“Mebbe I’d better ask yer another question. Whar’s Rafe Norris?”
“Dunno any such person,” replied Jim Diggs, quietly.
“You don’t?”
“No sirree; ain’t no sech person in this yer camp, nor yet no Velveteens. I guess you’ve barked up the wrong tree, boss.”
“It seems as ef we didn’t understand one another’s game,” said Old Pegs, frowning. “Now look yer: I want to know whar Rafe Norris is—the man thet stole my gal. You know who I mean durned well, you cussid skunk, and you’d better tell me now while I keep my temper.”
“Don’t know any Rafe Norris.”
“Whar is Curly-headed Ned, then? Does thet seem ter suit yer complaint?”
Jim Diggs started and turned pale, as the old hunter pronounced that name. It told him that he was not to be deceived, and that he knew well the character of Rafe Norris.
“You size my pile, Old Pegs,” said Diggs, quietly. “I know that name well enough, and I kin find him mighty easy.”
“Find him, then.”