Heads Down—Heels Up!
Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house—except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang—Calhoun rode on across the prairie.
Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.
In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.
After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot—now and then increasing to a canter.
Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind—after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.
Before him was the object—still unseen—upon which his thoughts were straying.
What that object was he and only one other knew—that other Zeb Stump—though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.
The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman—in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.
Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.