He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman—in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.
Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success.
There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.
The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.
There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of.
It might be there again?
This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening—where it was supposed the murder had been committed!
“Odd he should always make back there?” reflected Calhoun, as he pondered upon the circumstance. “Damned ugly odd it is!
Looks as if he knew—.
Bah!
It’s only because the grass is better, and that pond by the side of it.
Well! I hope he’s been thinking that way this morning.
If so, there’ll be a chance of finding him. If not, I must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it—though it be in the daylight.
Ugh!
“Pish! what’s there to fear—now that he’s safe in limbo?
Nothing but the bit of lead; and it I must have, if I should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks.
Holy Heaven! what’s that out yonder?”
These last six words were spoken aloud. All the rest had been a soliloquy in thought. The speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain.
There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance—there was horror. And no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify the stoutest heart.
The sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind the rider’s back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing.
Before him, along the heaven’s edge, extended a belt of bluish mist—the exhalation arising out of the chapparal—now not far distant.
The trees themselves were unseen—concealed under the film floating over them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height above their tops—gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky.
On this veil, or moving behind it—as in the transparencies of a stage scene—appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator incredulous, had he not beheld it before.
It was that of the Headless Horseman.
But not as seen before—either by Calhoun himself, or any of the others. No.
It was now altogether different.
In shape the same; but in size it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions!
No longer a man, but a Colossus—a giant. No longer a horse, but an animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk of a mastodon!
Nor was this all of the new to be noted about the Headless Horseman.
A still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more inexplicable, if that could possibly be.
He was no longer walking upon the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an inverted position!
The hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders—I had almost said head—of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon!
The serape shrouding them hung in the right direction—not as regarded the laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer.
So, too, the bridle reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse. All draped upwards!
When first seen, the spectral form—now more spectre-like than ever—was going at a slow, leisurely walk.
In this pace it for some time continued—Calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror.
All of a sudden it assumed a change.
Its regular outlines became confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels against the sky!
The spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating!
Calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation.
As he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished him that a real horseman was near—if that could be called real, which had thrown such a frightful shadow.
“It’s the mirage!” he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give vent to his chagrin.
“What a fool I’ve been to let it humbug me!
There’s the damned thing that did it: the very thing I’m in search of.
And so close too!
If I’d known, I might have got hold of him before he saw me.
Now for a chase; and, by God, I’ll grup him, if I have to gallop to the other end of Texas!”
Voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker’s earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full stretch across the prairie—their horses both to the prairie born—one closely pursuing the other—the pursued without a head; the pursuer with a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination.
The chase was not a long one—at least, so far as it led over the open prairie; and Calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect of a capture.
His horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to care for escaping.