“Let’s take a look from the top of the bank,” the other man suggested.
They climbed up. A six-foot cedar trunk and a clump of elderberry separated them from Bill Goodrich when they stopped. He imagined they must be able to hear his heart beating. He crouched on his haunches, scarcely breathing, his fingers hooked in the lever of his gun. The men stood talking.
“Looks worse. Supposed to be a trail, but that damn Siwash don’t act like he wanted to show us much. Personally, I’d rather pole ten miles of open river than pack five hundred yards through this brush.”
The man’s companion agreed.
“There’s the chance that we might miss Goodrich on the bend,” he continued. “He can’t be so far ahead now. We have to go careful—keep a good lookout.”
The first man stuffed his pipe full of tobacco and lit it.
“I wish I knew just how close we are on him,” he said. “I don’t suppose he’ll shoot on sight. Still, he’ll probably be pretty shy. And he might be quick on the trigger, too. I can’t say I’m stuck on this little job. If the darned fool’d had sense enough to give himself up after the shooting he’d come clear, with a good lawyer, from all accounts.”
“If we can overhaul him and manage to make camp with him,” the other said, “we can casually let out that we’re cruising timber for Mayer & Runge. I’ve got those blue-print maps to stall around with. He don’t know either of us. Get him off his guard once, and it’ll be easy. I’d take a chance on making the arrest sooner than work my passage through this brush with a load.”
“I wonder how far he’ll go,” the first man said.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” A boastful note crept into the other’s voice. “If he goes to hell I’ll still be on his trail. I ain’t started after a man in six years that I didn’t get him.”