“You’re a winner, Dan Evans!” he exclaimed. “Have a cigar.”
Young Dan shook his head to the cigar and told his adventures of the day, up to the very minute of telling. He raised his short coat of wool-lined blanketing from the floor and held it up to the other’s view.
“And here I am; and here’s where Luke Watt burnt two holes in my jacket with his revolver,” he concluded.
Archie Wallace examined the holes in the coat without a word. Then he lit a fresh cigar from the butt of an old one, returned the green shade to the lamp and sat well back in his chair. He gazed at the lamp-shade in meditative silence. His manner impressed Young Dan. Suddenly he turned his glance upon his visitor and asked abruptly, “Can you cook?”
The nature of the question was so unexpected that Young Dan was far too astonished to reply. He blushed and stared, wondering if he was being made fun of.
“Can you cook?” repeated the deputy-sheriff.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll oblige me by goin’ to the kitchen and gettin’ supper for the two of us,” said the official. “Here are matches, and you’ll find a lamp on the table. The kettle’s b’ilin’, the coffee-pot an’ fryin’ pan are on the back of the stove, and there’s ham and eggs all ready set out on the dresser. I’m a bum cook myself. There’s an old hound somewheres in the house who is the only person besides myself who can stomach my cookery. He won’t bite you if you treat him friendly. While you’re gettin’ supper I’ll sit right here an’ study over what you told me. It needs some study.”
So Young Dan started for the kitchen. In the narrow hall he met the old hound, which seemed delighted with him and followed eagerly into the kitchen. It was an extraordinary kitchen. All the dishes were jumbled up on the table, and not one of them was clean. But the fire of dry hardwood was burning clear in the stove and both pot and kettle were full and boiling. He went briskly to work; and in half an hour all the dishes were washed, the table was laid and supper was ready.
The deputy-sheriff swallowed his first cup of coffee in silence. Then he said, “Jim Conley’s a trap-thief all right, all right—but you can’t prove it on him. He’s a liar I reckon, and I know darned well you ain’t a liar—but his word about that trap and whatever he took from it is as good as yours to the Law. So I can’t round him up—but I can scare all the blood and gin in his nose back to his rotten heart.”