After spending a full half hour at his “think,” he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circumstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.
The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men—he did not believe them to be Indians—had been making free with the mustanger’s hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed.
But the presence of these men at the jacale, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!
A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind.
He entertained for the young Irishman a peculiar affection—strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart.
He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance.
So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.
It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature’s presence.
And then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.
“What is it, Pheelum?
What’s wrong?
Hes a snake bit ye?”
“Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara!
See! thare’s somethin’ tied about his neck.
It wasn’t there when he lift.
What do yez think it is?”
The hunter’s eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal’s neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides—a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!
Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in fear. A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again.
The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a card!
There was a name upon the card, and writing—writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was blood!
The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read.
Even Zeb Stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.
As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!
“Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; “and thank my ole Katinuck schoolmaster for puttin’ me clar through my Webster’s spellin’-book. He lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, you can’t read.
No matter.
He lives! he lives!”
“Who?
Masther Maurice?
Thin the Lord be thanked—”
“Wagh! thur’s no time to thank him now.
Get a blanket an some pieces o’ horse-hide thong.
Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar.
Quick!
Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!”
Chapter Fifty Three. Just in Time.
“Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!”
They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.
They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark.
Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger—once more surrounded by the coyotes.
But it was not these he had need to fear.
A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.
Maurice Gerald—by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat—after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.
With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.
He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.
The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it.
But to what end?
The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger—perhaps of the wounds he had received?
He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position. At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him.
Tara might take a message to the hut!
“If I could but get him to go,” said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. “Come hither, old fellow!” he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; “I want you to play postman for me—to carry a letter.