NOVEMBER JOE
yet the man who shot Lyon camped with him—slep' beside him—must 'a' talked to him. That were n't Miller."
His clear reasoning rang true.
"Highamson lives alone away up above Lyon's," continued November; "he'll make back home soon."
"Unless he's guilty and has fled the country," I suggested.
"He won't 'a' done that. It 'ud be as good as a confession. No, he thinks he's done his work to rights and has nothing to fear. Like as not he's back home now. There's not much coming and going between these up-river places and St. Amiel, and he might easy be there and no one know it yet down to the settlement. We'll go up tonight and make sure. But first we'll get back to camp and take a cup o' tea."
The night had become both wild and blustering before we set out for Highamson's hut, and all along the forest paths which led to it the sleet and snow of what November called "a real mean night" beat in our faces.
As we travelled on in silence, my mind kept
38
