Burned Bridges

He picked up a gun now from where it stood against the wall, whistled

shrilly, and a brown dog appeared hastily from somewhere in the grass,

wagging his tail in anticipation.

"Mind if I poke along with you," he said to Thompson. "There's a slough

over beyond your diggin's where I go now and then to pick up a duck or

two."

They fell into step across the meadow.

"Our host," Thompson observed, "is not quite the type one expects to

find here--permanently. I understand he has been here a long time."

"Fifteen years," Tommy supplied cheerfully. "Deuce of a time to be

buried alive, eh? Carr hasn't got rusty, though. No. Mind like a steel

trap, that man. Curious sort of individual. You ought to see the books

he's got. Amazing. Science, philosophy, the poets--all sorts. Don't try

arguing theology with him unless you're quite advanced. Of course, I

know the church is adapting itself to modern thought, in a way. But

he'll tie you in a bowknot if you hold to the old theological doctrines.

Fact. Carr's scholarly sort, but awfully radical. Awfully."

"It's queer," said Thompson, "why a man like that should bury himself

here so long. Is it a fact that he is married to a native woman? His

daughter now--one wouldn't imagine her--"

"No fear," Tommy Ashe interrupted. "Carr's got an Indian woman, right

enough. They've got three mixed-blood youngsters. But his daughter--"

He gave Thompson a quick sidelong glance.

"Sophie's pure blood," said he. "She's a thorough-bred."

He said it almost challengingly.