But Oncle Jazon was fond of Alice, and Beverley's story
affected him peculiarly on her account.
"They's one question I'm a goin' to put to ye, young man," he
said, after he had heard everything and they had talked it all
over, "an' I want ye to answer it straight as a bullet f'om yer
gun."
"Of course, Jazon, go ahead," said Beverley. "I shall be glad to
answer." But his mind was far away with the gold-haired maiden in
Hamilton's prison. He scarcely knew what he was saying.
"Air ye expectin' to marry Alice Roussillon?"
The three men were at the moment eating the well broiled venison.
Oncle Jazon's puckered lips and chin were dripping with the
fragrant grease and juice, which also flowed down his sinewy,
claw-like fingers. Overhead in the bare tops of the scrub oaks
that covered the prairie oasis, the February wind sang a shrill
and doleful song.
Beverley started as if a blow had been aimed at him. Oncle Jazon's
question, indeed, was a blow as unexpected as it was direct and
powerful.
"I know it's poo'ty p'inted," the old man added after a short
pause, "an' ye may think 'at I ain't got no business askin' it;
but I have. That leetle gal's a pet o' mine, an' I'm a lookin'
after her, an' expectin' to see 'at she's not bothered by nobody
who's not goin' to do right by her. Marryin' is a mighty good
thing, but--"
"What do ye know about matrimony, ye old raw-headed bachelor?"
demanded Kenton, who felt impelled to relieve Beverley of the
embarrassment of an answer.
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