"How about this brother-in-law of yours, Pete?"
Again he was deaf. He picked up his axe, appearing to weigh the
resumption of his task against a reply to this straight question. He
must have found the alternative too dreadful; he leaned upon the axe,
thus winning something of the dignity of labour, with none of its pains,
and grudgingly asked:
"Mebbe some liars tell you in conversation about that old
b'other-in-law?"
"Of course! Many nice people tell me every day. They tell me all about
him. I rather hear you tell me. Is he a Christian?"
"He's one son-of-gun, pure and simple--that old feller. He caps the
climax."
"Yes; I know all about that. He's a bad man. I hear everything about
him. Now you tell me again. You can tell better than liars."
"One genuine son-of-gun!" persisted Pete, shrewdly keeping to general
terms.
"Oh, very well!" I rose from the log I was sitting on, yawning my
indifference. "I know everything he ever did. Other people tell me all
the time."
I moved off a few steps under the watchful side glance. It worked. One
of Pete's slim, womanish hands fluttered up in a movement of arrest.
"Those liars tell you about one time he shoot white man off horse going
by?"
"Certainly!"
"That white man still have smallpox to give all Injins he travel to; so
they go 'n' vote who kill him off quick, and my b'other-in-law he win
it."