DERELICTS OF THE HILLS By W. C. Tuttle Author of “Magpie’s Nightbear” Now, I reckon yuh had to come clear up here to tell me that th’ grub is on th’ table, eh? Of all th’ gol dinged----” The grumbler turned from his inspection of the three split fuses in the gopher hole and cast a baleful glance in my direction. He spat against the side of the cut and smiled after looking me over from new sombrero to riding boots. “Ex--cuse me, stranger,” he grunted, climbing out of the hole and wiping the day off his hands on his weather-beaten overalls. “I shore thought yuh was Magpie. Yuh see we ain’t used to havin’ strangers hereabouts. Magpie’s my pardner and he’s supposed to be down at th’ cabin gittin’ dinner.” “I saw a man sitting on a log down the trail a ways as I rode up,” I remarked. “Seemed like a curious kind of a person. Wouldn’t talk at all. Just sat there and gazed off across the hills.” “’Bout six feet long and ten inches wide--sort of uh roan with sparsely settled whiskers?” asked the prospector. “Exactly,” I agreed. “I noticed particularly the moth-eaten hirsute gathering and also the immense distance from the lobe of his right ear to his rear suspender buttons.” “Haw, haw!” exploded the prospector. “Suspender buttons! Haw, haw! Dog-gone good thing yuh didn’t mention suspender buttons to him, ’cause he’s sort a sensitive over such trifles. Uh-hu,” he grunted reflectively, “that was Magpie Simpkins, shore was. Did yuh say he didn’t seem to be lookin’ at anything particular--jist sorta lookin’?” I assured him that as far as I was able to discern there was nothing about those mesquite-covered hills to cause a man to focus on one certain spot for an indefinite period of time, oblivious to all material matters. “There’s one or two words in th’ American langwidge I ain’t never been introduced to,” he replied, “and jist now yuh used ’em all in uh heap, but I gits th’ drift. Magpie’s trancin’.” “He’s what?” I asked. “Trancin’,” he repeated, with a wide smile. “Anyway, I reckon that’s what it’s called. Yuh see, this pardner uh mine yuh gazes on down there has got th’ idea he can commune with th’ speerits, and I reckon he’s down there tryin’ to raise uh ghost.” “Go ahead and laugh,” he continued, when I smiled. “Mebby it sounds funny to you, but, dog-gone it, you ain’t never been partners to uh scientific loco human or yuh would jist shed uh tear and wish me well. Jist lemme tell yuh something now. I been-- Say, I plumb forgot to ask yuh if yuh was lookin’ fer some one up here, stranger. My name is Harper--christened when I was young and plumb helpless with th’ appellation of Wellington Alexander, which same ain’t no title fer uh sourdough. Th’ first pardner I had rubbed it all out and called me Ike.”