I tried to look as if this were a bit of stale gossip.

“Then whites raise hell to say Pete he do same.  What you know about that?  My old b’other-in-law send word he do same—­twenty, fifty Injin witness tell he said so—­and now he gon’ hide far off.  Dep’ty sheriff can’t find him.  That son-of-gun come back next year, raise big fight over one span mules with Injin named Walter that steal my mules out of pasture; and Walter not get well from it—­so whites say yes, old Pete done that same killing scrape to have his mules again; plain as the nose on the face old Pete do same.  But I catch plenty Injin witness see my b’other-in-law do same, and I think they can’t catch him another time once more, because they look in all places he ain’t.  I think plenty too much trouble he make all time for me—­perform something not nice and get found out about it; and all people say, Oh, yes—­that old Pete he’s at tricks again; he better get sent to Walla Walla, learn some good trade in prison for eighteen years.  That b’other-in-law cap the climax!  He know all good place to hide from dep’ty sheriff, so not be found when badly wanted—­the son-of-gun!”

Pete’s face now told that, despite the proper loathing inspired by his misdeeds, this brother-in-law compelled a certain horrid admiration for his gift of elusiveness.

“What’s your brother-in-law’s name?”

Pete deliberated gravely.

“In my opinion his name Edward; mebbe Sam, mebbe Charlie; I think more it’s Albert.”

“Well, what about that next time he broke out?”

“Whoosh!  Damn no-good squaw man get all Injins drunk on whiskey; then play poker with four aces.  ’What you got?  No good—­four aces—­hard luck—­deal ’em up!’” Pete’s flexible wrists here flashed in pantomime.  “Pretty soon Injin got no mules, no blanket, no spring wagon, no gun, no new boots, no nine dollars my old mahala gets paid for three bushel wild plums from Old Lady Pettengill to make canned goods of—­only got one big sick head from all night; see four aces, four kings, four jacks.  ’What you got, Pete?  No good.  Full house here.  Hard luck—­my deal.  Have another drink, old top!’”

“Well, what did your brother-in-law do when he heard about this?”

“Something!”

“Shoot?”

“Naw; got no gun left.  Choke him on the neck—­I think this way.”

The supple hands of Pete here clutched his corded throat, fingertips meeting at the back, and two potent thumbs uniting in a sinister pressure upon his Adam’s apple.  To further enlarge my understanding he contorted his face unprettily.  From rolling eyes and outthrust tongue it was apparent that the squaw man had survived long enough to regret the inveteracy of his good luck at cards.

“Then what?”

“Man tell you before?” He eyed me with frank suspicion.

“Certainly; you tell, too!”

“That b’other-in-law he win everything back this poor squaw man don’t need no more, and son-of-gun beat it quick; so all liars say Old Pete turn that trick, but can’t prove same, because my b’other-in-law do same in solitude.  And old judge say:  ’Oh, well, can’t prove same in courthouse, and only good squaw man is dead squaw man; so what-the-bad-place!’ I think mebbe.”