Part 104 (1/2)

With the courage to scorn a human foe--any enemy that might show itself in a natural shape, either of biped or quadruped--still was he not stern enough to defy the _abnormal_; and Bayard himself would have quailed at sight of the cavalier who was advancing to the encounter--apparently determined upon its being deadly!

Zeb Stump not only quailed; but, trembling in his tall boots of alligator leather, sought concealment.

He did so, long before the Headless Horseman had got within hailing distance; or, as he supposed, within _sight_ of him.

Some bushes growing close by gave him the chance of a hiding place; of which, with instinctive quickness, he availed himself.

The mare, standing saddled by his side, might still have betrayed him?

But, no. He had not gone to his knees, without thinking of that.

”Hunker down!” he cried, addressing himself to his dumb companion, who, if wanting speech, proved herself perfect in understanding. ”Squat, ye ole critter; or by the Eturnal ye'll be switched off into h.e.l.l!”

As if dreading some such terrible catastrophe, the scraggy quadruped dropped down upon her fore knees; and then, lowering her hind quarters, laid herself along the gra.s.s, as though thinking her day's work done-- she was free to indulge in a fiesta.

Scarce had Zeb and his roadster composed themselves their new position, when the Headless Horseman came charging up.

He was going at full speed; and Zeb was but too well pleased to perceive that he was likely to continue it.

It was sheer chance that had conducted him that way; and not from having seen either the hunter or his sorry steed.

The former--if not the latter--was satisfied at being treated in that cavalier style; but, long before the Headless Horseman had pa.s.sed out of sight, Zeb had taken his dimensions, and made himself acquainted with his character.

Though he might be a mystery to all the world beside, he was no longer so to Zebulon Stump.

As the horse shot past in fleet career, the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump's optics a form well known to him--in a dress he had seen before. It was a blouse of blue cottonade, box-plaited over the breast; and though its vivid colour was dashed with spots of garish red, the hunter was able to recognise it.

He was not so sure about the face seen low down upon the saddle, and resting against the rider's leg.

There was nothing strange in his inability to recognise it.

The mother, who had oft looked fondly on that once fair countenance, would not have recognised it now.

Zeb Stump only did so by deduction. The horse, the saddle, the holsters, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers--even the hat upon the head--were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same--notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.

Zeb saw it by no uncertain glance. He was permitted a full, fair view of the ghastly spectacle.

The steed, though going at a gallop, pa.s.sed within ten paces of him.

He made no attempt to interrupt the retreating rider--either by word or gesture. Only, as the form became unmasked before his eyes, and its real meaning flashed across his mind, he muttered, in a slow, sad tone:

”Gee-hos-o-phat! It air true, then! _Poor young fellur--dead--dead_!”

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

LOST IN THE CHALK.

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 pa.s.sed 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.