"Where is my cousin?" he asked.

"In the Southern county, two hundred miles from here."

"Are we going to him?"

"Yes."

They rode furiously forward again. It was nearly half an hour before
they came to a longer ascent. Clarence could see that Flynn was from
time to time examining him curiously under his slouched hat. This
somewhat embarrassed him, but in his singular confidence in the man no
distrust mingled with it.

"Ye never saw your--cousin?" he asked.

"No," said Clarence; "nor he me. I don't think he knew me much, any way.

"How old mout ye be, Clarence?"

"Eleven."

"Well, as you're suthin of a pup"--Clarence started, and recalled
Peyton's first criticism of him--"I reckon to tell ye suthin. Ye ain't
goin' to be skeert, or afeard, or lose yer sand, I kalkilate, for
skunkin' ain't in your breed. Well, wot ef I told ye that thish
yer--thish yer--COUSIN o' yours was the biggest devil onhung; that he'd
just killed a man, and had to lite out elsewhere, and THET'S why he
didn't show up in Sacramento--what if I told you that?"