“You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot—meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serapé still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”
The “sensation” again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts—the latter prolonged into cries of retribution—mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
“Now!” cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”
There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech—the last of Calhoun’s life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.
The spectators have just time to see the pistol—as it glints under the slanting sunbeams—when two shots are heard in quick succession.
With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!
One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger,—the other Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!