“I’ll swar’ it ain’t the Padre,” cried Curly warmly.
“It sure ain’t,” agreed Slaney, shaking his serious head.
“The Padre?” cried Abe, with a scornful laugh. “Why, I’d sooner guess it’s me.”
Beasley nodded.
“You’re dead right ther’, boys,” he said, with hearty good-will. “It sure ain’t the Padre. He’s got religion, an’ though I’m ’most allus curious ’bout folks with religion—it ain’t right to say ther’s any queer reason fer ’em gettin’ it. Then the Padre’s bin here nigh twenty years. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin’ around these hills fer twenty years! It’s easy fer a feller raised to ’em, like Buck. But when you’ve been a feller in a swell position East, to come an’ hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it’s—it’s astonishin’. Still, that don’t make no diff’rence. It can’t be the Padre. He’s got his reasons fer stayin’ around here. Wal, nigh all of us has got reasons fer bein’ here. An’ it ain’t fer us to ask why. No, though I don’t usually trust folks who get religion sudden, I ain’t goin’ agin the Padre. He’s a white man, sure.”
“The whitest around here,” cried Curly. He eyed Beasley steadily. “Say, you,” he went on suspiciously, “who give you all this?”
It was the question Beasley had been waiting for. But he would rather have had it from some one else. He twisted his cigar across his lips and spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth.
“Wal,” he began deliberately, “I don’t guess it’s good med’cine talkin’ names. But I don’t mind sayin’ right here this thing’s made me feel mean. The story’s come straight from that—that—Jonah gal’s farm. Yep, it makes me feel mean. Ther’s nothin’ but trouble about that place now—’bout her. I ain’t got over Ike and Pete. Wal, I don’t guess we’ll get to the rights of that now. They wer’ two bright boys. Here are us fellers runnin’ this camp fer all we know, all good citizens, mind, an’ ther’ ain’t nothin’ amiss. We ke’p the place good an’ clean of rackets. We’re goin’ to boom into a big concern, an’ we’re goin’ to make our piles—clean. An’ we got to put up with the wust sort of mischief—from this farm. It ain’t right. It ain’t a square shake by a sight. I sez when ther’s Jonahs about they need to be put right out. An’ mark you, that gal, an’ that farm are Jonahs. Now we got this sheriff feller comin’ around with his dep’ties chasin’ glory after a crook. He’ll get his nose into everybody. An’ sheriffs’ noses is quick at gettin’ a nasty smell. I ain’t sayin’ a thing about any citizen in this place—but I don’t guess any of us has store halos about us, an’ halos is the only things’ll keep any feller safe when sheriffs get around.”
A murmur of approval greeted his argument. Few of the men in the camp desired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. There were few enough among them who would care to have the ashes of their past disturbed by any law officer. Beasley had struck the right note for his purpose.