“Now,” says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, “since ye’ve made me tell all I know ’beout thet part o’ the bizness, thur’s somethin’ ye haint thought o’ askin’, an the which this child’s boun’ to make a clean breast o’.”
“Proceed, Mr Stump!” says he of San Antonio, entrusted with the direct examination.
“Wal, what I’m goin’ to say now haint so much to do wi’ the prisoner at the bar, as wi’ a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin’ in his place. I won’t say who thet man air. I’ll tell ye what I know, an hev foun’ out, an then you o’ the jury may reckon it up for yurselves.”
The old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath—as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession.
No one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. There is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. That of the Headless Horseman no longer needs unravelling.
“Wal, fellur citizens!” continues Zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, “arter what I heerd, an more especially what I seed, I knowd that poor young Peint wur gone under—struck down in his tracks—wiped out o’ the world.
“I knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan’t, an kedn’t be, the mowstanger—Maurice Gerald.
“Who war it, then? Thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it’s done the rest o’ ye—them as haint made up thur minds ’ithout reflekshun.
“Wal; thinkin’ as I did that the Irish wur innocent, I bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. I ain’t goin’ to say thet appearances wan’t agin him. They wur dog-gonedly agin him.
“For all thet, I wan’t goin’ to rely on them; an so I tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign.