Part 99 (1/2)

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! Ma.s.s' 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, n.i.g.g.e.r. 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 fa.s.sest kind o' trabbelin'. You 'm jokin', Ma.s.s'

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--Ma.s.sa 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 Ma.s.sa 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 k.u.m '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, Ma.s.s' Tump. Only dat n.o.body 'lowed to ride de sorrel 'cept Ma.s.sa 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, Ma.s.sa 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs, 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, Ma.s.s' Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it. De fiel'

hands not 'lowed inside hyur. _Dey_ darn't k.u.m in to de 'table no how.