“Right as a trivet,” the blond man heartily approved, noting the keen features and the sandy gray hair. “I’ll bet you’re a Scotch-Irishman. Am I right?”
“Wal! Ye hit ’er right into the eye, stranger—David McCafferty—that’s me. No slow Injun blood or Dutch into me, like some folks round here—I’m awake, I am, yessir! Ye’re Hammerless Hampton, o’ course. Hearn all ’bout ye, oh, yes.”
His shrewd look dwelt a minute on the gun. Then he shot a wary glance around. His next remark came in a hoarse whisper.
“Uncle Eb told me ’bout ye. Fine old feller, Uncle Eb. Been to see him yit?”
“No. Haven’t seen him since the line storm. I’ve been rambling around. Why?”
“Wal, go an’ see him now, if ye ain’t got nothin’ else onto yer hands. He’d oughter be to home pretty quick—he went out bee-huntin’ to-day early. Soon’s ye see him tell him Davy says this: there’s two strangers a-snoopin’ round—come in from the Gap this mornin’—I seen ’em slide into the brush down yender by the schoolhouse, an’ they ain’t come back. Jest tell him that. He’ll know what I mean.”
Douglas turned, looked at the road behind, let his eyes rove in the direction the strangers must have taken, and found himself looking at the wall of Dickie Barre—where Steve probably was hiding. He scowled and unconsciously shifted his gun. A subdued chuckle brought his glance back to David, who now was agrin.
“Guess ye think like I do, Hammerless,” he added with a swift wink. “Anyways, if ye see Uncle Eb ’fore I do, tell him. I been hopin’ he might come back along o’ here, but nobody knows where he’ll travel to when he gits a-goin’.”
“Which is his house?”
“’Bout haff a mile ’long—on the left, beyend the second turn—yeller house facin’ Dickabar—the onliest yeller house on the left side o’ the road. G’by.”