“I’m afraid,” answered Spurrier, repressing his contempt with difficulty, “I’m too skeptical to pin my faith to signs and omens.”
Again the mountain man was looking gravely across the hills, but for a moment the eyes had flashed humorously.
“I reckon we don’t need ter cavil over thet, Mr. Spurrier. I don’t sot no master store by witchcraft foolery my ownself. Mebby ye recalls thet oncet I told ye a leetle story erbout my cat an’ my mockin’ bird.”
“Yes,” Spurrier began to understand now. “You sometimes speak in allegory. But this time I don’t get the meaning.”
“Waal, hit’s this fashion. I don’t know who ther men war thet tried ter kill ye. Thet’s God’s truth, but I’ve got my own notions an’ mebby they ain’t fur wrong. I ain’t goin’ ter name no names—but ef so be ye wants ter talk ter ther witch woman, I’ll hev speech with her fust. What comes outen magic kain’t hardly make me no enemies—but mebby hit mout enable ye ter discern somethin’ thet would profit ye to a master degree.”
Spurrier stood looking into the face of the other and then impulsively he thrust out his hand.
“Mr. Mosebury,” he said, “I’ll be honest with you. 221 I half suspected you—because I’d met you at Colby’s and I knew you hated Cappeze. I owe you an apology, and I’m glad to know I was wrong.”
“Mr. Spurrier,” replied the other, “ef I hed attempted yore life I wouldn’t hev failed, an’, moreover, I don’t hate old Cappeze. Ther man thet wins out don’t hev no need ter harbor hatreds. He hates me because he sought ter penitentiary me—an’ failed.”
“When shall we go to consult the oracle?” asked Spurrier, and Mosebury shook his head.
“I reckon mebby I mout seem over cautious—even timorouslike ter ye, in bein’ so heedful erbout keepin’ outen sight in this matter,” he said. “But them thet knows my record, knows I ain’t, jest ter say easy skeered. You go home an’ wait an’ afore long I’ll write ye a letter, tellin’ ye when ter go an’ how ter go. Then ye kin make ther journey by yoreself.”