Beasley shook his head.
"You got me beat again. The sheriff's comin' right out to that farm, chasin' some feller for murder. Ther's the fact--plain fact. He's comin' to that farm--which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket someways. Now I tho't a heap on this thing. An' I'm guessin' this murder must have been done back East. Y' see that gal comes from back East. 'Wal, now,' says I, 'how do we shape then?' Why, that gal--that Jonah gal--comes right here an' locates some feller who's done murder back East. Who is it? I gone over every feller in this yer camp, an' 'most all are pretty clear accounted for. Then from what I hear the sheriff's posse is to work the hills. Who is ther' in the hills?"
Beasley paused for effect. His purpose was rapidly becoming evident. He glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought was in each mind.
He laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind.
"Course," he exclaimed, "it's durned ridic'lous. Ther's two fellers we know livin' in the hills. Jest two. Ther's Buck an'--the Padre. Buck's bin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain't no use for Buck. He's kind o' white livered, but he's a straight citizen. Then the Padre," he laughed again, "he's too good. Say, he's next best to a passon. So it can't be him."
He waited for concurrence, and it came at once.
"I'll swar' it ain't the Padre," cried Curly warmly.
"It sure ain't," agreed Slaney, shaking his serious head.
"The Padre?" cried Abe, with a scornful laugh. "Why, I'd sooner guess it's me."
Beasley nodded.
"You're dead right ther', boys," he said, with hearty good-will. "It sure ain't the Padre. He's got religion, an' though I'm 'most allus curious 'bout folks with religion--it ain't right to say ther's any queer reason fer 'em gettin' it. Then the Padre's bin here nigh twenty years. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin' around these hills fer twenty years! It's easy fer a feller raised to 'em, like Buck. But when you've been a feller in a swell position East, to come an' hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it's--it's astonishin'. Still, that don't make no diff'rence. It can't be the Padre. He's got his reasons fer stayin' around here. Wal, nigh all of us has got reasons fer bein' here. An' it ain't fer us to ask why. No, though I don't usually trust folks who get religion sudden, I ain't goin' agin the Padre. He's a white man, sure."