"I don't want to go without you," Natalia continued slowly, then with sudden enthusiasm; "Couldn't you go with me? I'll ask Mamma Brandon as soon as I get back home."
They were at the highroad now, and Sargent drew in his rein. "It would be fine," he laughed, "but like many fine things, it's not altogether practical."
"Anyhow, I'm going right back to ask Mamma Brandon if she won't let you go," and as Sargent turned into the main road, he looked back and saw her running toward the house.
When he reached the town, the signs of the awakening season were on all sides. Lawns were being raked clean, gardens were blossoming, women were on the walks and talking to each other over fences, about the new shipment of delaines and dimities and lawns that had just come up from New Orleans. Houses were wide open and the sunlight was gilding and brightening everything. A farmer, standing in his wagon, was selling his last lot of smoked sausage to a crowd gathered about him; and selling it to advantage, for he was telling them there would be no more until next November. Old Mrs. Buckingham was airing her mattress on the front veranda, and her famous begonias had been seen on the steps for at least a week. Verily, spring had come.
The road that passed the old house of the Spaniards led directly into the town, and became its main street. As Sargent rode along it he felt a growing affection for these townsfolk and their habitations, for they had received him, not as a stranger but as an old friend. Already he was beginning to recognize nearly all the faces he saw, for with his frequent visits to the town, his walks with Judge Houston, their churchgoing each Sunday, and the many afternoons he had spent in the brick courthouse, listening to the arguing of cases where flamboyant eloquence and thundering invective usually brought success—all these associations had given him a feeling of becoming one of them.
When he had left his horse at the stable, and turned toward the tavern to get a late newspaper—there had been a boat that day—-he noticed the unusual crowd gathered on the street, particularly in the courthouse yard and before the jail.
"Is there a boat in, or a coach, or an Indian massacre?" he asked,—when he had stopped at the greeting of some friends.
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Mr. Pintard, a wealthy planter from an adjoining county.
"You forget I live in the country," Sargent explained, smiling. "But I trust all this excitement warrants your interest."
"Josiah Puckett was murdered last night and Jacob Phelps has been trapped and brought into town. He's over there in the jail now. We've got him this time."