"Hal roight, go a'ead. Ah'll be along," replied the old man, hastening to dress.
In a short time he was ready and stepped out into the storm, trudging down the lane and off into the north with the blizzard in his face. He did not hear the muffled beat of galloping hoofs as he emerged into the road-allowance.
As we have mentioned before, there were pedestrians about the drifted streets of Pellawa. One of these venturesome wanderers was the little French bagger of the Valley Outfit, Jean Benoit. He had come to Pellawa in the morning and untoward obstructions had kept him from setting out on his return home. He was still "hung up" and was plunging impatiently through the drifts with determination to make a swift wind up of business when he heard a voice down the lane to his right.
"You are sure Pullar's away?" came clearly through the storm.
"Went in on the morning train with the old man," replied another voice.
Jean halted. The mention of Pullar had awakened his curiosity.
"I'd hate to run into the Valley boss. He's a bang-up hitter."
"No danger. We're squaring with Pullar to-night. He'll never know who pinched his wheat."
At this point a mutual laugh came through the darkness.
"You meet me with the others at Morrison's bluff. That's the line, eh?"