“All right,” he said, “but let’s go and see the mine first.”
He strapped on his pistol and waited expectantly 75and at last Blount breathed heavily and assented. Nothing more was said as they went across the flat and toiled up the trail to the mine. Wiley walked behind and as they mounted to the shaft-house his eyes wandered restlessly about; until, at the tool-shed, they suddenly focussed and a half-crouching man stepped out. He was tall and gnarly and the point of his chin rested stiffly on the slope of his shoulder. It was Stiff Neck George and he kept a crook in his elbow as he glanced from Blount to Wiley.
“How’s this?” demanded Wiley, putting Blount between him and George, “what’s this man doing up here?”
“Why, that’s George,” faltered Blount, “George Norcross, you know. He works for me around the mine.”
“Oh, he does, eh?” observed Wiley, in the cold tones of an examining lawyer. “How long has he been in your employ?”
“Oh, since we opened up–that’s all–just temporarily. This gentleman is all right, George; you can go.”
Stiff Neck George stood silent, his sunken eyes on Wiley, his sunburned lips parted in a grin, and then he turned and spat.
“Eh, heh; hiding!” he chuckled and, stung by the taunt, Wiley stepped out into the open. His gun was pulled forward, his jaws set hard, and he looked the hired man-killer in the eye.
“Don’t you think it,” he said, “I know you too 76well. You’re afraid to fight in the day-time; you dirty, sneaking murderer!”
He waited, poised, but George only laughed silently, though his poisonous eyes began to gleam.