Zeb hesitated, as a queer thought came before his mind. It led to a train of reflections kept to himself. They were these:
“This air the same she, as sent them kickshaws to the tavern o’ Rough an Ready. Thet she air in love wi’ the young fellur is clur as Massissipi mud—in love wi’ him to the eends o’ her toe nails. So’s the tother. But it air equally clur that he’s thinkin’ o’ the tother, an not o’ her. Now ef she hears him talk about tother, as he hev been a doin’ all o’ the night, thur’ll be a putty consid’able rumpus riz inside o’ her busom. Poor thing! I pity her. She ain’t a bad sort. But the Irish—Irish tho’ he be—can’t belong to both; an I know he freezes to the critter from the States. It air durned awkurd—Better ef I ked pursuade her not to go near him—leastwise till he gets over ravin’ about Lewaze.
“But, miss,” he continued, addressing himself to the Mexican, who during his long string of reflections had stood impatiently silent, “don’t ye think ye’d better ride home agin; an kum back to see him arter he gits well. He won’t know ye, as I’ve sayed; an it would be no use yur stayin’, since he ain’t in any danger o’ makin’ a die of it.”
“No matter, that he may not know me. I should tend him all the same. He may need some things—which I can send, and procure for him.”
“Ef ye’re boun’ to stay then,” rejoined Zeb, relentingly, as if some new thought was causing him to consent, “I won’t interfere to say, no. But don’t you mind what he’ll be palaverin’ about. Ye may hear some queer talk out o’ him, beout a man bein’ murdered, an the like. That’s natral for any one as is dulleerious. Don’t be skeeart at it. Beside, ye may hear him talkin’ a deal about a woman, as he’s got upon his mind.”
“A woman!”
“Jest so. Ye’ll hear him make mention o’ her name.”
“Her name! Señor, what name?”
“Wal, it air the name o’ his sister, I reck’n. Fact, I’m sure o’ it bein’ his sister.”
“Oh! Misther Stump. If yez be spakin’ av Masther Maurice—”