Their talk was of murder—of the murder of Henry Poindexter—coupled with the name of Maurice the mustanger.
Another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. Those who had seen it, were telling those who had not—of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie.
Some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. But the wholesale testimony—and the serious manner in which it was given—could not long be resisted; and the existence of the headless horseman became a universal belief. Of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested. The only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman—that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit.
For what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain.
For the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. All were prepared already.
Their horses were outside—some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most “hitched” to whatever would hold them.
They had come warned of their work, and only waited for Woodley Poindexter—on this occasion their chief—to give the signal for setting forth.
He only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the Alamo—who could take them to the domicile of Maurice the mustanger.
There was no such person present. Planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the Alamo.
There was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service—old Zeb Stump. But Zeb could not be found. He was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand.