Part 21 (1/2)

”Yes,” sez I.

”It'll make folks think 'at I'm afraid for my skin, and have you along for protection,” sez he, gettin' earnest.

”If you had good judgment, you would be afraid for your skin,” sez I.

”I tell you that Olaf is after your blood. He's one o' the worst; he kills with his bare hands when he gets the chance.”

”Fine, fine!” sez the Friar again, his eyes glowin' joyous. ”I'd have a right to defend myself with my hands, Happy. I would have a right to do this, for the sake of Olaf, you see-to prevent him from risking his own soul by committin' murder. This is a great chance for me, Happy; now, please, please, go on back like a good fellow.”

I was secretly tickled at the argument the Friar had put up for a chance at physical warfare-and a barehand fight between him and Olaf would have been worth goin' a long way to see-but I was as obstinate as either of 'em; so I just said 'at I was goin' along.

”Well, you're not goin' with, me,” sez the Friar, as pouty as a schoolboy. ”I'll not speak to ya, and I'll not have a thing to do with ya”; and he threw down his log and glared at me.

I took a certain amount o' pride because the Friar lived up to his own standards; but I also found a certain deep-rooted amus.e.m.e.nt in havin'

him slip out from under 'em for a spell and display a human disposition which was purty much kindred to my own. ”What do you purpose doin' with that club, Friar?” I asked, pointin' to the log he had flung down.

He pulled in his glare and looked to be a little discomposed. ”Why I-I'm livin' in a cave I got back there.”

”Are you dead set again' havin' a little company?” sez I, slow an'

insinuatin', ”or are ya livin' alone?”

First off, he was inclined to be resentful, then he grinned, shouldered his log again, and said: ”Come and see.”

I follered him back into the hills until we came to a little park in which his ponies were grazin', and then I hobbled mine, cached my gear alongside his, and trailed after him again. His path turned a crag and then skirted along the edge of a cliff as straight up and down as the real truth. The path kept gettin' narrower, until every time the Friar turned a corner ahead of me, I expected to see him walkin' off in the air with the log still on his shoulder.

Presently I turned a corner around which he had disappeared, and there wasn't a soul in sight. The ledge still led along the cliff; but it had got thinner than a lawyer's excuse, and a worm couldn't have walked along it without hangin' on. While I stood there puzzlin' about it, a hand reached out o' the side of the cliff, and the Friar's voice said mockingly: ”Take my hand, little one; and then shut your eyes for fear you might get dizzy.”

Then I saw a jag of rock stickin' out just above my head, I grabbed it with my left hand, and swung around into what was the mouth of a cave.

It was nothin' but a crack about eighteen inches wide, and the far side was sunk in enough to keep it hid from where I was standin'. The Friar was standin' a few feet back in the entrance with his log leanin' up again' the side. ”I know not what other animals may have sought shelter here,” he said, ”but for the past three years this has been my castle, and, Happy Hawkins,”-here the Friar bowed low-”obstinate and unreasonable as you are, I offer you a hearty welcome.”

The Friar said this in fun, but the' was an undertone to it which tightened the laces around my heart consid'able. Well, that cave was a sure enough surprise; he had three or four pelts and a couple of Injun blankets on the floor, he had a couple o' barrels fixed to catch snow water, he had some cookin' tools; and books! Say, he must have had as many as a hundred books, all of 'em hard-sh.e.l.ls, and lookin' so edicated an' officious that I had to take off my hat before I had nerve enough to begin readin' the t.i.tles.

After I'd taken everything in, I sat down in an easy chair he'd made out o' saplin's and rawhide, and looked all about; but I couldn't see any signs of their bein' any other rooms to this cave; and then I jumped square for the mark, and sez: ”Friar, the's a lot o' talk about you havin' run off with Kit Murray. Now I want the straight of it.”

His face went grave and a little hurt. ”It's strange,” he said after a time, ”how hard it is for a man to believe in his own guilt, and how easy for him to believe in the guilt of his neighbor. Have you had any dinner?”

”Yes,” sez I. ”I didn't know just where I was headin'; so I et three different times this mornin' to make sure of havin' enough to run on in case of emergency.”

”It's a fine thing to be an outdoor animal,” sez the Friar, smilin'.

”Well then, I've made up my mind to take you to see Kit Murray.”

He didn't waste any time askin' me not to talk about what was other folks' affairs; he just went to the door, grabbed the jag of rock, swung around to the ledge, and I follered after.

We saddled up, rode down a windin' path 'at I'd never heard of before, and then rode up again until we came to a little clump o' swamp shrubbery, backed up again' the north face o' Mount Mizner. We follered a twisty path through this and finally came out on an open s.p.a.ce in which stood a fair-sized cabin. He whistled a five-note call, and the door was opened by an old woman who was a stranger to me.

”Mother s.h.i.+pley, this is Happy Hawkins,” sez he. ”How's Kit?”

The old woman gave me a gimlet look, and then her sharp features expanded to a smile, and she bobbed her head. ”Kit's gettin' hard to manage,” sez she.

We went into the cabin, and found Kit with a bandage around her ankle, sittin' in a rockin' chair, and lookin' patiently disgusted. She was a fine-lookin' girl, with a fair streak of boy in her, and she had never had enough practice at bein' an invalid to s.h.i.+ne at it. Her face lit up at the Friar; but her gaze was mighty inquirin' when she turned it at me.