“Dad’s all right in some ways, but I ain’t got no sort o’ use for him either,” answered Broadcrook. “Fact is, none of us has much use for the others. We ain’t built that way. Hank shot my eye out with a bow an’ arrer when we was kids and playin’ bear hunt, and we treed Alex and cut the tree down and broke both his legs once. Jest in fun, o’ course; but he’s had it in for us ever since, jest for that.”
“And what did you do to Tom? Surely he has not escaped unscathed, has he?”
“Wall, hardly. Tom he got drowned once by bein’ pushed off a log inter the creek. If that fool of a Declute hadn’t o’ happened along Tom would o’ stayed drowned, too.”
“Know a man by the name of McTavish down there, I suppose?”
“Sure, I know him, and I know that boy o’ his, too. I hate him, and he keeps out of my way, ’cause he’s scared of me.”
“Liar,” breathed Smythe.
He stood gazing into the fire for some time. At last he turned and fixed his eyes on Broadcrook’s face.
“Never heard tell of an Indian down in that place by the name of Noah Sturgeon, did you?” he asked.
“Sure, I know him,” answered the other.
“Know him?” Mr. Smythe’s words were like a pistol shot. “Knew him, you mean,” he cried, leaning forward.