What, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny?
Is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape?
Nothing of the kind. The murderer of Henry Poindexter is not mad. In his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond.
There is a still farther beyond—a border. Upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed.
There are, indeed, two borders. One that separates two nations termed civilised. There is a law of extradition between them. For all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice—often does—by an adroit migration from one to the other—a mere change of residence and nationality.
But it is not this course Calhoun intends to take. However ill observed the statute between Texas and Mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. He dreads to risk such a danger. With the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason.
Though riding toward the Rio Grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. He has bethought him of the other border—that beyond which roams the savage Comanche—the Ishmaelite of the prairies—whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man’s blood!
In his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality—perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption!
It is from an understanding of these circumstances, that Calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the Rio Grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the Llano Estacado.
He does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. They can be but light compared with those threatening behind.