“Say Saturday night,” directed Smythe quietly. “Poor little girl!—But it must be; it has to be, my friend.”
“You are a great man,” flattered Watson. “You deserve success, Smythe. I hope you win widow Ross and her snug bit of land. And I hope after the Bushwhackers are convinced that Hallibut would kidnap their queen as a hostage, they will realize that they need you and me as custodians of their deeds.”
He laughed over his shoulder, and Smythe, digging his spurs into his old white mare, trotted up alongside him.
“Courting was always an unsatisfactory game with me,” he said, “and in the case of widow Ross it has been no exception. I find she is a selfish woman. I found her a heathen and I showed her the light——”
“And she showed you the door, eh?”
“Not so fast, my friend,” smiled Smythe, “she did not. It was that boy of hers who spoiled my visits. That boy played a nasty trick upon me the last time I visited the widow. I have not been back since.”
“Tell me about it,” said Watson.
“Not now.” Smythe shook his head. “Later, perhaps, but not now. Let us each earnestly review our plans for Saturday night, my friend, and for our own personal safety, as well as for business motives, think out a line of action.”
Watson shuddered back into his saddle.
“I wish to God it was over,” he muttered.