Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be listening to Shon’s words. Going to the wall, he hung up the rifle; then he came to the fire and stood holding out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the least mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one thought, more or less weird. Short and slight, and a little bent, but more from habit—the habit of listening and watching—than from age, his face had a stern kind of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of insanity.
Presently Lawless went to a corner and from his kit drew forth a flask. The old man saw, and immediately brought out a wooden cup. There were two on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette took no notice. Shon went over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his arm: “Not that.”
“For ornamint!” said Shon, laughing, and then his eyes were arrested by a suit of buckskin and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned them over, and then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the back of the jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on the buckskin.
“Holy Mary!” he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something under his breath.
“A dramatic little fellow,” thought Lawless; “the spirit of his forefathers—a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur.”
Then hearing Shon’s exclamation, he turned.
“It’s an ugly sight,” said Shon, pointing to the jacket. They both looked at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. The old man reached to the coat, and, turning it so that the cut and the blood were hid, ran his hand down it caressingly. “Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!” he said; then he came over once more to the fire, sat down, and held out his hands to the fire, shaking his head.
“For God’s sake, Lawless, give me a drink!” said Shon. Their eyes met, and there was the same look in the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, he said: “So, that’s what’s come to our old friend, Jo: dead—killed or murdered—”
“Don’t speak so loud,” said Lawless. “Let us get the story from him first.”
Years before, when Shon M’Gann and Pierre and Lawless had sojourned in the Pipi Valley, Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid and true a man as ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to munch corn and oil. When Lawless returned to find Shon and others of his companions, he had asked for Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else could tell aught of him; he had wandered north to outlying goldfields, and then had disappeared completely. But there, as it would seem, his coat and cap hung, and his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the fire.