He again remembered his threat for the man who should come between him and Letitia; he had unwittingly spoken it to Shattuck himself, but it was well that he was warned.
"Waal, Fee, I ain't wantin' ter arrest him too suddint—unless I hed more grounds for suspicion agin him; but this hyar thing is murder, man, murder! An' 'twon't do fur ennybody ez hed enny part in sech ter get away. He sent Stephen Yates on a fool pretensified yerrand the night the man war waylaid an' kilt, an' ye seen Steve 'mongst the gang in Crazy Zeb's cell."
"How d'ye know ez the gang hed ennything ter do with that job? Mought hev been other folks," Guthrie demanded, the cause of justice urgently constraining him.
"Don't know it; that's jes' the reason I oughter keep an eye, a sorter watch, on Shattuck, an' not arrest him 'thout he war tryin' ter clear the kentry. I oughter hev lef' a man ter look arter him."
Guthrie said nothing. He seemed to silently revolve this view.
"Would you-uns ondertake ter keep him under watch till I git back ter-morrow?" Carew moved his hand caressingly on Guthrie's shoulder amongst his long, wind-stirred hair. "I couldn't git down the mountain in the dark, specially lumbered up with that man, ez 'pears ter be dyin'—ye shoot mighty straight, Fee!—an' I 'lowed ye be 'feared o' nuthin, an' air a mighty fine rider, an' yer horse air sure-footed. Ye mought walk ef ye warn't willin' ter try it mounted. Wouldn't ye obleege me, Fee?"
Guthrie's dark eyes, with their suggestions of implacability, were turned reflectively upon him. The dying light did not so much as suggest their color, but their lustre was visible in the dusk, and their expression was unannulled.
"I hain't got no nose fur game," he replied at last. "Ye can't hunt folks down with me."
The sheriff's hand suddenly weighed heavily on his shoulder. "What be ye a-talkin' 'bout, boy?" he said, imperiously. "I require yer assistance in the name o' the law! I war jes' a-perlitin' aroun', and axin' like a favior, fur the name o' the thing. I hev got a right ter yer help."
"Make yer right good"—Felix Guthrie had faced round, his indomitable eye bright and clear in the dusk, where all else was blurred—"ef ye kin. Thar's no law ever made ez kin turn me inter a spy ter lead a man ter the gallus or shet a prison door on him. Make yer right good, why don't ye?"