The Court is assailed with the cries: —
“Let the Irishman go — he is innocent! We don’t want any farther evidence. We’re convinced of it. Let him go free!”
Such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators.
It is followed by other speeches equally earnest: —
“Let Cassius Calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! It’s he that’s done the deed! That’s why he’s shown so bitter against the other! If he’s innocent, he’ll be able to prove it. He shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. Come, judge; we’re waiting upon you! Order Mr Calhoun to be brought before the Court. An innocent man’s been there long enough. Let the guilty take his place!”
The demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage.
The judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, Cassius Calhoun is called upon to come before the Court.
The summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of Calhoun.
There is only one pair that looks in the right direction — those of Zeb Stump.
The ci-devant witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare — still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider.
With an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare’s back, and spurs her from under the tree.
At the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain.
Though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate — making for a particular quarter of the cavallada.
“’Tis he! ’Tis Calhoun!” cries the voice of one who has recognised him.
“Trying to steal off!” proclaims another.
“Follow him!” shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. “Follow, and bring him back!”
There is no need for the order to be repeated. Ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed — by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses.
Before reaching them, Calhoun has reached his — a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the cavallada.
It is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the Headless Horseman. The saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth.
From the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal — the “hue and cry.”
Concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal’s back.
Giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie — going off at a gallop.
Fifty horses are soon laid along his track — their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting.
“Bring him back — dead or alive!” was the solemn phrase, — supposed to have been spoken by the major.
No matter by whom. It needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. Their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this — coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held.
Each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative — a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice!
Never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of Buena Vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of Oberdoffer’s bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger’s pistol pointed at his head!
He knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace — at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce.
It is not a look of despair. It has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following — within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries — one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope.
He has.
He knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him.
True, it is nearly ten miles distant. But what signify ten miles? He is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal?
Is this the thought that sustains him?
It can scarce be. Concealment in the thicket — with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit — Zeb Stump at their head!
No: it cannot be this. There is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it.
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.
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.