“Gentlemen,” I said, speaking loud enough to call the attention of the talkers, “can any of you prove these accusations against Osceola?”
The challenge produced an awkward silence. No one could exactly prove either the drunkenness, the cattle-stealing, or the imposture.
“Ha?” at length ejaculated Arens Ringgold, in his shrill squeaky voice, “you are his defender, are you, Lieutenant Randolph?”
“Until I hear better evidence than mere assertion, that he is not worthy of defence.”
“Oh! that may be easily obtained,” cried one; “everybody knows what the fellow is, and has been—a regular cow-stealer for years.”
“You are mistaken there,” I replied to this confident speaker; “I do not know it—do you, sir?”
“Not from personal experience, I admit,” said the accuser, somewhat taken aback by the sudden interrogation.
“Since you are upon the subject of cattle-stealing, gentlemen, I may inform you that I met with a rare incident only yesterday, connected with the matter. If you will permit me, I shall relate it.”
“Oh! certainly—by all means, let us have it.”
Being a stranger, I was indulged with a patient hearing. I related the episode of lawyer Grubb’s cattle, omitting names. It created some sensation. I saw that the commander-in-chief was impressed with it, while the commissioner looked vexed, as if he would rather I had held my tongue. But the strongest effect was produced upon the Ringgolds—father and son. Both appeared pale and uneasy; perhaps no one noticed this except myself, but I observed it with sufficient distinctness to be left under the full impression, that both knew more of the matter than I myself!