“I’ve seen you before, stranger,” said Shamberlain.
“Yes,” said the man, in his shuddering whisper.
“It’s Armstrong from Oregon, from the Umpqua, aint it? You don’t look as if you were after cattle this time. Where’s your brother?”
“Murdered.”
“I allowed something had happened, because he warnt along. I never seed two men stick so close as you and he did. They didn’t kill him without gettin’ a lick at you, I see. Who was it? Indians?”
“Worse.”
“I reckon I know why you’re after us, then.”
“I can’t waste time, Shamberlain,” said Armstrong, in a hurried whisper. “I’ll tell you in two words what’s happened to me, and p’r’aps you can help me to find the men I mean to find.”
“I’ll help you, if I know how, Armstrong. I haint seen no two in my life, old country or new country, saints or gentiles, as I’d do more for ’n you and your brother. I’ve olluz said, ef the world was chock full of Armstrongs, Paradise wouldn’t pay, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob mout just as well blow out their candle and go under a bushel-basket, unless a half-bushel would kiver ’em.”
The stranger seemed insensible to this compliment. He went on in the same whisper, full of agony, pain, and weariness. While he talked, his panting horse drew up his lip and whinnied, showing his long, yellow teeth. The spirit of his rider had entered him. He was impatient of this dalliance.