“Where’ll I find Restless?” he inquired. “Where’s he working?”
“Guess I see him over by Peter Blunt’s shack. Him an’ Peter wus gassin’ together, while you wus up ther’ seein’ Eve Marsham,” Smallbones replied meaningly. “I ’lows Peter’s mostly nosin’ around when–––”
“Thanks, I’ll ride over.”
Jim made as though to ride off. He understood the spiteful nature of this little busybody, and was in no mood to listen to him now. But Smallbones was something of a leech when he chose. He had seen the whiskey bottle sticking out of Jim’s coat pocket, and his Barnriff thirst and curiosity were agog, for Jim was at no time a man to waste money in drink.
“Say, givin’ a party?” he sneered, pointing at the bottle.
“Yes, a party to a dead friend,” replied Jim, with a wintry smile. “It’s inexpensive, less trouble, and there’s more for myself. So long.”
A minute or two later Smallbones was serving Angel Gay in his store. He had just sold him a butcher’s knife of inferior quality at double New York prices.
“Say,” he observed, in the intimate manner of fellow villagers. “Who’s dead? I ain’t heard nuthin’. 59 Mebbe you’ll know, your bizness kind o’ runnin’ in that line.”
“Ain’t heerd tell,” the butcher replied, with a solemn shake of his large head. “An’ most o’ them come my way, too,” he added, with thoughtful pride. “Here, wait.” He drew out a greasy note-book. “Y’see I kind o’ keep re-cords o’ likely folks. Mebbe some o’ the names’ll prompt you. Now ther’s M. Wilkes, she’s got a swellin’, I don’t rightly know wher’––ther’s folk talks of it bein’ toomer––deadly toomer. You ain’t heerd if she’s gone?” he inquired hopefully, while he thumbed the pages of his book over.
“Nope. I ain’t heerd,” said Smallbones. “But I don’t guess it’s a woman. Friend o’ Jim Thorpe’s.”