He was out at a temporary camp at one of his cuttings with Elia, who, since his first sojourn with the prospector, now frequently joined him in his work. They had just finished dinner, and Peter was smoking and resting. Elia was perched like a bird on an upturned box, watching his friend with cold, thoughtful eyes. Suddenly he blurted out an irrelevant remark.
“Folks has quit chasin’ Will Henderson,” he said.
“Eh?”
Peter stared at him intently. He was becoming accustomed 191 to the curious twists of the lad’s warped mind, but he wondered what he was now driving at.
“He’s too slim for ’em,” Elia went on, gazing steadily into the fire. “He’s slim, an’––bad. But he ain’t as bad as me.”
Peter smiled at the naive confession.
“You’re talking foolishly,” he said, in a tone his smile belied.
“Maybe I am. Say, I could track Will.”
“Well?”
“I’m goin’ to. But I’ll need your help. See here, Peter, I’ll need to get away from sis, an’ if I get out without sayin’, she’ll set half the village lookin’ to find me. If I’m with you, she won’t. See?”