What he did was to shamble up to his mare; in some haste get her saddled and bridled; and then, having taken up his trail rope, lead her off into a cover—from which he could command a view of the chapparal path, without danger of being himself seen.
This done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed—whom he knew to be Captain Cassius Calhoun.
He waited still longer—until the latter had trotted past; until he had gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond.
Not till then did Zeb Stump clamber into his saddle; and, “prodding” his solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move on.
He went after Cassius Calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern about keeping the latter in sight!
He needed not this to guide him. The dew upon the grass was to him a spotless page—the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the lines of a printed book.
He could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop!