“Then you can safely bet it was he—not his ‘haunt,’ as you call it, but he, himself, in his own proper person. If you had taken hold of him you would have found solid bone and muscle in your hands.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Godfrey, solemnly. “I had my rifle in my hands, an’ if I had drawed a bead on him, the bullet would have gone through him as slick as grease, an’ never hurt him.”
Clarence stamped his foot impatiently. “It is well you didn’t try it,” said he. “If you had, you would now be in jail with a good chance of being tried for a very serious offence.”
“Do you reckon it was ole Jordan hisself?” asked Godfrey, who seemed to be impressed by the boy’s arguments.
“I know it was,” said Clarence.
“We all thought he was dead.”
“Well, it’s no uncommon thing for people to be mistaken, is it? If he were dead how could he come back here?”
“What do you reckon he’s come back for?”
“You tell?”
“An’ if it was him, his own self, what was the reason he didn’t speak to nobody? He knowed two of the niggers that was thar, an’ he knowed me. ’Tain’t likely he’d ’member Dannie, kase the boy was too leetle when he went away.”