Again suspicion came to the front. This savored strongly of an attempt to alibi a confederate, and Spurrier inquired bluntly:
“Since you broached this subject, I think it’s fair to ask you another question. You tell me who didn’t come. Do you know who did?”
For a moment Mosebury’s face remained blank, then he spoke stiffly.
“I said I’d be glad ter warn ye—but I didn’t say I war willin’ ter name no names. Thet would be mighty nigh ther same thing es takin’ yore quarrel onto myself.”
“Then that’s all you can tell me—that it wasn’t Colby?”
“Mr. Spurrier,” rejoined the mountaineer seriously, “ye knows jedgmatically an’ p’intedly thet ye’ve got enemies that means business. I ain’t nuver seed a man yet in these hills what belittled a peril sich as yourn thet didn’t pay fer hit—with his life.”
“I don’t belittle it, but what can I do?”
Sam Mosebury stood with a gaze that wandered off over the broken sky line. So grave was his demeanor that when his words came they carried the shock of inconsistent absurdity.
“Thar’s a witch woman, thet dwells nigh hyar. Ef I war in youre stid, I’d git her ter read ther signs fer me an’ tell me what I had need guard ergainst most.”