Part 108 (1/2)

”Take him, then!” said she, leaping out of her saddle, and commencing to undo the girths, ”We cannot exchange saddles: yours would be a mile too big for me!”

Calhoun was too happy to find words for a rejoinder. He hastened to a.s.sist her in removing the saddle; after which he took off his own.

In less than five minutes the horses were exchanged--the saddles and bridles being retained by their respective owners.

To Isidora there was something ludicrous in the transference. She almost laughed while it was being carried on.

Calhoun looked upon it in a different light. There was a purpose present before his mind--one of the utmost importance.

They parted without much further speech--only the usual greetings of adieu--Isidora going off on the _frison_; while the ex-officer, mounted on the grey mustang, continued his course in the direction of Casa del Corvo.

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

AN UNTIRING TRACKER.

Zeb was not long in arriving at the spot where he had ”hitched” his mare. The topography of the chapparal was familiar to him; and he crossed it by a less circuitous route than that taken by the cripple.

He once more threw himself upon the trail of the broken shoe, in full belief that it would fetch out not a hundred miles from Casa del Corvo.

It led him along a road running almost direct from one of the crossings of the Rio Grande to Fort Inge. The road was a half-mile in width--a thing not uncommon in Texas, where every traveller selects his own path, alone looking to the general direction.

Along one edge of it had gone the horse with the damaged shoe.

Not all the way to Fort Inge. When within four or five miles of the post, the trail struck off from the road, at an angle of just such degree as followed in a straight line would bring out by Poindexter's plantation. So confident was Zeb of this, that he scarce deigned to keep his eye upon the ground; but rode forwards, as if a finger-post was constantly by his side.

He had long before given up following the trail afoot. Despite his professed contempt for ”horse-fixings”--as he called riding--he had no objection to finish his journey in the saddle--fashed as he now was with the fatigue of protracted trailing over prairie and through chapparal.

Now and then only did he cast a glance upon the ground--less to a.s.sure himself he was on the track of the broken shoe, than to notice whether something else might not be learnt from the sign, besides its mere direction.

There were stretches of the prairie where the turf, hard and dry, had taken no impression. An ordinary traveller might have supposed himself the first to pa.s.s over the ground. But Zeb Stump was not of this cla.s.s; and although he could not always distinguish the hoof marks, he knew within an inch where they would again become visible--on the more moist and softer patches of the prairie.

If at any place conjecture misled him, it was only for a short distance, and he soon corrected himself by a traverse.

In this half-careless, half-cautious way, he had approached within a mile of Poindexter's plantation. Over the tops of the mezquite trees the crenelled parapet was in sight; when something he saw upon the ground caused a sudden change in his demeanour. A change, too, in his att.i.tude; for instead of remaining on the back of his mare, he flung himself out of the saddle; threw the bridle upon her neck; and, rapidly pa.s.sing in front of her, commenced taking up the trail afoot.

The mare made no stop, but continued on after him--with an air of resignation, as though she was used to such eccentricities.

To an inexperienced eye there was nothing to account for this sudden dismounting. It occurred at a place where the turf appeared untrodden by man, or beast. Alone might it be inferred from Zeb's speech, as he flung himself out of the saddle:

”His track! goin' to hum!” were the words muttered in a slow, measured tone; after which, at a slower pace, the dismounted hunter kept on along the trail.

In a little time after it conducted him into the chapparal; and in less to a stop--sudden, as if the th.o.r.n.y thicket had been transformed into a _chevaux-de-frise_, impenetrable both to him and his ”critter.”

It was not this. The path was still open before him--more open than ever. It was its openness that had furnished him with a cause for discontinuing his advance.

The path sloped down into a valley below--a depression in the prairie, along the concavity of which, at times, ran a tiny stream--ran arroyo.

It was now dry, or only occupied by stagnant pools, at long distances apart. In the mud-covered channel was a man, with a horse close behind him--the latter led by the bridle.