“The sticks?” This was a new expression.
“Woods!” Jim vouchsafed (he despised the stupidity that required interpretation of perfectly plain English), “deep woods! What with Burke Lawson suspected of bein’ nigh, an’ my duty as sheriff consarnin’ him hittin’ me in the face, I’ve studied it out that it will be a mighty reasonable trick fur this here officer of the law to be somewhere else till Burke settles with his friends an’ foes, or takes himself off, ’fore he’s strung up or shot up.”
Truedale turned his chair about and faced Jim.
“Do you know,” he said, “you’ve mentioned more names in the last ten minutes than you’ve mentioned in all the weeks I’ve been here? You give me a mental cramp. Why, I thought you and I had these hills to ourselves; instead we’re threatened on every side, and yet I haven’t seen a soul on my tramps. Where do they keep themselves? What has this Burke Lawson done, to stir the people?”
“You don’t call your santers real tramps, do you? Why folks is as thick as ticks up here, though they don’t knock elbows like what they do where you cum from. They don’t holler out ter ’tract yer attention, neither. But they’re here.”
“Let’s hear more of Burke Lawson.” Truedale gripped him from the seething mass of humanity portrayed by White, as the one promising most colour and interest. “Just where does Burke live?”
“Burke? Gawd! Burke don’t live anywhere. He is a born floater. He scrooges around a place and raises the devil, then he just naturally floats off. But he nearly always comes back. Since the trap-settin’ a time back, he has been mighty scarce in these parts; but any day he may turn up.”
“The trap, eh? What about that?” With this Truedale turned about again, for Jim, having finished his work on the gun, had placed the weapon on its pegs on the wall and had drawn near the fire. He ran his hand through his crisp, gray hair until it stood on end and gave him a peculiarly bristling appearance. He was about to enjoy himself. He was as keen for gossip as any cabin woman of the hills, but Jim was an artist about sharing his knowledge. However, once he decided to share, he shared royally.
“I’ve been kinder waitin’ fur yo’ to show some interest in us-all,” he began, “it’s a plain sign of yo’ gettin’ on. I writ the same to old Doc McPherson yesterday! ‘When he takes to noticin’,’ I writ, ‘he’s on the mend.’”
Conning laughed good naturedly. “Oh! I’m on the mend, all right,” he said.