“Ah, that’s a man all through. You reckon ther’s gold on Caribou, and you’ll chase it to a finish. Say, my Perse ’ud just love you to death for that.”
Wilder watched Mary Justicia moving silently around the room preparing the table.
“Where did—Perse—get his notion from, mam?” Wilder inquired disarmingly.
In a moment Hesther’s brown eyes became serious. There crept into them an abstracted far-off look. And in repose a curious sadness marked her expression.
“Why, the Kid’s father. The missionary, Marty Le Gros, who was murdered by the Euralians nigh eighteen years back.”
Wilder started. A flood of excitement hurled through his body. He almost sprang from the square, raw-hide seat of his chair. But he controlled himself with an effort and spoke with a calmness that betrayed nothing of his sudden emotion.
“You said Perse was only thirteen,” he argued.
“That’s so,” Hesther nodded, setting the tea-kettle to boil beside the stew. Then she turned about to the two children squatting on the doorstep. “That’s Perse,” she said, indicating the boy who was listening avidly to the talk. “He’s only heard of the yarn that the Kid’s pore father made a big ‘strike.’ I know he made it. Jim and me—Jim’s my dead husband who used to run the Fur Valley Store at Fort Cupar—handled the chunks of yellow stuff he showed us. They were wonderful. Oh, yes, he made a big ‘strike’—somewhere. But I don’t guess it was on Caribou. We were to have known. He was going to hand us the yarn. But he didn’t. You see, they got after him, an’ murdered him. So no one ever knew. You see Perse hasn’t a notion beyond Caribou. So he reckons if ther’s gold anywhere in creation it must be on Caribou.”
“He’s a wise kid.”
Hesther laughed.