Headless Horseman. Captain Mayne Reid

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      The first rays from a rosy aurora, saluting the flag of Fort Inge, fell with a more subdued light upon an assemblage of objects occupying the parade-ground below — in front of the “officers’ quarters.”

      A small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached to it a double span of tight little Mexican mules, whose quick impatient “stomping,” tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were impatient to move off — warning the bystanders, as well, against a too close approximation to their heels.

      Literally speaking, there were no bystanders — if we except a man of colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as Zeb Stump, the hunter.

      He was not standing either, but seated astride his “ole maar,” that showed less anxiety to be off than either the Mexican mules or her own master.

      The other forms around the vehicle were all in motion — quick, hurried, occasionally confused — hither and thither, from the waggon to the door of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle.

      There were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in the colour of their skins. Most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though of different arms of the service. Two would be taken to be mess-cooks; and two or three more, officers’ servants, who had been detailed from the ranks.

      A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of valet de tout to the major in command of the cantonment. A sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables — in short, the paraphernalia of a pic-nic.

      That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the impedimenta. There were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to Texas.

      However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. The dissatisfied Lucullus was Zeb Stump.

      “Lookee hyur, surgint,” said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, “I hain’t seed neery smell o’ corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an’, I reck’n, thet out on the purayra, thur’ll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o’ thet theer furrin French stuff. Sham-pain, ye call it, I b’lieve.”

      “Prefer corn to champagne! The horses you mean?”

      “Hosses be durned. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout hoss corn. I mean M’nongaheela.”

      “Oh — ah — I comprehend. You’re right about that, Mr Stump. The whisky mustn’t be forgotten, Pomp. I think I saw a jar inside, that’s intended to go?”

      “Yaw — yaw, sagint,” responded the dark-skinned domestic; “dar am dat same wesicle. Hya it is!” he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon.

      Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off.

      “Ain’t ye riddy, surgint?” he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups.

      “Not quite, Mr Stump. The cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take ’em along.”

      “Durn the chickens, an the cook too! What air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi’ a wild turkey o’ the purayra; an how am I to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? The major sayed I war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. ’Tain’t so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi’ a clamjamferry like this comin’ clost upon a fellur’s heels? Ye mustn’t surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o’ a fort. Of all the cunnin’ critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun’ one o’ ’em, ye must be up along wi’ the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier.”

      “True, Mr Stump. I know the major wants a wild turkey. He told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way.”

      “No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi’ a baffler’s tongue, an hump — seein’ as thur ain’t sech a anymal on the purayras o’ South Texas — nor hain’t a been for good twenty yurs past — СКАЧАТЬ