“He’s already dead, but you can help me bury him as soon as I get my wife out of the way around that oak-brush—I see you’ve brought along a spade.”
The men in the wagon looked at each other, and then climbed slowly out.
“Now who could ’a’ left that there spade in the wagon?” began the Wild Ram of the Mountains, a look of perplexity clouding his ingenuous face.
The Entablature of Truth was less disposed for idle talk.
“Who did you say you’d get out of the way, young man?”
“My wife, Mrs. Ruel Follett.”
“Meaning Prudence Rae?”
“Meaning her that was Prudence Rae.”
“Oh!”
The ruddy-faced Bishop scanned the horizon with a dreamy, speculative eye, turning at length to his companions.