If ye ask my opeenyun, I’d say that thet ere gurl heven’t never been thur afore.
Leestwise, I hain’t heern o’ it; an eft hed been so, I reckun Irish Pheelum ud a hed somethin’ to say abeout it.
Besides, I hev other reezuns for thinkin’ so. I’ve only heern o’ one o’ the shemale sex bein’ on a visit to thet shanty.”
“Who?” quickly interrogated the Creole, the instant after regretting that she had asked the question—the colour coming to her cheeks, as she noticed the significant glance with which Zeb had accompanied his concluding remark. “No matter,” she continued, without waiting for the answer. “So, Zeb,” she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, “you think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to all of us,—these Mexicans?”
“To tell ye the truth, Miss Lewaze, I don’t know zackly what to think.
It air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur purayras.
Sometimes I hev the idea that the Mexikins must a did it; while at others, I’m in the opposite way o’ thinkin’, an thet some’dy else hev hed a han’ in the black bizness.
I won’t say who.”
“Not him, Zeb; not him!”
“Not the mowstanger. No, neer a bit o’ thet.
Spite o’ all that’s sayed agin him, I hain’t the leest surspishun o’ his innersense.”
“Oh! how is he to prove it?
It is said, that the testimony is all against him!
No one to speak a word in his behalf!”
“Wal, it ain’t so sartint as to thet.
Keepin’ my eye upon the others, an his prison; I hain’t hed much chance o’ gettin’ abeout. Thur’s a opportunity now; an I mean to make use o’ it.
The purayra’s a big book, Miss Peintdexter—a wonderful big book—for them as knows how to read the print o’t.
If not much o’ a scholar otherways, Zeb’lon Stump hev larnt to do thet. Thur may be some testymoney that mout help him, scattered over the musquit grass—jest as I’ve heern a Methody preecher say, thur ‘war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin’ brutes.’
Eft air so, thur oughter be somethin’ o’ the kind scared up on the Alamo crik.”
“You think you might discover some traces?”
“Wal; I’m goin’ out to hev a look ’roun’ me—speecially at the place whur I foun’ the young fellur in the claws o’ the spotted painter.
I oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun I’ve tolt ye.
Thank the Awlmighty! thur’s been no wet—neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign’s been made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did yisterday—that is by them as knows how to read it.
I must start straight away, Miss Lewaze.
I jest runned down to tell ye what hed been done at the Fort.
Thur’s no time to be throwed away.
They let me in this mornin’ to see the young fellur; an I’m sartin his head air gettin’ clurrer.
Soon as it air all right, the Reg’lators say, they’ll insist on the trial takin’ place.
It may be in less’n three days; an I must git back afore it begins.”
“Go, Zeb, and God speed you on your generous errand!
Come back with proofs of his innocence, and ever after I shall feel indebted to you for—for—more than life!”
Chapter Seventy One. The Sorell Horse.
Inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh.
He found the “critter” sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which Pluto had placed liberally before her.
Pluto himself was standing by her side.
Contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil.
He looked rather triste than excited.
It might be easily explained.
The loss of his young master—by Pluto much beloved—the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated—perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of Morinda—and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of Captain Cassius—for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion—amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance.
Zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic.
He was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of.
Grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out.
It was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare—to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws. She did not turn without a struggle; and Zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger.
“Ho! ho! Mass’ Tump!” interposed Pluto. “Why you be go ’way in dat big hurry?
De poor ole ma’ she no half got u’m feed.
Why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn?
Ha! ha! It do her power o’ good.”
“Han’t got time, nigger. Goin’ off on a bit o’ a jurney.
Got abeout a hunderd mile to make in less ’an a kupple o’ hours.”
“Ho! ho! Dat ere de fassest kind o’ trabbelin’.