Tom Bradford smiled at Jack's earnestness, and looking him squarely in the eyes, said:
"Why, you must be insane, man! Cal. Jones's cabin is right on the highest point of the divide. If you were out on my porch, you could see it from here. You ain't crazy enough to suppose that a murder could be committed at such an exposed place, and everybody in town not know it in ten minutes? And as for Ike Podgett—ha! ha! ha! Ike Podgett! why, man, Ike Podgett is one of our best citizens; one of the most enterprising men in the place; always has plenty of money; spends it freely, too. To be sure he gambles some, and drinks. Who don't? They are mighty few—you know that. He don't come to town very often; stays at home a good deal; but then, he's got a fine paying claim, and works it for all there is in it; at least that is what he tells all of us here in town. Ike Podgett—ha! ha! ha! That's a good one, I swear!"
Jack's eyes snapped as Bradford laughed in his face. He was getting mad at the manner in which his statements were being received; he grew very red, and blurted out:
"Ike Podgett hain't home now, is he?"
"No," answered Bradford; "he's gone bear-hunting with a lot of the boys; been gone several days; won't be back for a week yet; they were going as far as the Spanish Peaks."
"His'n is er mighty lonesome place, hain't it?" queried Jack.
"Yes," answered Bradford, "a mighty lonesome place. I don't see how he can live there—such a rocky, dark cañon—hardly a ray of sunlight enters there until late in the afternoon. But he says he loves solitude, and don't like neighbors too near"—
"I'm his closest, I reckon," interrupted Jack again.
"I believe you are," replied Bradford.