Part 132 (2/2)

He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him--the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation--more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved--perhaps never to be seen again!

But he has no time to think even of _her_. To his ign.o.ble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind--fast travelling upon his tracks!

The murderer makes haste--all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang--swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.

Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles--most of them going at a gallop.

But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race--tough as terriers--it will go fifty--if need be a hundred--without staggering in its tracks.

What a stroke of good fortune--that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.

He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.

He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.

Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the pa.s.sage of the prairie.

Who, then, can come up with him?

He congratulates himself on the _chance_ that has given him such a steed. He may ascribe it to the devil. He cannot attribute it to G.o.d!

And will G.o.d permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the a.s.sa.s.sin in his flight?

CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN.

THE CHASE OF THE a.s.sa.s.sIN.

Will G.o.d permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? Will He not stretch forth His almighty arm, and stay the a.s.sa.s.sin in his flight?

These interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree.

They are answered by an instinct of justice--the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. He will not, and He will.

The answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as Calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as Zeb Stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred hors.e.m.e.n--soldiers and civilians--spring forward in the pursuit.

The doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. All seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is Maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed.

The exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. By the consent of the a.s.semblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free.

The first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider--as all know--his own.

At his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad ”whigher!”

Despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. A single word pa.s.ses the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp.

He looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders.

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