The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars. Frederic Harold
and he didn't – and he'd begrudge him this bread here, if he knew it."
The deputy marshal nodded comprehendingly, and blew the smoke through his pipe.
"Charged me and Moak thirty-five cents apiece for our breakfasts this mornin', and twenty cents for the horse," he said, in a musing tone. "Reckon he's about the tightest old skinflint on the whole turnpike – and that's sayin' a good deal. So he got drafted, did he? Should 'a' thought he was too old."
"He ain't as old as he looks," explained Job. "He's a good deal meaner, though. I'm glad o' one thing, anyway. I ain't goin' back there any more, except to git my clothes and my money. I'm goin' to live in here with the old man, and kind o' look after him. I promised – "
"Promised Mose, eh?" broke in the deputy marshal.
"Yes – if you want to know – I did promise Mose! You can't touch me for that!"
"Why, that's skinnin' alive, that is – jest for that alone," said Hazzard, with portentous gravity, "to say nothin' of scootin' over here to give warnin', and bringin' that bread there in your pocket, and so on. Why, it'll puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to find punishments bad enough for you."
Job looked him searchingly in the eye for a full minute, then held up the fettered hand again.
"Say, unlock this, will you?" he said, unabashed. "I knew you was foolin' all the time," he added, as the other produced the key from his pocket and turned the lock. "I could tell it right from the start."
"Me? me foolin'?" asked Hazzard, with simulated surprise. "Why, you're crazy, boy!"
"No, I spotted it right off," Job replied, eager to put into words the idea that had suddenly come to him. "Why, anybody could tell that. A sure-enough dead shot like you wouldn't fire ten shots at a man and not hit him once, if he wasn't foolin'. It was as plain as the nose on your face – you didn't really want to catch poor Mose. That's what made me take a shine to you, right off."
Norman Hazzard blew more smoke through his pipe, and grinned to himself, and even gave an abrupt little laugh aloud, shifting on the instant to an air of grave imperturbability.
"You mustn't talk like that – that is, outside," he said. "It might give folks wrong notions. Besides, I tell you you're mistaken. I never fired more to kill in all my life. But of course – the old man here – p'r'aps that does make it a little different."
He looked down as he spoke to where old Asa lay, under the overcoat, and Job felt sure that there was a change on his face – a change toward kindliness.
"Well, anyway," the boy persisted, "you wouldn't fire to kill now, if you was to catch up to Mose, and what's more, I don't believe you're goin' to try to catch up to him, neither."
"I ain't, eh?" broke in the deputy marshal. "You wait till Moak gets back with the snow-shoes. We'll run him down in no time. He ain't got no more chance than a lame mud-turtle."
The words sounded savage enough, and Job, scanning the lean, tanned face of the speaker, found his mind conjuring up again visions of those two other wrong-doers whom this hunter of men had shot down.
And yet, somehow, there seemed to be a sort of relenting twinkle in those sharp, cold, gray eyes of his.
CHAPTER VI.
A HOME IN THE WOODS
The pursuit of Mose Whipple had to be postponed, as it turned out, whether the deputy marshal relented or not.
It was late, for one thing, before Moak returned from his quest after snow-shoes, and what was worse, he came back empty-handed. He had driven about, over and through the drifted roads, for miles, directed by local rumors and surmise, to one after another of the isolated farm-houses scattered over the district, but had found no snow-shoes.
He was too cold and stiff, and too much annoyed with the day's experiences, to listen to any further delay, but sat doggedly in the sleigh, out on the road in front of the Whipple house, until the deputy marshal, followed by Job, came out to him.
"No, I ain't goin' to get out again, Norm," he said querulously. "I've had enough of this fool's errand. I'm froze solid now in one position, and I'm gittin' used to it. I don't want to climb out and limber up, and then have to freeze stiff all over again in some new shape. Just you give it up for a bad job, and come along. We can get to Octavius by supper-time if we look sharp."
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