Certainly the grey steed gained ground—at length getting so close, that Calhoun made ready his rifle.
His intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the pursuit.
He would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss.
But having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot.
While thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber.
This movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was left behind him.
He was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him—the place where blood had been spilt.
On any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the past—steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the future.
The capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this fear—by removing the danger he dreaded.
Once more he had gained ground in the chase.
The spread nostrils of his steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued.
His rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the fingers of his right.
He was searching for a spot to take aim at.
In another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a different direction!
The suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful “squeal” that accompanied it—appearing almost to speak of an unearthly intelligence—for the moment disconcerted Calhoun; as it did the horse he was riding.
The latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur, plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop.
And now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the thicket.
The chase might there terminate, without the chased animal being either killed or captured.
Hitherto Calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed.
He had not anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the shot.
By this time both were close in to the bushes—the Headless Horseman already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along his sides.
Only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these was the gun levelled.
The sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull “thud” upon the turf.
With a bound and a roll—that brought it among the feet of Calhoun’s horse—it became stationary.
Stationary, but not still. It continued to oscillate from side to side, like a top before ceasing to spin.
The grey steed snorted, and reared back.
His rider uttered a cry of intensified alarm.
And no wonder. If read in Shakespearean lore, he might have appropriately repeated the words “Shake not those gory locks”: for, on the ground beneath, was the head of a man—still sticking in its hat—whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still.
The face was toward Calhoun—upturned at just such an angle as to bring it full before him. The features were bloodstained, wan, and shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass; the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an expression of careless contentment.
All this saw Cassius Calhoun.
He saw it with fear and trembling.
Not for the supernatural or unknown, but for the real and truly comprehended.
Short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head.
Ere it had ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around; struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground!
No farther went he in pursuit of the Headless Horseman—still heard breaking through the bushes—but back—back to the prairie; and on, on, to Casa del Corvo!
Chapter Eighty Two. A Queer Parcel.
The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste.
And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him.
He scarce deigned to look upon the “sign” left by Calhoun. It he could read out of the corner of his eye.
As to following it, the old mare could have done that without him!
It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight.
But by doing this, the latter might see him; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.
This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.
Advancing slowly and with caution—but with that constancy that ensures good speed—he arrived at length on the spot where the mirage had made itself manifest to Calhoun. Zeb saw nothing of this.
It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie—the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.
He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together—those that went after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun’s new horse—of which Zeb had already taken the measure.
About the tracks underneath he had no conjecture—at least as regarded their identification.
These he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them.
“The skunk’s hed a find!” were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. “It don’t foller from thet,” he continued, in the same careless drawl, “thet he hez made a catch.
An’ yit, who knows? Durn me, ef he moutn’t! Thur’s lots o’ chances for his doin’ it.