Part 24 (2/2)

”Are there any marks up there?” he asked of Spider.

”There's some blood streaks on a stone,” sez Spider.

”Did you notice 'em?” asked the Friar of Badger-face.

”Yes,” sez he; ”but they don't mean nothin'.”

”Let's go up an' look at 'em,” sez the Friar, so we all clumb up.

They pointed out just where Bud Fisher had laid when they found him; and close beside him was a smooth white stone with blood marks on it.

The Friar examined the lay o' the ledge; but it didn't tell nothin', so finally he got down on his knees an' studied the blood-stained stone.

Presently he nodded his head and straightened up. ”Examine that stone,” he said, pointin' with his fingers. We all crowded about an'

studied it. The' was finger an' thumb prints all over it; but if you looked close, you could make out the rude image of a man pullin' up a gun which had exploded on the edge of a ledge. It was a smudgey, shakey affair, but if ya looked just right you could make it out. Yet, even this didn't floor Badger-face.

”The Swede there did that himself,” he growled; ”and this makes him out sneakier 'n we thought him. Let's hang him, and get rid o' this foolishness.”

”Flannigan,” sez the Friar in cold, hard tones, ”you have gone too far this time. If you had hung Olaf at first, you might have done it from a proverted sense o' justice; but to do it now would be murder; and your own men wouldn't help. Do any of you men chew tobacco?”

If he had asked for a can o' face-paint, we wouldn't 'a' been more surprised; but to show the hold the Friar had gained over that crowd, every feller there but Badger-face held out his plug to him.

”Make some tobacco juice, Olaf,” he said.

Olaf bit off a hunk the size of a walnut from his own piece, an'

proceeded to make juice, as though his life depended upon the amount of it. ”Wet your thumb and fingers with it, and make marks on the white stone,” commanded the Friar.

Olaf did so; and when we saw the difference in size and shape, we savvied the game.

”Olaf took Bud's hand and made the marks with Bud's own blood,” sez Badger-face.

”Did any one here ever try to handle a dead man's hand?” asked the Friar; and that settled it. We all nodded our heads, except Badger-face, an' he had sense enough to see 'at he had lost the deal, so he didn't say nothin'.

”What I can't see is, why he didn't write,” sez the Friar.

”He couldn't write,” chirps up two punchers at once, an' then they took the rope off Olaf's neck.

They talked it over and decided that the best thing to do was to bury Bud Fisher right there in the canon. The' was a little cave on the ledge back o' where we were standin' so two o' the punchers went down where they had him laid out under the slickers, an' brought him up. We had to hoist him on ropes, an' the Friar looked a long time into his face.

It was just a lad's face: not bad nor hardened; just the face of a mischievous boy, weary after a day's sport. We all took a look, an'

then put him in the little cave an' heaped clods over him an' piled stones on until the door was blocked shut again' varmints.

The Friar sat down on a big rock-he had worked as hard as any of us-and sat thinkin' with his chin in his hand. The Cross brand fellers muttered among themselves for a moment, an' then one of 'em took off his hat, an' sez, ”Don't ya think ya'd ought to speak somethin' over him, parson?”

”Do you want me to?” asked the Friar. And they all nodded their heads.

So the Friar, he took off his battered hat and stood up before us an'

spoke a sermon, while we took off our hats, an' sat around on stones to listen.

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