Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the shining tins, he said reflectively:--
"Bin here about a month, I reckon."
"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."
Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.
"Kin you read?" said Jeff.
"I--kin," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"
"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.
"But you've got to catch him first."
The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.
"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?