He soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the “field.”
Still on, over the rolling ridges—across the stream-beds between—on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him—as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider.
There is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view—a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds—an old mustang mare.
Her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs—the keen blade of a bowie-knife.
It is Zeb Stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion.
Still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. Nor does Zeb expect it. He but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful.
There is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. He beholds him with “beard upon the shoulder.” It is he who is pursued.
Just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, Calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. He perceives it to be Maurice, the mustanger—the man he would have devoted—was so near devoting—to the most disgraceful of deaths!
He sees this man coming after—his own conscience tells him—as an avenger!
Is it the hand of God that directs this enemy on his track? He trembles as he asks himself the question. From any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. There is none from Maurice Gerald!