LITMIR.BIZ

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hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!

      As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face – ghastly and covered with gore – half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster!

      He saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!

      Chapter 44

      A Quartette of Comanches

      With his flame-coloured curls bristling upward – almost raising the hat from his head – the Galwegian continued his retreat – pausing not – scarce looking back, till he had re-entered the jacalé, closed the skin door behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near.

      Even then he did not feel secure. What protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly?

      And surely what he had seen was not of the earth – not of this world! Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle – a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? Who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? Certainly not “Phaylim Onale.”

      His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks.

      At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes – as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him.

      One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. He had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo, going on at a gallop.

      But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still more terrified – if that were possible – while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacalé.

      For a long time he was speechless – not knowing what to say – and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips.

      As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. They were all addressed to himself. Tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation.

      They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacalé.

      “Ochone[251]! Ochone! it cyan’t av been him! Sant Pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin?

      “Thare was iverything av his – the horse – the sthriped blankyet – them spotted wather guards upon his legs – an the head itself – all except the faytures. Thim I saw too, but wasn’t shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood?

      “Ach! it cudn’t be Masther Maurice at all, at all!

      “It’s all a dhrame. I must have been aslape, an dhramin? Or, was it the whisky that did it?

      “Shure, I wasn’t dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan – not over a kupple av naggins in all! That wudn’t make me dhrunk. I’ve taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still?

      “Thare’s not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I’m as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates.

      “Sowl! a dhrap ’ud do me a power av good just now. If I don’t take wan, I’ll not get a wink av slape. I’ll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin’ about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An’ where cyan the masther be, if it wasn’t him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that’s lift all alone be himself, wid nothin’ but ghosts an goblins[252] around him!”

      After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.

      His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god – represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky – he was shrived of all his sufferings – if not of his sins – and lay stretched along the floor of the jacalé, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul’s existence.

      There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger – not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.

      There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.

      Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.

      Passing through these alternations of light and shadow – apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible – goes a group of mounted men.

      Though few in number – as there are only four of them – they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind.

      Whence come they?

      They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts – everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites[253] of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the maraud.

      They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.

      Whither go they?

      This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt[254] of their expedition.

      That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.

      Their stealthy tread – taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves – the precaution to keep inside the shadow – the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening – the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader – all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.

      In this they are successful – so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they

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