The trail run obliquely upward across the face of the mountain and in the next draw it ducked into a dense patch of rhododendron. There it was very evident that the trail had been built for a purpose. It was cut out clear two feet wide and had been used so long that the stubs had all been worn down smooth.
While he was examining it he was startled by the sound of approaching voices, raised high in argument if not in an actual quarrel. At first the voices were too distant for the words to be distinguished. Scott had no reason to avoid these people whoever they might be, and it never occurred to him to hide till he caught a sentence distinctly.
“I tell you, Foster, it won’t do. You were licked and you are done for, and that is all there is about it.”
Scott did not recognize the voice, but he had every reason to believe that they were talking about him and he wanted to hear the rest of it. He slipped back of a big oak tree beside the trail and listened. The voices came nearer till he could distinguish both sides of the conversation.
“I know it would work.” It was Foster speaking now, and his voice was thick and sullen. “Why wouldn’t it work? If I started a fight, the Morgans would have to fight; and if they fought, the Waits would have to fight, and then we would clean them up. It’s time they were cleaned up. They kept us from getting that logging contract and they’ll keep us from getting anything else. I’m for cleaning them up, I tell you.”
“And I’m telling you that it won’t work,” the other voice answered curtly.
“Why won’t it?” Foster persisted. “Are you afraid of them?”
“Afraid of them?” the other exclaimed contemptuously. “No, but I am not fool enough to fall for your scheme. And neither will the others. You’re down and out. You know it and you think you can get back on your feet by starting a fight. Well, you can’t.”
Scott peeped around the tree and saw them standing at the entrance of the tunnel into the rhododendron. One, as he already knew, was Foster Wait. The other was a short man of medium build, and rather clean-cut features. He seemed wide awake and altogether different from the other Waits he had seen. Instinctively he felt from what Hopwood had said that this man must be Sewall Wait, the brains of the family.
The smaller man was staring silently at Foster with a manner showing both domination and disgust. Foster shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and looked uncertainly about him. He was unable to look Sewall steadily in the eye, but his braggart habit finally came to his rescue.