The old man fidgeted in his chair uneasily.
“You mind me a-tellin’ yer once abaht that theer old nitchie ‘Roll-in-th’-Mud,’ as I fahnd larst year in th’ bush, wiv ’is leg broke, an’ took back ter th’ Agency ag’in?”
The policeman nodded. He had heard the oft-repeated tale more times than he could remember.
“Well,” continued his host. “Th’ old feller comes arahnd ter see me now an’ ag’in—just ter say ‘Howdy’ an’ cadge a bit o’ baccer. Well, th’ mornin’ I come over ter see you I wuz ahtside th’ stable inspannin’ me team, meanin’ fer ter trek over ter Barney Gallagher’s fer some chicken feed an’ stuff, w’en ’e comes a-jiggin’ by, a-sjambokin’ ’is old cayuse like them nitchies ullus does. ’E pulls hup w’en ’e sees me, an’ grins. ‘Howdy,’ says I. ‘Howdy,’ says ’e. I dahn’t savvy ’is indaba, so we ullus mykes sign tork. ’E seemed kind o’ excited like an’ ’e catches me by th’ coat an’ leads me rahnd th’ back o’ th’ stable, where we cud see th’ ’orses in th’ field. ’E starts in ter wive ’is arms like as if ’e wuz a-tryin’ ter imityte a bloke a-drivin’ ’em aw’y to’rds th’ West, then ’e touches ’is chest an’ grunts ‘Naymoyer, naymoyer,’ two or three times, an’ shykes ’is ’ead. I catches on ter wot ’e meant, quick ... cudn’t ’elp it. ’E wuz a-meanin’ that some bloke wuz a-goin’ ter try an’ run ’em off from me, an’ wanted ’im ter ’elp ’im an’ ’e wudn’t. That’s wot ’e meant,” wound up Tucker breathlessly, turning an imploring, frightened face to the Sergeant. “An’ I figger that theer bloke wuz that same schelm, Short an’ Dirty.”
For reasons of his own, the policeman tried to allay the old man’s shrewd suspicions.
“Now, don’t yu’ go for to get a-blamin’ poor Shorty for everythin’. He ain’t figurin’ to do yu’ no harm. P’r’aps th’ nitchie was only meanin’ yore stock wanted turnin’ out of that god-forsaken pasture o’ yores, onto th’ range again, where they can rustle a bite. It’s a blasted shame, yore coopin’ ’em up like that. That’s what old ‘Roll-in-th’-Mud’ meant.”
Thus he chided, but Tucker only shook his gray head obstinately, and clung firmly to his pet conviction.
“Had any more visitors th’ last two or three days besides Shorty?” queried Benton.
The old man struggled with his liquor-fumed wits awhile, torturing his memory.
“Let’s see,” he said slowly. “W’y, yes!... That theer young feller—Scotty Robbins, I think’s ’is nyme—wot works fer th’ Wharnock outfit ... ’e come arahnd abaht fower d’ys ago. ’E’s come ’ere ter see me lots o’ times. ’E said once as ’ow ’e wished ’e ’ad th’ money ter buy me plice. ’E seems a nice, kind-’earted young feller—that. Sometimes ’e brings another feller wot works wiv ’im along too. ’E’s a big chap—’is nyme’s Fisk.”