"Who, Cal?"
The white face on the pillow turned a little and the eyes opened.
"I hain't keerin' none much erbout ther feller thet fired ther shot...." went on the voice. "Ther man I aims ter git ... air ther one thet hired him.... He's goin' ter die ... hard!"
"What makes ye think"—the listener licked his lips furtively—"thar war more'n one?"
"Because I knows who ... t'other one is."
Rowlett rose from his seat, and lifted a clenched fist. The miscreant's thoughts were in a vortex of doubt, fear, and perplexity—but perhaps Maggard suspected "Peanuts" Causey, and Rowlett went on with an admirable bit of acting.
"Name him ter me, Cal," he tensely demanded. "He shot at both of us. He's my man ter kill!"
"When ye lay thar ... by my house ... watchin' with me...." went on the ambushed victim in a summarizing of ostensible services, "what made ye discomfort yoreself, fer me, save only friendliness?"
"Thet war all, Cal."
"An' hit war ther same reason thet made ye proffer ter take away thet letter an' seek ter diskiver who writ hit, warn't hit ... an' ter sa'rch about an' find thet peanut hull ... an' ter come by hyar an' show me a safe way home.... All jest friendliness, warn't hit?"