“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!”

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’. You ’m jokin’, Mass’ Tump?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Gorramity! Wa — dey do make won’full journey on dese hyur prairas. I reck’n dat ere hoss must a trabbled two hunner mile de odder night.”

“What hoss?”

“De ole sorrel dere — in dat furrest ’tand from de doos — Massa Cahoon hoss.”

“What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?”

“Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff. Beside, he wa so done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo’ gib um drink. Hee ’tagger like new-drop calf. Ho! ho! he wa broke down — he wa!”

“O’ what night air ye palaverin’, Plute?”

“Wha night? Le’ss see! Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed from de plantashun. Dat same night in de mornin’, ’bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings. I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight. Den I kum ’cross to de ’table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff — lookin’ like he’d swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin’ ’s if he jes finish a fo’ mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean.”

“Who had him out thet night?”

“Doan know, Mass’ Tump. Only dat nobody ’lowed to ride de sorrel ’cept Massa Cahoon hisself. Ho! ho! Ne’er a body ’lowed lay leg ober dat critter.”

“Why, wan’t it himself that tuk the anymal out?”

“Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor. Dis chile neider see de Cap’n take um out nor fotch um in.”

“If yur statement air true ’beout his bein’ in sech a sweat, someb’dy must a hed him out, an been ridin’ o’ him.”

“Ha! ha! Someb’dy muss, dat am certing.”

“Looke hyur, Plute! Ye ain’t a bad sort o’ a darkie, though your skin air o’ a sut colour. I reck’n you’re tellin’ the truth; an ye don’t know who rud out the sorrel that night. But who do ye think it war? I’m only axin’ because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o’ mine, an I don’t want his property to be abused — no more what belongs to Capen Calhoun. Some o’ the field niggers, I reck’n, hev stole the anymal out o’ the stable, an hev been ridin’ it all roun’ the country. That’s it, ain’t it?”

“Well, no, Mass’ Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it. De fiel’ hands not ’lowed inside hyur. Dey darn’t kum in to de ’table no how. ’Twan’t any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night.”

“Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out? Maybe the overseer? War it him d’ye think?”

“’Twan’t him needer.”

“Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o’ the hoss hisself? If so, thur’s an end o’ it. He hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him. It ain’t no bizness o’ myen.”

“Ho! ho! Nor myen, needer, Mass’ Tump. Wish I’d thought dat way dis mornin’.”

“Why do ye weesh that? What happened this mornin’ to change yur tune?”

“Ho! what happen dis mornin’? Dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin’. Ho! — ho! berry great misfortin’.”

“What war it?”

“Golly, Massa Tump, I’se got kicked — dis berry mornin’, jes ’bout an hour arter twelve o’clock in de day.”

“Kicked?”

“Dat I did shoo — all round de ’table.”

“Oh! by the hosses! Which o’ the brutes kicked ye?”

“Ho! — ho! you mistaken! Not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all — ’cept little Spotty da, de which he doan’t own. I wa kicked by Mass’ Cahoon.”

“The hell ye wur! For what reezun? Ye must hev been misbehavin’ yurself, nigger?”

“Dis nigga wan’t mis-b’avin’ ’t all; not as he knows on. I only ask de cap’n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make ’im be tired down. He say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if I ebber ’peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip. He swa; oh! how he swa! Dis chile nebba see Mass Cahoon so mad — nebba, in all ’im life!”