“In Likely I went to bed the same day I got up and I slept in my pants with the money and can say I will be glad when--”
Here Scipio Le Moyne looked up from his letter, for the old gentleman stood in the door and wished him good morning. It was not morning, but let that go. The old gentleman had taken his observations through the window behind Scipio and had been much pleased to notice the six-shooter among the blankets. He had observed everything: the pie, the letter, all things inside the cabin, and also that outside the cabin Scipio’s horse was grazing in the little field, and therefore not instantly serviceable. His own animal he had tied to a tree a little distance within the timber.
Scipio’s entire inward arrangements gave a monstrous leap, but his outward start was very slight. “Hello, Uncle Pasco!” said he cheerfully. “Are y’u lost?” And he sat in his chair quite still.
Uncle Pasco stood blinking in his usual way. “No,” he returned. “Not lost. Just off trappin’. That’s what.” His voice was an old man’s, dry and chirping, and his sentences proceeded in short hops. He had seen Scipio’s one-quarter inch of movement, and he read that movement with admirable insight: it had been a quickly arrested and choked impulse to get to those blankets. And Scipio had done some reading, too. He saw Uncle Pasco’s eye measuring distances, and he could discern no sign whatever of pistol upon the old gentleman. This rendered him extremely cautious, and his thoughts worked at a remarkable speed. Uncle Pasco did not have to think so quickly, for he had begun his meditations in Likely several days ago, and they were all finished as far as they could be up to the present juncture. Even the most ripened strategist must leave some moves to be determined by the fluctuations of the battle.
“Been off trapping’,” repeated Uncle Pasco.
“Poor. Poor. Beaver gettin’ cleaned out of this country. That’s what.”
“Better sit down and eat,” said Scipio. “Take your coat off and stay a while.”
Uncle Pasco’s glance rested on the pie a moment, and then upon Scipio’s ink-covered sheets. “M--well,” he said doubtfully, for Scipio’s ease had now put him in doubt, “I got to get back to Likely. Pie looks good. Pie like mother made. That’s what. M--well, you’re busy. Guess you want to write your letter.”