Ira did not see anything remarkable in Westy’s having shot the deer twice. He was surprised and amused at the boy, having shot it once; it had caused him to regard Westy as a youthful hero of the true dime novel brand. But he had not much respect for Westy’s skill as a marksman. And he was quite ready to believe that two shots had been required to “drop” the deer. Six or eight shots would not greatly have surprised him. What puzzled him was the undoubted fact (established by the telltale tobacco package) that Luke Meadows had very lately been in the neighborhood of the killing. He had not attached any particular significance to this package until he had seen similar packages in Luke’s deserted home. Now he found himself wondering how Westy had happened to be at Luke’s house, and why Luke had so suddenly gone away.
The true explanation of the whole business never occurred to Ira. That anybody could voluntarily make the sacrifice that Westy had made was not within the range of his conception. Probably he had never done a mean thing in all his checkered career. But, on the other hand, he had probably never done anything very self-sacrificing. To kidnap a barbarous king was certainly not the act of a gentleman (as Westy’s mother had observed) but it was not mean....
The nearest that Ira’s cogitations brought him to the truth was his suspicion that somehow or other Westy and Luke Meadows had both been involved in the lawless act of killing and that Westy (being the financier of the pair) had been frightened into taking the blame. In this case it seemed likely enough that Luke (aware of his dubious reputation) would depart before Westy should have time to weaken and incriminate him. This was about the best that he could do with the rather puzzling circumstances, and several pipefuls of Howling Bulldog Plug Cut were required to establish this theory.
He had no intention of reopening the unhappy subject with Aunt Mira. It pleased him to have her believe that Westy was a daring and law-defying huntsman. And the whole matter would probably have died out of his own mind in the preoccupation of his farm duties, save for two incidents which restored his curiosity and revived his interest. Both of these happened the next day, Saturday.
On that afternoon, Ira took the milk cans to the little station at Dawson’s and stopped in the post office on the way back. The postmaster, Jeb Speyer, handed him a letter or two and a rolled up newspaper addressed to Aunt Mira. On the wrapper of this newspaper were written the words marked copy and Ira contemplated the address and the postmark with that ludicrous air of one who seldom reads.
“Guess it’s from that youngster yer had daown t’h’ farm,” commented Mr. Speyer; “Bridgeberry, hain’t it? That youngster oughter be walloped, and by gol, I’d be th’ one ter do it, I tell yer; shootin’............