The wretched man rises to his feet. In so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo.
“My horse?” he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. “Where is my horse?”
“Ole Nick only knows whar he air by this time. Like enuf gone back to the Grand, whar he kim from. Arter the gallupin ye’ve gi’n him, I reck’n he air sick o’ the swop; an’s goed off to take a spell o’ rest on his native pasters.”
Calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment. The swop! Even this, too, is known to him!
“Now, then,” pursues Zeb, with a gesture of impatience. “’Twon’t do to keep the Court a-waitin’. Are ye riddy?”
“Ready for what?”
“Fust an foremost, to go back along wi’ me an Mister Gerald. Second an second-most, to stan’ yur trial.”
“Trial! I stand trial!”
“You, Mister Cash Calhoun.”
“On what charge?”