Part 110 (1/2)
This done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed-- whom he knew to be Captain Ca.s.sius Calhoun.
He waited still longer--until the latter had trotted past; until he had gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond.
Not till then did Zeb Stump clamber into his saddle; and, ”prodding” his solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move on.
He went after Ca.s.sius Calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern about keeping the latter in sight!
He needed not this to guide him. The dew upon the gra.s.s was to him a spotless page--the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the lines of a printed book.
He could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop!
CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.
HEADS DOWN--HEELS UP!
Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house--except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang--Calhoun rode on across the prairie.
Equally unsuspicious was he, in pa.s.sing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.
In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.
After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot--now and then increasing to a canter.
Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind--after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.
Before him was the object--still unseen--upon which his thoughts were straying.
What that object was he and only one other knew--that other Zeb Stump-- though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.
The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman--in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.
Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.
The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.
There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. It might be there again?
This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening--where it was supposed the murder had been committed!
”Odd he should always make back there?” reflected Calhoun, as he pondered upon the circ.u.mstance. ”d.a.m.ned ugly odd it is! Looks as if he knew--. Bah! It's only because the gra.s.s is better, and that pond by the side of it. Well! I hope he's been thinking that way this morning.
If so, there'll be a chance of finding him. If not, I must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it--though it be in the daylight. Ugh!
”Pis.h.!.+ what's there to fear--now that he's safe in limbo? Nothing but the _bit of lead_; and _it_ I must have, if I should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks. Holy Heaven! what's that out yonder?”
These last six words were spoken aloud. All the rest had been a soliloquy in thought.
The speaker, on p.r.o.nouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain.
There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance--there was horror.