The Headless Horseman Part 132

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.

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.