His rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. The horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. He has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle—with his head half buried among the bushes!
Calhoun sees that it is held there, and by the bridle-rein,—that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite!
“Caught at last! Thank God—thank God!”
He can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. He is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind.
In another instant, he is by the side of the Headless Horseman—that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued!
Chapter Ninety Two.
A Reluctant Return.
Calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle.