“Green, blue, and yellow,” he blurted, patting his much-variegated wool jacket. “And red! Red mittens good for the arterial blood. Why don’t you wear them?”
“Say, look here, prophet—” began Christopher, blandly respectful.
“Green is nature’s color. Calms the nerves. Blue, electricity for the system—got a stripe of it all up and down my backbone. Good for you. Ought to wear it. Yellow, kidneys and cathartic. You’d rather be sick, eh? Be sick. Clek-clek!” He clucked his tongue and clapped his reins. But Christopher grabbed at the stallion’s headstall and checked him.
“I believe the idea is all c’rect, prophet, and I’ll use it, and I’ll try to make it right with you. But just now I’m wantin’ a little information, and I’ll make it right with you for that, too. You’re sky-hootin’ round these woods all the time. Now, where’s Lane been makin’ his headquarters?—you ought to know!”
“What do you want him for? State-prison or insane asylum?” snapped the prophet.
“I don’t want him,” said the woodsman, solemnly. “He’s spoken for, Eli. He’s down there, dead, in Barn Withee’s camps.”
The little gray eyes blinked quickly. What that emotion was, one could not guess. For the voice of the prophet did not waver in its brisk staccato. “Dead, eh? Hate-bug crawled into him and did it. I told him to stay in the woods and the hate-bugs couldn’t get him. Told him twenty years ago. But he wasn’t careful. Let the hate-bug get him at last. Dead, eh? I’ll go and get him.”
“Get him?” echoed Christopher.
“Promised to bury him,” explained the prophet, promptly. “Wanted to be buried off alone, just as he lived. Rocks for a pillow. Expects to rest easy. I helped him dig his grave and lay out the rocks a long time ago. And I’ll tell no one the place—no, sir.”