Ira leisurely lighted his unwilling pipe and proceeded in his lazy way to examine the carcass.
“Plunked him twice, huh—one under the belly there.”
Ira wandered about, kicking the bushes while the men fixed a rope about the head of the carcass.
“I s’pose you know all ’bout what happened then, if the boy went back to the farm?” Terry called to him.
“Me?” Ira answered. “Naah, I don’t know nuthin ’bout what happened. I know the kid lost a hundred dollars he was savin’ up. This here tobaccy package b’long to you, Terry?”
“Where’d you find that?” Terry called.
“Over here in the bushes. Me and you never smoked such mild tobaccy as Mechanical Delights or whatever it is. Howling Bulldog Plug Cut for us, hey? Do you need any help, you men? Prob’ly the kid was smokin’ Mechanical Delights and didn’t know what he was doin’, that’s my theory. He couldn’t see through the smoke.”
He stuffed the empty tinfoil package into his pocket and started ambling through the woods toward Barrett’s.
“Thar’s the man ’at’s to blame fer this here vila-shun of the law,” said Farmer Sands shrewdly. “Him’s the man ’at turned that thar youngster’s head—I tell yer that, Terry.”
“Like enough,” said Terry. “Him and that scoutin’ craze.”