The Headless Horseman Part 123

"It appeared, too, to be in the direction in which Henry Poindexter had gone.

"Fancy or no fancy, I could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it.

"I did not go far till I found it. Oh, Heavens! What a sight!

"I saw--"

"_The Headless Horseman_!" exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction.

"_The Headless Horseman_!" respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout.

Is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court?

There is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the a.s.semblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. It is the Headless Horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape!

"Yonder he goes--yonder! yonder!"

"No, he's coming this way! See! He's making straight for the Fort!"

The latest a.s.sertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. As if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree.

Then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing.

The intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed.

There is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred.

Three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. Even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general _debandade_, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the Headless Horseman.

The latter has paused only for an instant--just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. Then repeating his wild "whigher," he wheels round, and goes off at full speed--followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers!

CHAPTER NINETY ONE.

A CHASE THROUGH A THICKET.

The chase leads straight across the prairie--towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.

Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line--one after another falling off,--as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.

But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.

The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.

The one coming after--but with a long interval between--is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.

It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider's hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal's spine, just behind the croup.

The two men, thus leading the chase, are Ca.s.sius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.

The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death--as if some desperate necessity required it.

The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight--as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.

In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.

On through the thicket rush the three hors.e.m.e.n; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks--now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.

On go they, regardless of bush or brake--fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.

The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.

A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.

It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.

Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.

No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.

Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swis.h.i.+ng of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.

"Curse the d.a.m.ned thing!" cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin.

"It's going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were n.o.body after it but myself. But there _is_ this time. That old h.e.l.l-hound's coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it-- not three hundred yards behind me.

"Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He's too good a tracker for that.

"By G.o.d! _but there is a chance_!"

At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just pa.s.sed.

He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the _terrain_, to see if it will suit.

At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.

Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed att.i.tude.

On reflection the scheme is abandoned.

"It won't do!" he mutters. "There's too many of them fellows coming after--some that can track, too? They'd find his carcase, sure,--maybe hear the shot?

"No--no. It won't do!"

He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind--only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above _him_!

"Yes--he must be coming on? d.a.m.n the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!"