Chapter Eighty Two.
A man nearly mad.
“Am I still drunk? Am I dreaming?”
So Richard Darke interrogates himself, retreating from the strangest apparition human eyes ever saw. A head without any body, not lying as after careless decapitation, but as though still upon shoulders, the eyes glancing and rolling, the lips moving, speaking—the whole thing alive! The head, too, of one he supposes himself to have assassinated, and for which he is a felon and fugitive. No wonder he doubts the evidence of his senses, and at first deems it fancy—an illusion from dream or drink. But a suspicion also sweeps through his soul, which, more painfully impressing, causes him to add still another interrogatory:
“Am I mad?”
He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, to assure himself he is awake, sober, and sane. He is all three; though he might well wish himself drunk or dreaming—for, so scared is he, there is in reality a danger of his senses forsaking him. He tries to account for the queer thing, but cannot. Who could, circumstanced as he? From that day when he stooped over Clancy, holding Helen Armstrong’s photograph before his face, and saw his eyes film over in sightless gaze, the sure forerunner of death, he has ever believed him dead. No rumour has reached him to the contrary—no newspaper paragraph, from which he might draw his deductions, as Borlasse has done. True, he observed some resemblance to Clancy in the man who surprised him under the live-oak; but, recalling that scene under the cypress, how could he have a thought of its being he? He could not, cannot, does not yet.
But what about the head? How is he to account for that? And the cries sent after him—still ringing in his ears—his own name, with the added accusation he himself believes true, the brand, “murderer!”
“Am I indeed mad?” he again asks himself, riding on recklessly, without giving guidance to his horse. His trembling hand can scarce retain hold of the rein; and the animal, uncontrolled, is left to take its course—only, it must not stop or stay. Every time it shows sign of lagging, he kicks mechanically against its ribs, urging it on, on, anywhere away from that dread damnable apparition.
It is some time before he recovers sufficient coolness to reflect—then only with vague comprehensiveness; nothing clear save the fact that he has completely lost himself, and his way. To go on were mere guesswork. True, the moon tells him the west, the direction of Coyote creek. But westward he will not go, dreading to again encounter that ghostly thing; for he thinks it was there he saw it.
Better pull up, and await the surer guidance of the sun, with its light, less mystical.
So deciding, he slips out of the saddle; and letting his horse out on the trail-rope, lays himself down. Regardless of the animal’s needs, he leaves all its caparison on, even to the bitt between its teeth. What cares he for its comforts, or for aught else, thinking of that horrible head?
He makes no endeavour to snatch a wink of sleep, of which he has had enough; but lies cogitating on the series of strange incidents and sights which have late occurred to him, but chiefly the last, so painfully perplexing. He can think of nothing to account for a phenomenon so abnormal, so outside all laws of nature.
While vainly endeavouring to solve the dread enigma, a sound strikes upon his ear, abruptly bringing his conjectures to a close. It is a dull thumping, still faint and far off; but distinguishable as the tramp of a horse.
Starting to his feet, he looks in the direction whence it proceeds. As expected, he sees a horse; and something more, a man upon its back, both coming towards him.
Could it, perchance, be Bosley? Impossible! He was their prisoner under the live-oak. They would never let him go. Far more like it is Woodley—the terrible backwoodsman, as ever after him? Whoever it be, his guilty soul tells him the person approaching can be no friend of his, but an enemy, a pursuer. And it may be another phantom!
Earthly fears, with unearthly fancies, alike urging him to flight, he stays not to make sure whether it be ghost or human; but, hastily taking up his trail-rope, springs to the back of his horse, and again goes off in wild terrified retreat.
It scarce needs telling, that the horseman who has disturbed Richard Darke’s uncomfortable reflections is Charles Clancy. Less than an hour has elapsed since his starting on the trail, which he has followed fast; the fresh scent enabling Brasfort to take it up in a run. From the way it zigzagged, and circled about, Clancy could tell the tracked steed had been going without guidance, as also guess the reason. The rider, fleeing in affright, has given no heed to direction. All this the pursuer knows to be in his favour; showing that the pursued man has not gone to Coyote creek, but will still be on the steppe, possibly astray, and perhaps not far off.
Though himself making quick time, he is not carelessly pursuing; on the contrary taking every precaution to ensure success. He knows that on the hard turf his horse’s tread can be heard to a great distance; and to hinder this he has put the animal to a “pace”—a gait peculiar to Texas and the South-Western States. This, combining speed with silence, has carried him on quickly as in a canter. The hound he has once more muzzled, though not holding it in leash; and the two have gone gliding along silent as spectres.
At each turn of the trail, he directs looks of inquiry ahead.
One is at length rewarded. He is facing the moon, whose disc almost touches the horizon, when alongside it he perceives something dark upon the plain, distinguishable as the figure of a horse. It is stationary with head to the ground, as if grazing, though by the uneven outline of its back it bears something like a saddle. Continuing to scrutinise, he sees it is this; and, moreover, makes out the form of a man, or what resembles one, lying along the earth near by.
These observations take only an instant of time; and, while making them he has halted, and by a word, spoken low, called his hound off the trail. The well-trained animal obeying, turns back, and stands by his side waiting.
The riderless horse, with the dismounted rider, are still a good way off, more than half a mile. At that distance he could not distinguish them, but for the position of the moon, favouring his view. Around her rim the luminous sky makes more conspicuous the dark forms interposed between.
He can have no doubt as to what they are. If he had, it is soon solved. For while yet gazing upon them—not in conjecture, but as to how he may best make approach—he perceives the tableau suddenly change. The horse tosses up its head, while the man starts upon his feet. In an instant they are together, and the rider in his saddle.
And now Clancy is quite sure: for the figure of the horseman, outlined against the background of moonlit sky, clear-edged as a medallion, shows the feathered circlet surmounting his head. To all appearance a red savage, in reality a white one—Richard Darke.
Clancy stays not to think further. If he did he would lose distance. For soon as in the saddle, Darke goes off in full headlong gallop. In like gait follows the avenger, forsaking the cautious pace, and no longer caring for silence.
Still there is no noise, save that of the hammering hooves, now and then a clink, as their iron shoeing strikes a stone. Otherwise silent, pursuer and pursued. But with very different reflections; the former terrified, half-frenzied, seeking to escape from whom he knows not; the latter, cool, courageous, trying to overtake one he knows too well.
Clancy pursues but with one thought, to punish the murderer of his mother. And sure he will succeed now. Already is the space shortened between them, growing less with every leap of his horse. A few strides more and Richard Darke will be within range of his rifle.
Letting drop the reins, he takes firmer grasp on his gun. His horse needs no guidance, but goes on as before, still gaining.
He is now within a hundred lengths of the retreating foe, but still too far off for a sure shot. Besides, the moon is in front, her light dazzling his eyes, the man he intends to take aim at going direct for her disc, as if with the design to ride into it.
While he delays, calculating the distance, suddenly the moon becomes obscured, the chased horseman simultaneously disappearing from his sight!