"Well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out.
"I don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded Missouri. "You can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death."
"But the book."
"Oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's all."
"But the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?"
"Any man might have done that. And if the parson did find a sick man in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the snow, and put up some marks. It's all quite natural."
"But why didn't he say something about it when he came to Klassan?"
"Blamed if I know. Maybe he had some reason. Anyway it doesn't prove anything."
"I didn't say it did," snapped Pritchen, who was feeling sore at this man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. His elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. They were known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and took only a passing interest in the events around them. They were seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. He had noticed that only these were in the store with Perdue, but had not given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. Now he wondered what had become of his own gang. He knew he could make an impression upon them.
"Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to Perdue.