“Do; an by the eturnal! the fust that do ’ll drop it a leetle quicker than he grups it. Lay a claw on it—one o’ ye—if ye darr.
Ye may hang this poor critter as high’s ye like; but not till ye’ve laid Zeb’lon Stump streetched dead upon the grass, wi’ some o’ ye alongside o’ him.
Now then!
Let me see the skunk thet’s goin’ to tech thet rope!”
Zeb’s speech is followed by a profound silence.
The people keep their places—partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly from the respect due to his courage and generosity.
Also, because there is still some doubt in the minds of the Regulators, both as to the expediency, and fairness, of the course which Calhoun is inciting them to take. With a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has gained, and presses it.
“Gie the young fellur a fair trial,” urges he. “Let’s take him to the settlement, an hev’ him tried thur.
Ye’ve got no clur proof, that he’s had any hand in the black bizness; and durn me! if I’d believe it unless I seed it wi’ my own eyes.
I know how he feeled torst young Peintdexter.
Instead o’ bein’ his enemy, thur aint a man on this ground hed more o’ a likin’ for him—tho’ he did hev a bit o’ shindy wi’ his precious cousin thur.”
“You are perhaps not aware, Mr Stump,” rejoins the Regulator Chief, in a calm voice, “of what we’ve just been hearing?”
“What hev ye been hearin’?”
“Evidence to the contrary of what you assert.
We have proof, not only that there was bad blood between Gerald and young Poindexter, but that a quarrel took place on the very night—”
“Who sez thet, Sam Manly?”
“I say it,” answers Calhoun, stepping a little forward, so as to be seen by Stump.
“O, you it air, Mister Cash Calhoun!
You know thur war bad blood atween ’em?
You seed the quarrel ye speak o’?”
“I haven’t said that I saw it, Zeb Stump.
And what’s more I’m not going to stand any cross-questioning by you.
I have given my evidence, to those who have the right to hear it; and that’s enough.
I think, gentlemen, you’re satisfied as to the verdict.
I don’t see why this old fool should interrupt—”
“Ole fool!” echoes the hunter, with a screech; “Ole fool! Hell an herrikins! Ye call me an ole fool?
By the eturnal God! ye’ll live to take back that speech, or my name aint Zeblun Stump, o’ Kaintucky.
Ne’er a mind now; thur’s a time for everythin’, an yur time may come, Mister Cash Calhoun, sooner than ye surspecks it.”
“As for a quarrel atween Henry Peintdexter an the young fellur hyur,” continues Zeb, addressing himself to the Regulator Chief, “I don’t believe a word on’t; nor won’t, so long’s thur’s no better proof than his palaverin’.
From what this chile knows, it don’t stan’ to reezun.
Ye say ye’ve got new facks?
So’ve I too.
Facks I reck’n thet’ll go a good way torst explicatin o’ this mysteerus bizness, twisted up as it air.”
“What facts?” demands the Regulator Chief. “Let’s hear them, Stump.”
“Thur’s more than one.
Fust place what do ye make o’ the young fellur bein’ wownded hisself?
I don’t talk o’ them scratches ye see; I believe them’s done by coyoats that attackted him, arter they see’d he wur wownded.
But look at his knee Somethin’ else than coyoats did that.
What do you make o’ it, Sam Manly?”
“Well, that—some of the boys here think there’s been a struggle between him and—”
“Atween him an who?” sharply interrogates Zeb.
“Why, the man that’s missing.”
“Yes, that’s he who we mean,” speaks one of the “boys” referred to. “We all know that Harry Poindexter wouldn’t a stood to be shot down like a calf.
They’ve had a tussle, and a fall among the rocks. That’s what’s given him the swellin’ in the knee.
Besides, there’s the mark of a blow upon his head—looks like it had been the butt of a pistol.
As for the scratches, we can’t tell what’s made them. Thorns may be; or wolves if you like.
That foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won’t do for us.”
“What fellur air ye talkin’ o’?
Ye mean Irish Pheelum?
Where air he?”