The other started.
“Buried!” he gasped. “What do you mean, Colonel!”
“Why, judging from his letter, he expects to die very soon, and sometimes people are fanciful about where they are laid to rest——”
He paused, and his lips met in a thin line.
“Smythe,” he said, holding the visitor with his eyes, “you and Watson are both danged humbugs. Watson didn’t write that letter: you wrote it. Watson may be a villain, but there’s not hypocrite enough about him to dictate a letter like that I just read. I’m not sparing him. He was quite willing for you to work this game for him. So my money was taken from him, was it? Well, I suppose it’s just as well to lose it one way as another. But I want you to confess that you wrote that letter. Did you?”
“I did,” answered Smythe fearfully. “Watson’s arm was too sore. He asked me to write it. I didn’t mean anything wrong, sir.”
“Of course not,” agreed Hallibut dryly.
“What do you mean by saying those Bushwhackers will burn my vessel?”
“I mean that they intend to do it,” asserted Smythe. “If you doubt me, sir, you may anchor off Lee Point and convince yourself that I speak the truth.”
“Humph!” grunted Hallibut. “Well, let me tell you something. When the Bushwhackers burn my schooner, I’ll believe they’re ready to shoot me on sight; not before. I sent word to them that I would ship a cargo of lumber—my own lumber—from Lee Creek before the Eau froze over, and I’ll do it.”