The Headless Horseman (Horror Classic). Майн РидЧитать онлайн книгу.
captive secured.
It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen—even among the largest “gangs” that roam over the prairie pastures, where colours of the most eccentric patterns are not uncommon.
That of the animal in question was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black—with white spots distributed over it, as regularly as the contrary colours upon the skin of the jaguar.
As if to give effect to this pleasing arrangement of hues, the creature was of perfect shape—broad chested, full in the flank, and clean limbed—with a hoof showing half a score of concentric rings, and a head that might have been taken as a type of equine beauty. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse; even smaller than the blood-bay—himself a mustang—that had assisted in its capture.
The beautiful captive was a mare—one of a manada that frequented the plains near the source of the Alamo; and where, for the third time, the mustanger had unsuccessfully chased it.
In his case the proverb had proved untrue. In the third time he had not found the “charm”; though it favoured him in the fourth. By the fascination of a long rope, with a running noose at its end, he had secured the creature that, for some reason known only to himself, he so ardently wished to possess.
Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back—as he often did—with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.
But never before at the end of that implement had Phelim beheld such a beauty as the spotted mare. She was a thing to excite the admiration of one less a connoisseur in horse-flesh than the ci-devant stable-boy of Castle Ballagh.
“Hooch—hoop—hoora!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive, at the same time tossing his hat high into the air. “Thanks to the Howly Vargin, an Saint Pathrick to boot, Masther Maurice, yez have cotched the spotty at last! It’s a mare, be japers! Och! the purthy crayther! I don’t wondher yez hiv been so bad about gettin’ howlt av her. Sowl! if yez had her in Ballinasloe Fair, yez might ask your own price, and get it too, widout givin’ sixpence av luckpenny. Oh! the purty crayther! Where will yez hiv her phut, masther? Into the corral, wid the others?”
“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Castro must pass his night outside among the trees. If he’s got any gallantry in him he won’t mind that. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim—I mean in the way of horseflesh?”
“Niver, Masther Maurice; niver, in all me life! An’ I’ve seen some nice bits av blood about Ballyballagh. Oh, the purty crayther! she looks as if a body cud ate her; and yit, in trath, she looks like she wud ate you. Yez haven’t given her the schoolin’ lesson, have yez?”
“No, Phelim: I don’t want to break her just yet—not till I have time, and can do it properly. It would never do to spoil such perfection as that. I shall tame her, after we’ve taken her to the Settlements.”
“Yez be goin’ there, masther Maurice? When?”
“To-morrow. We shall start by daybreak, so as to make only one day between here and the Fort.”
“Sowl! I’m glad to hear it. Not on me own account, but yours, Masther Maurice. Maybe yez don’t know that the whisky’s on the idge of bein’ out? From the rattle av the jar, I don’t think there’s more than three naggins left. Them sutlers at the Fort aren’t honest. They chate ye in the mizyure; besides watherin’ the whisky, so that it won’t bear a dhrap more out av the strame hare. Trath! a gallon av Innishowen wud last ayqual to three av this Amerikin rotgut, as the Yankees themselves christen it.”
“Never mind about the whisky, Phelim—I suppose there’s enough to last us for this night, and fill our flasks for the journey of to-morrow. Look alive, old Ballyballagh! Let us stable the spotted mare; and then I shall have time to talk about a fresh supply of ‘potheen,’ which I know you like better than anything else—except yourself!”
“And you, Masther Maurice!” retorted the Galwegian, with a comical twinkle of the eye, that caused his master to leap laughingly out of the saddle.
The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree; where Phelim proceeded to groom him after the most approved prairie fashion.
The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the “yegua pinta” had cost him a long and arduous chase—such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.
There was a motive that had urged him on, unknown to Phelim—unknown to Castro who carried him—unknown to living creature, save himself.
Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle—the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare—despite the weariness thus occasioned, he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.
For several nights he had slept uneasily—at intervals tossing upon his catré—till not only his henchman Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.
The former might have attributed it to his desire to possess the spotted mare; had he not known that his master’s feverish feeling antedated his knowledge of the existence of this peculiar quadruped.
It was several days after his last return from the Fort that the “yegua pinta” had first presented herself to the eye of the mustanger. That therefore could not be the cause of his altered demeanour.
His success in having secured the animal, instead of tranquillising his spirit, seemed to have produced the contrary effect. At least, so thought Phelim: who—with the freedom of that relationship known as “foster-brother”—had at length determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude. As the latter lay shifting from side to side, he was saluted with the interrogatory—
“Masther Maurice, fwhat, in the name of the Howly Vargin, is the matther wid ye?”
“Nothing, Phelim—nothing, mabohil! What makes you think there is?”
“Alannah! How kyan I help thinkin’ it! Yez kyant get a wink av sleep; niver since ye returned the last time from the Sittlement. Och! yez hiv seen somethin’ there that kapes ye awake? Shure now, it isn’t wan av them Mixikin girls—mowchachas, as they call them? No, I won’t believe it. You wudn’t be wan av the owld Geralds to care for such trash as them.”
“Nonsense, my good fellow! There’s nothing the matter with me. It’s all your own imagination.”
“Trath, masther, yez arr mistaken. If there’s anything asthray wid me imaginashun, fhwat is it that’s gone wrong wid your own? That is, whin yez arr aslape—which aren’t often av late.”
“When I’m asleep! What do you mean, Phelim?”
“What div I mane? Fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez are sleepin’, ye begin palaverin’, as if a preast was confessin’ ye!”
“Ah! Is that so? What have you heard me say?”
“Not much, masther, that I cud make sinse out av. Yez be always tryin’ to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin’, though it begins wid a point!”
“A name! What name?”
“Sowl! I kyan’t till ye exakly. It’s too long for me to remimber, seein’ that my edicashun was intirely neglicted. But there’s another name that yez phut before it; an that I kyan tell ye. It’s a wuman’s name, though it’s not common in the owld counthry. It’s Looaze that ye say, Masther Maurice; an then comes the point.”
“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard—somewhere, accidentally. One does