Part 17 (1/2)
”No.”
”A pretty squaw?”
”Ha, ha. No, not this time; they're too d-- scarce.”
”Well, what did you find, man? Don't be so mysterious.”
”I found this,” and Pritchen drew from beneath his buckskin jacket a small book, which had been kept in place by his leathern belt. ”Look,”
he said, holding it up to view, ”isn't that a find! 'Robert Browning's Selected Poems,' that's what it is.”
”Oh, is that all,” replied one in disgust. ”Deal the cards, Tim, and let's have another game.”
”No, it's not all by a d-- sight,” and Pritchen helped himself to another plateful of beans. ”But then if you fellows don't want to hear the rest, it's all right; it'll keep.”
”Come, Bill,” coaxed Perdue, ”never mind Missouri; all he thinks about is cards. Let's have yer yarn.”
”Well, what would you think if you found a book like that miles from nowhere?” replied Pritchen, who was most anxious to tell his story.
”'Tis queer, when ye come to think of it,” soliloquized Perdue with a characteristic nod of the head. ”It's very much out of the ordinary, I should say.”
”And suppose you were out hunting,” went on Pritchen, ”and, reaching the Ibex cabin late at night, found the place looking as if h.e.l.l had been let loose, and this book lying on the floor, what would you think?
You'd wonder a d-- lot, wouldn't you?”
”Sure,” a.s.sented Perdue.
”And suppose in the morning, being somewhat suspicious, you nosed around a bit outside, and found a steep rock with two letters and a cross cut upon it, you would wonder some more, wouldn't you?”
”Y'bet,” broke in Missouri, who had forgotten his cards in the story.
”Then when you saw wolf tracks on every hand, the snow all dug up at the foot of the rock, torn pieces of clothes lying around, and other things too terrible to mention, you would feel very sick, wouldn't you?”
”My G.o.d, yes!” exclaimed the men. ”Did you find all that, and where?”
”And what would you think,” continued Pritchen, thoroughly enjoying the sensation he was causing, ”if the man responsible for it all came to Kla.s.san and never said a word about it to any one?”
”That it looked mighty suspicious,” replied Perdue. ”But is there any one here who knows about the matter?”
”Maybe this'll tell the tale,” and Pritchen opened the book he was holding in his hand. ”See, look for yourselves; there's something to think over.”
”Read it, Bill; let's have it, quick.”
Holding the volume to the flickering candle light, Pritchen read the following, written in a firm hand:
”Keith Steadman, ”First Prize for proficiency in English Literature.
”Collegiate School, ”Windsor, N. S.
”Christmas, 18--.”
”What, is that the parson?” asked Tim.