Confound him!
He’s all of twenty yards too far off.”
As if the last was an ambiguity rather than a conviction, the speaker appeared to measure with his eye the space that separated him from the headless rider—all the while holding in hand a short Yager rifle, capped and cocked—ready for instant discharge.
“No use,” he continued, after a process of silent computation. “I might hit the beast with a spent ball, but only to scare without crippling him.
I must have patience, and wait till he gets a little nearer.
Damn them wolves!
He might come in, if it wasn’t for them.
So long as they’re about him, he’ll give the timber a wide berth.
It’s the nature of these Texas howes—devil skin them!
“I wonder if coaxing would do any good?” he proceeded, after a pause. “Maybe the sound of a man’s voice would bring the animal to a stand?
Doubtful.
He’s not likely to ’ve heard much of that lately. I suppose it would only frighten him!
The sight of my horse would be sure to do it, as it did before; though that was in the moonlight. Besides, he was chased by the howling staghound.
No wonder his being wild, then, ridden as he is by hell knows what; for it can’t be—Bah!
After all, there must be some trick in it; some damned infernal trick!”
For a while the speaker checked his horse with a tight rein.
And, leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, continued to scan the strange shape that was slowly skirting the timber.
“It’s his horse—sure as shootin’!
His saddle, serape, and all.
How the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?”
Another pause of reflection.
“Trick, or no trick, it’s an ugly business.
Whoever’s planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by God, if that thing lodged there, I’ve got to get it back.
What a fool; to have bragged about it as I did!
Curse the crooked luck!
“He won’t come nearer.
He’s provokingly shy of the timber.
Like all his breed, he knows he’s safest in the open ground.
“What’s to be done?
See if I can call him up. May be he may like to hear a human voice.
If it’ll only fetch him twenty yards nearer, I’ll be satisfied.
Hanged if I don’t try.”
Drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by Texans to summon a straying horse.
“Proh—proh—proshow!
Come kindly! come, old horse!”
The invitation was extended to no purpose. The Texan steed did not seem to understand it; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. On the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him; for no sooner fell the “proh” upon his ear, than letting go the mouthful of grass already gathered, he tossed his head aloft with a snort that proclaimed far greater fear than that felt for either wolf or vulture!
A mustang, he knew that his greatest enemy was man—a man mounted upon a horse; and by this time his scent had disclosed to him the proximity of such a foe.
He stayed not to see what sort of man, or what kind of horse.
His first instinct had told him that both were enemies.
As his rider by this time appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion, there was no tightening of the rein; and he was left free to follow his own course—which carried him straight off over the prairie.
A bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground.
Still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the Headless Horseman passing rapidly beyond reach—unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him.
Chapter Seventy Five. On the Trail.
Zeb Stump stayed but a short while on the spot, where he had discovered the hoof-print with the broken shoe.
Six seconds sufficed for its identification; after which he rose to his feet, and continued along the trail of the horse that had made it.
He did not re-mount, but strode forward on foot; the old mare, obedient to a signal he had given her, keeping at a respectful distance behind him.
For more than a mile he moved on in this original fashion—now slowly, as the trail became indistinct—quickening his pace where the print of the imperfect shoe could be seen without difficulty.
Like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history, long entombed beneath the ruins of a lost metropolis—whose characters appear grotesque to all except himself—so was it with Zeb Stump, as he strode on, translating the “sign” of the prairie.
Absorbed in the act, and the conjectures that accompanied it, he had no eyes for aught else.
He glanced neither to the green savannah that stretched inimitably around, nor to the blue sky that spread specklessly above him.