The people were all out yesterday.
They followed a trail, and saw something, they would not tell me what.
Father did not appear as if he wished me to know what they had seen; and I—I feared, for reasons, to ask the others.
They’ve gone off again—only a short while—just as you came in sight on the other side.”
“But the mowstanger?
What do it say for hisself?”
“Oh, I thought you knew.
He has not been found either.
Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
He, too, may have fallen by the same hand that has struck down my brother!”
“Ye say they war on a trail?
His’n I serpose?
If he be livin’ he oughter be foun’ at his shanty on the crik.
Why didn’t they go thar?
Ah! now I think o’t, thur’s nobody knows the adzack sittavashun o’ that ere domycile ’ceptin’ myself I reckon: an if it war that greenhorn Spangler as war guidin’ o’ them he’d niver be able to lift a trail acrost the chalk purayra.
Hev they gone that way agin?”
“They have.
I heard some of them say so.”
“Wal, if they’re gone in sarch o’ the mowstanger I reck’n I mout as well go too.
I’ll gie tall odds I find him afore they do.”
“It is for that I’ve been so anxious to see you.
There am many rough men along with papa.
As they went away I heard them use wild words.
There were some of those called ‘Regulators.’
They talked of lynching and the like.
Some of them swore terrible oaths of vengeance.
O my God! if they should find him, and he cannot make clear his innocence, in the height of their angry passions—cousin Cassius among the number—you understand what I mean—who knows what may be done to him?
Dear Zeb, for my sake—for his, whom you call friend—go—go!
Reach the Alamo before them, and warn him of the danger!
Your horse is slow.
Take mine—any one you can find in the stable—”
“Thur’s some truth in what ye say,” interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. “Thur mout be a smell o’ danger for the young fellur; an I’ll do what I kin to avart it.
Don’t be uneezay, Miss Lewaze.
Thur’s not sech a partickler hurry. Thet ere shanty ain’t agoin’ ter be foun’ ’ithout a spell o’ sarchin’.
As to ridin’ yur spotty I’ll manage better on my ole maar.
Beside, the critter air reddy now if Plute hain’t tuk off the saddle.
Don’t be greetin’ yur eyes out—thet’s a good chile! Maybe it’ll be all right yit ’bout yur brother; and as to the mowstanger, I hain’t no more surspishun o’ his innersense than a unborn babby.”
The interview ended by Zeb making obeisance in backwoodsman style, and striding out of the verandah; while the young Creole glided off to her chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit in supplications for his success.
Chapter Forty Seven. An Intercepted Epistle.
Urged by the most abject fear, had El Coyote and his three comrades rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle.
They had no idea of returning to the jacale of Maurice Gerald.
On the contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and that solitary dwelling—whose owner they had encountered riding towards it in such strange guise.
That it was “Don Mauricio” not one of them doubted.
All four knew him by sight—Diaz better than any—but all well enough to be sure it was the Irlandes.
There was his horse, known to them; his armas de agua of jaguar-skin; his Navajo blanket, in shape differing from the ordinary serape of Saltillo;—and his head!
They had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in its place—the sombrero of black glaze which Maurice was accustomed to wear.
It had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the moon.
Besides, they had seen the great dog, which Diaz remembered to be his.
The staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with a fierce growl attacked the assailant—though it had not needed this to accelerate their retreat.
Fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines—not that where they had meant to commit murder—they reached the level of the upper plateau.