Part 69 (1/2)

”Div yez think they waren't Indyins, afther all?”

”Ne'er a matter what I think. Thur's no time to talk o' that now. Go on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern.”

When Phelim had at length unburdened his mind, Zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, Indian fas.h.i.+on, upon the gra.s.s.

His object was, as he said himself, to have ”a good think;” which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while ”hampered wi' a house abeout him.”

It is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the Galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced.

Hitherto there was but the disappearance of Henry Poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circ.u.mstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before.

Far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands!

This last might be a trick. What else could it be?

Still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed a.s.sa.s.sin should be playing them!

Zeb Stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather conglomeration of circ.u.mstances--events without causes--causes without sequence--crimes committed without any probable motive--mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural.

A midnight meeting between Maurice Gerald and Louise Poindexter--a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery--Maurice having departed for the prairies--Henry having followed to sue for forgiveness--in all this the sequence was natural and complete.

Beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions.

Zeb Stump knew the disposition of Maurice Gerald in regard to Henry Poindexter. More than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. Instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character.

That he could have changed from being his friend to become his a.s.sa.s.sin, was too improbable for belief. Only by the evidence of his eyes could Zeb Stump have been brought to believe it.

After spending a full half hour at his ”think,” he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circ.u.mstances. Despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of a.n.a.lysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts.

The only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men--he did not believe them to be Indians--had been making free with the mustanger's hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed. But the presence of these men at the _jacale_, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the a.s.sa.s.sin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one!

A groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind. He entertained for the young Irishman a peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully a.s.sa.s.sinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart.

He groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance.

So absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut.

It was not until he heard Phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque Irish fas.h.i.+on, that he became aware of the creature's presence. And then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention.

”What is it, Pheelum? What's wrong? Hes a snake bit ye?”

”Oh, Misther Stump, luk at Tara! See! thare's somethin' tied about his neck. It wasn't there when he lift. What do yez think it is?”

The hunter's eyes turned immediately upon the hound. Sure enough there was something around the animal's neck: a piece of buckskin thong. But there was something besides--a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat!

Zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. The creature recoiled in fear.

A little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again.

The thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a _card_!