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It
approaches
the
open
prairie
.
At
length
the
sky
line
comes
in
sight
.
Something
seen
upon
the
distant
horizon
appears
to
impress
Calhoun
with
a
fresh
feeling
of
fear
;
and
,
once
more
reining
up
,
he
sits
considering
.
Dread
is
the
alternative
that
occupies
his
mind
.
Shall
he
plunge
back
into
the
thicket
,
and
hide
himself
from
the
eyes
of
men
?
Or
go
on
and
brave
the
dark
storm
that
is
fast
gathering
around
him
?
He
would
give
all
he
owns
in
the
world
--
all
that
he
ever
hopes
to
own
--
even
Louise
Poindexter
herself
--
to
be
relieved
of
the
hated
presence
of
Zeb
Stump
--
to
be
left
for
ten
minutes
alone
with
the
Headless
Horseman
!
It
is
not
to
be
.
The
sleuth-hound
,
that
has
followed
him
thus
far
,
seems
more
than
ever
inexorable
.
Though
loth
to
believe
it
,
instinct
tells
him
:
that
the
old
hunter
regards
him
as
the
real
captive
,
and
any
attempt
on
his
part
to
steal
away
,
will
but
end
in
his
receiving
a
bullet
in
the
back
!
After
all
,
what
can
Zeb
Stump
say
,
or
do
?
There
is
no
certainty
that
the
backwoodsman
knows
anything
of
the
circumstance
that
is
troubling
him
?
And
after
all
,
there
may
be
nothing
to
be
known
?
It
is
evident
that
Zeb
is
suspicious
But
what
of
that
?
Only
the
friendless
need
fear
suspicion
;
and
the
ex-officer
is
not
one
of
these
.
Unless
that
little
tell-tale
be
discovered
,
he
has
nothing
to
fear
;
and
what
chance
of
its
being
discovered
?
One
against
ten
.
In
all
likelihood
it
stayed
not
where
it
was
sent
,
but
was
lost
in
the
secret
recesses
of
the
chapparal
?
