"Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It's he
that's done the deed! That's why he's shown so bitter against the
other! If he's innocent, he'll be able to prove it. He shall have a
fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we're waiting upon you!
Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man's
been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!"
The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a
clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.
The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically
urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to
come before the Court.
The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no
response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.
There is only one pair that looks in the right direction--those of Zeb
Stump.
The _ci-devant_ witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he
has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare--still
alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.
With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon
the mare's back, and spurs her from under the tree.
At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among
the horses that stand picketed over the plain.
Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at
a rapid rate--making for a particular quarter of the _cavallada_.
"'Tis he! 'Tis Calhoun!" cries the voice of one who has recognised him.
"Trying to steal off!" proclaims another.
"Follow him!" shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. "Follow,
and bring him back!"
There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well
out, it is in the act of being obeyed--by scores of men who rush
simultaneously towards their horses.
Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his--a grey mustang, standing
on the outskirts of the _cavallada_.
It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman.
The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.
From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that
accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal--the
"hue and cry."
Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace
to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal's back.
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie--going
off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track--their riders roused to the
wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.
"Bring him back--dead or alive!" was the solemn phrase,--supposed to
have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to
stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for
this--coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been
held.
Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative--a
brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the
execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his
life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not
while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer's bar-room, with the
muzzle of the mustanger's pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace--at
intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at
sight of such a following--within hearing of their harsh vengeful
cries--one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract
of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He
is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may
find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket--with half a score of
skilled trackers in pursuit--Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows
it.
What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once
resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?
Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning
effort at impossible escape?
Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In
his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to
such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a
possible concealment in the timber beyond.
There is a still farther beyond--a _border_. Upon this his thoughts are
dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.
There are, indeed, two _borders_. One that separates two nations termed
civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this
the red-handed assassin may cheat justice--often does--by an adroit
migration from one to the other--a mere change of residence and
nationality.
But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed
the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take
advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger.
With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.
Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of
crossing it. He has bethought him of the _other border_--that beyond
which roams the savage Comanche--the Ishmaelite of the prairies--whose
hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly
against him, who has spilled the white man's blood!
In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for
hospitality--perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!
It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a
chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has
started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of
the chapparal, to flee towards the _Llano Estacado_.
He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others
that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those
threatening behind.
He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him--the
loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation--more than all,
the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved--perhaps never to be
seen again!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But he has no time to think even of _her_. To his ignoble nature life
is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it
is no fancy that tells him, death is behind--fast travelling upon his
tracks!
The murderer makes haste--all the haste that can be taken out of a
Mexican mustang--swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim
descent.
Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made
more than a score miles--most of them going at a gallop.
But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race--tough as
terriers--it will go fifty--if need be a hundred--without staggering in
its tracks.
What a stroke of good fortune--that exchange of horses with the Mexican
maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing
under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a
judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less
scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.
He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself
clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his
pursuers still far behind him.
He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green
of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able
to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.
Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket,
who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the
fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.
Who, then, can come up with him?
He congratulates himself on the _chance_ that has given him such a
steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to God!
And will God permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not
stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight?