Not so easy as you think, Cassius Calhoun; and the birds above—were they gifted with the power of speech—could tell you so.
They see Zeb Stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. It is this that hinders him from being heard.
“I’ll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!” reflects Calhoun, once more turning away. “In any case, I must keep on till it’s lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate.
“What a fool I’ve been in wasting so much time. If I don’t look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if I did get the chance of a shot. Hell! that would be worse than all!”
Freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward—fast as the circuitous track will allow him.
Two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt—surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance.
The Headless Horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces’ distance!
He is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle.
His horse’s head is down. The animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites.
At first sight, so thinks Calhoun.