While speaking, he has produced a gourd, in which something gurgles. Its smell, when the stopper is taken out, tells it to be whiskey.
Inserting the neck between his master’s lips, he pours some of the spirit down his throat; and then, turning to the horse near by, he lifts from off the saddle-horn a larger gourd—the canteen, containing water.
In a few seconds, not only is Clancy’s thirst satisfied, but he feels his strength restored, and all faintness passed away.
“Up to de chin I declar’!” says Jupiter, now more particularly taking note of his situation, “Sure enough, all but buried ’live. An’ Brasfort been a tryin’ to dig ye out!
Geehorum! Aint that cunnin’ o’ the ole dog? He have prove himself a faithful critter.”
“Like yourself, Jupe. But say! How have you escaped from the robbers? Brought my horse and gun too! Tell me all!”
“Not so fass, Masser Charle. It’s something o’ a longish story, an’ a bit strangeish too. You’ll be better out o’ that fix afore hearin’ it. Though your ears aint stopped, yez not in a position to lissen patient or comfortable. First let me finish what Brasfort’s begun, and get out the balance o’ your body.”
Saying this, the mulatto sets himself to the task proposed.
Upon his knees with knife in hand, he loosens the earth around Clancy’s breast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, then clawing it out.