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 hell!”
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 grass, 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.