But it
was the coat he wore which held Caleb spellbound. It was of a style
popularly known as a swallowtail, faced with satin as to lapels and
once gracefully rounded to a long, bisected skirt in the rear. The
satin facings were gone and the original color of the fabric, too, had
faded to a shiny, bottle-green. But the long skirts--at least all that
was left of them--still flapped bravely, as did the trousers. For
they, like the nether garments, had been cut off, with more regard for
haste than accuracy, so that the back of the coat cleared the ground by
a good foot and a half. The sleeves, rolled back from two slender,
browned wrists, were cuffed with a six-inch stretch of striped, soiled
lining.
For a time Caleb had been at a loss to make out the object which the
boy carried upon one shoulder, balanced above a blanket tight-rolled
and tied with string. Not until the grotesque little figure was within
a dozen paces of him did he recognize it, and then, at the same moment
that he caught a glimpse of an old and rusted revolver strapped to the
boy's narrow waist, he realized what it was. The boy was toting a
double-springed steel trap, big enough it seemed to take all four feet
of any bear that ever walked--and it was beautifully dull with oil!
Caleb stood and stared, mouth agape. A moment or two earlier he had
had to fight off an almost uncontrollable desire to roar with laughter,
but that mood had passed somehow as the boy came nearer.
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