“Funny business,” said he tolerantly.

“Funny business,” I echoed.  And then—­the moment seeming ripe for intimate personal research:  “Pete, how about that brother-in-law of yours?  Is he a one-God Christian or a two-God, like you?”

He hurriedly brushed out his lines, flashed me one of his uneasy side glances, and seemed not to have heard my question.  He sprang lightly from his heels, affected to scan a murky cloud-bank to the south, ignited his second cigarette from the first, and seemed relieved by the actual diversion of Laura, his present lawful consort, now plodding along the road just outside the fence.

Laura is ponderous and billowy, and her moonlike face of rusty bronze is lined to show that she, too, has gone down a little into the vale of years.  She was swathed in many skirts, her shoulders enveloped by a neutral-tinted shawl, and upon her head was a modist toque of light straw, garlanded with pink roses.  This may have been her hunt constume, for the carcasses of two slain rabbits swung jauntily from her girdle.  She undulated by us with no sign.  Pete’s glistening little eyes lingered in appraisal upon her noble rotundities and her dangling quarry.  Then, with a graceful flourish of the new cigarette, he paid tribute to the ancient fair.

“That old mahala of mine, she not able to chew much now; but she’s some swell chicken—­b’lieve me!”

I persisted in the impertinence he had sought to turn.

“How about this brother-in-law of yours, Pete?”

Again he was deaf.  He picked up his axe, appearing to weigh the resumption of his task against a reply to this straight question.  He must have found the alternative too dreadful; he leaned upon the axe, thus winning something of the dignity of labour, with none of its pains, and grudgingly asked: 

“Mebbe some liars tell you in conversation about that old b’other-in-law?”

“Of course!  Many nice people tell me every day.  They tell me all about him.  I rather hear you tell me.  Is he a Christian?”

“He’s one son-of-gun, pure and simple—­that old feller.  He caps the climax.”

“Yes; I know all about that.  He’s a bad man.  I hear everything about him.  Now you tell me again.  You can tell better than liars.”

“One genuine son-of-gun!” persisted Pete, shrewdly keeping to general terms.

“Oh, very well!” I rose from the log I was sitting on, yawning my indifference.  “I know everything he ever did.  Other people tell me all the time.”

I moved off a few steps under the watchful side glance.  It worked.  One of Pete’s slim, womanish hands fluttered up in a movement of arrest.

“Those liars tell you about one time he shoot white man off horse going by?”

“Certainly!”

“That white man still have smallpox to give all Injins he travel to; so they go ‘n’ vote who kill him off quick, and my b’other-in-law he win it.”