They were scarce out of sight of Casa del Corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself.
There was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed.
It was a simple contingency, Zeb Stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the “plunder”—as he was wont to term it—procured by his unerring rifle.
Of course to Zeb Stump, Louise Poindexter was at home.
She was even eager for the interview—so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun.
Her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare—the latter laden with the spoils of the chase—slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda.
A glad sight to her—that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood.
She recognised in it the form of a true friend—to whose keeping she could safely entrust her most secret confidence.
And she had now such a secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully pent up within her bosom.
Long before Zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she had gone out into the verandah to receive him.
The air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house.
There was just perceptible the slightest expression of surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred.
It had not been the custom of the hacienda—at least during its present proprietary.
The sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of the saguan, strengthened Zeb’s surprise—sufficiently to call forth an inquiry.
“Why, Pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi’ ye?
Yur lookin’ like a ’coon wi’ his tail chopped off—clost to the stump at thet!
An’ why air the big gate shet an barred—in the middle o’ breakfist time?
I hope thur hain’t nuthin’ gone astray?”
“Ho! ho! Mass ’Tump, dat’s jess what dar hab goed stray—dat’s preecise de ting, dis chile sorry t’ say—berry much goed stray. Ho! berry, berry much!”
“Heigh!” exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone. “Thur air sommeat amiss? What is’t, nigger?
Tell me sharp quick. It can’t be no wuss than yur face shows it.
Nothin’ happened to yur young mistress, I hope?
Miss Lewaze—”
“Ho—ho! nuffin’ happen to de young Missa Looey.
Ho—ho! Bad enuf ’thout dat.
Ho! de young missa inside de house yar, ’Tep in, Mass’ ’Tump.
She tell you de drefful news herseff.”
“Ain’t yur master inside, too?
He’s at home, ain’t he?”
“Golly, no.
Dis time no.
Massa ain’t ’bout de house at all nowhar.
He wa’ hya a’most a quarrer ob an hour ago.
He no hya now.
He off to de hoss prairas—wha de hab de big hunt ’bout a momf ago.
You know, Mass’ Zeb?”
“The hoss purayras!
What’s tuk him thur?
Who’s along wi’ him?”
“Ho! ho! dar’s Mass Cahoon, and gobs o’ odder white genlum. Ho! ho!
Dar’s a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis nigga tell you.”
“An’ yur young Master Henry—air he gone too?”
“O Mass’ ’Tump! Dat’s wha am be trubble.
Dat’s de whole ob it.
Mass’ Hen’ he gone too.
He nebber mo’ come back.
De hoss he been brought home all kibbered over wif blood.
Ho! ho! de folks say Massa Henry he gone dead.”
“Dead!
Yur jokin’?