The chase leads straight across the prairie--towards the tract of
chapparal, ten miles distant.
Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling
line--one after another falling off,--as their horses become blown by
the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in
anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without
making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being
urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after--but with a long interval between--is a tall man in
a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no
one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel
prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider's hand, and at intervals
silently applied to the animal's spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided
by a determination to be in at the death--as if some desperate necessity
required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented
to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he
seems aiming to keep the other in sight--as if a like stern necessity
was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the
eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line,
but along the lists and cattle tracks--now direct, now in sweeping
curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake--fearlessly, buffeted by the
sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while
the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer
roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch
upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that
a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings
they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the
pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to
follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of
the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are
under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater
than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit
to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the
sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he
breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two
pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears
to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be
heard.
"Curse the damned thing!" cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin.
"It's going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were
nobody after it but myself. But there _is_ this time. That old
hell-hound's coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it--
not three hundred yards behind me.
"Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He's too good a tracker
for that.
"By God! _but there is a chance_!"
At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half
round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.
He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is
reconnoitring the _terrain_, to see if it will suit.
At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he
manipulates with a feverish impatience.
Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about
throwing himself into a fixed attitude.
On reflection the scheme is abandoned.
"It won't do!" he mutters. "There's too many of them fellows coming
after--some that can track, too? They'd find his carcase, sure,--maybe
hear the shot?
"No--no. It won't do!"
He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either
before or behind--only that overhead made by the soft waving of the
vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above _him_!
"Yes--he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others
should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the
time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!"
Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above--were
they gifted with the power of speech--could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme
for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
"I'll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!" reflects Calhoun, once
more turning away. "In any case, I must keep on till it's lost to me:
else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
"What a fool _I've_ been in wasting so much time. If I don't look
sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if
I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!"
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward--fast as the
circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt--surprise and
pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces' distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise
only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse's head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the
bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.
His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought
down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is
he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of
spasmodic struggle--with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it is _held_ there, and by the bridle-rein,--that,
dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the
stem of a mezquite!
"Caught at last! Thank God--thank God!"
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs
forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard
from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman--that
spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!