Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative—a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer’s bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger’s pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace—at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following—within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries—one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket—with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit—Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.