Before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line—one after another falling off,—as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop.
But few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber.
The pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice.
The one coming after—but with a long interval between—is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed.
It is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider’s hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal’s spine, just behind the croup.
The two men, thus leading the chase, are Cassius Calhoun and Zeb Stump.
The swiftness of the grey mustang has given Calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death—as if some desperate necessity required it.
The old hunter appears equally determined. Instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight—as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so.
In a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind.