The Headless Horseman (Horror Classic). Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ for a bit o’ a palaver I wants to hev wi’ yur father—’bout thet ere spotty mow-stang.”

      “Oh, true! I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t either; but I did not suppose you had time to have news of it. Have you heard anything of the pretty creature?”

      “Putty critter ye may well pernounce it. It ur all o’ thet. Besides, it ur a maar.”

      “A ma-a-r! What is that, Mr Stump? I don’t understand.”

      “A maar I sayed. Shurly ye know what a maar is?”

      “Ma-a-r—ma-a-r! Why, no, not exactly. Is it a Mexican word? Mar in Spanish signifies the sea.”

      “In coorse it air a Mexikin maar—all mowstangs air. They air all on ’em o’ a breed as wur oncest brought over from some European country by the fust o’ them as settled in these hyur parts—leesewise I hev heern so.”

      “Still, Mr Stump, I do not comprehend you. What makes this mustang a ma-a-r?”

      “What makes her a maar? ’Case she ain’t a hoss; thet’s what make it, Miss Peintdexter.”

      “Oh—now—I—I think I comprehend. But did you say you have heard of the animal—I mean since you left us?”

      “Heern o’ her, seed her, an feeled her.”

      “Indeed!”

      “She air grupped.”

      “Ah, caught! what capital news! I shall be so delighted to see the beautiful thing; and ride it too. I haven’t had a horse worth a piece of orange-peel since I’ve been in Texas. Papa has promised to purchase this one for me at any price. But who is the lucky individual who accomplished the capture?”

      “Ye mean who grupped the maar?”

      “Yes—yes—who?”

      “Why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger.”

      “A mustanger?”

      “Ye-es—an such a one as thur ain’t another on all these purayras—eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one. Yo may talk about yur Mexikins! I never seed neery Mexikin ked manage hoss-doin’s like that young fellur; an thur ain’t a drop o’ thur pisen blood in his veins. He ur es white es I am myself.”

      “His name?”

      “Wal, es to the name o’ his family, that I niver heern. His Christyun name air Maurice. He’s knowed up thur ’bout the Fort as Maurice the mowstanger.”

      The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer.

      Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

      “La, Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen’l’m—he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?”

      “Geehosofat, yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. “Now I think o’t, he told me o’ thet suckumstance this very mornin’, afore we started. He air the same. Thet’s the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin’ the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump’ny wi’ about a dozen others o’ the same cavyurd. He oughter be hyur afore sundown. I pushed my ole maar ahead, so ’s to tell yur father the spotty war comin’, and let him git the fust chance o’ buyin’. I know’d as how thet ere bit o’ hosdoin’s don’t get druv fur into the Settlements efore someb’dy snaps her up. I thort o’ you, Miss Lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when I tolt ye ’bout the critter. Wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. Ole Zeb Stump ’ll be yur bail for thet.”

      “Oh, Mr Stump, it is so kind of you! I am very, very grateful. You will now excuse me for a moment. Father will soon be back. We have a dinner-party to-day; and I have to prepare for receiving a great many people. Florinda, see that Mr Stump’s luncheon is set out for him. Go, girl—go at once about it!”

      “And, Mr Stump,” continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, “if the young—young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here—perhaps he don’t know them—will you see that he is not neglected? There is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. You know what I mean, dear Mr Stump?”

      “Durned if I do, Miss Lewaze; that air, not adzackly. I kin unnerstan’ all thet ere ’bout the licker’ an other fixins. But who air the young gen’leman yur speakin’ o’? Thet’s the thing as bamboozles me.”

      “Surely you know who I mean! The young gentleman—the young man—who, you say, is bringing in the horses.”

      “Oh! ah! Maurice the mowstanger! That’s it, is it? Wal, I reck’n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling him a gen’leman; tho’ it ain’t offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. He air one, every inch o’ him—a gen’leman by barth, breed, an raisin’—tho’ he air a hoss-hunter, an Irish at thet.”

      The eyes of Louise Poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own.

      “I must tell ye, howsomdiver,” continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, “it won’t do to show that ’ere young fellur any sort o’ second-hand hospertality. As they used to say on the Massissippi, he air ‘as proud as a Peintdexter.’ Excuse me, Miss Lewaze, for lettin’ the word slip. I did think o’t thet I war talkin’ to a Peintdexter—not the proudest, but the puttiest o’ the name.”

      “Oh, Mr Stump! you can say what you please to me. You know that I could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!”

      “He’d be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin’ to offend you, miss.”

      “Thanks! thanks! I know your honest heart—I know your devotion. Perhaps some time—some time, Mr Stump,”—she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning—“I might stand in need of your friendship.”

      “Ye won’t need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole Zeb Stump kin promise ye, Miss Peintdexter. He’d be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn’t stan’ by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o’ breath left in the inside o’ his body.”

      “A thousand thanks—again and again! But what were you going to say? You spoke of second-hand hospitality?”

      “I dud.”

      “You meant—?”

      “I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”

      The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.

      “Never СКАЧАТЬ