“What was that damfool yarn you was telling last night——”
“Oh, about the Indian that heard some one hollering on the bluff after Steve Carson disappeared? By Jove! I wonder if it can be the Voice you hear!” He looked at Hawkins blankly. “Say, I’m sorry I slapped you, Mr. Hawkins. I’d like to feel—afterwards—that you didn’t hold any grudge against me for that.” He held out his hand with the pitying smile of one who wishes to make amends before it is too late.
James Blaine Hawkins swallowed twice. Gary set down the bucket and laid a hand kindly on the man’s shoulder.
“Aw, buck up, Mr. Hawkins. I—I guess they lied about that Injun dying right after—don’t you believe it, anyway.” And then, anxiously, “Do you still hear it, old fellow?”
Gary felt absolutely certain that James Blaine Hawkins did hear. Above the sound of the wind in the tree tops, the Voice was calling imperiously from the bluff.
“You can keep the damn place for all of me,” James Blaine Hawkins exploded viciously. “I wouldn’t have it as a gift. There’s that damned cat I seen last night! A man’s crazy that’d think of staying in a hole like this.”
He was cranking furiously when Gary tapped him on the shoulder.
“Since you aren’t going to stay and fulfill the contract,” Gary said evenly, “you better hand over that two hundred dollars which Miss Connolly advanced you under the ‘found’ clause of your agreement. I’ll give you a receipt for it, of course.”
James Blaine Hawkins meant to refuse, but Gary’s fingers slid up to his ear and pulled him upright.
“We’ll just go in the cabin where I can write that receipt,” he explained cheerfully, and led James Blaine Hawkins inside. “You’re in a hurry to go, and I’m in a hurry to have you. So we’ll make this snappy.”