A cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive. He feels as if he were fighting against Fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest!
He sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no longer believing that speed can avail him!
His flight is now merely mechanical—his mind taking no part in the performance.
His soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death—not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it.
The sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he struggles on towards it.
An opening presents itself. He enters it; and continues his gallop for a half mile further.
He arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy timber. Beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight of his pursuer.
He knows the place, but too well. It has been fatal to him before. Is it to prove so again?
It is. He feels that it is, and rides irresolutely. He hears the hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop!
He is too late for turning the corner,—too late to seek concealment in the thicket,—and with a cry he reins up.