“Hungry, Buck?” he inquired.
“So!”
“Ah! then sit right down here, boy, an’ light your pipe. There’s things I want to say—first.”
“Get right ahead.” Buck drew up a chair, and obediently filled and lit his pipe.
“Life’s pretty twisted,” the Padre began, his steady gray eyes smiling contemplatively. “So twisted, it makes you wonder some. That girl’s happier now, because I told her there were no such things as cusses. Yes, it’s all queer.”
He reached out and helped himself from Buck’s tobacco pouch. Then he, too, filled and lit his pipe.
“You’ve never asked me why I live out here,” he went on presently. “Never since I’ve known you. Once or twice I’ve seen the question in your eyes, but—it never stayed there long. You don’t ask many questions, do you, Buck?”
The Padre puffed slowly at his pipe. His manner was that of a man looking back upon matters which had suddenly acquired an added interest for him. Yet the talk he desired to have with this youngster inspired an ill-flavor.
“If folks want to answer questions ther’ ain’t no need to ask ’em.” Buck’s philosophy interested the other, and he nodded.
“Just so. That’s how it is with me—now. I want to tell you—what you’ve never asked. You’ll see the reason presently.”