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.
