I know their leader; an maybe, afore the trial air over, he may be the kriminal afore the bar.”
“Ah! you do not believe, then, that these Mexicans are the men!”
“Can’t tell, Maje, whether they air or ain’t.
I do b’lieve thet they’ve hed a hand in the bizness; but I don’t b’lieve thet they’ve been the prime movers in’t.
It’s him I want to diskiver.
Kin ye promise me three days?”
“Three days!
For what?”
“Afore the trial kims on.”
“Oh! I think there will be no difficulty about that.
He is now a prisoner under military law.
Even if the judge of the Supreme Court should require him to be delivered up inside that time, I can make objections that will delay his being taken from the guard-house.
I shall undertake to do that.”
“Maje! ye’d make a man a’most contented to live under marshul law.
No doubt thur air times when it air the best, tho’ we independent citizens don’t much like it.
All I’ve got to say air, thet ef ye stop this trial for three days, or tharahout, preehaps the prisoner to kim afore the bar may be someb’y else than him who’s now in the guard-house—someb’y who jest at this mom’t hain’t the smallest serspishun o’ bein’ hisself surspected.
Don’t ask me who.
Only say ye’ll streetch a pint, an gi’ me three days?”
“I promise it, Mr Stump.
Though I may risk my commission as an officer in the American army, I give you an officer’s promise, that for three days Maurice the Mustanger shall not go out of my guard-house.
Innocent or guilty, for that time he shall be protected.”
“Yur the true grit, Maje; an dog-gone me, ef I don’t do my beest to show ye some day, thet I’m sensible o’t.
I’ve nuthin’ more to say now, ’ceptin’ to axe thet ye’ll not tell out o’ doors what I’ve been tellin’ you.
Thur’s them outside who, ef they only knew what this coon air arter, ’ud move both heving an airth to circumwent his intenshuns.”
“They’ll have no help from me—whoever it is you are speaking of.
Mr Stump, you may rely upon my pledged word.”
“I know’t, Maje, I know’t.
God bless ye for a good ’un.
Yer the right sort for Texas!”
With this complimentary leave-taking the hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare.
Once more mounting her, he rode rapidly away. Having cleared the parade ground, and afterwards the outskirts of the village, he returned on the same path that had conducted him from Casa Del Corvo.
On reaching the outskirts of Poindexter’s plantation, he left the low lands of the Leona bottom, and spurred his old mare ’gainst the steep slope ascending to the upper plain.
He reached it, at a point where the chapparal impinged upon the prairie, and there reined up under the shade of a mezquit tree.
He did not alight, nor show any sign of an intention to do so; but sate in the saddle, stooped forward, his eyes turned upon the ground, in that vacant gaze which denotes reflection.
“Dog-gone my cats!” he drawled out in slow soliloquy. “Thet ere sarkimstance are full o’ signiferkince.
Calhoun’s hoss out the same night, an fetched home a’ sweetin’ all over.
What ked that mean?
Durn me, ef I don’t surspect the foul play hev kum from that quarter.
I’ve thort so all along; only it air so ridiklous to serpose thet he shed a killed his own cousin.
He’d do that, or any other villinous thing, ef there war a reezun for it.
There ain’t—none as I kin think o’.
Ef the property hed been a goin’ to the young un, then the thing mout a been intellygible enuf.
But it want.
Ole Peintdexter don’t own a acre o’ this hyur groun’; nor a nigger thet’s upon it.
Thet I’m sartin’ ’beout.
They all belong to that cuss arready; an why shed he want to get shot o’ the cousin?
Thet’s whar this coon gets flummixed in his kalkerlations.
Thar want no ill will atween ’em, as ever I heerd o’.
Thur’s a state o’ feelin’ twixt him an the gurl, thet he don’t like, I know.
But why shed it temp him to the killin’ o’ her brother?