“Not one of your old jobs, father?  I thought you had quite given that up?”

The boy spoke more carelessly than reproachfully, or even wonderingly; yet, as he dismounted and tethered his horse, Steptoe answered evasively, “It’s a big thing, sonny; maybe we’ll make our eternal fortune, and then we’ll light out from this hole and have a gay time elsewhere.  Come along.”

He took the boy’s gloved right hand in his own powerful grasp, and together they clambered up the steep hillside to a rocky ledge on which a fallen pine from above had crashed, snapped itself in twain, and then left its withered crown to hang half down the slope, while the other half rested on the ledge.  On this they sat, looking down upon the road and the tethered horse.  A gentle breeze moved the treetops above their heads, and the westering sun played hide-and-seek with the shifting shadows.  The boy’s face was quick and alert with all that moved round him, but without thought the father’s face was heavy, except for the eyes that were fixed upon his son.

“Van Loo came to the Mission,” he said suddenly.

The boy’s eyes glittered quickly, like a steel that pierced the father’s heart.  “Oh,” he said simply, “then it was the padre told you?”

“How did he know you were here?” asked Steptoe.

“I don’t know,” said the boy quietly.  “I think he said something, but I’ve forgotten it.  But it was mighty good of him to come, for I thought, you know, that he did not care to see me after Heavy Tree, and that he’d gone back on us.”

“What did he tell you?” continued Steptoe.  “Did he talk of me or of your mother?”

“No,” said the boy, but without any show of interest or sympathy; “we talked mostly about old times.”

“Tell me about those old times, Eddy.  You never told me anything about them.”

The boy, momentarily arrested more by something in the tone of his father’s voice—­a weakness he had never noticed before—­than by any suggestion of his words, said with a laugh, “Oh, only about what we used to do when I was very little and used to call myself his ’little brother,’—­don’t you remember, long before the big strike on Heavy Tree?  They were gay times we had then.”

“And how he used to teach you to imitate other people’s handwriting?” said Steptoe.

“What made you think of that, pop?” said the boy, with a slight wonder in his eyes.  “Why, that’s the very thing we did talk about.”

“But you didn’t do it again; you ain’t done it since,” said Steptoe quickly.

“Lord! no,” said the boy contemptuously.  “There ain’t no chance now, and there wouldn’t be any fun in it.  It isn’t like the old times when him and me were all alone, and we used to write letters as coming from other people to all the boys round Heavy Tree and the Bar, and sometimes as far as Boomville, to get them to do things, and they’d think the letters were real, and they’d do ’em.  And there’d be the biggest kind of a row, and nobody ever knew who did it.”