“What you goin’ to do?” asked Cameron, forgetting for the moment his explanation that the other had interrupted.
“Well,” said the sheriff, glancing at his watch, “if you can stand it for about ten minutes I think I can show you. How’s Ross getting on at Lost Farm?”
“Great! Got the sidin’ in to the asbestuff, and everything snug fur winter. He’s trappin’ with Hoss now. Say! and he’s done more than that,”—Cameron paused that his news might have due effect,—“he’s a-goin’ to marry Swickey Avery—him! as learned her her readin’ and writin’. That’s what me and the missus has figured, from the way Swickey’s actin’ of late.”
“Why not? Swickey’s a mighty fine girl and mighty pretty, too.”
“Yes. But what I jest told you was privit calc’latin’—but seein’ as you’re a officer of the law, I guess it’s O.K.”
“Well, I’m glad of it. We need men like Ross up here. When are they going to get married?”
“I dunno. In the spring, I reckon, if Fisty Harrigan don’t—”
The sheriff held up his hand. “Fisty won’t,” he said. “I’ll take care of that.”
The sound of feet blundering up the stairway held Cameron’s eyes fixed on the door. “Some one comin’, Scotty.”
“Yes; I expected a visit. Sit still—you needn’t go.”