Part 132 (1/2)
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie--going off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track--their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words p.r.o.nounced at their parting.
”Bring him back--dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase,--supposed to have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this--coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.
Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative--a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer's bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger's pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace--at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following--within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries--one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket--with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit--Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.
What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?
Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?
Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.
There is a still farther beyond--a _border_. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.
There are, indeed, two _borders_. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed a.s.sa.s.sin may cheat justice--often does--by an adroit migration from one to the other--a mere change of residence and nationality.
But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger.
With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.
Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the _other border_--that beyond which roams the savage Comanche--the Ishmaelite of the prairies--whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man's blood!
In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality--perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!
It is from an understanding of these circ.u.mstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the _Llano Estacado_.
He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.