“The men who found him say that the horses of the murderers were, many of them shod.”
Young shrugged his shoulders.
“The boy should know better than they. I am surprised, Brother Ephriam, that you should give any credit to their crazy tales.” He spoke in a hard, rasping voice, and Raymond was aware, that for some reason which he did not understand, it was distasteful to Young that there should be any doubts entertained on this point.
“What are you going to do with him?” Young demanded, after a moment's silence. The old man looked blank.
“It rests with them, not me. I suppose they will try to find his kin.”
“Yes, but where, Brother Ephriam?”
“In Benson, wherever that is,” and Raymond looked puzzled. He added: “It will not be difficult to learn. I think—”
But Young cut him short.
“Brother Ephriam, don't think. The boy's father is dead; his friends are dead; what more do you want to know?”
Ephriam hesitated; he seemed about to speak, but was silent. There was a long pause. Young looked at him with his uncertain grey eyes, narrowed to a slit. Here was a good man, a man of scruples and convictions, and evidently capable of a most unsaintly stubbornness, in whom it would be neither wise nor expedient to fully confide. At last he said: