Part 75 (1/2)

Next morning she carries out this determination. By day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!

Why has she thus deviated from her route? Is she straying?

She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by the rein.

Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.

Happier for her, if she had.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

A SHOT AT THE DEVIL.

All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious pa.s.sion.

All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.

They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb's mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered!

The last was a belief that, under any circ.u.mstances, would have been painful to the backwoodsman. Coupled with the facts already known, it was agonising.

He thought of the quarrel--the hat--the cloak. He writhed as he contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to his mind. Never in his life had his a.n.a.lytical powers been so completely baffled. He groaned as he felt their impotence.

He kept no watch upon the door. He knew that if _they_ came, it would not be in the night.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal ”gowl,” and come running scared-like into the hut.

Extinguis.h.i.+ng the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound? What had caused _it_?

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be.

He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky--broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest. There were about fifty paces of clear s.p.a.ce, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice.

The line separating the _chiaro_ from the _oscuro_ could be traced distinctly as in the day. A brilliant moon was beyond it. A snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.

There was nothing to be seen there.

But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. It resembled the clinking of a horse's shoe struck against a loose stone.

So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repet.i.tion.

It was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct--a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back--both horse and man distinctly seen in dark _silhouette_ against the clear sapphire sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.