Полная версия
Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman
The sun, looking down from the zenith, gave light to a singular tableau. A herd of wild mares going at reckless speed across the prairie; one of their own kind, with a lady upon its back, following about four hundred yards behind; at a like distance after the lady, a steed of red bay colour, bestridden by the mustanger, and apparently intent upon overtaking her; still further to the rear a string of mounted men.
In twenty minutes the herd gained distance upon the spotted mustang; the mustang upon the blood bay; and the blood bay – ah! his competitors were no longer in sight.
For another mile the chase continued, without much change.
“What if I lose sight of her? In truth, it begins to look queer! It would be an awkward situation for the young lady. Worse than that – there’s danger in it – real danger. If I should lose sight of her, she’d be in trouble to a certainty!”
Thus muttering, Maurice rode on: his eyes now fixed upon the form still flitting away before him; at intervals interrogating, with uneasy glances, the space that separated him from it.
At this crisis the drove disappeared from the sight both of the blood-bay and his master; and most probably at the same time from that of the spotted mustang and its rider.
The effect produced upon the runaway[22] appeared to proceed from some magical influence. As if their disappearance was a signal for discontinuing the chase, it suddenly slackened pace; and the instant after came to a standstill!
“Miss Poindexter!” Maurice said, as he spurred his steed within speaking distance: “I am glad that you have recovered command of that wild creature. I was beginning to be alarmed about—”
“About what, sir?” was the question that startled the mustanger.
“Your safety – of course,” he replied, somewhat stammeringly.
“Oh, thank you, Mr Gerald; but I was not aware of having been in any danger. Was I really so?”
“Any danger!” echoed the Irishman, with increased astonishment. “On the back of a runaway mustang – in the middle of a pathless prairie!”
“And what of that? The thing couldn’t throw me. I’m too clever in the saddle, sir.”
“I know it, madame; but suppose you had fallen in with—”
“Indians!” interrupted the lady, without waiting for the mustanger to finish his hypothetical speech. “And if I had, what would it have mattered?”
“No; not Indians exactly – at least, it was not of them I was thinking.”
“Some other danger? What is it, sir? You will tell me, so that I may be more cautious for the future?”
Maurice did not make immediate answer. A sound striking upon his ear had caused him to turn away. They heard a shrill scream, succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of hoofs.
It was no mystery to the hunter of horses.
“The wild stallions!” he exclaimed, in a tone that betokened alarm. “I knew they must be among those hills; and they are!”
“Is that the danger of which you have been speaking?”
“It is. At other times there is no cause to fear them. But just now, at this season of the year, they become as savage as tigers, and equally as vindictive.”
“What are we to do?” inquired the young lady, now, for the first time, giving proof that she felt fear – by riding close up to the man who had once before rescued her from a situation of peril. “Why should we not ride off at once, in the opposite direction?”
“‘It would be of no use. There’s no cover to conceal us, on that side – nothing but open plain. The place we must make for – the only safe one I can think of – lies the other way. You are sure you can control the mustang?”
“Quite sure,” was the prompt reply.
***It was a straight unchanging chase across country – a trial of speed between the horses without riders, and the horses that were ridden. Speed alone could save the riders.
“Miss Poindexter!” the mustanger called out to the young lady. “You must ride on alone.”
“But why, sir?” asked she, bringing the mustang almost instantaneously to a stand.
“If we keep together we shall be overtaken. I must do something to stay those savage animals. For heaven’s sake don’t question me! Ten seconds of lost time, and it’ll be too late. Look ahead yonder. Do you see a pond? Ride straight towards it. You will find yourself between two high fences. They come together at the pond. You’ll see a gap, with bars. If I’m not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you.”
“And you, sir?”
“Have no fear for me! Alone, I shall run but little risk. For mercy’s sake, gallop forward! Keep the water under your eyes. Let it guide you. Remember to close the gap behind you.”
***He overtook her on the shore of the pond. She was still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.
The peril was passed.
No longer in dread of any danger, the young Creole looked interrogatively around her.
“What is it for?” inquired the lady, indicating the construction.
Maurice explained to her that they were in a mustang trap – a contrivance for catching wild horses.
“The water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. Once within the corral, there is no trouble in taking them.”
“Poor things! Is it yours? You are a mustanger? You told us so?”
“I am; but I do not hunt the wild horse in this way. I prefer being alone. My weapon is this – the lazo.”
“I wish I could throw the lazo,” said the young Creole. “They tell me it is not a lady-like accomplishment.”
“Not lady-like! Surely it is as much so as skating? I know a lady who is very expert at it.”
“An American lady?”
“No; she’s Mexican, and lives on the Rio Grande; but sometimes comes across to the Leona – where she has relatives.”
“A young lady?”
“Yes. About your own age, I should think, Miss Poindexter.”
“Size?”
“Not so tall as you.”
“But much prettier, of course? The Mexican ladies, I’ve heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain Americans.”
“I think Creoles are not included in that category,” was the reply. “Perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?” said Maurice, observing her abstracted air. “Your father may be alarmed by your long absence? Your brother – your cousin-”
“Ah, true!” she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed pique. “I was not thinking of that. Thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. Let us go back!”
Again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur – both acts being performed with an air of reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the “mustang trap.”
Answer the following questions:1) Who organized the picnic? What entertainment was provided?
2) What happened in the prairie? Was Louise scared?
3) Who saved her and how?
4) What lady did Maurice tell Louise about?
Chapter Six
In the incipient city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the “hotel” was the most conspicuous building.
The hotel, or tavern, “Rough and Ready,” though differing but little from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. Its proprietor was a German – in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. Oberdoffer was the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by his Texan customers into “Old Duffer.”
There was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the “Rough and Ready,” though it was not uncommon elsewhere. The building was shaped like a capital T; the bar-room representing the head of the letter. The counter extended along one side; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the city.
With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the “Rough and Ready” was necessary as a “nightcap”[23] before retiring to rest.
One of the groups assembled in the bar-room consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers: the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants.
Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority. He was the commandant of the cantonment.
These gentlemen were conversing about the incidents of the day.
“Now tell us, major!” said lieutenant Hancock: “you must know. Where did the girl gallop to?”
“How should I know?” answered the officer appealed to. “Ask her cousin, Mr Cassius Calhoun.”
“We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. It’s clear he knows no more than we. He only met them on the return”
“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry.
“He did look rather unhappy,” replied the major; “but surely, Captain Sloman, you don’t attribute it to—?”
“Jealousy. I do, and nothing else.”
“What! of Maurice the mustanger? impossible – at least, very improbable.”
“And why, major?”
“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald—”
“May be a gentleman—”
“A trader in horses!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “the major is right – the thing’s impossible.”
“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he is what I have some reason to suspect—”
“Whatever he is,” interrupted the major, looking at the door, “he’s there to answer for himself.”
Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.
“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which he saluted the landlord.
The officers were about to interrogate the mustanger – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.
The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.
It could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink.
“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “Drinks all round. What say you?”
“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.
“You, major?”
“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”
The whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.
Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.
This brought him in juxtaposition[24] with Maurice Gerald, who alone was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.
The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.
“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter. “America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”
On delivering the toast, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips. The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.
No one believed it was an accident – even for a moment.
Having deposited his glass upon the counter, the mustanger had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.
In silence everybody awaited the development.
“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.
“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig.”
“I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching[25] yours in a similar fashion.”
So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before Calhoun could get out of the way, the remains of the whisky were “swilled” into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.
All saw that the quarrel was a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.
On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter,[26] and drawn it from its holster. He only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his enemy.
The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist – shot for shot.
“Hold!” commanded the major in a loud authoritative tone, interposing the long blade of his his sabre between the disputants.
“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty[27] I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger!”
“Why?” shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion. “Why, Major Ringwood? After an insult like that, and from a low fellow—”
“You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun.”
“Damn me if I care! I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. Stand out of the way, major.”
“I’m not the man to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel,” answered the major. “You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it pleases you. But not just now. You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance.”
Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an Irishman.
“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.
“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun apologises for what he has said, and also what he has done—”
“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.
“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun isn’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”
“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”
“Stay!” cried the major. “There should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Neither of you can object?”
“I shan’t object to anything that’s fair,” said the Irishman.
***It was decided that Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald would go outside along with everybody and then enter again – one at each door.
The duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance – perhaps into eternity! They only waited for a signal to cross the threshold. It was to be given by ringing the tavern bell.
A loud voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable—
“Ring!”
At the first dong of the bell both duellists had re-entered the room. A hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel – that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold.
Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. Both kept their feet, though both were wounded – their blood spurting out over the sanded floor.
The spectators outside saw only a cloud of smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the lamps. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle – the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor – at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men. The crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. The reports of the pistols[28] were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. Eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.
Instead of it their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.
“My pistol is at your head! I have one shot left – an apology, or you die!”
At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”
Answer the following questions:1) What were the officers talking about in the bar-room?
2) How did the conflict begin?
3) Did anybody try to prevent a duel?
4) Where did the duel take place?
5) How did it end?
Chapter Seven
After the duel Maurice was compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, nevertheless made it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in the hotel.
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Примечания
1
train – обоз
2
carriole – легкий крытый экипаж
3
the ten of spades – пиковая десятка
4
half-score – десять
5
blood-bay – гнедой
6
rancher – хозяин ранчо
7
a man of heroic mould – герой девичьих грез
8
creole – креолка (потомок выходцев из Франции, Испании или Португалии, рожденный в одном из бывших владений этих стран в Америке)
9
cypress – кипарис
10
pink of perfection – верх совершенства
11
norther – сильный северный ветер
12
Cimmerian darkness – непроглядный мрак
13
mustanger – охотник за дикими лошадьми (мустангами)
14
Satan himself, astride a Tartarean steed – сам сатана верхом на адском коне
15
corral – загон для скота
16
demijohn – большая оплетенная бутыль
17
staghound – охотничья собака
18
henchman – помощник, слуга
19
hacienda – асьенда (крупное частное поместье)
20
house-warming – празднование новоселья
21
equestrian prowess – мастерство наездника
22
runaway – лошадь, которая понесла
23
nightcap – стаканчик спиртного на ночь
24
juxtaposition – непосредственное соседство
25
unstarch (a shirt) – смыть крахмал (с рубашки)
26
six-shooter – шестизарядный револьвер
27
the Almighty – (Всемогущий) Бог
28
report of a pistol – звук пистолетного выстрела
