Not so easy as you think, Ca.s.sius 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 a.s.sa.s.sination. 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. h.e.l.l! 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 G.o.d--thank G.o.d!"

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!

CHAPTER NINETY TWO.

A RELUCTANT RETURN.

Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.

The horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. His head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre.

The rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his "cavortings."

After a brief struggle the animal is secured.

The captor utters an exclamation of joy.

It is suddenly checked, and by a thought. He has not yet fully accomplished his purpose.

What is this purpose?

It is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another.

After scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action.

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 d.a.m.ned 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' b.l.o.o.d.y 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?"

"d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d!"

"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 k.u.m 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 k.u.mpny 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? The trial may still be goin' on; an', ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. I reck'n thet we've got a witness hyur, as 'll do somethin' torst illoocidatin' the case--either to the hangin'

the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin' him althogither o'