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His belief in it is tribal; has come down from his forefathers. It is very hard to shake an Indian's faith in his medicine. While Whitey was recalling these facts, which he had heard about, Single's eyes were narrowing looking inside his head, one might say, to find there a story that fitted in with Injun's interest in his gift.
Single's arm stole about his wife's shoulders and she was drawn suddenly, even violently close to his side. He avoided her puzzled, worried gaze and resolutely addressed himself to Mr. and Mrs. Force and Mr. Flanders. Miss Fairweather had disappeared. "That man was a detective," said he, without preamble.
Now, it didn't make much difference whether Single's story was true or not. One didn't have to believe it to enjoy it. He aimed to astonish, rather than to be truthful. But these statements were too much for the imagination of his hearers or rather for their lack of it.
That was the way it was with those cowpunchers, and they joined Whitey, and finally smoothed over Single's feelings, and coaxed him to continue his story which he wanted to do, anyway. "Well, this here Sam Sharp had his faults," Single continued, when he was settled again in his seat.
And the other punchers were sorry that they had been so hasty, for they wanted to see how far Single's imagination would carry him. Whitey had heard an old yarn about a parrot in a mining camp. A magician was giving a performance at the camp, and after every trick the miners would say, "I wonder what he's going to do next?"
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