“Nandy,” says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually understood. “I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him under your eye. You musn’t let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold speech wi’ him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they’re not to.” Chisholm retires.
“And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name—it may be that of his master—mind you it’s not to be repeated to any one. You understand me?”
“I do, capitan.”
“All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty.”
Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent, leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says:—
“If Quantrell’s turned traitor, thar’s not a corner in Texas whar he’ll be safe from my vengeance. I’ll sarve the whelp as I’ve done ’tother,—a hound nobler than he. An’ for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he’ll have strong arms that can keep her out o’ mine. By heavens! I’ll hug her yet. If not, hell may take me!”
Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to reflect on the next step to be taken.