Three or four sulphur matches were scratched at the same moment on
trousers made tight by cocking the knee up. Each match glimmered
through sheltering fingers with dull blue light, for a moment, and
then as the sulphur was exhausted and the flame caught the wood, the
hands opened and directed shafts of light here and there. The whole
cabin was dimly illumined for a moment while man after man thrust his
burning match towards something he had discovered.
"Here's his blankets. All mussed up."
"Here's a pair of boots."
"Here's the frying pan right on the stove."
They wandered here and there, lighting new matches until Little Joe
spoke.
"No use, boys," he declared. "Perris has hopped out. Wise gent, at
that. He seen the game was too big for him. And I don't blame him for
quitting. Ain't nothing here that he'd come after. Them boots are wore
out. The blankets and the cooking things he got from the ranch. Look
at the way the blankets are piled up. Shows he quit in a rush and
started away. When a gent figures on coming back, he tidies things
up a little when he leaves in the morning. No, boys, he's gone. Main
thing to answer is: If he ain't left the valley why ain't he here in
his shack now?"
"Maybe he's hunting that damn hoss?" suggested the foreman, but his
voice was weak with uncertainty.
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