A singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object.
He draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serape; raises it above the breast of the Headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart!
The arm is uplifted.
The blow is not likely to be warded off.
For all that it is not struck.
It is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal—by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance.
The man is Zeb Stump.
“Stop that game!” cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; “stop it, durn ye!”
“What game?” rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. “What the devil are you talking about?
This brute’s got caught by the bridle.
I was afraid he might get away again. I was going to cut his damned throat—so as to make sure of him.”
“Ah, thet’s what ye’re arter.
Wal, I reck’n thur’s no need to cut the critter’s throat.
We kin skewer it ’ithout thet sort o’ bloody bizness.
It air the hoss’s throat ye mean, I s’pose?” “Of course I mean the horse.”
“In coorse.
As for the man, someb’y’s dud thet for him arready—if it be a man.
What do you make o’ it, Mister Cash Calhoun?”
“Damned if I know what to make of it.
I haven’t had time to get a good look at it.
I’ve just this minute come up.
By heaven!” he continues, feigning a grand surprise, “I believe it’s the body of a man; and dead!”
“Thet last air probibble enuf. ’Tain’t likely he’d be alive wi’ no head on his shoulders.
Thar’s none under the blanket, is thar?”
“No; I think not.
There cannot be?”
“Lift it a leetle, an see.”
“I don’t like touching it.
It’s such a cursed queer-looking thing.”
“Durn it, ye wan’t so partickler a minnit ago.
What’s kim over ye now?”
“Ah!” stammers Calhoun, “I was excited with chasing it.
I’d got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers.”
“Never mind then,” interposes Zeb,—“I’ll make a inspecshun o’ it.
Ye-es,” he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. “Ye-es, it’s the body o’ a man, an no mistake!
Dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o’ ven’son in a hard frost!”
“Hullo!” he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serape, “it’s the body o’ the man whose murder’s bein’ tried—yur own cousin—young Peintdexter!
It is, by the Eturnal God!”
“I believe you are right.
By heaven it is he!”
“Geehosophat!” proceeds Zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, “this air the mysteeriousest thing o’ all.
Wal; I reck’n thur’s no use in our stayin’ hyur to spek’late upon it.
Bessest thing we kin do ’s to take the body back, jest as it’s sot in the seddle—which it appears putty firm.
I know the hoss too; an I reck’n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he’ll kum along ’ithout much coaxin’.
Gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know’d to him.
Thur now!
Don’t ye see it’s a preevious acquaintance o’ yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o’ late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin’ him. ’Tair some time since he’s hed a curry to his skin.”
While the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact—then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition.
“I thort so,” exclaims Zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; “the stellyun’s boun to lead quietly enuf—so long as he’s in kumpny with the maar. ’T all events, ’twon’t be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin’ away.
Now, Mister Calhoun,” he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; “don’t ye think we’d better start right away?