With the courage to scorn a human foe--any enemy that might show itself in a natural shape, either of biped or quadruped--still was he not stern enough to defy the _abnormal_; and Bayard himself would have quailed at sight of the cavalier who was advancing to the encounter--apparently determined upon its being deadly!
Zeb Stump not only quailed; but, trembling in his tall boots of alligator leather, sought concealment.
He did so, long before the Headless Horseman had got within hailing distance; or, as he supposed, within _sight_ of him.
Some bushes growing close by gave him the chance of a hiding place; of which, with instinctive quickness, he availed himself.
The mare, standing saddled by his side, might still have betrayed him?
But, no. He had not gone to his knees, without thinking of that.
"Hunker down!" he cried, addressing himself to his dumb companion, who, if wanting speech, proved herself perfect in understanding. "Squat, ye ole critter; or by the Eturnal ye"ll be switched off into h.e.l.l!"
As if dreading some such terrible catastrophe, the scraggy quadruped dropped down upon her fore knees; and then, lowering her hind quarters, laid herself along the gra.s.s, as though thinking her day"s work done-- she was free to indulge in a fiesta.
Scarce had Zeb and his roadster composed themselves their new position, when the Headless Horseman came charging up.
He was going at full speed; and Zeb was but too well pleased to perceive that he was likely to continue it.
It was sheer chance that had conducted him that way; and not from having seen either the hunter or his sorry steed.
The former--if not the latter--was satisfied at being treated in that cavalier style; but, long before the Headless Horseman had pa.s.sed out of sight, Zeb had taken his dimensions, and made himself acquainted with his character.
Though he might be a mystery to all the world beside, he was no longer so to Zebulon Stump.
As the horse shot past in fleet career, the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to Stump"s optics a form well known to him--in a dress he had seen before. It was a blouse of blue cottonade, box-plaited over the breast; and though its vivid colour was dashed with spots of garish red, the hunter was able to recognise it.
He was not so sure about the face seen low down upon the saddle, and resting against the rider"s leg.
There was nothing strange in his inability to recognise it.
The mother, who had oft looked fondly on that once fair countenance, would not have recognised it now.
Zeb Stump only did so by deduction. The horse, the saddle, the holsters, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers--even the hat upon the head--were all known to him. So, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. The head and face must belong to the same--notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement.
Zeb saw it by no uncertain glance. He was permitted a full, fair view of the ghastly spectacle.
The steed, though going at a gallop, pa.s.sed within ten paces of him.
He made no attempt to interrupt the retreating rider--either by word or gesture. Only, as the form became unmasked before his eyes, and its real meaning flashed across his mind, he muttered, in a slow, sad tone:
"Gee-hos-o-phat! It air true, then! _Poor young fellur--dead--dead_!"
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.
LOST IN THE CHALK.
Still continuing his fleet career, the Headless Horseman galloped on over the prairie--Zeb Stump following only with his eyes; and not until he had pa.s.sed out of sight, behind some straggling groves of mezquite, did the backwoodsman abandon his kneeling position.
Then only for a second or two did he stand erect--taking council with himself as to what course he should pursue.
The episode--strange as unexpected--had caused some disarrangement in his ideas, and seemed to call for a change in his plans. Should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by?
By keeping to the former, he might find out much; but by changing to the latter he might learn more?
He might capture the Headless Horseman, and ascertain from _him_ the why and wherefore of his wild wanderings?
While thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie.
Only for a moment, however. They were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them.
Turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw that which caused him to squat down again; and place himself, with more _impress.e.m.e.nt_ than ever, under cover of the mezquites. The old mare, relishing the rec.u.mbent att.i.tude, had still kept to it; and there was no necessity for re-disposing of her.
What Zeb now saw was a man on horseback--a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders.
He was still a long way off; and it was not likely he had seen the tall form of the hunter, standing sh.o.r.ed up among the bushes--much less the mare, lying beneath them. He showed no signs of having done so.
On the contrary, he was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse.
There could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. Zeb Stump guessed it at a glance. He was tracking the headless rider.
"Ho, ho!" muttered Zeb, on making this discovery; "I ain"t the only one who"s got a reezun for solvin" this hyur myst"ry! Who the h.e.l.l kin _he_ be? I shed jest like to know that."
Zeb had not long to wait for the gratification of his wish. As the trail was fresh, the strange horseman could take it up at a trot--in which pace he was approaching.
He was soon within identifying distance.
"Gee--hosophat!" muttered the backwoodsman; "I mout a know"d it wud be him; an ef I"m not mistook about it, hyurs goin" to be a other chapter out o" the same book--a other link as "ll help me to k.u.mplete the chain o" evydince I"m in sarch for. Lay clost, ye critter! Ef ye make ere a stir--even to the shakin" o" them long lugs o" yourn--I"ll cut yur darned throat."
The last speech was an apostrophe to the "maar"--after which Zeb waxed silent, with his head among the spray of the acacias, and his eyes peering through the branches in acute scrutiny of him who was coming along.
This was a man, who, once seen, was not likely to be soon forgotten.
Scarce thirty years old, he showed a countenance, scathed, less with care than the play of evil pa.s.sions.
But there was care upon it now--a care that seemed to speak of apprehension--keen, prolonged, yet looking forward with a hope of being relieved from it.
Withal it was a handsome face: such as a gentleman need not have been ashamed of, but for that sinister expression that told of its belonging to a blackguard.
The dress--but why need we describe it? The blue cloth frock of semi-military cut--the forage cap--the belt sustaining a bowie-knife, with a brace of revolving pistols--all have been mentioned before as enveloping and equipping the person of Captain Ca.s.sius Calhoun.
It was he.
It was not the _batterie_ of small arms that kept Zeb Stump from showing himself. He had no dread of an encounter with the ex-officer of Volunteers. Though he instinctively felt hostility, he had as yet given no reason to the latter for regarding him as an enemy. He remained in shadow, to have a better view of what was pa.s.sing under the sunlight.
Still closely scrutinising the trail of the Headless Horseman, Calhoun trotted past.
Still closely keeping among the acacias, Zeb Stump looked after, till the same grove, that had concealed the former, interposed its verdant veil between him and the ex-captain of cavalry.