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.