Again he was deaf. He picked up his axe, appearing to weigh the resumption of his task against a reply to this straight question. He must have found the alternative too dreadful; he leaned upon the axe, thus winning something of the dignity of labour, with none of its pains, and grudgingly asked:
"Mebbe some liars tell you in conversation about that old b'other-in-law?"
"Of course! Many nice people tell me every day. They tell me all about him. I rather hear you tell me. Is he a Christian?"
"He's one son-of-gun, pure and simple—that old feller. He caps the climax."
"Yes; I know all about that. He's a bad man. I hear everything about him. Now you tell me again. You can tell better than liars."
"One genuine son-of-gun!" persisted Pete, shrewdly keeping to general terms.
"Oh, very well!" I rose from the log I was sitting on, yawning my indifference. "I know everything he ever did. Other people tell me all the time."
I moved off a few steps under the watchful side glance. It worked. One of Pete's slim, womanish hands fluttered up in a movement of arrest.
"Those liars tell you about one time he shoot white man off horse going by?"
"Certainly!"