I know that he loves her; and it may be that the brother stood in his way.
“But how, and why?
That is the question that requires an answer. Perhaps it can only be answered by God and himself?”
“Yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur,” interposes a voice breaking in on the soliloquy. “Thur’s one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as well as eyther o’ them ye’ve made mention o’; and thet individooal air ole Zeb Stump, at your sarvice.
But ’taint the time to talk o’ sech things now; not hyur ain’t the place neythur.
We must take him back unner the live oak, whar he’ll git treated accordin’ to his desarvins.
Durn his ugly picter! It would sarve him right to make it uglier by draggin’ him a spell at the eend o’ yur trail-rope.
“Never mind beout that.
We needn’t volunteer to be Henry Peintdexter’s ’vengers.
From what they know now, I reck’n that kin be trusted to the Regulators.”
“How are we to get him back?
His horse has galloped away!”
“No difeequilty beout that, Mister Gerald.
He’s only fainted a bit; or maybe, playin’ possum. In eyther case, I’ll soon roust him.
If he ain’t able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur’s the critter as ’ll carry him.
I’m sick o’ the seddle myself, an I reck’n the ole gal’s a leetle bit sick o’ me—leestwise o’ the spur I’ve been a prickin’ into her.
I’ve made up my mind to go back on Shanks’s maar, an as for Mister Cash Calhoun, he’s welkim to hev my seat for the reeturn jerney.
Ef he don’t stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack him acrost the crupper, like a side o’ dead buck-meat. Yo-ho! he begins to show sign!
He’ll soon rekiver his senses—all seven o’ ’em, I reck’n—an then he kin mount the maar o’ hisself.
“Yee-up, ole hoss!” continues Zeb, grasping Calhoun by the collar of his coat, and giving him a vigorous shake. “Yee-up, I say; an kum along wi’ us!
Ye’re wanted.
Thar’s somebody desirin’ to have a talk wi’ you!”
“Who? where?” inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and staring unsteadily around him. “Who wants me?”
“Wal; I do for one; an—”
“Ah! you it is, Zeb Stump! and—and—?”
“An’ that air’s Mister Maurice Gerald the mowstanger.
You’ve seed him afore, I reck’n?
He wants ye for two.
Beside, thar’s a good grist o’ others as ud like to see ye agin—back thar by the Port.
So ye’d best get upon yur legs, an’ go along wi’ us.”
The wretched man rises to his feet.
In so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo.
“My horse?” he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. “Where is my horse?”
“Ole Nick only knows whar he air by this time.
Like enuf gone back to the Grand, whar he kim from.
Arter the gallupin ye’ve gi’n him, I reck’n he air sick o’ the swop; an’s goed off to take a spell o’ rest on his native pasters.”
Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment.
The swop!
Even this, too, is known to him!
“Now, then,” pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience. “’Twon’t do to keep the Court a-waitin’.
Are ye riddy?”
“Ready for what?”
“Fust an foremost, to go back along wi’ me an Mister Gerald.
Second an second-most, to stan’ yur trial.”
“Trial!
I stand trial!”
“You, Mister Cash Calhoun.”
“On what charge?”
“The churge o’ killin’ Henry Peintdexter—yur own cousin.”
“It’s a lie!