The mowstang may a let him come clost up—seein’ as he’s ridin’ one o’ its own sort; an ef it dud—ay, ef it dud—
“What the durnation am I stannin’ hyur for?
Thur ain’t no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin’.
Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, ’ithout the ghost o’ a chance for gettin’ it.
“I must make a better rate o’ speed.
Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can’t overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone.
Now for a spell o’ yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi’ any o’ them, I reckon—thet air when ye’re pressed. Gee-up!”
Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot.
He had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him.
“From the way his track runs,” was his reflection, “I kin tell pretty nigh whar it’s goin’ to fetch out.
Everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur—never more to come back.
Ah, wal! ef t’aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi’ the skunk as destroyed him.
The Scripter sez, ‘a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,’ an I reckin I’ll shet up somebody’s daylights, an spoil the use o’ thur ivories afore I hev done wi’ him. Somebody as don’t suspeeshun it neyther, an that same—.
Heigh!
Yonner he goes!
An’ yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat!
Full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin’ him!
“They aint comin’ this way, so ’tain’t no use in our squattin’, ole gurl.
Stan’ steady for all that.
He mout see us movin’.
“No fear.
He’s too full o’ his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him.
Ha! jest as I expected—into the openin’!
Right down it, fast as heels kin carry ’em!
“Now, my maar, on we go agin!”
Another stage of trotting—with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap—brought Zeb to the timber.
Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it.
He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction. He did not anticipate meeting any one—much less the man who soon after came in sight.
He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase.
He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yager rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.
He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane—in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired—returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!
“Comin’ back agin—an so soon!” he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. “Dog-goned queery thet air!
Thur’s somethin’ amiss, more’n a miss, I reck’n.
Ho, ho, ho! Goin’, too, as if hell war arter him!
Maybe it’s the Headless hisself, and thur’s been a changin’ about in the chase—tit for tat!
Darn me, ef it don’t look like it!
I’d gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o’ a thing.
He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!”
Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider—who promise soon to pass the spot.
And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!
“Geehosophat!” mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. “If hell ain’t arter, it’s inside o’ him!
Durn me, ef thet face ain’t the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on.
I shed pity the wife as gets him.
Poor Miss Peintdexter!
I hope she’ll be able to steer clur o’ havin’ sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.
“What’s up anyhow?
Thar don’t ’pear to be anythin’ arter him? An’ he still keeps on!
Whar’s he boun’ for now?
I must foller an see.
“To hum agin!” exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward.