Вершник без голови

Chapter 79

           Inalittletimeafteritconductedhimintothechapparal;andinlesstoastop—sudden,asifthethornythickethadbeentransformedintoachevaux-de-frise,impenetrablebothtohimandhis"critter."

           Itwasnotthis.Thepathwasstillopenbeforehim—moreopenthanever.Itwasitsopennessthathadfurnishedhimwithacausefordiscontinuinghisadvance.

           Thepathslopeddownintoavalleybelow—adepressionintheprairie,alongtheconcavityofwhich,attimes,ranatinystream—ranarroyo.Itwasnowdry,oronlyoccupiedbystagnantpools,atlongdistancesapart.Inthemud-coveredchannelwasaman,withahorseclosebehindhim—thelatterledbythebridle.

           Therewasnothingremarkableinthebehaviourofthehorse;hewassimplyfollowingtheleadofhisdismountedrider.

           Buttheman—whatwashedoing?Inhismovementstherewassomethingpeculiar—somethingthatwouldhavepuzzledanuninitiatedspectator.

           ItdidnotpuzzleZebStump;orbutforasecondoftime.

           Almosttheinstanthiseyefelluponit,hereadthemeaningofthemanoeuvre,andmutteringlypronouncedittohimself.

           "Oblitturatin’theprinto’thebrokenshoe,ortryin’todothetsame!’Taintnouse,MisterCashCalhoun—nomannero’use.

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