Uncle Pasco stood blinking in his usual way. “No,” he returned. “Not lost. Just off trappin’. That’s what.” His voice was an old man’s, dry and chirping, and his sentences proceeded in short hops. He had seen Scipio’s one-quarter inch of movement, and he read that movement with admirable insight: it had been a quickly arrested and choked impulse to get to those blankets. And Scipio had done some reading, too. He saw Uncle Pasco’s eye measuring distances, and he could discern no sign whatever of pistol upon the old gentleman. This rendered him extremely cautious, and his thoughts worked at a remarkable speed. Uncle Pasco did not have to think so quickly, for he had begun his meditations in Likely several days ago, and they were all finished as far as they could be up to the present juncture. Even the most ripened strategist must leave some moves to be determined by the fluctuations of the battle.
“Been off trapping’,” repeated Uncle Pasco.
“What luck?” Scipio inquired.
“Poor. Poor. Beaver gettin’ cleaned out of this country. That’s what.”
“Better sit down and eat,” said Scipio. “Take your coat off and stay a while.”
Uncle Pasco’s glance rested on the pie a moment, and then upon Scipio’s ink-covered sheets. “M—well,” he said doubtfully, for Scipio’s ease had now put him in doubt, “I got to get back to Likely. Pie looks good. Pie like mother made. That’s what. M—well, you’re busy. Guess you want to write your letter.”
Scipio now looked at his letter, and drew inspiration from it, a forlorn hope of inspiration. “Why, you don’t need to start for Likely so soon,” he remarked with a persuasive whine. “What was the use in stoppin’ at all? Eat the balance of the pie and take the new trail—if your packs are not loaded heavy.”
“Spit-Kitten?” said Uncle Pasco.
“Yep,” said Scipio. “Saves an hour.”
“Ain’t been over it,” said Uncle Pasco.