Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly
the shining tins, he said reflectively:--
"Bin here about a month, I reckon."
"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."
Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of
reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.
"Kin you read?" said Jeff.
"I--_kin_," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"
"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.
"But you've got to catch him first."
The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down
propping his broad back against a tree.
"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who
twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this
was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would
choose to live in such a desolate spot?
Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Then
he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff grunted
approval.
"You're earnin' that dollar--every cent of it." A delightful fragrance
of bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been made
for man as well as beast.
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