“Follow him!” shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. “Follow, and bring him back!”
There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed—by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.
Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his—a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.
It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.
From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal—the “hue and cry.”
Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal’s back.
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie—going off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track—their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.
“Bring him back—dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase,—supposed to have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this—coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.