Chapter Three

On the banks of the Alamo stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of Texas, and certainly as picturesque.

The structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. It could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. Its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its inconspicuousness.

The house was a mere cabin – with only a single aperture, the door – if we except the flue of a chimney. The doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it.

In the rear was an open shed, around this was a small enclosure.

A still more extensive enclosure, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. Its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints told of its use: a “corral”[15] for wild horses – mustangs.

The interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. The sheeting of mustang-skins covered the walls. The furniture consisted of a bed, a couple of stools and a rude table. Something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner.

What was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and also a newspaper lying upon the table.

Further proofs of civilization presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun, a drinking cup, a hunter’s horn, and a dog-call.

Upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn,[16] evidently containing something stronger than the water of the Alamo.

Such was the structure of the mustanger’s dwelling – such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants – two in number.

On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.

He was a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish.

Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire was a huge Irish staghound,[17] that looked as if he understood the speech of the man.

Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.

“Oh, Tara, my jewel!” exclaimed the man fraternally interrogating the hound; “don’t you wish now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wouldn’t you like to be once more in the courtyard of the old castle! But there’s no knowing when the young master will go back, and take us along with him.

“I’d like a drop now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the jar. “No-no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out of the demijohn, and take a smell at it. Sure the master won’t know anything about that; and if he did, he wouldn’t mind it!”

During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.

He took up the demijohn and drew out the stopper. After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.

“Tara, you old thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that tempted me! No matter, man: the master will never miss it; besides, he’s going soon to the Fort, and can lay in a fresh supply.

“I wonder,” muttered he, “what makes Master Maurice so anxious to get back to the Settlements. He says he’ll go whenever he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. I suppose it must be something beyond the common. He says he won’t give it up, till he catches it. Hush! what’s that?”

Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.

“Phelim!” called a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”

“It’s the master,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.

Phelim was not mistaken. It was the voice of his master, Maurice Gerald. As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse.

The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo – drawn from the saddle tree – was a captive. It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen. The colour of the mustang was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black – with white spots distributed over it.

The creature was of perfect shape. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse.

Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back – as he often did – with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.

“Master Maurice, you have caught the spotty at last!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive. “It’s a mare! Where will you put her, master? Into the corral, with the others?”

“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim – I mean in the way of horseflesh?”

“Never, Master Maurice; never, in all my life!

The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree.

The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the spotted mustang had cost him a long and arduous chase – such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.

Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle – the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare – he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.

For several nights he had slept uneasily till not only his henchman[18] Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.

At length Phelim determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude.

“Master Maurice, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Phelim – nothing! What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Why, that whenever you close your eyes and think you are sleeping, you begin palavering! You are always trying to pronounce a big name that appears to have no ending, though it begins with a point!”

“A name! What name?”

“I can’t tell you exactly. It’s too long for me to remember, seeing that my education was entirely neglected. But there’s another name that you put before it; and that I can tell you. It’s Louise that you say, Master Maurice; and then comes the point.”

“Ah!” interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. “Some name I may have heard – somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!”

“In your dreams, master, you talk about a girl looking out of a carriage with curtains to it, and telling her to close them against some danger that you are going to save her from.”

“I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head? But come! You forget that I haven’t tasted food since morning. What have you got?”

“There’s only the cold venison and the corn-bread. If you like I’ll put the venison in the pot”.

“Yes, do so. I can wait.”

Phelim was about stepping outside, when a growl from Tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution.

The individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger’s cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other.

He stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin. A deerskin undershirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a “blanket coat,” that had once been green. He was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter. There was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing. Everything was plain almost to rudeness.

The individual was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect.

It was Zebulon Stump, or “Old Zeb Stump,” as he was better known to the very limited circle of his acquaintances.

“Kentuckian, by birth and raising,”—as he would have described himself, if asked the country of his nativity. The hunter had passed the early part of his life among the forests of the Lower Mississippi; and now, at a later period, he was living and hunting in the wilds of south-western Texas.

The behaviour of the staghound told of a friendly acquaintance between Zeb Stump and Maurice the mustanger.

“Evening!” laconically saluted Zeb.

“Good evening, Mr Stump!” rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. “Step inside, and take a seat! On foot, Mr Stump, as usual?”

“No: I got my old creature out there, tied to a tree.”

“Let Phelim take her round to the shed. You’ll have something to eat? Phelim was just getting supper ready. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything very dainty. I’ve been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that I never thought of taking my gun with me.”

“What sort of a mustang?” inquired the hunter.

“A mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground – a splendid creature!”

“That’s the very business that’s brought me over to you. I’ve seen that mustang several times out on the prairie, and I just wanted you to go after her. I’ll tell you why. I’ve been to the Leona settlements since I saw you last, and since I saw her too. Well, there has come a man that I knew on the Mississippi. He is a rich planter, his name is Poindexter.”

“Poindexter?”

“That is the name – one of the best known on the Mississippi from Orleans to Saint Louis. He was rich then; and, I reckon, isn’t poor now – seeing as he’s brought about a hundred niggers along with him. Beside, there’s his nephew, by name Calhoun. He’s got the dollars, and nothing to do with them but lend them to his uncle – the which, for a certain reason, I think he will. Now, young fellow, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. That planter has got a daughter, she’s fond of horses. She heard me telling her father about the spotted mustang; and nothing would content her there and then, till he promised he’d offer a big price for catching the creature. He said he’d give a couple of hundred dollars for the animal. So, saying nothing to nobody, I came over here, fast as my old mare could fetch me.”

“Will you step this way, Mr Stump?” said the young Irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door.

The hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation.

Maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired—

“Does that look anything like the mustang you’ve been speaking of?”

“Dog-gone my cats, if it’s not the same! Caught already! Two hundred dollars! Young fellow, you’re in luck: two hundred, – and the animal’s worth every cent of the money! Won’t Miss Poindexter be pleased!”

Answer the following questions:

1) How does Maurice’s dwelling characterize its owner? Describe it.

2) Who is Phelim?

3) Who is Maurice’s new captive?

4) Why was Maurice unable to obtain repose? What did he talk about in his dreams?

5) Who is Zeb Stump? What did he come for?

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