He might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him—the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation—more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved—perhaps never to be seen again!
But he has no time to think even of her. To his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. He fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind—fast travelling upon his tracks!
The murderer makes haste—all the haste that can be taken out of a Mexican mustang—swift as the steeds of Arabia, from which it can claim descent.
Ere this the creature should be tired. Since the morning it has made more than a score miles—most of them going at a gallop.
But it shows no signs of fatigue. Like all its race—tough as terriers—it will go fifty—if need be a hundred—without staggering in its tracks.
What a stroke of good fortune—that exchange of horses with the Mexican maiden! So reflects its rider. But for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous Lynch and his cohort of Regulators.
He is no longer in dread of such a destiny. He begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. He glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him.
He looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. He has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain.
Even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? He believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie.