As he peered toward him, Clay could see that it was a robust, powerful form, nearly if not quite as much so as his own. Of the features he could distinguish naught save the glitter of a pair of sparkling eyes, and the long, flowing hair of almost snowy whiteness, as was also the luxuriant beard and mustache.
As we said, Polk Redlaw resolved to dog the rescuing party wherever they might go, spurred on by his bitter hatred of Clay Poynter. And he was just the person to accomplish this if it lay in human power to do so.
Tall and gaunt, he was like the grayhound, swift and tireless; while in other respects his instincts were those of the bloodhound. The traits inherited from the Indian cross in his blood were aroused and in full play on the night in question.
When he saw Poynter emerge from the tavern under the bright glare of the torch carried by Jack Fyffe, unbound and in freedom, the heavy rifle rose as if by instinct to his cheek, and, for a moment, the wings of death again appeared to overshadow the young man. A single pressure of the finger, a touch sufficient to bend a feather, upon the hair-trigger, would have sufficed, and in the darkness it appeared easy enough for Polk to have made his escape.
But the gun was lowered. The mongrel was not satisfied with such a revenge. His hatred was too intense; he required a death of shame—of degradation; a death that would destroy both the life and honor of his foe, and leave a record at which the finger of scorn and contempt would be pointed.
When the cavalcade plunged into the darkness of the tree-shadowed road, the human bloodhound followed hard upon the scent. His rifle trailed in one hand, his head and neck craned forward, Polk Redlaw sped along with noiseless strides that appeared to be made without an effort.
So steady, silent and uniform was his progress, that it seemed like a magnificent piece of machinery, rather than a man. His Indian blood shone forth now, in his free and untrammeled motion, as he kept at a certain distance in the rear of the rescuers, the same whether they rode faster or more slow.
From his crouching position he could not be seen upon the shadowed road, while those whom he was trailing, being mounted, could quite plainly be distinguished. But for a time we must turn elsewhere.