Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman. Майн Рид

      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!”

      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

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