Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended. "Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" he said, turning away.
"Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly. "But I'll not take the hunch."
"Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.
Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of cottonwoods.
"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. Maybe Creech's not the only loony one hereabouts."
Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and worried him all day. After supper he decided to walk down into the village, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path. When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he became gloomy. Bostil's right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking. Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached the porch.
"Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark. "Sure makes—me—puff to climb—up this mountain."
Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them. He was the more surprised to see Holley unmistakably amiable.
"Hello, Holley! How are you?" he replied. "Have a seat."
"Wal, I'm right spry fer an old bird. But I can't climb wuth a d—n .... Say, this here beats Bostil's view."