"Am I still drunk? Am I dreaming?"
So Richard Darke interrogates himself, retreating from the strangest
apparition human eyes ever saw. A head without any body, not lying as
after careless decapitation, but as though still upon shoulders, the
eyes glancing and rolling, the lips moving, speaking--the whole thing
alive! The head, too, of one he supposes himself to have assassinated,
and for which he is a felon and fugitive. No wonder he doubts the
evidence of his senses, and at first deems it fancy--an illusion from
dream or drink. But a suspicion also sweeps through his soul, which,
more painfully impressing, causes him to add still another
interrogatory:
"Am I mad?"
He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, to assure himself he is awake,
sober, and sane. He is all three; though he might well wish himself
drunk or dreaming--for, so scared is he, there is in reality a danger of
his senses forsaking him. He tries to account for the queer thing, but
cannot. Who could, circumstanced as he? From that day when he stooped
over Clancy, holding Helen Armstrong's photograph before his face, and
saw his eyes film over in sightless gaze, the sure forerunner of death,
he has ever believed him dead. No rumour has reached him to the
contrary--no newspaper paragraph, from which he might draw his
deductions, as Borlasse has done. True, he observed some resemblance to
Clancy in the man who surprised him under the live-oak; but, recalling
that scene under the cypress, how could he have a thought of its being
he? He could not, cannot, does not yet.
But what about the head? How is he to account for that? And the cries
sent after him--still ringing in his ears--his own name, with the added
accusation he himself believes true, the brand, "murderer!"
"Am I indeed mad?" he again asks himself, riding on recklessly, without
giving guidance to his horse. His trembling hand can scarce retain hold
of the rein; and the animal, uncontrolled, is left to take its course--
only, it must not stop or stay. Every time it shows sign of lagging, he
kicks mechanically against its ribs, urging it on, on, anywhere away
from that dread damnable apparition.
It is some time before he recovers sufficient coolness to reflect--then
only with vague comprehensiveness; nothing clear save the fact that he
has completely lost himself, and his way. To go on were mere guesswork.
True, the moon tells him the west, the direction of Coyote creek. But
westward he will not go, dreading to again encounter that ghostly thing;
for he thinks it was there he saw it.
Better pull up, and await the surer guidance of the sun, with its light,
less mystical.
So deciding, he slips out of the saddle; and letting his horse out on
the trail-rope, lays himself down. Regardless of the animal's needs, he
leaves all its caparison on, even to the bitt between its teeth. What
cares he for its comforts, or for aught else, thinking of that horrible
head?
He makes no endeavour to snatch a wink of sleep, of which he has had
enough; but lies cogitating on the series of strange incidents and
sights which have late occurred to him, but chiefly the last, so
painfully perplexing. He can think of nothing to account for a
phenomenon so abnormal, so outside all laws of nature.
While vainly endeavouring to solve the dread enigma, a sound strikes
upon his ear, abruptly bringing his conjectures to a close. It is a
dull thumping, still faint and far off; but distinguishable as the tramp
of a horse.
Starting to his feet, he looks in the direction whence it proceeds. As
expected, he sees a horse; and something more, a man upon its back, both
coming towards him.
Could it, perchance, be Bosley? Impossible! He was their prisoner
under the live-oak. They would never let him go. Far more like it is
Woodley--the terrible backwoodsman, as ever after him? Whoever it be,
his guilty soul tells him the person approaching can be no friend of
his, but an enemy, a pursuer. And it may be another phantom!
Earthly fears, with unearthly fancies, alike urging him to flight, he
stays not to make sure whether it be ghost or human; but, hastily taking
up his trail-rope, springs to the back of his horse, and again goes off
in wild terrified retreat.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It scarce needs telling, that the horseman who has disturbed Richard
Darke's uncomfortable reflections is Charles Clancy. Less than an hour
has elapsed since his starting on the trail, which he has followed fast;
the fresh scent enabling Brasfort to take it up in a run. From the way
it zigzagged, and circled about, Clancy could tell the tracked steed had
been going without guidance, as also guess the reason. The rider,
fleeing in affright, has given no heed to direction. All this the
pursuer knows to be in his favour; showing that the pursued man has not
gone to Coyote creek, but will still be on the steppe, possibly astray,
and perhaps not far off.
Though himself making quick time, he is not carelessly pursuing; on the
contrary taking every precaution to ensure success. He knows that on
the hard turf his horse's tread can be heard to a great distance; and to
hinder this he has put the animal to a "pace"--a gait peculiar to Texas
and the South-Western States. This, combining speed with silence, has
carried him on quickly as in a canter. The hound he has once more
muzzled, though not holding it in leash; and the two have gone gliding
along silent as spectres.
At each turn of the trail, he directs looks of inquiry ahead.
One is at length rewarded. He is facing the moon, whose disc almost
touches the horizon, when alongside it he perceives something dark upon
the plain, distinguishable as the figure of a horse. It is stationary
with head to the ground, as if grazing, though by the uneven outline of
its back it bears something like a saddle. Continuing to scrutinise, he
sees it is this; and, moreover, makes out the form of a man, or what
resembles one, lying along the earth near by.
These observations take only an instant of time; and, while making them
he has halted, and by a word, spoken low, called his hound off the
trail. The well-trained animal obeying, turns back, and stands by his
side waiting.
The riderless horse, with the dismounted rider, are still a good way
off, more than half a mile. At that distance he could not distinguish
them, but for the position of the moon, favouring his view. Around her
rim the luminous sky makes more conspicuous the dark forms interposed
between.
He can have no doubt as to what they are. If he had, it is soon solved.
For while yet gazing upon them--not in conjecture, but as to how he may
best make approach--he perceives the tableau suddenly change. The horse
tosses up its head, while the man starts upon his feet. In an instant
they are together, and the rider in his saddle.
And now Clancy is quite sure: for the figure of the horseman, outlined
against the background of moonlit sky, clear-edged as a medallion, shows
the feathered circlet surmounting his head. To all appearance a red
savage, in reality a white one--Richard Darke.
Clancy stays not to think further. If he did he would lose distance.
For soon as in the saddle, Darke goes off in full headlong gallop. In
like gait follows the avenger, forsaking the cautious pace, and no
longer caring for silence.
Still there is no noise, save that of the hammering hooves, now and then
a clink, as their iron shoeing strikes a stone. Otherwise silent,
pursuer and pursued. But with very different reflections; the former
terrified, half-frenzied, seeking to escape from whom he knows not; the
latter, cool, courageous, trying to overtake one he knows too well.
Clancy pursues but with one thought, to punish the murderer of his
mother. And sure he will succeed now. Already is the space shortened
between them, growing less with every leap of his horse. A few strides
more and Richard Darke will be within range of his rifle.
Letting drop the reins, he takes firmer grasp on his gun. His horse
needs no guidance, but goes on as before, still gaining.
He is now within a hundred lengths of the retreating foe, but still too
far off for a sure shot. Besides, the moon is in front, her light
dazzling his eyes, the man he intends to take aim at going direct for
her disc, as if with the design to ride into it.
While he delays, calculating the distance, suddenly the moon becomes
obscured, the chased horseman simultaneously disappearing from his
sight!