“And you think he might have had something——” Nevil’s words came slowly, like a man who realizes the danger of saying too much.
“Wal, it don’t seem possible, I guess. Them two was killed by the Injuns, sure. An’ she—I guess she ain’t never seen him.”
A slight sigh escaped Nevil. 205
“That’s so,” he said deliberately.
“Howsum, I guess I’m goin’ to look around for this feller. Y’ see Rosebud’s li’ble to like him. Mebbe he ain’t well heeled for dollars, an’ she’s that tender-hearted she might—I’ve got his pictur’. Mebbe I’ll show it around—eh, what’s up?” Seth inquired in his blandest tone.
Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently.
“Nothing. I want another pipe.”
“Ah.” Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. “The pictur’ was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an’ he hadn’t no moustache nor nothin’, which kind o’ makes things hard. As I was sayin’, I’m goin’ to show it around some, an’ maybe some one ’ll rec’nize the feller. That’s why I got yarnin’ to you. Mebbe you ken locate him.”
As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil’s hand.
The wood-cutter took it with a great assumption of indifference, and found himself looking down on a result of early photographic art. It was the picture of a very young man with an overshot mouth and a thin, narrow face. But, as Seth had said, he wore no moustache, and his hair was still thick.