“Just the embalmin’ side. Didn’t y’u know I assisted an undertaker wunst in Kansas City?”
“What’s that?” I interrupted sharply, for something out in the darkness had jumped.
“Does a stray steer scare you like that to-night? Now, that embalmin’ trick give me a notion I’ll work out some time. What do you miss worst in camp grub?”
“Eggs,” said I, immediately.
“That’s you. Well, I’m going to invent embalmed eggs—somehow.”
“Hope you do,” said I. “Do you believe I’m going to get sheep this time? It’s all I came for.”
“You’ll get sheep,” Scipio declared, “or I’ll lose my job at Sunk Creek ranch.” Judge Henry had lent him to me for my hunting trip. “Of course I’d not call ’em embalmed eggs,” he finished.
“Condensed,” I suggested. “Like the milk. Do you suppose the man really did go to Idaho?”
“They do go there—and they go everywheres else that’s convenient—Canada, San Francisco, some Indian reservation. He’ll never get found. I expect like as not he killed the confederate along with the victims—it’s claimed there was a cook along, too. He’s never showed up. It’s a bad proposition to get tangled up with a murderer.”
I sat thinking of this and that and the other.