On through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks—now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber.
On go they, regardless of bush or brake—fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites.
The branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost.
A brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. Instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. On broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it.
It is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. He can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him.
Less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other.
No one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures.
Out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. He is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. He can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. At every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard.
“Curse the damned thing!” cries Calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. “It’s going to escape me again! Not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. But there is this time. That old hell-hound’s coming on through the thicket. I saw him as I entered it—not three hundred yards behind me.
“Is there no chance of shaking him off? No. He’s too good a tracker for that.