Jowett nodded: "Yes, that's it, and Mr. Dennis Doane ain't careful;
that's the trouble. He's looking for Marchand, and blabbing what he means
to do when he finds him. That ain't good for Dennis. If he kills
Marchand, it's murder, and even if the lawyers plead unwritten law, and
he ain't hung, and his wife ain't a widow, you can't have much married
life in gaol. It don't do you any good to be punished for punishing
someone else. Jonas George Almighty--look! Look, Osterhaut!"
Jowett's hand was pointing towards the Catholic church, from a window of
which smoke was rolling. "There's going to be something to do there. It
ain't a false alarm, Snorty."
"Well, this engine'll do anything you ask it," rejoined Osterhaut. "When
did you have a fire last, Billy?" he shouted to the driver of the engine,
as the horses' feet caught the dusty road of Manitou.
"Six months," was the reply, "but she's working smooth as music. She's as
good as anything 'twixt here and the Atlantic."
"It ain't time for Winter fires. I wonder what set it going," said
Jowett, shaking his head ominously. "Something wrong with the furnace, I
s'pose," returned Osterhaut. "Probably trying the first heatup of the
Fall."
Osterhaut was right. No one had set the church on fire.
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