Still continuing his fleet career, the Headless Horseman galloped on
over the prairie--Zeb Stump following only with his eyes; and not until
he had passed out of sight, behind some straggling groves of mezquite,
did the backwoodsman abandon his kneeling position.
Then only for a second or two did he stand erect--taking council with
himself as to what course he should pursue.
The episode--strange as unexpected--had caused some disarrangement in
his ideas, and seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he
continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for
that of the steed that had just swept by?
By keeping to the former, he might find out much; but by changing to the
latter he might learn more?
He might capture the Headless Horseman, and ascertain from _him_ the why
and wherefore of his wild wanderings?
While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had
forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the
prairie.
Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he
soon remembered them.
Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw
that which caused him to squat down again; and place himself, with more
_impressement_ than ever, under cover of the mezquites. The old mare,
relishing the recumbent attitude, had still kept to it; and there was no
necessity for re-disposing of her.
What Zeb now saw was a man on horseback--a real horseman, with a head
upon his shoulders.
He was still a long way off; and it was not likely he had seen the tall
form of the hunter, standing shored up among the bushes--much less the
mare, lying beneath them. He showed no signs of having done so.
On the contrary, he was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent
down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground,
over which he was guiding his horse.
There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump
guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider.
"Ho, ho!" muttered Zeb, on making this discovery; "I ain't the only one
who's got a reezun for solvin' this hyur myst'ry! Who the hell kin _he_
be? I shed jest like to know that."
Zeb had not long to wait for the gratification of his wish. As the
trail was fresh, the strange horseman could take it up at a trot--in
which pace he was approaching.
He was soon within identifying distance.
"Gee--hosophat!" muttered the backwoodsman; "I mout a know'd it wud be
him; an ef I'm not mistook about it, hyurs goin' to be a other chapter
out o' the same book--a other link as 'll help me to kumplete the chain
o' evydince I'm in sarch for. Lay clost, ye critter! Ef ye make ere a
stir--even to the shakin' o' them long lugs o' yourn--I'll cut yur
darned throat."
The last speech was an apostrophe to the "maar"--after which Zeb waxed
silent, with his head among the spray of the acacias, and his eyes
peering through the branches in acute scrutiny of him who was coming
along.
This was a man, who, once seen, was not likely to be soon forgotten.
Scarce thirty years old, he showed a countenance, scathed, less with
care than the play of evil passions.
But there was care upon it now--a care that seemed to speak of
apprehension--keen, prolonged, yet looking forward with a hope of being
relieved from it.
Withal it was a handsome face: such as a gentleman need not have been
ashamed of, but for that sinister expression that told of its belonging
to a blackguard.
The dress--but why need we describe it? The blue cloth frock of
semi-military cut--the forage cap--the belt sustaining a bowie-knife,
with a brace of revolving pistols--all have been mentioned before as
enveloping and equipping the person of Captain Cassius Calhoun.
It was he.
It was not the _batterie_ of small arms that kept Zeb Stump from showing
himself. He had no dread of an encounter with the ex-officer of
Volunteers. Though he instinctively felt hostility, he had as yet given
no reason to the latter for regarding him as an enemy. He remained in
shadow, to have a better view of what was passing under the sunlight.
Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun
trotted past.
Still closely keeping among the acacias, Zeb Stump looked after, till
the same grove, that had concealed the former, interposed its verdant
veil between him and the ex-captain of cavalry.
The backwoodsman's brain having become the recipient of new thoughts,
required a fresh exercise of its ingenuity.
If there was reason before for taking the trail of the Headless
Horseman, it was redoubled now.
With but short time spent in consideration, so Zeb concluded; and
commenced making preparations for a stalk after Cassius Calhoun.
These consisted in taking hold of the bridle, and giving the old mare a
kick; that caused her to start instantaneously to her feet.
Zeb stood by her side, intending to climb into the saddle and ride out
into the open plain--as soon as Calhoun should be out of sight.
He had no thoughts of keeping the latter in view. He needed no such
guidance. The two fresh trails would be sufficient for him; and he felt
as sure of finding the direction in which both would lead, as if he had
ridden alongside the horseman without a head, or him without a heart.
With this confidence he cleared out from among the acacias, and took the
path just trodden by Calhoun.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For once in his life, Zeb Stump had made a mistake. On rounding the
mezquite grove, behind which both had made disappearance, he discovered
he had done so.
Beyond, extended a tract of chalk prairie; over which one of the
horsemen appeared to have passed--him without the head.
Zeb guessed so, by seeing the other, at some distance before him, riding
to and fro, in transverse stretches, like a pointer quartering the
stubble in search of a partridge.
He too had lost the trail, and was endeavouring to recover it.
Crouching under cover of the mezquites, the hunter remained a silent
spectator of his movements.
The attempt terminated in a failure. The chalk surface defied
interpretation--at least by skill such as that of Cassius Calhoun.
After repeated quarterings he appeared to surrender his design; and,
angrily plying the spur, galloped off in the direction of the Leona.
As soon as he was out of sight, Zeb also made an effort to take up the
lost trail. But despite his superior attainments in the tracking craft,
he was compelled to relinquish it.
A fervid sun was glaring down upon the chalk; and only the eye of a
salamander could have withstood the reflection of its rays.
Dazed almost to blindness, the backwoodsman determined upon turning late
back; and once more devoting his attention to the trail from which he
had been for a time seduced.
He had learnt enough to know that this last promised a rich reward for
its exploration.
It took him but a short time to regain it.
Nor did he lose any in following it up. He was too keenly impressed
with its value; and with this idea urging him, he strode rapidly on, the
mare following as before.
Once only did he make pause; at a point where the tracks of two horses
converged with that he was following.
From this point the three coincided--at times parting and running
parallel, for a score of yards or so, but again coming together and
overlapping one another.
The horses were all shod--like that which carried the broken shoe--and
the hunter only stopped to see what he could make out of the hoof marks.
One was a "States horse;" the other a mustang--though a stallion of
great size, and with a hoof almost as large as that of the American.
Zeb had his conjectures about both.
He did not stay to inquire which had gone first over the ground. That
was as clear to him, as if he had been a spectator at their passing.
The stallion had been in the lead,--how far Zeb could not exactly tell;
but certainly some distance beyond that of companionship. The States
horse had followed; and behind him, the roadster with the broken shoe--
also an American.
All three had gone over the same ground, at separate times, and each by
himself. This Zeb Stump could tell with as much ease and certainty, as
one might read the index of a dial, or thermometer.
Whatever may have been in his thoughts, he said nothing, beyond giving
utterance to the simple exclamation "Good!" and, with satisfaction
stamped upon his features, he moved on, the old mare appearing to mock
him by an imitative stride!
"Hyur they've seppurated," he said, once again coming to a stop, and
regarding the ground at his feet. "The stellyun an States hoss hev goed
thegither--thet air they've tuk the same way. Broken-shoe hev strayed
in a diffrent direkshun."
"Wonder now what thet's for?" he continued, after standing awhile to
consider. "Durn me ef I iver seed sech perplexin' sign! It ud puzzle
ole Dan'l Boone hisself."
"Which on 'em shed I foller fust? Ef I go arter the two I know whar
they'll lead. They're boun' to kim up in thet puddle o' blood. Let's
track up tother, and see whether he hev rud into the same procksimmuty!
To the right abeout, ole gal, and keep clost ahint me--else ye may get
lost in the chapparal, an the coyoats may make thur supper on yur
tallow. Ho! ho! ho!"
With this apostrophe to his "critter," ending in a laugh at the conceit
of her "tallow," the hunter turned off on the track of the third horse.
It led him along the edge of an extended tract of chapparal; which,
following all three, he had approached at a point well known to him, as
to the reader,--where it was parted by the open space already described.
The new trail skirted the timber only for a short distance. Two hundred
yards from the embouchure of the avenue, it ran into it; and fifty paces
further on Zeb came to a spot where the horse had stood tied to a tree.
Zeb saw that the animal had proceeded no further: for there was another
set of tracks showing where it had returned to the prairie--though not
by the same path.
The rider had gone beyond. The foot-marks of a man could be seen
beyond--in the mud of a half-dry _arroyo_--beside which the horse had
been "hitched."
Leaving his critter to occupy the "stall" where broken-shoe had for some
time fretted himself, the old hunter glided off upon the footmarks of
the dismounted rider.
He soon discovered two sets of them--one going--another coming back.
He followed the former.
He was not surprised at their bringing him out into the avenue--close to
the pool of blood--by the coyotes long since licked dry.
He might have traced them right up to it, but for the hundreds of horse
tracks that had trodden the ground like a sheep-pen.
But before going so far, he was stayed by the discovery of some fresh
"sign"--too interesting to be carelessly examined. In a place where the
underwood grew thick, he came upon a spot where a man had remained for
some time. There was no turf, and the loose mould was baked hard and
smooth, evidently by the sole of a boot or shoe.
There were prints of the same sole leading out towards the place of
blood, and similar ones coming back again. But upon the branches of a
tree between, Zeb Stump saw something that had escaped the eyes not only
of the searchers, but of their guide Spangler--a scrap of paper,
blackened and half-burnt--evidently the wadding of a discharged gun!
It was clinging to the twig of a locust-tree, impaled upon one of its
spines!
The old hunter took it from the thorn to which, through rain and wind,
it had adhered; spread it carefully across the palm of his horny hand;
and read upon its smouched surface a name well known to him; which, with
its concomitant title, bore the initials, "C.C.C."