“That ain’t nothin’,” Eb retorted. “Folks is mostly honest round here. Good hard-workin’ fellers. Don’t jedge the rest of us by them Oakses. Or Snake Sanders. Did ye say ye licked Snake?”
Getting no answer at once, he took another survey of his passenger. Douglas was staring at the road. So the hard pair behind were “them Oakses”—the parents of the catamount girl!
“Er—oh, yes. Laid him out on top of that ledge back yonder. Ought to have thrown him off. But I didn’t.”
The horse thumped out a dozen steps while Eb digested this.
“Ye’re right, stranger. Snake’s a bad ’un. Ye must o’ had a hard tussle—Snake ain’t easy to handle.” The shrewd eyes took in the battered face. “Up top o’ Dickabar, hey? Hum!”
He became abstracted. The horse jogged on, steadily eating up distance. The silence grew strained.
“Mr. Wilham, I’m no detective,” Douglas asserted. “I’m just a rambler who blundered in here. My name’s Douglas Hampton. I’m not after anybody, and I’m staying awhile just because I like this country. I don’t know who started this fool story that I’m a detective, and I don’t care much. But now I’m here, I’ll stay until I’m ready to go—unless I get starved out; I haven’t much left to eat. That’s all there is to it. Believe it or not. It’s true.”
The heavy hoofs beat another measure.
“I believe ye,” aggressively. “I know how ye feel. I’m full o’ that same kind o’ cussedness myself. There’s some folks round here that’s ignorant and scairt of any new feller, and there’s some that’s got reasons besides bein’ ignorant. I ain’t sayin’ who they be; I ain’t talkin’ ’bout my neighbors even if I don’t like some of ’em. But seein’ it’s gone round that ye’re a detective, ’most everybody’ll believe it, an’ ye better act accordin’—kind o’ go careful, I mean. Where ye stayin’? Anywheres special?”
“Up in the rocks last night. Thought I might find a house I could live in down here. Know of any?”