Read the headless horseman big. The Headless Horseman (Thomas Main Reid). Chapter i. scorched prairie

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A real captain

Since 1850, in England, and then in the USA and Europe, books began to appear one after another, signed with the unusual pseudonym “Captain Mine Reed.” And to say that they were popular is to say nothing. Teenagers and adults read them with delight, they were passed from hand to hand, the heroes of these works became characters in children's games, they awakened the imagination, captured, called to the unknown. It is not for nothing that David Livingston, the famous explorer of Africa, wrote in the last letter he sent from the jungle shortly before his death: “Readers of Mine Read’s books are the stuff from which travelers are made.”

And the very life of this wonderful writer is like a bright novel with a dramatic ending.

Thomas Myne Reid (1818–1883), Scottish by birth, was born in Northern Ireland into the family of a Presbyterian minister. For his time, he received an excellent education - he graduated from a classical school, and then from the Royal University College in Belfast. He was attracted to mathematics, Latin and Greek, and rhetoric, but he remained cold to theology, to the chagrin of his parents, who dreamed of seeing their son become a pastor.

Even then, a passion for travel and romantic adventures flared up in the young man’s heart - and he was especially attracted to America with its vast undeveloped spaces. However, he did not have to secretly leave his parents' house - his parents, realizing that their son's aspirations were far from a church career, themselves bought him a ticket for a ship sailing across the ocean and provided him with money for the first time.

In 1840, Mine Reed arrived in New Orleans, the largest city in the slaveholding South. There he quickly found himself without a livelihood and was forced to take on any job. In addition, it turned out that the education received at home has no application here. To a young man had the opportunity to work in a company engaged in the resale of “living goods,” from which he soon quit, to serve as a salesman in a shop, as a home teacher, as a wandering actor, and to participate in trading and hunting expeditions into the depths of the prairies.

By 1842–1843 Mayne Reed's first literary experiments included poetry and dramatic works, which did not have much success. And in the fall of 1846, he moved to New York and began working for the popular weekly Zeitgeist. But he could not sit in the editorial office for long - just at that time the war between the United States and Mexico began, and Mine Reed, having learned about the formation of volunteer detachments, joined their ranks as one of the first. In March 1847, as part of the First New York Volunteers, he boarded a ship sailing to the shores of southern Mexico.

During the fighting, Lieutenant Mayne Reid showed real miracles of courage, and in between battles and campaigns he wrote articles and reports that were published in the Zeitgeist. However, on September 13, 1847, during the assault on the Chapultepec fortress in the suburbs of Mexico City, he was seriously wounded in the thigh, lost consciousness from loss of blood and remained on the battlefield, littered with the corpses of the dead. Mine Reid was presumed dead, obituaries appeared in American newspapers, and family in Northern Ireland received notice of his death.

But by some miracle he managed to survive. After leaving the hospital, he spent several months in Mexico, getting to know the country and studying its nature, and in the spring of 1859 he retired with the rank of captain and returned to New York to take up journalism again. It was at this time that he began writing his first novel, which was based on his impressions of the Mexican War.

However, it was not possible to find a publisher in America - and the future literary celebrity went to England. But not for the sake of publishing a book: at that time, liberation revolutions broke out in a number of European countries, and volunteer detachments were formed in the United States to assist the rebels in Bavaria and Hungary. At the head of a detachment of volunteers, Thomas Main Reed sailed to Europe, but, alas, he was late - the revolution had been suppressed by that time. Having sold the weapons, he sent his like-minded people to the USA, while he himself remained in England.

In London, not only literary fame awaited him, but also the happiness of his entire life. Thirty-year-old Mine Reed fell in love at first sight with a thirteen-year-old girl from an aristocratic family, Elizabeth Hyde. Two years later, having overcome the desperate resistance of Elizabeth’s relatives, he married his beloved, who became his faithful companion, and then the keeper of the writer’s literary heritage.

The success of Mayne Reed's first novel, Free Shooters (1850), attracted the attention of publishers to him, and starting in 1851, his stories for children, the heroes of which were teenagers in extreme situations, began to regularly appear on the shelves of bookstores. The first story to come out was “Dwelling in the Desert,” then the duology “Boy Hunters, or Adventures in Search of the White Buffalo,” followed by two dozen more fascinating stories full of incredible adventures.

At the same time, the writer also worked on “adult” books. After Free Shooters, the novel Scalhunters was released, which became a real bestseller - since its first publication, more than a million copies of the book have been sold in the UK alone. The novels “The White Leader,” “Quarteronka,” and “Osceola” also enjoyed great success; but the pinnacle of Mayne Reed’s work, his masterpiece, undoubtedly became the novel “The Headless Horseman.”

It would be surprising if everything went smoothly in the life of this unusual person. Receiving significant fees, in 1866 he started building a huge hacienda (estate) in the Mexican style near London and as a result found himself deeply in debt. The publication of “The Headless Horseman” saved the writer from complete ruin, but this did not stop the restless retired captain - he founded his own newspaper, which went bankrupt without even existing for six months.

After these failures, Main Reed decided to go to America again: there he hoped to improve his financial situation. In New York, he published a number of short novels commissioned by Beadle and Adams, which revived his fame as a writer. Meanwhile, in Europe - in France, Germany and Russia - literary forgeries began to appear one after another, which unknown artisans published under the famous pseudonym “Captain Mine Reed”.

In 1869, the writer founded an adventure magazine for American teenagers, but its publication soon had to be stopped: in February 1870, the wound received in the Mexican War reopened. Doctors considered Mine Reed's condition hopeless, but the captain won this battle with death. Four years later, everything happened again, blood poisoning began, and it took the writer more than six months to get back on his feet. However, until the end of his life he remained disabled and could not move without the help of crutches, constantly overcoming excruciating pain.

He and his family returned to England and settled on a farm, continuing to engage in literary work from time to time. It was then that he wrote the novels “Captain of the Shooters,” “Queen of the Lakes” and “Gwen Wynn.”

At the beginning of October 1883, the wound made itself felt again, and Main Reid was completely unable to move. And a few weeks later he was gone.

But Captain Mine Reed managed to cheat death around his finger this time too: for another six years after his death, new works of the writer continued to be published, which he did not manage to publish during his lifetime.

Chapter 1

Over the wild, endless prairie that lies south of the ancient Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar, there is a cloudless azure sky and a blinding midday sun. Wagons are moving across the parched plain of Texas towards the settlements on the Leona River; there are ten of them, and above each there is a semicircular canvas canopy. There are no signs of human habitation around, no flying birds, no running animals. All living things at this sultry hour freeze and seek shade. The wagons, drawn by strong mules, are loaded with food supplies, expensive furniture, black slaves and their children; black servants walk side by side along the side of the road, some wearily trudge behind, barely stepping on their wounded bare feet. The line of wagons is led by a light crew; on his box a Negro coachman in livery is languishing in the heat. At first glance, it is clear that this is not a poor northern settler looking for happiness in new lands, but a rich southerner, who bought a vast estate and plantation, is heading to his possessions with his family, property and slaves...

The caravan was led by the planter Woodley Poindexter himself - a tall, lean gentleman of about fifty with a proud bearing and a stern, sickly yellow face. He was dressed expensively, but simply: he wore a loose-fitting frock coat, a silk vest and nankeen trousers. In the neckline of the vest one could see an unbuttoned button of a cambric shirt, tied at the collar with a black ribbon. On the feet are shoes made of soft tanned leather. The wide brim of the hat cast a shadow on the owner's face.

Two horsemen rode next to the planter. On the right hand is the son, a twenty-year-old youth in a white Panama hat and a light pale blue suit. His open face was full of life, unlike his seven-year older cousin, a retired volunteer officer. Dressed in a cloth military uniform, he rocked gloomily in the saddle to the left of the planter. This trio was accompanied at a respectful distance by another horseman, in poorer clothes - John Sansom, the overseer of the slaves, and at the same time the guide. His hand tightly gripped the handle of the whip, and his dark face with sharp features retained an expression of isolation and wariness. In the carriage, roomy enough and suitable for a long journey, there were two young girls. One, with dazzling white skin, was Woodley Poindexter's only daughter; the second, black, was her maid. The caravan began its journey on the banks of the Mississippi, in Louisiana.

Woodley Poindexter was a descendant of French immigrants; more recently, he owned huge sugar cane plantations and was known as one of the richest and most hospitable aristocrats of the American South. But his extravagance brought him to ruin, and Poindexter, by this time widowed, had to leave his home and go with his family to southwest Texas.

The caravan moved slowly, as if by groping - there was no well-worn road on the plain: only lonely wheel tracks and trampled dry grass. The travelers were tormented by the scorching heat and the oppressive silence hanging over the prairie. But although the mules trudged at a snail's pace, mile after mile remained behind, and the southerner expected that by nightfall they would be there.

However, not even a few minutes had passed before the movement of the caravan was stopped by John Sansom. He suddenly urged his horse forward, then turned sharply and galloped back to the caravan, as if he had discovered an obstacle. The planter decided that the overseer had noticed Indians in the distance, troops of whom were said to be appearing in these places, and asked the horseman:

- What's happened?

– Grass... There was a fire on the prairie.

- But there is no smell of smoke. What's the matter?

“It was burning the other day, not now,” the rider looked at the owner from under his brows, “the whole earth there is black.”

- So what? Burnt grass is not a problem for us...

“There’s no need to make a fuss over trifles,” the planter’s nephew frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“But how will we find the way now, Captain Colquhoun?” - the conductor objected. – The old track is no longer visible, just ashes. I'm afraid we'll lose our way.

- Nonsense! You just need to cross the burnt area and find the tracks on the other side. Forward! - Colquhoun shouted.

John Sansom, frowning sideways at the captain, galloped off to carry out the order. Although a native of the eastern states, he nevertheless had an excellent knowledge of the prairie and life on the frontier. The caravan set off, but as it approached the border of the scorched grass, it seemed to stumble. There was not a trace anywhere, not a rut, not a single surviving plant - everything turned to ash. The black plain stretched to the horizon.

“John is right,” the planter said worriedly. - What are we going to do, Cassius?

“Continue the journey,” the captain glanced towards the crew, through the window of which the alarmed, gentle face of his cousin was looking out. - Uncle! The river must be on the other side of the fire. There will be a crossing... We can’t go back. Rely on me!

- OK. “Poindexter nodded in agreement and signaled to the wagon drivers to continue moving. - I hope we don’t get lost...

After traveling about another mile, the caravan stopped again, but now Colhoun himself gave the order to stop. Some things in the surrounding landscape have changed, but not for the better. As before, the plain remained smooth as a board and black, only chains of hills could be seen here and there, and in the lowlands - the bare skeletons of trees and acacia bushes, standing alone and in groups. It was decided to move through the nearest lowland, skirting the groves burned in the fire. The captain lost his self-confidence, he looked back more and more often, until finally a satisfied grin appeared on his gloomy face - the fire suddenly ended, and the lead crew rolled out onto the well-worn road again.

The riders immediately noticed the tracks of wheels and horse hooves - very fresh, as if the same caravan had passed here an hour ago. He must also have been moving towards the shores of Leona; it may have been a government train bound for Fort Inge. All that remained was to follow in his footsteps, which was done - the fort was located not far from the new estate of Woodley Poindexter.

The convoy continued about a mile along the road, and Cassius Colquhoun had to admit with annoyance that the tracks of the forty-four wheels on which the caravan moved were left by one carriage and ten wagons, and the same ones that were now trailing behind him and with whom he had traveled all the way from Matagorda Bay.

Now there was no doubt left - Woodley Poindexter's caravan described a wide circle, moving in the footsteps of its own convoy.

Chapter 2

Having made this discovery, Captain Cassius Colquhoun pulled the reins, reining in his horse, and burst into abuse. He recognized the terrain, the traces of the bare feet of black slaves, and even the imprint of the cracked horseshoe of his own horse. And he had to admit this to the planter, albeit with great reluctance. The annoyance that they had traveled a whole two miles in vain could not be compared with his wounded pride: having taken on the role of guide, he disgraced himself like a boy, especially since the day before he had quarreled with an experienced guide hired by his uncle in Indianola and fired him.

The caravan stopped again; Woodley Poindexter asked no more questions, realizing that he would not be able to arrive at the scene before dark, as he expected. And there wouldn’t be much of a problem if it weren’t for the wide strip of scorched prairie. Now they have a lot of troubles: they have little water to water their horses and mules, they have nothing to feed the animals, they have to spend the night in the open air in a remote area, but most importantly, they are left without an experienced guide to navigate each path. The planter, knowing his stubborn and hot-tempered nature, was not angry with his nephew, but the fact that they had lost their way had a depressing effect on him. Sensing uncertainty in Cassius' behavior, he turned away and looked at the sky.

The sun, still scorching, gradually sank to the west. The southerner noticed black vultures that were already circling high above them, and several birds descended so low that he felt uneasy. He wanted to consult with his son on what to do next, when the joyful cries of the blacks reached his ears: a horseman was galloping towards the caravan.

It was truly a pleasant surprise!

“He’s rushing towards us, am I right?” - exclaimed Woodley Poindexter.

- That's right, father. “Henry began waving his Panama hat, raising it high above his head to attract the stranger’s attention.

However, this was not required: the rider had already noticed the caravan. Soon he came close enough that he could be seen better.

“Mexican, judging by the clothes,” Henry muttered.

“So much the better, he probably knows the way,” the planter responded in a low voice and slightly raised his hat, greeting the rider who reined in his hot horse right in front of them.

- Good afternoon, caballero! – the captain said in Spanish. -Are you Mexican?

“No, senors,” the stranger smiled reservedly and immediately switched to English. – We will understand each other better in your native language. After all, you are Americans from the southern states? – the rider nodded towards the black slaves. – And for the first time in our area, right? And besides, we lost our way. By pure chance, I noticed your tracks while driving across the prairie, and decided to help in some way...

“Sir,” the planter said with a certain amount of arrogance, “we would be very grateful for your help.” My name is Woodley Poindexter. I bought a manor on the banks of the Leona, near Fort Inge. We expected to get there before dark. Do you think this is possible?

- Let's see. “The stranger galloped towards the nearest hill, shouting as he went: “I’ll be right back!”

From behind the curtains of the carriage, the girl's eyes looked at the rider with interest - not only anticipation sparkled in them, but also burning curiosity. A young man of about twenty-five, slender and broad-shouldered, in the picturesque costume of a Mexican cattle breeder, sat confidently in the saddle of a thoroughbred bay horse, impatiently pawing at the ground while its owner peered into the surroundings. The golden braid that adorned his black hat gleamed in the sun; strong legs were shod in high boots made of buffalo skin, trousers with laces instead of stripes were tight around the hips, a scarlet silk scarf pulled tightly thin waist… For perhaps the first time in her life, Louise Poindexter’s heart beat so hotly. The stranger would be flattered if he knew what feelings he aroused in the breast of the young Creole.

However, the rider did not even suspect its existence. His gaze only glanced at the dusty carriage as he returned to the owner of the wagons.

“I can’t help you with signs, sir.” You will have to follow the tracks of my horse to cross the Leona, five miles below the border fort. I’m heading towards the same ford... – The stranger thought for a second. - However, this is not the best solution. After the fire, wild mustangs managed to visit here, which left many hoof prints... I am very sorry, Mr. Poindexter, that I cannot accompany you. I must urgently arrive at the fort with an important dispatch. And yet, my horse is shod, its track is noticeably different from the tracks of savages. Be guided by the sun - it should always be on your right. For five miles, continue moving straight, without turning anywhere, there you will see the top of a tall cypress tree. Its trunk at sunset is visible from afar - it is almost purple in color. The cypress stands on the very bank of the river, not far from the ford...

The rider looked back at the carriage and caught the dark, brilliant and tender gaze of the young girl, but quickly turned away, as if afraid to give himself away with a reciprocal admiring glance and seem overly impudent.

“I’m running out of time, so I apologize for leaving you to your own devices,” he said to the planter.

– We are sincerely grateful to you, the sun will help us not to go astray, but...

“If only the weather doesn’t let us down,” the rider remarked after thinking. - Clouds are gathering in the north, but I hope you will still have time to get to the river... Oh, tell you what: you better stay on the trail of my lasso!

The stranger took the coiled hair rope from the saddle and, attaching one end to the ring on the saddle, threw the other on the ground. Then, politely raising his hat, he gave spurs to his horse and again rushed across the prairie. His lasso raised a cloud of black dust and left a stripe on the scorched earth, similar to the footprint of a huge snake.

- Amazing young man! – the planter said thoughtfully. “He didn’t even introduce himself.”

“A self-confident guy, I would say,” muttered the captain, who did not escape the glance thrown by the stranger towards the carriage. – As for his name, there is no doubt that it would have turned out to be fictitious. Texas is chock full of these guys with dark pasts...

“Listen, Cassius,” young Poindexter objected, “you are unfair.” He behaved like a true gentleman.

“Henry, have you ever met a gentleman who dresses in Mexican rags?” I bet that this is some kind of rogue... Well, God bless him; I want to have a word with your sister.

While talking with the captain, Louise did not take her eyes off the retreating horseman.

-What's the matter, Lou? - Colquhoun whispered, driving up close to the carriage. - Maybe you want to catch up with him? It's not too late - I'll give you my horse.

In response, he heard ringing laughter.

– Has this tramp captivated you so much? – the captain did not give up. - So know that this is just a crow in peacock feathers...

- Cassius, why are you so angry?

“You are behaving indecently, Louise.” I am sure he is a simple cattle courier hired by the officers of the fort.

- You think? – the girl glanced slyly at her irritated relative. “I wouldn’t mind receiving love notes from such a courier.”

- Make sure your father doesn't hear you!

– Don’t teach me how to behave, Cassius! – Louise instantly wiped the playful smile from her face. “Even though your uncle considers you the height of perfection, to me you are just Captain Colquhoun.” Maybe just a drop - a cousin. But even in this case, I will not tolerate being lectured to... There is only one person with whom I consider myself obligated to consult, and only him would I allow him to reproach me. I advise you to refrain from such moral teachings in the future - you are not my chosen one!

Having fallen silent, the girl leaned back on the carriage cushions and drew the curtains of the carriage, making it clear that she no longer needed her cousin’s presence.

The shouts of the drivers brought Colquhoun out of his confusion. The wagons set off again across the black prairie, the color of which quite suited the captain's mood.

What could be surprising for me in sea adventures, when, here it is, the sea, you can see from any window? What could be strange and exciting about traveling to the North, since we don’t live in the Sahara, and minus thirty with an icy wind is not a disaster? But this, this is real exotic.

The scorching sun, cacti, mustangs racing across the prairie and cougars stalking in the night. What else could be more amazing for me, a resident of a northern country?

This book has it all. Love, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, the same kind that loves “dollars and blood.” There are blond beauties and sizzling brunettes, secret dates and notes flying like arrows into the hands of lovers, jealousy and deceit. There are love triangles, quadrangles and even polygons.

There are duels between hot guys in sombreros and ponchos, where it's all about speed and skill with His Majesty Colt. Here, an insult is washed away with blood, insults are not forgiven until the grave, and revenge explodes in a cascade of events. And there is a good detective plot with a mysterious headless horseman who appears at dusk and disappears in the midnight shadows, the mystery of a single bullet, chases and an unjust trial. And, of course, a happy ending: what is “Mexican love” without a happy ending?

There is a lot in this book, but the main thing is the atmosphere of a truly unusual adventure for our northern soul. And, yes, there is also an immortal phrase about the Comanches on the warpath.

Rating: 9

I didn’t get to see the steppe burn, I saw the forest burn. I did not have a chance to see a herd of wild mustangs; I herded only two horses. I haven't had the chance to experience burning Mexican jealousy, I'm fine. I didn't get to see the headless horseman, but maybe that's for the best. But using my imagination, I experienced all this while reading this novel. Exciting adventures, a detective story, and most importantly, because of love, people are ready to do anything, both crimes and desperate deeds.

Rating: 10

It is not easy to write a review of a novel that is already a century and a half old. But I want to.

So, “The Headless Horseman” is a voluminous (both by the standards of that time and by current criteria) work that has come to us through many years. Let me immediately point out that “The Horseman” is a diverse book. If we (conditionally) break it down into components, we get the following:

1) adventure

2) romance novel

3) detective line

4) a touch of mysticism

All these components organically intertwine with each other, creating an overall picture - Texas of the 19th century, the very frontier of clashes between Mexicans and Americans, slave owners and their “toys,” free-thinking and stereotypical thinking of people. The atmosphere turns out to be very voluminous and delicious. You really feel the howl of the coyotes, the heat of the prairie and the strength of the mustangs.

The novel pays a lot of attention to issues of friendship, herd instinct, and justice. At the same time, Mine Reid does not impose his point of view; personally, I did not find even a hint of moralization on the pages of “The Horseman”. Hence the pleasant conclusion - the book can be read in early age(which I didn’t do at the time, alas).

I won’t say anything about the characters themselves (they are quite formulaic, one-dimensional), but I will note that Reed very timely switches his narrative from one to another.

The result: a wonderful novel that has reached our time and will outlive us, our children and grandchildren. The main thing is not to forget to tell them about the “Headless Horseman”. Otherwise, the Horseman will really be left without her (forgive me for the wayward pun).

Rating: 8

“The Headless Horseman” is a classic of adventure literature, a novel on a par with “Treasure Island”, “King Solomon’s Mines” and “The Children of Captain Grant”, this is exactly the work from which young readers should take all the good things from goodies. And the hero of this novel has many such qualities, the main ones of which are honesty, courage, nobility, strength and dexterity. I think that many adults will also enjoy this novel.

Rating: 10

In Soviet times, this novel was published in millions of copies (but it was still difficult to get! One of the, ahem, paradoxes of that era: they heard - they heard, but no one really read!) Well, when the dashing 90s came (and the even more dashing 2000 -e), Main Read's Horseman was not at all lucky - his brother from Sleepy Hollow is more popular among the people, known, and in general... True, there were excellent moments in the novel: for example, this protracted and exhausting journey in the first chapters across the parched prairie. A young capricious young lady, comfortably dreaming in a carriage during the heat: “I dreamed of Pluto and Proserpina in hell!” And then - the sad face of the real Pluto (a black man), greeting her upon awakening. Who said Captain Thomas didn't have a sense of humor? ;))

And the scenes with Phelim? (a typical Irishman, unable to get used to the terrible life in Mexico, where snakes and centipedes crawl at every step. And in general, he dreams of returning to Ballyballagh - obviously because there was plenty of the popular Irish drink there;)) Well, you get the idea;) ) Whereas the local whiskey, “Mohonagil spill”, can only satisfy the old trapper Zeb (but actually he is Zabulon: D Bgg!) In short, these are such unexpectedly colorful scenes. decorate the book. Elena Khaetskaya thought she was too romantic, but this *cough cough* is not 100% true. There is also everyday nonsense here, and elements of horror (in fact, the Horseman himself, about whom, by the way, no one said that he MUST have a natural origin! It could well be some kind of Indian demon from hell, or “the restless "(hello to Fessu & Co =)) or something else. in the same spirit...

Well, of course, the final twist with the amulet is memorable. I remember all sorts of curious little things (what is a “hacienda”? How to scare away coyotes if you suddenly fall into their clutches?..) I remember the old black woman - “I would like your hair, Miss Lou!” - “Only hair?” - “No... I would also like your nice figurine...” =))) By the way, this is also quite a vital detail - such sentimental grandmothers are still not extinct. And even the fact that Louise ultimately forgives her treacherous rival (Isidora) is quite logical. And also spectacular, juicy... in a word, simply talented and imaginative. You can even say - nafEntEzyacheno;))) and this will be true to some extent;)))

Although... The current reader will probably prefer “Lorna Doone” (at least in the format of a BBC series. Well, he will do the right thing - everything is shown there more vividly, more intelligibly, more realistically. “To everything there is a time, to each his own” 8-)

Rating: 10

But alas, in childhood this novel passed by, and now, having read it at my rather unchildish age, we have what we have.

But we have a rather mediocre mixture of a kind of women's novel with adventure elements. The first part of the novel is all oohs and ahs, a typical Brazilian soap series. Well, what about without a love triangle? Of course he is present.

The second part is a little more interesting, more action, at least some intrigue, and in fact, our “headless horseman” finally appears.

Yes. The dialogues, the cardboard characters, and indeed the whole love story were annoying. But the intrigue remained until the last (I, for example, did not immediately guess who the rider was, and until the last I thought that it was another person), although it immediately becomes clear that there is no magic here, and everything is simple. It's a pity.

Overall good, yes. But again, considering that if I had read the novel at the same 13-15 years old, the rating would probably have been higher

Rating: 8

Mine Reed for me is a contradictory writer: some seemed naive, such as “Osceola, Chief of the Seminoles,” and some seemed fundamentally uninteresting (novels in nautical theme). “The Headless Horseman” is perhaps the only work of his that captivated me in the same way as Cooper’s “Deerslayer” or Haggard’s “Montezuma’s Daughter”. And the point is not even that the outcome was clear almost from the very beginning, but in the way the author tells us what is happening: colorfully, in detail, with soul. This is exactly what many modern authors in any genre lack. After all, there is nothing out of the ordinary in terms of adventure in the novel: the ordinary life of an ordinary family; inevitable, and therefore ordinary love polygons... And even the crime turns out to be quite ordinary. But it is shown so “tasty” that you want to applaud. And, yes, be sure to watch the film of the same name.

Rating: 10

A book that many read as children and then recommend to their children, regardless of age and generation!

"The Headless Horseman", "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" - this is what needs to be included in school curriculum junior and middle grades, instead of the wretched Harry Potter (I hope we don’t get it)

p.s. Only idiots give downvotes. Write your opinion if you don’t like something.

Rating: 7

It so happened that I read this book only at 24 years old.

A good adventure novel with love, intrigue and mystery. The mystery, it must be said, is unusual and very exciting: not just anyone, but a real headless horseman appears on the Texas prairie! And even under mysterious circumstances.

But, nevertheless, the development of the plot is very slow. The real adventures, which you can't put down, begin only closer to the second third of the book. At the same time, the last third is the same leisurely denouement, which seemed to me a little drawn out. I guessed a lot of things before the author told me about it (however, I didn’t guess about everything).

There are many funny parts in the book. But the characters are quite stereotyped: a beauty, her noble lover, an ignoble scoundrel, and so on. They are clearly divided into “good” and “bad”. But: despite their stereotypes, the characters are lively and memorable. Therefore, I cannot put this as a minus, especially considering that the book was written a long time ago.

I liked the old hunter the most.

I think 10-12 years ago I would have rated the book much higher. But now I want something more complex and unusual. By the way, the ending was still a little disappointing

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

- What's happened?

– Grass... There was a fire on the prairie.

- But there is no smell of smoke. What's the matter?

“It was burning the other day, not now,” the rider looked at the owner from under his brows, “the whole earth there is black.”

- So what? Burnt grass is not a problem for us...

“There’s no need to make a fuss over trifles,” the planter’s nephew frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“But how will we find the way now, Captain Colquhoun?” - the conductor objected. – The old track is no longer visible, just ashes. I'm afraid we'll lose our way.

- Nonsense! You just need to cross the burnt area and find the tracks on the other side. Forward! - Colquhoun shouted.

“John is right,” the planter said worriedly. - What are we going to do, Cassius?

- OK. “Poindexter nodded in agreement and signaled to the wagon drivers to continue moving. - I hope we don’t get lost...

Now there was no doubt left - Woodley Poindexter's caravan described a wide circle, moving in the footsteps of its own convoy.

Here is the e-book Headless horseman author Reed Main Thomas. In the library site you can download the free book The Headless Horseman in TXT (RTF) format, or in FB2 (EPUB) format, or read the online e-book Reed Main Thomas - The Headless Horseman without registration and without SMS.

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Mayne Reid
Headless horseman

A Texas deer, dozing in the silence of the night savannah, is startled by the sound of horse hooves.
But he does not leave his green bed, does not even get to his feet. He is not the only one who owns these open spaces - wild steppe horses also graze here at night. He only raises his head slightly - his horns appear above the tall grass - and listens: will the sound be repeated?
The clatter of hooves is heard again, but now it sounds different. You can hear the ringing of metal, the impact of steel on stone.
This sound, so alarming for the deer, causes a rapid change in its behavior. He quickly jumps up and rushes across the prairie; but soon he stops and looks back, wondering: who disturbed his sleep?
In the clear moonlight of the southern night, the deer recognizes its worst enemy - man. A man approaches on horseback.
Seized by instinctive fear, the deer is ready to run again, but something in the appearance of the rider - something unnatural - chains him to his place.
Trembling, he almost sits down on his hind legs, turns his head back and continues to look - fear and bewilderment are reflected in his large brown eyes.
What made the deer stare at the strange figure for so long?
Horse? But this is an ordinary horse, saddled, bridled - there is nothing about him that could cause surprise or alarm. Maybe the deer was scared by the rider? Yes, it is he who frightens and makes one wonder - there is something ugly and creepy in his appearance.
Heavenly powers! The rider has no head!
This is obvious even to an unreasonable animal. The deer looks for another minute with confused eyes, as if trying to understand: what kind of unprecedented monster is this? But now, overcome with horror, the deer runs again. He does not stop until he swims across Leona and a stormy stream separates him from the terrible horseman.
Ignoring the deer running away in fright, as if not even noticing its presence, the headless horseman continues on his way.
He also heads towards the river, but it seems that he is in no hurry, but moves at a slow, calm, almost ceremonial pace.
As if absorbed in his thoughts, the rider lowered the reins, and his horse nibbled the grass from time to time. He urges her on with neither voice nor movement when, frightened by the barking of the coyotes, she suddenly throws up her head and stops, snoring.
It seems that he is in the grip of some deep feelings and small incidents cannot bring him out of his thoughts. He does not give away his secret with a single sound. A frightened deer, a horse, a wolf and the midnight moon are the only witnesses to his silent thoughts.
A serape is thrown over the rider's shoulders, which rises with a gust of wind and reveals part of his figure; on his legs he wears gaiters made of jaguar skin. Protected from the damp of the night and from the tropical downpours, he rides forward, silent as the stars twinkling above him, carefree as the cicadas chirping in the grass, like the night breeze playing with the folds of his clothes.
Finally, something apparently brought the rider out of his reverie - his horse quickened its pace. Now the horse shook his head and neighed joyfully - with an outstretched neck and flaring nostrils, he runs forward at a trot and is soon galloping: the proximity of the river is what made the horse rush faster.
He does not stop until he plunges into a transparent stream so that the water reaches the rider’s knees. The horse drinks greedily; Having quenched his thirst, he crosses the river and climbs the steep bank at a fast trot.
At the top, the headless horseman stops, as if waiting for the horse to shake off the water. The clanging of harness and stirrups is heard - as if thunder rumbled in a white cloud of steam.
From this halo appears a headless horseman; he continues on his way again.
Apparently, driven by spurs and guided by the rider’s hand, the horse no longer goes astray, but runs confidently forward, as if along a familiar path.
Ahead, to the very horizon, stretches the treeless expanses of savannah. The silhouette of a mysterious figure, similar to a damaged statue of a centaur, appears on the sky blue; he gradually moves away until he completely disappears in the mysterious twilight of moonlight.

Chapter I. BURNED PRAIRIE

The afternoon sun shines brightly from a cloudless azure sky over the vast Texas plain about a hundred miles south of the old Spanish city of San Antonio de Bexar. Objects unusual for the wild prairie emerge in the golden rays - they speak of the presence of people where there are no signs of human habitation.
Even at a great distance you can see that these are vans; above each is a semicircular top made of snow-white linen.
There are ten of them - too few for a trade caravan or government convoy. Most likely, they belong to some settler who landed on the seashore and is now heading to one of the new villages on the Leone River.
Stretched out in a long line, the wagons crawl across the savannah so slowly that their movement is almost imperceptible, and only by their relative position in the long chain of convoys can one guess about it. Dark silhouettes between the wagons indicate that they are harnessed; and the antelope running away in fright and the curlew flying up with a cry indicate that the convoy is moving. Both the beast and the bird are perplexed: what kind of strange monsters have invaded their wild possessions?
Besides this, no movement is visible throughout the prairie: neither a flying bird, nor a running animal. At this sultry midday hour, all life on the prairie freezes or hides in the shadows. And only a person, incited by ambition or greed, violates the laws of tropical nature and defies the scorching sun.
So the owner of the convoy, despite the sweltering midday heat, continues on his way.
Each wagon is drawn by eight strong mules. They carry a large amount of food supplies, expensive, one might even say luxurious, furniture, black slaves and their children; black slaves walk next to the convoy, and some wearily trudge behind, barely stepping on their wounded bare feet. In front rides a light carriage drawn by well-groomed Kentucky mules; on her box a black coachman in livery is languishing in the heat. Everything suggests that this is not a poor settler from the northern states looking for a new homeland, but a rich southerner who has already purchased an estate and is going there with his family, property and slaves.
Indeed, the wagon train belongs to a planter who landed with his family at Indianola, on the shores of Matagorda Bay, and is now crossing the prairie on his way to his new possessions.
Among the horsemen accompanying the convoy, as always, the planter himself rides in front, Woodley Poindexter, a tall, thin man of about fifty, with a pale, sickly yellowish face and a proudly stern posture. He is dressed simply, but richly. He wears a loose-fitting alpaca caftan, a black satin vest and nankee trousers. In the neckline of the vest one can see a shirt made of the finest linen, secured at the collar with a black ribbon. On the feet, placed in stirrups, are shoes made of soft tanned leather. The wide brim of his straw hat casts a shadow on the planter's face.
Next to him ride two riders, one on the right, the other on the left: this is a young man of about twenty and a young man six or seven years older.
The first is Poindexter's son. The open, cheerful face of the young man is not at all like the stern face of his father and the gloomy face of the third horseman - his cousin.
The young man is wearing a French blouse made of sky-blue cotton fabric, trousers made of the same material; This suit, most suitable for the southern climate, suits the young man very well, as does the white Panama hat.
His cousin, a retired volunteer officer, is dressed in a military uniform made of dark blue cloth, with a cloth cap on his head.
Another horseman gallops nearby; He also has white skin, although not quite white. The rough features of his face, the cheap clothes, the whip he holds right hand, so skillfully flicking it - everything suggests that this is an overseer over blacks, their tormentor.
In the “carriole” - a light carriage that was something between a cabriolet and a landau - two girls are sitting. One of them has dazzling white skin, the other completely black. This is Woodley Poindexter's only daughter and her black maid.
Travelers come from the banks of the Mississippi, from the state of Louisiana.
The planter himself is not a native of this state; in other words, not a Creole. From the face of his son and especially from the delicate features of his daughter, who from time to time peeks out from behind the curtains of the carriage, it is easy to guess that they are the descendants of a French emigrant, one of those who crossed the Atlantic Ocean more than a century ago.
Woodley Poindexter, owner of large sugar plantations, was one of the most arrogant, wasteful and hospitable aristocrats of the South. Eventually he went broke and had to leave his home on the Mississippi and move with his family and a handful of remaining blacks to the wild prairies of southwest Texas.
The sun has almost reached its zenith. The travelers walk slowly, stepping on their own shadows. Relaxed by the unbearable heat, the white riders sit silently in their saddles. Even the blacks, less sensitive to the heat, have stopped their chatter and, huddled in groups, silently trudge behind the wagons.
The silence, languid, like at a funeral, is interrupted from time to time only by a sharp crack of a whip, like a pistol shot, or a loud velvety “woah” escaping from the thick lips of one or another black driver.
The caravan moves slowly, as if it is groping. Actually, there is no real road. It is marked only by the tracks of the wheels of the carts that had passed earlier, traces visible only from the crushed stems of lush grass.
Despite their snail's pace, the horses harnessed to the wagons do their best. The planter suggests that there are no more than twenty miles left to the new estate. He hopes to get there before nightfall. Therefore, he decided to continue his journey, despite the midday heat.
Suddenly the overseer makes a sign to the drivers to stop the convoy. Having ridden a hundred yards ahead, he suddenly pulled on the reins, as if facing some obstacle.
He rushes to the convoy. There is anxiety in his gestures. What's happened?
Aren't they Indians? They were said to appear in these places.
“What happened, Mr. Sansom?” asked the planter as the rider approached.
— The grass is scorched. There was a fire on the prairie.
- Was there a fire? But the prairie isn't burning now, is it? - the owner of the convoy quickly asks, casting a restless glance towards the carriage. - Where? I don't see any smoke.
“No, sir,” mutters the overseer, realizing that he had raised a needless alarm, “I didn’t say that it was burning now, I only said that the prairie was burning and the whole earth had turned black, like your ten of spades.”
- Well, it doesn’t matter! It seems to me that we can travel just as calmly on the black prairie as on the green one.
-Stupid, Josh Sans, to make a noise because of trifles! .. Hey you, black-haired, move! Get your whips! Drive! Drive!
“But tell me, Captain Colquhoun,” the overseer objected to the man who had so sharply reprimanded him, “how will we find the way?”
- Why look for a way? What nonsense! Have we lost our way?
- I'm afraid so. The wheel tracks are not visible: they burned along with the grass.
- Nonsense! It’s as if you can’t cross a burnt area without leaving any traces. We'll find them on the other side.
“Yes, if only there was another side left there,” answered the overseer innocently, who, although he was a native of the eastern states, had been to the western edge of the prairie more than once and knew what frontier life was like. “For some reason I can’t see her, even though I’m looking from the saddle!”
- Clean, black hazelnut! Drive! - Colquhoun shouted, interrupting the conversation.
Spurring his horse, he galloped forward, making it clear that the order must be carried out.
The convoy set off again, but, approaching the border of the scorched prairie, it suddenly stopped.
The riders come together to discuss what to do. The situation was difficult, everyone was convinced of this when they looked at the plain that spread out in front of them.
All around you can see nothing but black expanses. There is no greenery anywhere - not a stem, not a blade of grass. The fire happened recently - during the summer solstice. Ripe grasses and bright flowers of the prairie - everything turned to ashes under the destructive breath of fire.
Ahead, to the right, to the left, as far as the eye can see, a picture of devastation stretches. The sky is no longer azure - it has become dark blue, and the sun, although not obscured by clouds, seems to not want to shine here and seems to frown, looking at the gloomy earth.
The overseer told the truth: there were no traces of the road left.
The fire, which incinerated the ripe prairie grasses, also destroyed the traces of the wheels that had previously shown the way.
- What do we do? — This question is asked by the planter himself, and there is confusion in his voice.
- What should we do, Uncle Woodley?.. Of course, continue on our way. The river must be on the other side of the fire. If we can't find a crossing within half a mile, we'll go upstream or downstream... We'll see.
“But, Cassius, we’ll get lost this way!”
- It’s unlikely... It seems to me that the burned-out space is not so large. It doesn’t matter if we get a little off the road: it doesn’t matter, sooner or later, we will come to the river in one place or another.
- OK my friend. You know better, I'll rely on you.
- Don't be afraid, uncle. I've never been in such trouble before... Forward, blacks! Behind me!
And the retired officer casts a smug glance towards the carriage, from behind the curtains of which the beautiful, slightly alarmed face of a girl peeks out. Colquhoun spurs his horse and confidently gallops forward.
Following the cracking of whips, one can hear the clatter of the hooves of eight to ten mules, mixed with the creaking of wheels. The vans set off again.
Mules go faster. The black surface, unusual for the eyes of animals, seems to urge them on; barely having time to touch the ashes with their hooves, they immediately raise their legs again. The young mules snore in fear. Little by little they calm down and, looking at the elders, follow them at an even pace.
The caravan travels like this for about a mile. Then he stops again. This order was given by a man who himself volunteered to be a guide. He pulls on the reins, but his posture no longer has the same self-confidence. He must be confused, not knowing where to go.
The landscape, if you can call it that, has changed, but not for the better. Everything is still black right up to the horizon. Only the surface is no longer smooth: it has become wavy. Chains of hills are interspersed with valleys. It cannot be said that there are no trees here at all, although what remains of them can hardly be called that. There were trees here before the fire - algarobo, mesquito and some other types of acacia grew here alone and in groves. Their feathery foliage disappeared without a trace, leaving only charred trunks and blackened branches.
-Have you lost your way, my friend? - asks the planter, hastily driving up to his nephew.
- No, uncle, not yet. I stopped to look around. We need to go through this valley. Let the caravan continue on its way. We are going the right way, I vouch for it.
The caravan starts moving again. It goes down the slope, heads along the valley, climbs the slope again and stops again at the crest of the hill.
- Have you lost your way yet, Kash? - the planter repeats his question, driving up to his nephew.
- Damn it! I'm afraid you're right, uncle. But tell me, what kind of devil could even find his way through this conflagration!.. No, no! - Colhoun suddenly exclaims, seeing that the carriage has arrived very close. - Everything is clear to me now. We're going the right way. The river should be in that direction. Forward!
And the captain spurs his horse, apparently not knowing where to go. The wagons follow him, but Colquhoun's confusion is not lost on the drivers. They notice that the convoy is not moving straight ahead, but is circling along the valleys between the groves.
But the counselor’s encouraging cry immediately lifts the travelers’ spirits. Whips crack in unison and joyful exclamations are heard.
The travelers are back on the road, where perhaps a dozen carts had passed before them. And this was quite recently: the wheel and hoof prints are completely fresh, as if they were made an hour ago. Apparently, the same caravan drove across the scorched prairie.
Like them, he must have made his way to the shores of Leona; it is very likely that this is a government convoy heading to Fort Inge. In this case, all that remains is to follow in his footsteps; the fort is located in the same direction, only a little further than the new estate.
Nothing better could have been expected. There is no trace left of Colhoun’s confusion; he has perked up again and, with a feeling of undisguised complacency, gives the order to get underway.
For a mile, maybe more, the caravan follows the tracks found. They do not lead straight ahead, but circle among the burnt groves. Cassius Colquhoun's smug confidence turns to gloomy despondency. His face reflects deep despair when he finally realizes that the tracks of the forty-four wheels on which they are traveling were left by a carriage and ten wagons - the very ones that are now following him, and with which he traveled all the way from Matagorda Bay.

Chapter II. TRAIL LASSO

There was no doubt that Woodley Poindexter's wagons followed the tracks of their own wheels.
- Our tracks! - Colquhoun muttered; Having made this discovery, he pulled on the reins and burst into curses.
- Our traces? What do you mean by this, Cassius? Are we really going...
- ...in our own footsteps. Yes, that's exactly what I want to say. We have come full circle. Look: here is the back hoof of my horse - the imprint of half a horseshoe, and here are the footprints of blacks. Now I recognize the place. This is the same hill we came down from after our last stop. Damn bad luck - we drove about two miles in vain!
Now, not only confusion is noticeable on Colhoun’s face, but bitter annoyance and shame have appeared on it. It is his fault that there is no real guide in the caravan. The one hired at Indianola accompanied them to their last stop; there, having argued with the arrogant captain, he asked for payment and went back.
All this, as well as the excessive self-confidence with which he volunteered to lead the caravan, now makes the planter’s nephew feel painfully ashamed. His mood becomes completely gloomy when the carriage approaches and beautiful eyes see his confusion.
Poindexter asks no more questions. It is now clear to everyone that they have lost their way. Even barefoot pedestrians recognized the prints of their feet and realized that they were walking through these places for the second time.
The caravan stopped again; The riders are excitedly conferring. The situation is serious: the planter himself thinks so. He lost hope of finishing the journey before dark, as he had previously expected.
But this is not the biggest problem. Who knows what lies ahead for them? The scorched prairie is full of dangers. Perhaps they will have to spend the night here, and there will be no place to get water to water the mules. Or maybe more than one night?
But how to find the way? The sun begins to set towards the west, although it is still too high to catch which way it is moving; however, after some time it would be possible to determine where the cardinal points are.
But what's the point? Even if they know where east, west, north and south are, nothing will change - they have lost direction!
Colquhoun became more careful. He no longer claims to be a guide. After such a shameful failure, he does not have the courage to do so.
They deliberate for about ten minutes, but no one can offer a reasonable plan of action. No one knows how to escape from this black prairie, which covers with a black veil not only the sun and the sky, but also the faces of those who fall within its boundaries.
A flock of black vultures appeared high in the sky. They're getting closer. Some of them fall to the ground, others circle above the heads of lost travelers. There is something sinister in the behavior of predators.
Another ten depressing minutes passed. And suddenly cheerfulness returned to the people: they saw a horseman galloping straight towards the convoy.
What unexpected joy! Who would have thought that you could meet a person in such a place! Again, hope shone in the eyes of the travelers - they see their savior in the approaching horseman.
“He’s coming to us, isn’t he?” - asked the planter, not believing his eyes.
“Yes, father, he’s coming straight towards us,” Henry answered and began shouting and waving his hat high above his head to attract the rider’s attention.
But this was unnecessary - the rider had already noticed the stopped caravan. He galloped and soon got close enough to call out to him.
He pulled on the reins only when he had passed the train and rode up to the planter and his companions.
“Mexican,” Henry whispered, looking at the stranger’s clothes.
“So much the better,” his father answered him just as quietly. “Then he probably knows the way.”
“There’s nothing Mexican about him except the suit,” muttered Colquhoun. - I’m finding out now... Buenos dias, cavallero! Esta Vuestra Mexicano? (Good afternoon, caballero! Are you Mexican?)
“Oh no,” he replied, smiling. - I'm not Mexican at all. I can talk to you in Spanish if you want, but I think you will understand me better if we speak English -

Mine Reid is a classic writer, master of adventure novels and short stories. The novel “The Headless Horseman” that made him famous is based on the events that happened to the author during his travels across America.

Events take place in the mid-nineteenth century. An old and rather wealthy planter, Woodley, moves to a new hacienda from Louisiana to Texas. On the road, he loses his way and finds himself on a scorched plain without any signs. In the same place, he meets the Irishman Maurice Gerald, a mustanger he accidentally met on their way, who shows them the way. The meeting turns out to be a turning point for all family members. Everyone immediately takes a liking to Maurice and makes a deal to supply horses. Woodley's daughter Louise falls in love with the savior and sees him as her future husband, not paying attention to the difference in their social positions, and, therefore, the impossibility of marriage.

The only person who hates him is Woodley's cousin Cassius Colquhoun. He himself has designs on Louise, and perceives him as a rival.

During the celebration of moving and establishing connections with the noble people of Texas, Maurice gives Louise a thoroughbred mustang, which further wins her favor and finds an enemy in Cassius. The latter provokes the mustanger into a quarrel and challenges him to a duel. But without appreciating his opponent, he loses it, and remains alive only thanks to his generosity. Since then, he has been hatching a plan to eliminate Maurice and orders his murder from another mustanger, Diaz, who, knowing that the American Indians are starting a war, in the turmoil of military operations, expects to remain unpunished and earn extra money by committing a crime, agrees to it...

Maurice and Louise meet secretly in the garden, whereupon they are noticed by the girl's brother Henry and the same cousin. Mustang has to run, and the men, one after another, go after him. Nobody knows what happens after. But in the morning everyone discovers Henry's bloody horse and Maurice's disappearance, and they look for him, suspecting him of murder. Meanwhile, the main character begins to haunt everyone in the area and terrify those who see him. This is the headless horseman. He appears in a variety of places when he is not expected. No one dares to come close to him, find out his goals, and solve the mystery of this monstrous phenomenon.

Maurice is later found weakened and delirious. He is on trial for murder. And only he, having come to his senses at the trial, reveals the truth to everyone. That night, Henry and Maurice found a common language, and as a sign of the truce, they exchanged clothes according to the old custom of the Comanche Indians, among whom the mustanger had lived for a long time. Cassius, not distinguishing the facial features of the horsemen in the darkness, kills Henry and cuts off his head, mistaking him for his opponent, and runs away. And Maurice, according to the custom of the same people, ties the corpse to a horse to take it home. His horse is frightened by what he sees and carries Maurice away, injuring him on the way. And the horse, with the corpse “riding” it, wanders around the surrounding area for a long time, inciting fantasy and fear among its eyewitnesses. You can download “The Headless Horseman” by Mine Reed for free in epub, fb2, txt, rtf formats on our KnigoPoisk website.