Smythe gave a little shiver and drank his brandy at a gulp. The Colonel, watching him speculatively, shoved the bottle across the table with: “Help yourself when you want more.”
“Thanks,” replied his visitor, stretching out his long blue hands toward the glowing fire.
Hallibut lit a pipe and smoked silently. At last he turned impatiently toward Smythe.
“Well, what’s it all about?” he inquired.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of grievous and disappointing news to you, sir,” sighed Smythe. “Esau refuses to sell his birthright.”
“What the——” commenced the Colonel, and Smythe started as though he expected something stronger than an expletive.
“I mean, sir, the lawless Bushwhackers refuse to sell their timber,” he explained quickly. “They nearly killed Mr. Watson the other night for merely venturing on their property. In fact, a man assaulted him and Simpson, the school-teacher, so brutally, that it is only a matter of days, sir, before Watson receives the final summons, I fear.”
Mr. Smythe glanced at his listener and fortified his pious soul against the abuse he expected to hear poured out upon the Bushwhackers by taking another drink. To his surprise and no small disappointment the Colonel smoked on without a word.
A snaky gleam stole into the dealer’s little eyes and he sat huddled up, waiting for the big man to say something. The Colonel turned slowly and leaned across the arm of his chair toward his visitor.
“What was Watson doing on Bushwhackers’ Place at night? And what was that school-teacher doing with him? And how does it come about that one man is able to brutally assault two good-sized men like those two, eh?” he asked, his bushy brows meeting in a scowl.