A BARGAIN
Ira did not see anything remarkable in Westy’s having shot the deer
twice. He was surprised and amused at the boy, having shot it once; it
had caused him to regard Westy as a youthful hero of the true dime novel
brand. But he had not much respect for Westy’s skill as a marksman. And
he was quite ready to believe that two shots had been required to “drop”
the deer. Six or eight shots would not greatly have surprised him.
What puzzled him was the undoubted fact (established by the telltale
tobacco package) that Luke Meadows had very lately been in the
neighborhood of the killing. He had not attached any particular
significance to this package until he had seen similar packages in
Luke’s deserted home. Now he found himself wondering how Westy had
happened to be at Luke’s house, and why Luke had so suddenly gone away.
The true explanation of the whole business never occurred to Ira. That
anybody could voluntarily make the sacrifice that Westy had made was not
within the range of his conception. Probably he had never done a mean
thing in all his checkered career. But, on the other hand, he had
probably never done anything very self-sacrificing. To kidnap a
barbarous king was certainly not the act of a gentleman (as Westy’s
mother had observed) but it was not _mean_....
The nearest that Ira’s cogitations brought him to the truth was his
suspicion that somehow or other Westy and Luke Meadows had both been
involved in the lawless act of killing and that Westy (being the
financier of the pair) had been frightened into taking the blame. In
this case it seemed likely enough that Luke (aware of his dubious
reputation) would depart before Westy should have time to weaken and
incriminate him. This was about the best that he could do with the
rather puzzling circumstances, and several pipefuls of Howling Bulldog
Plug Cut were required to establish this theory.
He had no intention of reopening the unhappy subject with Aunt Mira. It
pleased him to have her believe that Westy was a daring and law-defying
huntsman. And the whole matter would probably have died out of his own
mind in the preoccupation of his farm duties, save for two incidents
which restored his curiosity and revived his interest. Both of these
happened the next day, Saturday.
On that afternoon, Ira took the milk cans to the little station at
Dawson’s and stopped in the post office on the way back. The postmaster,
Jeb Speyer, handed him a letter or two and a rolled up newspaper
addressed to Aunt Mira. On the wrapper of this newspaper were written
the words _marked copy_ and Ira contemplated the address and the
postmark with that ludicrous air of one who seldom reads.
“Guess it’s from that youngster yer had daown t’h’ farm,” commented Mr.
Speyer; “Bridgeberry, hain’t it? That youngster oughter be walloped, and
by gol, I’d be th’ one ter do it, I tell yer; shootin’ up th’ woods
outer season.”
“Well, I d’no,” drawled Ira, ruefully. “I’d kinder think twice ’fore I’d
wallop that kid. He jes soon shoot yer down as look at yer; shot a
school teacher fer givin’ him a bad mark last winter, I heerd.”
“_I want ter know!_” ejaculated Mr. Speyer.
“Yer got ter handle that kid with gloves,” said Ira. “He expects to be a
train robber when he grows up. Let’s have a paper of tobaccy, Jeb.”
“What yer reckon’s become of Luke Meadows, Iry?” Jeb asked.
“Him? Oh, I s’pect the kid killed him and hid him away somewheres. The
whole truth o’ that business ain’t out yet, Jeb.”
“Think so, huh?” said Jeb shrewdly.
“There’s queer things ’bout it,” said Ira darkly.
On the way home he paused at the house of Terry, the game warden. He had
no object in doing this but Terry’s little house was on the way and the
game warden was nailing the deerskin to the barn door, so Ira stopped to
chat. Terry was the terror of game law violators the county over, but he
was a thrifty soul, and benefited so much by illegal killings as to sell
deer and fox skins to the market. Thus poor Luke Meadows put money in
the pocket of Terry, the game warden. Ira’s broad code of morals was not
opposed to this sort of thing and he stood by, chatting idly with Terry
about the value of the skin.
“I got the bullets, I got the bullets,” said Terry’s scrawny little
daughter, exhibiting them proudly in the palm of her outstretched hand.
“See? I got the bullets.”
Half-interested, and more to please the child than for any other reason,
Ira glanced at the bullets. Then, suddenly, he took them in his own hand
and examined them closely.
What interested him about them was that they were not alike.
“These outer the deer, Terry?” he asked.
“Yop, ’n’ don’t you put ’em in yer mouth nuther,” said Terry, addressing
the child instead of Ira. “Them’s poison, them is.”
“I tell yer what I’ll do,” said Ira, fumbling in his pockets. “You give
me them bullets and I’ll give you ten cents an’ yer can buy ice cream
and lolly-pops and them ain’t poison, are they, Terry?”
Terry was too engrossed to review this proposition, but the child
complied with alacrity.
“Now me an’ you is made a bargain,” said Ira. “An’ if I get hungry I can
chew up the bullets ’cause poison don’t hurt me. Once down in South
Americy when I deserted from a ship I et poison toads when I was hidin’
from cannibals; you ask Auntie Miry if that ain’t so. Ain’t that so,
Terry?”
“Reckon it must be,” said Terry, preoccupied.