For a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience.
“Cuss the critter!” he again exclaimed. “I feel like knockin’ him over whar he stan’s.
Ha! now I hev it, if the nigger will only gie time.
I hope the wench will keep him waitin’.
Durn ye! I’ll make ye stan’ still, or choke ye dead ef ye don’t.
Wi’ this roun’ yur jugewlar, I reck’n ye won’t be so skittish.”
While speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and, throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it encircled the animal’s neck.
Then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring. The horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with rage.
But his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself into terror. The rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of the change.
Zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast, commenced lifting his feet one after the other—scrutinising each, in great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care.
He appeared to take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of the nails—in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or assist in a future identification.
On coming to the off hind foot—which he did last of the four—an exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise.
It was caused by the sight of a broken shoe—nearly a quarter of which was missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail from the canker.
“Ef I’d know’d o’ you,” he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect shoe, “I mout a’ saved myself the trouble o’ examinin’ the tothers.
Thur ain’t much chance o’ mistakin’ the print you’d be likely to leave ahint ye.
To make shur, I’ll jest take ye along wi me.”
In conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife—the blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick—and, inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof. Taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious pocket of his coat.
Then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel.
Pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of refreshments—including a tumbler of the Monongahela; and to these Zeb instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude that had occurred during the darkey’s absence.
The latter, however, did not fail to perceive that the sorrel was out of sorts: for the animal, on finding itself released, stood shivering in the stall, gazing around in a sort of woe-begone wonder after the rough treatment, to which he had been submitted.
“Gorramity!” exclaimed the black, “what am de matter wif de ole hoss? Ho! ho! he look like he wa afeerd ob you, Mass Tump!”
“Oh, ye-es!” drawled Zeb, with seeming carelessness. “I reck’n he air a bit afeerd.
He war makin’ to get at my ole maar, so I gied him a larrup or two wi’ the eend o’ my trail rope.
Thet’s what has rousted him.”
Pluto was perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and the subject was permitted to drop.
“Look hyur, Plute!” said Zeb, starting another. “Who does the shoein’ o’ yur cattle?
Thars some o’ the hands air a smith, I reck’n?”
“Ho! ho! Dat dere am.
Yella Jake he do shoein’.
Fo what you ask, Mass Tump?”
“Wal; I war thinkin’ o’ havin’ a kupple o’ shoes put on the hind feet o’ the maar.
I reck’n Jake ud do it for me.”
“Ho! ho! he do it wif a thousan’ welkim—dat he will, I’se shoo.” “Questyun is, kin I spare the time to wait.
How long do it take him to put on a kupple?”
“Lor, Mass Tamp, berry short while.
Jake fust-rate han’ lit de bizness. Ebberybody say so.”
“He moutn’t have the mateerils riddy? It depends on whether he’s been shoein’ lately.
How long’s it since he shod any o’ yourn?”
“More’n a week I blieb, Mass’ Zeb.
Ho—ho! Do last war Missa Looey hoss—de beautiful ’potty dar.
But dat won’t make no differens. I know he hab de fixins all ready.
I knows it, kase he go for shoe de sorrel.
De ole hoss hab one ob de hind shoe broke.
He hab it so de lass ten day; an Mass Cahoon, he gib orders for it be remove.
Ho—ho! dis berry mornin’ I hear um tell Jake.”
“Arter all,” rejoined Zeb, as if suddenly changing his mind, “I moutn’t hev the time to spare.
I reck’n I’ll let the ole critter do ’ithout till I kum back.
The tramp I’m goin’ on—most part o’ it—lies over grass purayra; an won’t hurt her.”
“No, I hevn’t time,” he added, after stepping outside and glancing up towards the sky.
“I must be off from hyur in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail.