“For goodness’ sake turn that revolver the other way!” whispered Dawson. “It is my father.”
CHAPTER X.
CALE WANTS A MULE.
“I am to go to the quartermaster, am I? It is his business to give the muels out, is it? He give one to that Tom Howe and never asked what he was going to do with him, and now he had to go and refuse to give one to me. I’ll get even with you, Mr. Sprague, for that, and you just see if I don’t.”
It was Newman who spoke, and he leaned against the corner of the hotel and watched Mr. Sprague as he went on inspecting the wagons. He was a boy about nineteen years old, although he might have passed for thirty, judging by his looks. He didn’t have a rifle; in fact he didn’t have anything except the big hunk of “nigger-twist” which he took from his pocket, transferring a generous slice to his mouth. He was not a raftsman, anybody could have told that, for they generally took some pains with their personal appearance. This Newman was ragged and dirty, and looked as though he had been in the habit of sleeping wherever night overtook him. He had the appearance of being mean enough for anything, and the facts proved that he was.
“See that ole Sprague stepping around like he owned the nation,” muttered Newman, shutting one eye and squirting a flow of tobacco-juice at the nearest tree. “I’ll see pap, and if he thinks it can be done I am going to do it. That ’rolling officer, when he was here, told them that they couldn’t have things all their own way, and I guess they will find it out. They will give me something for telling them where they can find the men, and I’ll be dog-gone if I don’t do it. Where’s that quartermaster, I wonder? Busy, as usual, I’ll bet. Well, let him work his own gait. He won’t do it much longer.”
Newman stayed around almost all day before he got a chance to speak to the quartermaster, and before he went away there was something that drew his attention from Mr. Sprague to Leon. The latter and two companions came up to report what had happened at Mr. Sprague’s plantation since his absence. Leon made a handsome figure, if he only knew it. He sat his horse with easy grace, was clad in a suit of blue jeans which fitted his person admirably, and he raised his hand to his father with a military salute that would have done credit to an old soldier. Newman did not hear any of his report, for it was given in tones so low that they could not reach his ears; but if he had heard any of it, it would have shown the necessity of his being up and doing.
“See how easily he touches his hat to that old civilian,” said Newman, with a sneer; “while my father, who could have had that position if the folks had been a-mind to give it to him, has to go around without anybody saluting him. Such things ain’t right, but I tell you I am going to make them that way. They offered my father something nice if he would betray these chief men into their hands—they didn’t say what it would be, but I suppose it is some commission—and he don’t seem willing to do it. I’ll do it, and see what they will give me. There’s the quartermaster now, and he don’t seem to be busy.”
Newman threw his tobacco out of his mouth and walked up to the quartermaster, who stood with his hands in his pockets and watching some wagons that were being hitched up previous to being hauled into the swamp.
“I want to see if you will give me a muel, please, sir,” said Newman, stepping up and trying his best to give the military salute as he had seen Leon do.
“A mule? What do you want of a mule?” said the officer, more than half inclined to laugh at the boy’s appearance. “You don’t want a mule to ride up to the house.”