“How do you know it can’t?”
Mead shrugged his shoulders and rested his hand upon his horse’s neck. It straightway cuddled its head against his body and began nosing his pockets. Mead brought out a lump of sugar and made the beast nod its age for the reward. Tom watched him helplessly, noting the hopeless, gloomy look on his face, and wondered what he ought to do or say. He wished Nick had come along. Nick never was at a loss for words. But his great love came to his rescue and he blurted out:
“Have you tried to do anything?”
“It’s no use. There’s nothing to be done. It’s something that can’t be helped, and I’d better just get out.”
“Can’t I—can’t Nick and me do anything?”
“No.”
Tom Tuttle was discouraged by this answer, for he knew that it meant that the trouble, whatever it was, must be beyond the help of rifles and revolvers. Still, he thought that it must have some connection with the Whittaker murder, and he guessed that Mead was in fear of something—discovery, apprehension, the result of a trial—that he meant to get rid of the whole thing by quietly leaving the country. Tom’s brain required several minutes in which to reach this conclusion, but only a second longer to decide that if this was what Emerson wanted to do, it was the right thing and should have his help.
“Well,” he said, “if you want to pull out on the quiet, Nick and me will stand off the Republicans over at Plumas till you get out of their reach.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to run away.” Mead picked up the bridle and with one hand on the pommel turned suddenly around. There was a half smile about his mouth, which his sad eyes belied. Tom’s idea of the case had just occurred to him. “Don’t you worry about it, Tom. It has nothing to do with the Whittaker case, nor with the political fights in Las Plumas.”