During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.
Notwithstanding the professed innocence of his intent, there was a stealthiness about his movements, that seemed to argue either a want of confidence in his own integrity, or in his power to resist temptation.
He stood for a short while listening — his eyes turned towards the open doorway; and then, taking up the demijohn, he drew out the stopper, and held the neck to his nose.
For some seconds he remained in this attitude: giving out no other sign than an occasional “sniff,” similar to that uttered by the hound, and which he had been fain to interpret as an affirmative answer to his interrogatory. It expressed the enjoyment he was deriving from the bouquet of the potent spirit.
But this only satisfied him for a very short time; and gradually the bottom of the jar was seen going upwards, while the reverse end descended in like ratio in the direction of his protruding lips.
“Be japers!” he exclaimed, once more glancing stealthily towards the door, “flesh and blood cudn’t stand the smell av that bewtiful whisky, widout tastin’ it. Trath! I’ll chance it — jist the smallest thrifle to wet the tap av my tongue. Maybe it’ll burn the skin av it; but no matther — here goes!”
Without further ado the neck of the demijohn was brought in contact with his lips; but instead of the “smallest thrifle” to wet the top of his tongue, the “gluck — gluck” of the escaping fluid told that he was administering a copious saturation to the whole lining of his larynx, and something more.
After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with other 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, ye owld thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that timpted me! No matther, man: the masther ’ll niver miss it; besides, he’s goin’ soon to the Fort, an can lay in a fresh supply.”
For a time the pilferer remained silent; either reflecting on the act he had committed, or enjoying the effects which the “potheen” had produced upon his spirits.
His silence was of short duration; and was terminated by a soliloquy.
“I wondher,” muttered he, “fwhat makes Masther Maurice so anxious to get back to the Sittlements. He says he’ll go wheniver he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. Sowl! isn’t he bad afther that baste! I suppose it must be somethin’ beyant the common — the more be token, as he has chased the crayther three times widout bein’ able to throw his rope over it — an mounted on the blood-bay, too. He sez he won’t give it up, till he gets howlt of it. Trath! I hope it’ll be grupped soon, or wez may stay here till the marnin’ av doomsday. Hush! fwhat’s that?”
Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.
“Phelim!” hailed a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”
“It’s the masther,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.
Chapter VI. The Spotted Mustang
Phelim was not mistaken as to the voice that had hailed him. It was that of his master, Maurice Gerald.
On getting outside, he saw the mustanger at a short distance from the door, and advancing towards it.
As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse — no longer of a reddish colour, but appearing almost black. The animal’s coat was darkened with sweat; its counter and flanks speckled with foam.
The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo — drawn taut from the saddle tree — was a companion, or, to speak more accurately, a captive. With a leathern thong looped around its under jaw, and firmly embracing the bars of its mouth, kept in place by another passing over its neck immediately behind the ears, was the captive secured.
It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen — even among the largest “gangs” that roam over the prairie pastures, where colours of the most eccentric patterns are not uncommon.
That of the animal in question was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black — with white spots distributed over it, as regularly as the contrary colours upon the skin of the jaguar.
As if to give effect to this pleasing arrangement of hues, the creature was of perfect shape — broad chested, full in the flank, and clean limbed — with a hoof showing half a score of concentric rings, and a head that might have been taken as a type of equine beauty. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse; even smaller than the blood-bay — himself a mustang — that had assisted in its capture.
The beautiful captive was a mare — one of a manada that frequented the plains near the source of the Alamo; and where, for the third time, the mustanger had unsuccessfully chased it.
In his case the proverb had proved untrue. In the third time he had not found the “charm”; though it favoured him in the fourth. By the fascination of a long rope, with a running noose at its end, he had secured the creature that, for some reason known only to himself, he so ardently wished to possess.
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.
But never before at the end of that implement had Phelim beheld such a beauty as the spotted mare. She was a thing to excite the admiration of one less a connoisseur in horse-flesh than the ci-devant stable-boy of Castle Ballagh.
“Hooch — hoop — hoora!” cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive, at the same time tossing his hat high into the air. “Thanks to the Howly Vargin, an Saint Pathrick to boot, Masther Maurice, yez have cotched the spotty at last! It’s a mare, be japers! Och! the purthy crayther! I don’t wondher yez hiv been so bad about gettin’ howlt av her. Sowl! if yez had her in Ballinasloe Fair, yez might ask your own price, and get it too, widout givin’ sixpence av luckpenny. Oh! the purty crayther! Where will yez hiv her phut, masther? Into the corral, wid the others?”
“No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Castro must pass his night outside among the trees. If he’s got any gallantry in him he won’t mind that. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim — I mean in the way of horseflesh?”
“Niver, Masther Maurice; niver, in all me life! An’ I’ve seen some nice bits av blood about Ballyballagh. Oh, the purty crayther! she looks as if a body cud ate her; and yit, in trath, she looks like she wud ate you. Yez haven’t given her the schoolin’ lesson, have yez?”
“No, Phelim: I don’t want to break her just yet — not till I have time, and can do it properly. It would never do to spoil such perfection as that. I shall tame her, after we’ve taken her to the Settlements.”
“Yez be goin’ there, masther Maurice? When?”
“To-morrow. We shall start by daybreak, so as to make only one day between here and the Fort.”
“Sowl! I’m glad to hear it. Not on me own account, but yours, Masther Maurice. Maybe yez don’t know that the whisky’s on the idge of bein’ out? From the rattle av the jar, I don’t think there’s more than three naggins left. Them sutlers at the Fort aren’t honest. They chate ye in the mizyure; besides watherin’ the whisky, so that it won’t bear a dhrap more out av the strame hare. Trath! a gallon av Innishowen wud last ayqual to three av this Amerikin rotgut, as the Yankees themselves christen it.”