[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—TESTING THE FRIAR’S NERVE]
As soon as we had eaten breakfast next mornin’, the Friar sez: “You, bein’ one o’ the earth animals, have never had much chance to see a view. Yesterday your curiosity was itchin’ so ’at I doubt if you could have told a mountain peak from a Mexican hat; but now that you have temporarily suppressed your thirst for gossip, had a good sleep, and a better breakfast, drag yourself out to the front porch and take a bird’s-eye view of the world.”
Well, it was worth it, it certainly was worth it! What he called the front porch, was the ledge after it had flipped itself around the jutting; and when a feller stood on it, he felt plenty enough like a bird to make it interestin’. The Big Horns ran across the top o’ the picture about a hundred an’ forty miles to the north, and gettin’ all blended in with the clouds. On the other two sides were different members of the Shoshone family, most o’ which I knew by sight from any angle; and down below was miles an’ miles of country spread out like a map, but more highly colored.
“Friar,” I sez, “you’re a wealthy man.”
This tickled him a lot, ’cause he was as proud o’ that view as if he’d painted it. “I am, Happy,” he said, “and I have yielded to a wealthy man’s temptations. Any one who comes here will be welcome; but I own up, I have kept this place a secret to have it all to myself.”
“A man like you needs some quiet place to consider in,” sez I.
“Get thee behind me, Satan, get thee behind me,” cried the Friar. “I have been on far too friendly terms with that excuse for many a long month. But I do enjoy this place; so I am going to let you help me lay in my winter’s supply of wood, and then make you a joint member in full standing.”
We packed wood along that spider thread of a path all morning; and finally I got so it didn’t phaze me any more ’n it did him. He sang at his work most of the time, and I joined in with him whenever I felt so moved, though it did strike me ’at this was a funny way to keep a place secret; and my idee is that he sang to ease his conscience by showin’ it that he wasn’t sneakin’ about his treasure.
I remember him mighty plain as he walked before me on the ledge, totin’ a big log on his shoulder, and singin’ the one ’at begins, “Hark, my soul! It is the Lord!” This was one he fair used to raise himself in, and it seemed as if we two were climbin’ right up on the air, plumb into the sky. When he’d let himself out this way, he’d fill me so full of a holy kind of devilment, that it would ’a’ given me joy to have leaped off the cliff with him, and take chances on goin’ up or down.
We had about filled his wood place, and were goin’ back after the last load when just as he swung around a corner, I saw his hand go up as though warnin’ me to stop; and I froze in my tracks. He hadn’t been singin’ this trip, for a wonder; but the next moment I heard a sound which purt nigh jarred me off. It was a low, deep growl which I instantly recognized as belongin’ to Olaf the Swede. Olaf didn’t talk with much brogue, though when he got excited he had his own fashion for hitchin’ words together.