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He
stayed
not
to
see
what
sort
of
man
,
or
what
kind
of
horse
.
His
first
instinct
had
told
him
that
both
were
enemies
.
As
his
rider
by
this
time
appeared
to
have
arrived
at
the
same
conclusion
,
there
was
no
tightening
of
the
rein
;
and
he
was
left
free
to
follow
his
own
course
--
which
carried
him
straight
off
over
the
prairie
.
A
bitter
curse
escaped
from
the
lips
of
the
unsuccessful
stalker
as
he
spurred
out
into
the
open
ground
.
Still
more
bitter
was
his
oath
,
as
he
beheld
the
Headless
Horseman
passing
rapidly
beyond
reach
--
unscathed
by
the
bullet
he
had
sent
to
earnestly
after
him
.
Zeb
Stump
stayed
but
a
short
while
on
the
spot
,
where
he
had
discovered
the
hoof-print
with
the
broken
shoe
.
Six
seconds
sufficed
for
its
identification
;
after
which
he
rose
to
his
feet
,
and
continued
along
the
trail
of
the
horse
that
had
made
it
.
He
did
not
re-mount
,
but
strode
forward
on
foot
;
the
old
mare
,
obedient
to
a
signal
he
had
given
her
,
keeping
at
a
respectful
distance
behind
him
.
For
more
than
a
mile
he
moved
on
in
this
original
fashion
--
now
slowly
,
as
the
trail
became
indistinct
--
quickening
his
pace
where
the
print
of
the
imperfect
shoe
could
be
seen
without
difficulty
.
Like
an
archaeologist
engaged
upon
a
tablet
of
hieroglyphic
history
,
long
entombed
beneath
the
ruins
of
a
lost
metropolis
--
whose
characters
appear
grotesque
to
all
except
himself
--
so
was
it
with
Zeb
Stump
,
as
he
strode
on
,
translating
the
"
sign
"
of
the
prairie
.
Absorbed
in
the
act
,
and
the
conjectures
that
accompanied
it
,
he
had
no
eyes
for
aught
else
.
He
glanced
neither
to
the
green
savannah
that
stretched
inimitably
around
,
nor
to
the
blue
sky
that
spread
specklessly
above
him
.
Alone
to
the
turf
beneath
his
feet
was
his
eye
and
attention
directed
.
