"My—my grandpa was—was makin' a boat," the eager voice of Skookum broke in upon them. "In a shed where—where calves was weaned."
"Palmer, hunh?" Butch turned and stared reflectively at the boy, whom no one had noticed in the bunk house. A silence followed; a startled pause, as if each mind there took hold of the statement and turned it about and eyed it with surprised attention. Only Butch's light blue eyes, set close together, held a peculiar gleam.
"When was this, kid?"
"That was 'fore I come here with—with Lark. And—and—"
"Here! Quit that stutterin', kid, and take yore time." Lark spoke sharply, his eyes darting inquiring glances at Bud and the others. "Tell it slow, Skookum, and be dang sure you tell it straight. It's liable to mean a lot. You say yore grandpa was makin' a boat. Did he say what for?"
Skookum shook his head, his eyes big and round with the thrill of giving information to all these gods and heroes whose deeds and lightest words were things to dwell upon.
"Bat Johnson was makin' it, and Ed White. When they caught me—peekin' in, Bat s-shook me and swore. And—he took me where grandpa—was. He said I was—sneakin' around where I didn't have no—business. And—and grandpa—" Skookum shut his eyes tightly for a moment. "If you please, I—can't tell it—please. It's when grandpa made them cuts—"
"You can skip all that," Lark gritted, while the others shuffled their feet uncomfortably, their faces going glum with anger against Palmer for his brutal beating of the boy. "And you needn't to worry; yore grandpa's got more marks than what you've got."
"He oughta be strung up by the heels over a slow fire," Tony muttered, with the exaggerated malevolence of one who indulges in strong figures of speech.
"Go on, kid. Did you hear what they was goin' to do with it?"