Headless Horseman by Mayne Reid - Chapter Ninety One. A Chase through a Thicket
The chase leads straight across the prairie—towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant.
Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line—one after another falling off,—as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after—but with a long interval between—is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death—as if some desperate necessity required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight—as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.
On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks—now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake—fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.
“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it—not three hundred yards behind me.
“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.
“By God! but there is a chance!”
At the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed.
He examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the terrain, to see if it will suit.
At the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience.
Still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude.
On reflection the scheme is abandoned.
“It won’t do!” he mutters. “There’s too many of them fellows coming after—some that can track, too? They’d find his carcase, sure,—maybe hear the shot?
“No—no. It won’t do!”
He stays a while longer, listening. There is no sound heard either before or behind—only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. Strange, the birds should keep above him!
“Yes—he must be coming on? Damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! But for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! And so easy, too!”
Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above—were they gifted with the power of speech—could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
“What a fool I’ve been in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward—fast as the circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt—surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.
His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle—with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it is held there, and by the bridle-rein,—that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!
“Caught at last! Thank God—thank God!”
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman—that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!