptible the slightest expression of surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred.

It had not been the custom of the hacienda--at least during its present proprietary.

The sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of the saguan, strengthened Zeb's surprise--sufficiently to call forth an inquiry.

"Why, Pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi' ye? Yur lookin' like a 'c.o.o.n wi' his tail chopped off--clost to the stump at thet! An' why air the big gate shet an barred--in the middle o'

breakfist time? I hope thur hain't nuthin' gone astray?"

"Ho! ho! Ma.s.s 'Tump, dat's jess what dar hab goed stray--dat's preecise de ting, dis chile sorry t' say--berry much goed stray. Ho! berry, berry much!"

"Heigh!" exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone. "Thur air sommeat amiss? What is't, n.i.g.g.e.r? Tell me sharp quick. It can't be no wuss than yur face shows it. Nothin' happened to yur young mistress, I hope? Miss Lewaze--"

"Ho--ho! nuffin' happen to de young Missa Looey. Ho--ho! Bad enuf 'thout dat. Ho! de young missa inside de house yar, 'Tep in, Ma.s.s'

'Tump. She tell you de drefful news herseff."

"Ain't yur master inside, too? He's at home, ain't he?"

"Golly, no. Dis time no. Ma.s.sa ain't 'bout de house at all nowhar. He wa' hya a'most a quarrer ob an hour ago. He no hya now. He off to de hoss prairas--wha de hab de big hunt 'bout a momf ago. You know, Ma.s.s'

Zeb?"

"The hoss purayras! What's tuk him thur? Who's along wi' him?"

"Ho! ho! dar's Ma.s.s Cahoon, and gobs o' odder white genlum. Ho! ho!

Dar's a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis n.i.g.g.a tell you."

"An' yur young Master Henry--air he gone too?"

"O Ma.s.s' 'Tump! Dat's wha am be trubble. Dat's de whole ob it. Ma.s.s'

Hen' he gone too. He nebber mo' come back. De hoss he been brought home all kibbered over wif blood. Ho! ho! de folks say Ma.s.sa Henry he gone dead."

"Dead! Yur jokin'? Air ye in airnest, n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"Oh! I is, Ma.s.s' 'Tump. Sorry dis chile am to hab say dat am too troo.

Dey all gone to sarch atter de body."

"Hyur! Take these things to the kitchen. Thur's a gobbler, an some purayra chickens. Whar kin I find Miss Lewaze?"

"Here, Mr Stump. Come this way!" replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it.