“Why!” he exclaimed, when he discovered Jinny, in the corral, “The patron can’t be far off: he’s left the burro!”
He surveyed Jinny thoughtfully, as she stood at the far side of the corral. Then he wandered over to Gard’s rude pottery-factory.
“I’d like to know what the cuss is doin’ here,” he thought. “He’s made his outfit from the ground up.”
He was struck by that as he continued his roving scrutiny. Gard’s bow and arrows fairly frightened him.
“That fellow’s clean dotty,” he muttered. “What in thunder kin a live man do with that?”
Presently he found the first knife Gard had fashioned, laid upon a ledge of the camp fireplace, and turned it over like one bewildered.
“Shivering spooks!” he swore, softly; “If this ain’t an outfit! He don’t look like a ‘lunger,’” he added, referring again to Gard; “nor this ain’t no prospector’s layout; nor the cuss don’t seem locoed—not altogether. It’s what I thought. He’s some kind of a preacher. He don’t cuss none, an’ he seemed sorter quiet like last night. He didn’t act just like it, though, neither.”
Born of desire, another idea assailed him. “Wonder where he keeps his whiskey,” he mused. “That was a hell of a good sample he showed last night.”
He began to search more systematically, still keeping an alert eye for Gard’s possible return.
“They ain’t no hiding-place outside,” he decided, and turned his attention once more to the cabin. He had no idea what sort of a receptacle to look for, and a scrutiny of the corners revealed nothing. He crossed the room, to the fireplace, and suddenly gave a little start. He had made what promised to be a discovery.