Chapter FIFTY NINE: Another Who Cannot Rest (3)

"Let us wait till the woman comes down," counsels one of the timid. "They have not followed her any farther. I think I can hear her riding this way through the gulley. Of course she knows it--as it was she who directed us."

The suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground. They are not cowards. Still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild Indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in the way of trade.

The advice is adopted. They stand waiting for the approach of Isidora.

All are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the trees. There are those who have an apprehension: that along with the Mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of Comanches.

A few are otherwise occupied--Zeb Stump among the number. He takes the gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the thongs hitherto holding him too fast.

There is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part in the proceeding. Her part has been already played--perhaps too prominently. She shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous.

Where is the niece of Don Silvio Mortimez? She has not yet come upon the ground! The stroke of her horse's hoof is no longer heard! There has been time--more than time--for her to have reached the jacale!

Her non-appearance creates surprise--apprehension--alarm. There are men there who admire the Mexican maiden--it is not strange they should--some who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day.

Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? The interrogatory passes round. No one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer.

The Texans begin to feel something like shame. Their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, "Tejanos! Cavalleros!"

Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? Is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?

They listen with ears intent,--many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.

They listen in vain.

There is no sound of hoof--no voice of woman--nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side!

Can it be that she is taken?

Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel.

Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever--since it is directed against the hereditary foe.

The younger and more ardent--among whom are the admirers of the Mexican maiden--can bear the uncertainty no longer. They spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her--to save her, or perish in the attempt.

Who is to gainsay them? Her pursuers--her captors perhaps--may be the very men they have been in search of--the murderers of Henry Poindexter!

No one opposes their intent. They go off in search of Isidora--in pursuit of the prairie pirates.

Those who remain are but few in number; though Zeb Stump is among them.

The old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the Indians. He keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after the invalid prisoner--still unconscious--still guarded by the Regulators.

Zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour of distress. There are two others equally faithful. One a fair creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager interest that consumes her. The other, a rude, almost ludicrous individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his "masther." The last is Phelim, who has just descended from his perch among the parasites of an umbrageous oak--where he has for some time stayed--a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring. The change of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that duty for which he came across the Atlantic.

No longer lies our scene upon the Alamo. In another hour the jacale is deserted--perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over Maurice the mustanger.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE DISAPPOINTED CAMPAIGNERS.

The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest--lasting only three or four days. It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of the West did not mean war--at least, on a grand scale. Their descent upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to take out their degree as _braves_, desirous of signalising the event by "raising" a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.

Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians. They are made on private account--often without the knowledge of the chief, or elders of the tribe--just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out an enemy's craft, or capture his picket guard. These _marauds_ are usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the event. Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a general thing, are averse to such _filibustering_ expeditions--deeming them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the community. Only when successful are they applauded.

On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white women and boys. The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks, had been recaptured.

The red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of Mounted Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat into the fastnesses of the "Llano Estacado."

To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have required a _commissariat_ less hastily established than that with which the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised them after due time and preparation.

On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their ordinary duties--each detachment to its own fort--to await further commands from the head-quarters of the "department."

The troops belonging to Port Inge--entrusted with the guardianship of the country as far as the Rio Nueces--were surprised on getting back to their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong direction for an encounter with the Indians! Some of them were half mad with disappointment: for there were several--young Hancock among the number--who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though keenly desirous of doing so!

No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. But it must be remembered, that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes--rape, rapine, and murder.

To talk of their being the aborigines of the country--the real, but dispossessed, owners of the soil--is simple nonsense. This sophism, of the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of men. The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument--even with the narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.

Admit it--give the _hunter_ his half-dozen square miles--for he will require that much to maintain him--leave him in undisputed possession to all eternity--and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to accommodate this whimsical theory of _national_ right. Nay, I will go further, and risk reproach, by asserting:--that not only the savage, so called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed-- whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the resources which Nature has placed within their limits.

The _exploitation_ of Earth's treasures is a question not confined to nations. It concerns the whole family of mankind.

In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine--not a thought of it. He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to _communism_.

It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on his preserves. No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.

But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. Our own story of Jamaica--by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages of history--has whitewashed these border _filibusteros_ to the seeming purity of snow!

If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of red-skins. On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. They might yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without stain--without sharpening, too--from the military school of West Point.

It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same day--civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the Alamo--and reported: that no Indians had been there!

They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would have been received with incredulity--considering what had occurred.

The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles--an odd lot, as an auctioneer would describe it--wigs of horse-hair, cocks' feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!

There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such incidents as the situation afforded.

Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. There were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the trite story of a party of white men "playing Indian"; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse--mad as a maniac!

There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners--of sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they had returned to dull quarters. The name of Isidora Covarubio do los Llanos--with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty--had become a theme of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.

The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo--the discovery of the mustanger upon his couch--the determination to hang him--the act delayed by the intervention of Louise Poindexter--the respite due to the courage of Zeb Stump--were all points of the most piquant interest--suggestive of the wildest conjectures.

Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.

"Murder," said the philosophic Captain Sloman, "is a crime which, in my opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. I think, I know the fellow well enough to be sure about that."

"You'll admit," rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, "that the circumstances are strong against him? Almost conclusive, I should say."

Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman. He had an idea, that on one occasion the commissary's niece--the belle of the Fort--had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.

"I consider it anything but conclusive," replied Sloman.

"There's no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been murdered. Every one believes that. Well; who else was likely to have done it? The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him and Gerald."

"That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose," interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons. "Besides, his own shindy with the same man is suggestive of suspicion--is it not?"

"And if there _was_ a quarrel," argued the officer of infantry, "what then? It don't follow there was a murder."

"Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?"

"Something of the sort is possible, and even probable. I will admit that much."

"But what did they have a difficulty about?" asked Hancock. "I heard that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter-- notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun. What could they have quarrelled about?"

"A singular interrogation on _your_ part, Lieutenant Hancock!" answered the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. "As if men ever quarrelled about anything except--"

"Except women," interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.

"But which woman, I wonder? It could not be anything relating to young Poindexter's sister?"

"_Quien sabe_?" answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.

"Preposterous!" exclaimed Crossman. "A horse-catcher daring to set his thoughts on Miss Poindexter! Preposterous!"

"What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman! Don't you know that love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of distinction. I don't say that in this case there's been anything of the kind. Miss Poindexter's not the only woman that might have caused a quarrel between the two individuals in question. There are other damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about--to say nothing of our own fair following in the Fort; and why not--"

"Captain Sloman," petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles. "I must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately. The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the insinuation."

"What insinuation, sir?"

"Do you suppose it likely that there's one of them would condescend to speak to the person you've named?"

"Which? I've named two."

"You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you. Our ladies will, no doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!"

"Maurice the mustanger may be the last--suspected, and that is all. He is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr Crossman. I've seen more of this young Irishman than you--enough to satisfy me that, so far as _breeding_ goes, he may compare notes with the best of us. Our grand dames needn't be scared at the thought of his acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don't think they would shy from it--some of them at least--if it were offered them. It never has. So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. I have seen him in their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them as if fully sensible of his position. For that matter, I don't think he cares a straw about one or other of them."

"Indeed! How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his rivals!"

"Perhaps it is," quietly remarked the captain of infantry.

"Who knows?" asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish conversation. "Who knows but the cause of quarrel--if there's been one--might not be this splendid senorita so much talked about? I haven't seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she's just the sort to make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats."

"It might be--who knows?" drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts turned in any other direction than towards the commissary's quarters.

"They've got him in the guard-house," remarked Hancock, stating a fact that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign. "His droll devil of a serving man is along with him. What's more; the major has just issued an order to double the guard! What does it mean, Captain Sloman--you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs? Surely there's no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his prison?"

"Not likely," replied the infantry officer, "seeing that he hasn't the slightest idea that he's inside of one. I've just been to the guard-house to have a look at him. He's mad as a March hare; and wouldn't know his own face in a looking-glass."

"Mad! In what way?" asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger's capture.

"A brain fever upon him--delirious?"

"Is that why the guards have been doubled? Devilish queer if it is. The major himself must have gone mad!"

"Maybe it's the suggestion--command I should rather say--of the majoress. Ha! ha! ha!"

"But what _does_ it mean? Is the old maje really afraid of his getting out of the guard-house?"

"No--not that, I fancy. More likely an apprehension of somebody else getting into it."

"Ah! you mean, that--"

"I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there's more safety inside than out. Some queer characters are about; and there's been talk of another Lynch trial. The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a respite; or there's somebody hard at work in bringing about this state of public opinion. It's lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his friend; and it's but a continuation of his good luck that we've returned so opportunely. Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse empty--so far as its present occupants are concerned. Now, thank God! the poor fellow shall have a fair trial."

"When is it to take place?"

"Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he's being tried!"

"It may be weeks before that."

"And it may be only days--hours. He don't appear to be very bad--that is, bodily. It's his mind that's out of order--more, perhaps, from some strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has received. A day may make all the difference; and, from what I've just heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows a return to consciousness. They say, they won't wait for him to recover from his wounds!"

"Maybe he'll be able to tell a story that'll clear him. I hope so."

This was said by Hancock.

"I doubt it," rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head. "_Nous verrons_!"

"I'm sure of it," said Sloman. "_Nos veremos_!" he added, speaking in a tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was father to the thought.

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

MYSTERY AND MOURNING.

There is mourning in the mansion of Casa del Corvo, and mystery among the members of Woodley Poindexter's family.

Though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some deep-seated cause.

They meet only at the hour of meals--then conversing only on such topics as cannot well be shunned.

There is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity.

The death--no longer doubted--of an only son--an only brother-- unexpected and still unexplained--should account for the melancholy mien both of father and daughter.

It might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the cousin.

But there is something beyond this. Each appears to act with an irksome restraint in the presence of the others--even during the rare occasions, on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune!

Beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle.

The once proud planter stays within doors--pacing from room to room, or around, the enclosed corridor--bending beneath a weight of woe, that has broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart. Even strong paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans, oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his lips!

Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.

For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.

Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. There are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea--alone and in silent meditation.

There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon Earth--the loss of a beloved brother--the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense--perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.

Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. The last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer.

But the second--the supreme pain of all--is but strengthened and intensified by time!

She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison-- the strong walls of a military guard-house.

It is not their strength that dismays her. On the contrary, she has fears for their weakness!

She has reasons for her apprehension. She has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. She has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude coadjutors--not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement--especially when proximate to a military post.

The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way.

The facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case--at least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him.

If the four horsemen seen were not Indians--and this has been clearly shown by the discovery of the disguises--it is not the less likely that they have had to do with the death of young Poindexter. Besides, there is nothing to connect _them_ with the mustanger, any more than if they had been real Comanches.

Why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second time surging up?

There is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many people.

There are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause. A very few: perhaps only three individuals.

Two of them are Zeb Stump and Louise Poindexter; the third Captain Cassius Calhoun.

The old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some underhanded action--the actors being Miguel Diaz and his men, associated with a half-score of like characters of a different race--the "rowdies" of the settlement. Zeb has traced the action to its instigator--the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

He has communicated his discovery to the young Creole, who is equal to the understanding of it. It is the too clear comprehension of its truth that now inspires her with a keen solicitude.

Anxiously she awaits every word of news--watches the road leading from the Fort to Casa del Corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that way!

She dares not show herself at the prison. There are soldiers on guard, and spectators around it--a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity of those who have committed great crimes.

There is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one. The criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses.

The guard-house doors are at all hours besieged--to the great discomfort of the sentries--by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the delirious man. A lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes turned inquiringly upon her. Louise Poindexter cannot run the gauntlet of those looks without risk to her reputation.

Left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it. Watched by a father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation, equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the world--she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence.

She can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the Alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet time spent among the _mezquite_ trees, the spot itself almost discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is now humiliated--disgraced--shut up within the walls of a gaol--perchance to be delivered from it only unto death!

To her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day, Zeb Stump made his appearance at Casa del Corro, bringing the intelligence; that the "hoss-sogers hed kum back to the Fort."

There was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted. There was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin!

"Ee needn't be uneezy 'beout thet ere ewent," said Zeb, speaking with a confidence he had not shown for some time. "Thur's no longer a danger o' it comin' to pass, Miss Lewaze. I've tuk preecaushins agin it."

"Precautions! How, Zeb?"

"Wal; fust place, I've seed the major clost arter his comin' back, an gied him a bit o' my mind. I tolt him the hul story, as fur's I know it myself. By good luck he ain't agin the young fellur, but the tother way I reck'n. Wal, I tolt him o' the goin's on o' the hul crew--Amerikins, Mexikins, an all o' them--not forgettin' thet ugly Spanyard o' the name o' Dee-ez, thet's been one o' the sarciest o' the lot. The ree-sult's been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun' the prison, an's goin' to keep 'em doubled."

"I am so glad! You think there is no longer any fear from that quarter?"

"If you mean the quarter o' Mister Migooel Dee-ez, I kin swar to it. Afore he thinks o' gittin' any b'dy else out o' a prison, he's got to git hisself out."

"What; Diaz in prison! How? When? Where?"

"You've asked three seprit questyuns, Miss Lewaze, all o' a heep. Wal; I reck'n the conveenientest way to answer 'em 'll be to take 'em backurds. An' fust as to the _whar_. As to thet, thur's but one prison in these parts, as 'ud be likely to hold him. Thet is the guard-house at the Fort. He's thur."

"Along with--"

"I know who ye're goin' to name--the young fellur. Jest so. They're in the same buildin', tho' not 'zackly in the same room. Thur's a purtition atween 'em; tho' for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they're so inclined. Thur's three others shet up along wi' the Mexikin--his own cussed cummarades. The three 'll have somethin' to talk 'beout 'mong themselves, I reck'n."

"This is good news, Zeb. You told me yesterday that Diaz was active in--"

"Gittin' hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in effectuatin'. He's got hisself into the jug, or someb'y else hev did thet bizness for him."

"But how--when--you've not told me?"

"Geehosophat! Miss Lewaze. Gi' me a leetle time. I hain't drew breath yit, since I kim in. Yur second questyun war _when_. It air eezy answered. 'Beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked up. I war at the shettin' o' the door ahint him, an kum straight custrut hyur arter it war done."

"But you have not yet said why he is arrested."

"I hain't hed a chance. It air a longish story, an 'll take a leetle time in the tellin'. Will ye listen to it now, or arter--?"

"After what, Mr Stump?"

"Wal, Miss Lewaze, I only meened arter--arter--I git the ole mare put up. She air stannin' thur, as if she'd like to chaw a yeer o' corn, an somethin' to wet it down. Both she 'nd me's been on a longish tramp afore we got back to the Fort; which we did scace a hour ago."

"Pardon me, dear Mr Stump, for not thinking of it. Pluto; take Mr Stump's horse to the stable, and see that it is fed. Florinde! Florinde! What will you eat, Mr Stump?"

"Wal, as for thet, Miss Lewaze, thank ye all the same, but I ain't so partikler sharp set. I war only thinkin' o' the maar. For myself, I ked go a kupple o' hours longer 'ithout eetin', but ef thur's sech a thing as a smell o' Monongaheely 'beout the place, it 'ud do this ole karkidge o' mine a power o' good."

"Monongahela? plenty of it. Surely you will allow me to give you something better?"

"Better 'n Monongaheely!"

"Yes. Some sherry--champagne--brandy if you prefer it."

"Let them drink brandy as like it, and kin' git it drinkable. Thur may be some o' it good enuf; an ef thur air, I'm shor it'll be foun' in the house o' a Peintdexter. I only knows o' the sort the sutler keeps up at the Fort. Ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet's one. It 'ud rot the guts out o' a alleygatur. No; darn thur French lickers; an specially thur brandy. Gi' me the pure corn juice; an the best o' all, thet as comes from Pittsburgh on the Monongaheely."

"Florinde! Florinde!"

It was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted. The presence of Zeb Stump indicated the service for which she had been summoned. Without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what Zeb called the "pure corn juice," but which was in reality the essence of rye--for from this grain is distilled the celebrated "Monongahela."

Zeb was not slow to refresh himself. A full third of the contents of the decanter were soon put out of sight--the other two-thirds remaining for future potations that might be required in the course of the narration upon which he was about to enter.

CHAPTER SEVENTY.

GO, ZEB, AND GOD SPEED YOU!

The old hunter never did things in a hurry. Even his style of drinking was not an exception; and although there was no time wasted, he quaffed the Monongahela in a formal leisurely manner.

The Creole, impatient to hear what he had to relate, did not wait for him to resume speech.

"Tell me, dear Zeb," said she, after directing her maid to withdraw, "why have they arrested this Mexican--Miguel Diaz I mean? I think I know something of the man. I have reasons."

"An' you ain't the only purson may hev reezuns for knowin' him, Miss Lewaze. Yur brother--but never mind 'beout that--leastwise not now. What Zeb Stump _do_ know, or strongly surspect, air, thet this same-mentioned Migooel Dee-ez hev had somethin' to do wi'--You know what I'm refarrin' to?"

"Go on, Mr Stump!"

"Wal, the story air this. Arter we kim from the Alamo Crik, the fellurs that went in sarch o' them Injuns, foun' out they wan't Injuns at all. Ye hev heern that yurself. From the fixins that war diskevered in the holler tree, it air clur that what we seed on the Bluff war a party o' whites. I hed a surspishun o't myself--soon as I seed them curds they'd left ahint 'em in the shanty."

"It was the same, then, who visited the jacale at night--the same Phalim saw?"

"Ne'er a doubt o' it. Them same Mexikins."

"What reason have you to think they were Mexicans?"

"The best o' all reezuns. I foun' 'em out to be; traced the hul kit o' 'em to thur _cache_."

The young Creole made no rejoinder. Zeb's story promised a revelation that might be favourable to her hopes. She stood resignedly waiting for him to continue.

"Ye see, the curds, an also some words, the which the Irish war able to sort o' pernounce, arter a fashun o' his own, tolt me they must a been o' the yeller-belly breed; an sartint 'bout that much, I war able to gie a tol'able guess as to whar they hed kim from. I know'd enuf o' the Mexikins o' these parts to think o' four as answered thar descripshun to a T. As to the Injun duds, thar warn't nuthin' in them to bamboozle me. Arter this, I ked a gone straight to the hul four fellurs, an pinted 'em out for sartin. One o' 'em, for sure sartin. On him I'd made my mark. I war confident o' havin' did thet."

"Your mark! How, Zeb?"

"Ye remimber the shot I fired from the door o' the shanty?"

"Oh, certainly! I did not see the Indians. I was under the trees at the time. I saw you discharge your rifle at something."

"Wal, Miss Lewaze; this hyur coon don't often dischurge thet thur weepun 'ithout drawin' blood. I know'd I hut the skunk; but it war rayther fur for the carry o' the piece, an I reckon'd the ball war a bit spent. F'r all that, I know'd it must a stung him. I seed him squirm to the shot, an I says to myself: Ef ther ain't a hole through his hide somewhar, this coon won't mind changin' skins wi' him. Wal, arter they kim home wi' the story o' whites instead o' red-skins, I hed a tol'able clur idee o' who the sham Injuns wur, an ked a laid my claws on 'em at any minnit. But I didn't."

"And why not, Mr Stump? Surely you haven't allowed them to get away? They might be the very men who are guilty of my poor brother's--"

"That's jest what this coon thort, an it war for that reezun I let 'em slide. There war another reezun besides. I didn't much like goin' fur from the Port, leest somethin' ugly mout turn up in my absince. You unnerstan'? There war another reezun still for not prospectin' arter them jest then. I wanted to make shur o' my game."

"And you have?"

"Shur as shootin'. I guessed thur wan't goin' to be any rain, an thurfor thur war no immeedyit hurry as to what I intended doin'. So I waited till the sogers shed get back, an I ked safely leave him in the guard-house. Soon as they kim in, I tuk the ole maar and rud out to the place whar our fellurs had struck upon the fixing. I eezy foun' it by thur descripshun. Wal; as they'd only got that greenhorn, Spangler, to guide 'em, I war putty sure the sign hedn't been more'n helf read; an that _I'd_ get somethin' out o' it, beside what they'd brought away."

"I wan't disappinted. The durndest fool as ever set fut upon a purayra, mout a follered the back track o' them make-believe Kimanchees. A storekeeper ked a traced it acrost the purayra, though it appears neyther Mister Spangler nor any o' the others did. I foun' it eezy as fallin' off o' a log, not 'ithstandin' thet the sarchers had rud all over it. I tracked every hoss o' the four counterfits to his own stable."

"After that?"

"Arter doin' thet I hed a word wi' the major; an in helf an hour at the most the four beauties wur safe shot up in the guardhouse--the chief o' 'em bein' jugged fust, leest he mout get wind o' what wur goin' forrard, an sneak out o' the way. I wan't fur astray 'beout Mister Migooel Dee-ez bearin' my mark. We foun' the tar o' a bullet through the fleshy part o' his dexter wing; an thet explained why he wur so quick at lettin' go his laryette."

"It was he, then!" mechanically remarked Louise, as she stood reflecting.

"Very strange!" she continued, still muttering the words to herself. "He it was I saw in the chapparal glade! Yes, it must have been! And the woman--this Mexican--Isidora? Ah! There is some deep mystery in all this--some dark design! Who can unravel it?"

"Tell me, dear Zeb," she asked, stepping closer to the old hunter, and speaking with a cartain degree of hesitancy. "That woman--the Mexican lady I mean--who--who was out there. Do you know if she has often visited him?"

"Him! Which him, Miss Lewaze?"

"Mr Gerald, I mean."

"She mout, an she moutn't--'ithout my knowin' eyther one or the tother. I ain't often thur myself. The place air out o' my usooal huntin' ground, an I only go now an then for the sake o' a change. The crik's fust rate for both deer an gobbler. If ye ask my opeenyun, I'd say that thet ere gurl heven't never been thur afore. Leestwise, I hain't heern o' it; an eft hed been so, I reckun Irish Pheelum ud a hed somethin' to say abeout it. Besides, I hev other reezuns for thinkin' so. I've only heern o' one o' the shemale sex bein' on a visit to thet shanty."

"Who?" quickly interrogated the Creole, the instant after regretting that she had asked the question--the colour coming to her cheeks, as she noticed the significant glance with which Zeb had accompanied his concluding remark.

"No matter," she continued, without waiting for the answer.

"So, Zeb," she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, "you think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to all of us,--these Mexicans?"

"To tell ye the truth, Miss Lewaze, I don't know zackly what to think. It air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur purayras. Sometimes I hev the idea that the Mexikins must a did it; while at others, I'm in the opposite way o' thinkin', an thet some'dy else hev hed a han' in the black bizness. I won't say who."

"Not _him_, Zeb; not _him_!"

"Not the mowstanger. No, neer a bit o' thet. Spite o' all that's sayed agin him, I hain't the leest surspishun o' his innersense."

"Oh! how is he to prove it? It is said, that the testimony is all against him! No one to speak a word in his behalf!"

"Wal, it ain't so sartint as to thet. Keepin' my eye upon the others, an his prison; I hain't hed much chance o' gettin' abeout. Thur's a opportunity now; an I mean to make use o' it. The purayra's a big book, Miss Peintdexter--a wonderful big book--for them as knows how to read the print o't. If not much o' a scholar otherways, Zeb'lon Stump hev larnt to do thet. Thur may be some testymoney that mout help him, scattered over the musquit grass--jest as I've heern a Methody preecher say, thur `war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin' brutes.' Eft air so, thur oughter be somethin' o' the kind scared up on the Alamo crik."

"You think you might discover some traces?"

"Wal; I'm goin' out to hev a look 'roun' me--speecially at the place whur I foun' the young fellur in the claws o' the spotted painter. I oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun I've tolt ye. Thank the Awlmighty! thur's been no wet--neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign's been made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did yisterday--that is by them as knows how to read it. I must start straight away, Miss Lewaze. I jest runned down to tell ye what hed been done at the Fort. Thur's no time to be throwed away. They let me in this mornin' to see the young fellur; an I'm sartin his head air gettin' clurrer. Soon as it air all right, the Reg'lators say, they'll insist on the trial takin' place. It may be in less'n three days; an I must git back afore it begins."

"Go, Zeb, and God speed you on your generous errand! Come back with proofs of _his_ innocence, and ever after I shall feel indebted to you for--for--more than life!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

THE SORELL HORSE.

Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.

He found the "critter" sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto had placed liberally before her.

Pluto himself was standing by her side.

Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil. He looked rather _triste_ than excited.

It might be easily explained. The loss of his young master--by Pluto much beloved--the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated-- perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of Morinda--and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of Captain Cassius--for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion--amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance.

Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic. He was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.

Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.

It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare--to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws.

She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger.

"Ho! ho! Mass' Tump!" interposed Pluto. "Why you be go 'way in dat big hurry? De poor ole ma' she no half got u'm feed. Why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn? Ha! ha! It do her power o' good."

"Han't got time, nigger. Goin' off on a bit o' a jurney. Got abeout a hunderd mile to make in less 'an a kupple o' hours."

"Ho! ho! Dat ere de fassest kind o' trabbelin'. You 'm jokin', Mass' Tump?"

"No, I ain't."

"Gorramity! Wa--dey do make won'full journey on dese hyur prairas. I reck'n dat ere hoss must a trabbled _two_ hunner mile de odder night."

"What hoss?"

"De ole sorrel dere--in dat furrest 'tand from de doos--Massa Cahoon hoss."

"What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?"

"Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff. Beside, he wa _so_ done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo' gib um drink. Hee 'tagger like new-drop calf. Ho! ho! he wa broke down--he wa!"

"O' what night air ye palaverin', Plute?"

"Wha night? Le'ss see! Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed from de plantashun. Dat same night in de mornin', 'bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings. I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight. Den I kum 'cross to de 'table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff--lookin' like he'd swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin' 's if he jes finish a fo' mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean."

"Who had him out thet night?"

"Doan know, Mass' Tump. Only dat nobody 'lowed to ride de sorrel 'cept Massa Cahoon hisself. Ho! ho! Ne'er a body 'lowed lay leg ober dat critter."

"Why, wan't it himself that tuk the anymal out?"

"Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor. Dis chile neider see de Cap'n take um out nor fotch um in."

"If yur statement air true 'beout his bein' in sech a sweat, someb'dy must a hed him out, an been ridin' o' him."

"Ha! ha! Someb'dy muss, dat am certing."

"Looke hyur, Plute! Ye ain't a bad sort o' a darkie, though your skin air o' a sut colour. I reck'n you're tellin' the truth; an ye don't know who rud out the sorrel that night. But who do ye _think_ it war? I'm only axin' because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o' mine, an I don't want his property to be abused--no more what belongs to Capen Calhoun. Some o' the field niggers, I reck'n, hev stole the anymal out o' the stable, an hev been ridin' it all roun' the country. That's it, ain't it?"

"Well, no, Mass' Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it. De fiel' hands not 'lowed inside hyur. _Dey_ darn't kum in to de 'table no how. 'Twan't any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night."

"Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out? Maybe the overseer? War it him d'ye think?"

"'Twan't him needer."

"Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o' the hoss hisself? If so, thur's an end o' it. He hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him. It ain't no bizness o' myen."

"Ho! ho! Nor myen, needer, Mass' Tump. Wish I'd thought dat way dis mornin'."

"Why do ye weesh that? What happened this mornin' to change yur tune?"

"Ho! what happen dis mornin'? Dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin'. Ho!--ho! berry great misfortin'."

"What war it?"

"Golly, Massa Tump, I'se got kicked--dis berry mornin', jes 'bout an hour arter twelve o'clock in de day."

"Kicked?"

"Dat I did shoo--all round de 'table."

"Oh! by the hosses! Which o' the brutes kicked ye?"

"Ho!--ho! you mistaken! Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all--'cept little Spotty da, de which he doan't own. I wa kicked by Mass' Cahoon."

"The hell ye wur! For what reezun? Ye must hev _been_ misbehavin' yurself, nigger?"

"Dis nigga wan't mis-b'avin' 't all; not as he knows on. I only ask de cap'n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make 'im be tired down. He say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if I ebber 'peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip. He swa; oh! how he swa! Dis chile nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad--nebba, in all 'im life!"

"But whar's he now? I don't see him nowhar' beout the premises; an I reck'n he ain't rud out, seein' as the sorrel's hyur?"

"Golly, yes, Mass Tump; he jess am rode out at dis time. He ob late go berry much away from de house an tay long time."

"A hossback?"

"Jess so. He go on de steel grey. Ha!--ha! he doan' ride de sorrel much now. He hain't mount 'im once since de night de ole hoss wa out-- dat night we been 'peakin' 'bout. Maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin' den, an need long 'pell ob ress."

"Look'ee hyur, Plute," said Zeb, after standing silent for a second or two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation. "Arter all, I reck'n I'd better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o' the corn. She's got a long spell o' travellin' afore her; an she mout break down on the jurney. The more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an thurfor, I kalkerlate, I'd better gie the critter her time. While she's munchin' a mouthful, I ked do the same myself. 'Spose, then, you skoot acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain't some chawin' stuff thur--a bit o' cold meat an a pone o' corn bread 'll do. Yur young mistress wanted me to hev somethin' to eet; but I war skeert abeout delayin', an refused. Now, while I'm waitin' on the maar, I reck'n I ked pick a bone,--jest to pass the time."

"Sartin' ye cud, Mass Tump. I go fotch 'im in de hundreth part ob an instant."

So saying the black-skinned Jehu started off across the _patio_, leaving Zeb Stump sole "master of the stole."

The air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with Pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door.

It had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it.

Striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel.

The animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall--perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it.

"Stan' still, ye brute!" chided Zeb. "I don't mean no harm to _you_, tho' by yur looks I reck'n ye're as vicious as yur master. Stan' still, I say, an let's hev a look at yur fut-gear!"

So saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs.

It was unsuccessful. The horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting--as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him.

"Durn your ugly karkidge!" cried Zeb, angrily venting the words. "Why don't ye stan' still? Who's goin' to hurt ye? Come, ole critter!" he continued coaxingly, "I only want to see how youv'e been shod."

Again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse.

"Wal, this air a difeequilty I didn't expeck," muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. "What's to be did? It'll never do to hev the nigger help me--nor yet see what I'm abeout--the which he will ef I don't get quick through wi' it. Dog-gone the hoss! How am I to git his feet up?"

For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience.

"Cuss the critter!" he again exclaimed. "I feel like knockin' him over whar he stan's. Ha! now I hev it, if the nigger will only gie time. I hope the wench will keep him waitin'. Durn ye! I'll make ye stan' still, or choke ye dead ef ye don't. Wi' this roun' yur jugewlar, I reck'n ye won't be so skittish."

While speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and, throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it encircled the animal's neck.

Then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring.

The horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with rage.

But his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself into terror. The rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of the change.

Zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast, commenced lifting his feet one after the other--scrutinising each, in great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care. He appeared to take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of the nails--in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or assist in a future identification.

On coming to the off hind foot--which he did last of the four--an exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise. It was caused by the sight of a broken shoe--nearly a quarter of which was missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail from the canker.

"Ef I'd know'd o' _you_," he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect shoe, "I mout a' saved myself the trouble o' examinin' the tothers. Thur ain't much chance o' mistakin' the print you'd be likely to leave ahint ye. To make shur, I'll jest take ye along wi me."

In conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife--the blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick--and, inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof.

Taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious pocket of his coat.

Then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel.

Pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of refreshments--including a tumbler of the Monongahela; and to these Zeb instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude that had occurred during the darkey's absence.