"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"—and Harold's face drew into an unlovely snarl—"sometime in the early evening give Bill what's coming to him."
"Do him off——?" Joe asked stolidly.
"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breeds leaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmatic now. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savage faces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even as his; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.
"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him—better still, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him before he knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go back to my cabin and hide out."
"No food in cabin," Joe objected. "Get some from you?"
For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunate circumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up the supplies, eh? Got any booze——?"
"Still two bottles firewater——"
"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either—not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supper to-night, or as much of it as you need—and after you're through with Bill go back to your cabin and get what you have left——"
"There won't be none left——"
"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill's Twenty-three Mile cabin is?"