The Headless Horseman (Horror Classic). Майн Рид

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      The behaviour of the staghound, as it bounded before him, exhibiting a series of canine welcomes, told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

      “Evenin’!” laconically saluted Zeb, as his tail figure shadowed the cabin door.

      “Good evening’, Mr Stump!” rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. “Step inside, and take a seat!”

      The hunter accepted the invitation; and, making a single stride across the floor, after some awkward manoeuvring, succeeded in planting himself on the stool lately occupied by Phelim. The lowness of the seat brought his knees upon a level with his chin, the tall rifle rising like a pikestaff several feet above his head.

      “Durn stools, anyhow!” muttered he, evidently dissatisfied with the posture; “an’ churs, too, for thet matter. I likes to plant my starn upon a log: thur ye’ve got somethin’ under ye as ain’t like to guv way.”

      “Try that,” said his host, pointing to the leathern portmanteau in the corner: “you’ll find it a firmer seat.”

      Old Zeb, adopting the suggestion, unfolded the zigzag of his colossal carcase, and transferred it to the trunk.

      “On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?”

      “No: I got my old critter out thur, tied to a saplin’. I wa’n’t a huntin’.”

      “You never hunt on horseback, I believe?”

      “I shed be a greenhorn if I dud. Anybody as goes huntin’ a hossback must be a durnation fool!”

      “But it’s the universal fashion in Texas!”

      “Univarsal or no, it air a fool’s fashion—a durned lazy fool’s fashion! I kill more meat in one day afut, then I ked in a hul week wi’ a hoss atween my legs. I don’t misdoubt that a hoss air the best thing for you—bein’ as yur game’s entire different. But when ye go arter baar, or deer, or turkey eyther, ye won’t see much o’ them, trampin’ about through the timmer a hossback, an scarrin’ everythin’ es hes got ears ’ithin the circuit o’ a mile. As for hosses, I shodn’t be bothered wi’ ne’er a one no how, ef twa’n’t for packin’ the meat: thet’s why I keep my ole maar.”

      “She’s outside, you say? Let Phelim take her round to the shed. You’ll stay all night?”

      “I kim for that purpiss. But ye needn’t trouble about the maar: she air hitched safe enuf. I’ll let her out on the laryitt, afore I take to grass.”

      “You’ll have something to eat? Phelim was just getting supper ready. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything very dainty—some hash of venison.”

      “Nothin’ better ’n good deermeat, ’ceptin it be baar; but I like both done over the coals. Maybe I can help ye to some’at thet’ll make a roast. Mister Pheelum, ef ye don’t mind steppin’ to whar my critter air hitched, ye’ll find a gobbler hangin’ over the horn o’ the seddle. I shot the bird as I war comin’ up the crik.”

      “Oh, that is rare good fortune! Our larder has got very low—quite out, in truth. I’ve been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me. Phelim and I, and Tara, too, had got to the edge of starvation.”

      “Whet sort o’ a mustang?” inquired the hunter, in a tone that betrayed interest, and without appearing to notice the final remark.

      “A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground—a splendid creature!”

      “Durn it, young fellur! thet air’s the very bizness thet’s brung me over to ye.”

      “Indeed!”

      “I’ve seed that mustang—maar, ye say it air, though I kedn’t tell, as she’d niver let me ’ithin hef a mile o’ her. I’ve seed her several times out on the purayra, an I jest wanted ye to go arter her. I’ll tell ye why. I’ve been to the Leeona settlements since I seed you last, and since I seed her too. Wal, theer hev kum thur a man as I knowed on the Mississippi. He air a rich planter, as used to keep up the tallest kind o’ doin’s, ’specially in the feestin’ way. Many’s the jeint o’ deermeat, and many’s the turkey-gobbler this hyur coon hes surplied for his table. His name air Peintdexter.”

      “Poindexter?”

      “Thet air the name—one o’ the best known on the Mississippi from Orleens to Saint Looey. He war rich then; an, I reck’n, ain’t poor now—seein’ as he’s brought about a hunderd niggers along wi’ him. Beside, thur’s a nephew o’ hisn, by name Calhoun. He’s got the dollars, an nothin’ to do wi’ ’em but lend ’em to his uncle—the which, for a sartin reezun, I think he will. Now, young fellur, I’ll tell ye why I wanted to see you. Thet ’ere planter hev got a darter, as air dead bent upon hossflesh. She used to ride the skittishest kind o’ cattle in Loozeyanner, whar they lived. She heern me tellin’ the old ’un ’bout the spotted mustang; and nothin’ would content her thur and then, till he promised he’d offer a big price for catchin’ the critter. He sayed he’d give a kupple o’ hunderd dollars for the anymal, ef ’twur anythin like what I sayed it wur. In coorse, I knowed thet ’ud send all the mustangers in the settlement straight custrut arter it; so, sayin’ nuthin’ to nobody, I kim over hyur, fast as my ole maar ’ud fetch me. You grup thet ’ere spotty, an Zeb Stump ’ll go yur bail ye’ll grab them two hunderd dollars.”

      “Will you step this way, Mr Stump?” said the young Irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

      The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation.

      Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired—

      “Does that look anything like the mustang you’ve been speaking of?”

      “Dog-gone my cats, ef ’taint the eyedenticul same! Grupped already! Two hunderd dollars, easy as slidin’ down a barked saplin’! Young fellur, yur in luck: two hunderd, slick sure!—and durn me, ef the anymal ain’t worth every cent o’ the money! Geehosofat! what a putty beest it air! Won’t Miss Peintdexter be pleezed! It’ll turn that young critter ’most crazy!”

      Chapter Seven.

       Nocturnal Annoyances.

       Table of Contents

      The unexpected discovery, that his purpose had been already anticipated by the capture of the spotted mustang, raised the spirits of the old hunter to a high pitch of excitement.

      They were further elevated by a portion of the contents of the demijohn, which held out beyond Phelim’s expectations: giving all hands an appetising “nip” before attacking the roast turkey, with another go each to wash it down, and several more to accompany the post-cenal pipe.

      While this was being indulged in, a conversation was carried on; the themes being those that all prairie men delight to talk about: Indian and hunter lore.

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