He went back to the mare; took off the saddle; fastened the trail-rope round her neck, tying the other end to a tree; and then, unstrapping his old blanket from the cantle, he threw it across his left arm, and walked off in the direction of Casa del Corvo.
He did not proceed pari passu; but now quicker, and now more hesitatingly — timing himself, by the twilight — so that his approach might not be observed from the hacienda.
He had need of this caution: for the ground which he had to pass was like a level lawn, without copse or cover of any kind. Here and there stood a solitary tree — dwarf-oak or algarobia, but not close enough to shelter him from being seen through the windows — much less from the azotea.
Now and then he stopped altogether — to wait for the deepening of the twilight.
Working his way in this stealthy manner, he arrived within less than two hundred yards of the walls — just as the last trace of sunlight disappeared from the sky.
He had reached the goal of his journey — for that day — and the spot on which he was likely to pass the night.
A low stemless bush grew near; and, laying himself down behind it, he resumed the espionage, that could scarce be said to have been interrupted.
* * *
Throughout the live-long night Zeb Stump never closed both eyes at the same time. One was always on the watch; and the unflagging earnestness, with which he maintained it, proclaimed him to be acting under the influence of some motive beyond the common.
During the earlier hours he was not without sounds to cheer, or at least relieve, the monotony of his lonely vigil. There was the hum of voices from the slave cabins; with now and then a peal of laughter. But this was more suppressed than customary; nor was it accompanied by the clear strain of the violin, or the lively tink-a-tink of the banjo — sounds almost characteristic of the “negro-quarter,” at night.
The sombre silence that hung over the “big house” extended to the hearths of its sable retainers.
Before midnight the voices became hushed, and stillness reigned everywhere; broken only at intervals by the howl of a straying hound — uttered in response to the howl-bark of a coyoté taking care to keep far out upon the plain.
The watcher had spent a wearisome day, and could have slept — but for his thoughts. Once when these threatened to forsake him, and he was in danger of dozing, he started suddenly to his feet; took a turn or two over the sward; and, then lying down again, re-lit his pipe; stuck his head into the heart of the bush; and smoked away till the bowl was burnt empty.
During all this time, he kept his eyes upon the great gateway of the mansion; whose massive door — he could tell by the moonlight shining upon it — remained shut.
Again did he change his post of observation; the sun’s rising — as its setting had done — seeming to give him the cue.
As the first tint of dawn displayed itself on the horizon, he rose gently to his feet; clutched the blanket so as to bring its edges in contact across his breast; and, turning his back upon Casa del Corvo, walked slowly away — taking the same track by which he had approached it on the preceding night.
And again with unequal steps: at short intervals stopping and looking back — under his arm, or over his shoulder.
Nowhere did he make a prolonged pause; until reaching the locust-tree, under whose shade he had made his evening meal; and there, in the same identical attitude, he proceeded to break his fast.
The second half of the “pone” and the remaining moiety of the pork, soon disappeared between his teeth; after which followed the liquor that had been left in his flask.
He had refilled his pipe, and was about relighting it, when an object came before his eyes, that caused him hastily to return his flint and steel to the pouch from which he had taken them.
Through the blue mist of the morning the entrance of Casa del Corvo showed a darker disc. The door had been drawn open.
Almost at the same instant a horseman was seen to sally forth, mounted upon a small grey horse; and the door was at once closed behind him.
Zeb Stump made no note of this. He only looked to see what direction the early traveller would take.
Less than a score of seconds sufficed to satisfy him. The horse’s head and the face of the rider were turned towards himself.
He lost no time in trying to identify either. He did not doubt of its being the same man and horse, that had passed that spot on the evening before; and he was equally confident they were going to pass it again.
What he did was to shamble up to his mare; in some haste get her saddled and bridled; and then, having taken up his trail rope, lead her off into a cover — from which he could command a view of the chapparal path, without danger of being himself seen.
This done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed — whom he knew to be Captain Cassius Calhoun.
He waited still longer — until the latter had trotted past; until he had gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond.
Not till then did Zeb Stump clamber into his saddle; and, “prodding” his solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move on.
He went after Cassius Calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern about keeping the latter in sight!
He needed not this to guide him. The dew upon the grass was to him a spotless page — the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the lines of a printed book.
He could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop!
Chapter LXXXI. Heads Down — Heels Up!
Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house — except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang — Calhoun rode on across the prairie.
Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.
In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.
After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot — now and then increasing to a canter.
Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind — after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.
Before him was the object — still unseen — upon which his thoughts were straying.
What that object was he and only one other knew — that other Zeb Stump — though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.
The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman — in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.
Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.
The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.
There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. It might be there again?
This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening — where it was supposed the murder had been committed!