error would have called him fat. But it was a strange kind of
fatness, as many a man on the trail could swear to. And as for
sin, or one sign of outlawry, it could not be found in any mark
upon him--unless one closed his eyes to all else and guessed it by
the belt and revolver holster which he wore about his rotund
waist. In every other respect Jolly Roger appeared to be not only
a harmless creature, but one especially designed by the Creator of
things to spread cheer and good-will wherever he went. His age, if
he had seen fit to disclose it, was thirty-four.

There seemed, at first, to be nothing that even a contented man
might laugh at in the cabin, and even less to bring merriment from
one on whose head a price was set--unless it was the delicious
aroma of a supper just about ready to be served. On a little stove
in the farthest corner of the shack the breasts of two spruce
partridges were turning golden brown in a skittle, and from the
broken neck of a coffee pot a rich perfume was rising with the
steam. Piping hot in the open oven half a dozen baked potatoes
were waiting in their crisp brown jackets.

From the table Jolly Roger turned, rubbing his hands and chuckling
as he went for a third time to a low shelf built against the cabin
wall. There he carefully raised a mass of old papers from a box,
and at the movement there came a protesting squeak, and a little
brown mouse popped up to the edge of it and peered at him with a
pair of bright little questioning eyes.

"You little devil!" he exulted. "You nervy little devil!"

He raised the papers higher, and again looked upon his discovery