“Pedro knows me,” returned Lefever, the other man, “but McAlpin says there is a new man here, a half-wit. They all belong to the same gang––coiners, I believe, every one of them. They work here and push in Texas.”
“Can you spot the room when you get up-stairs, where we saw that streak of light a minute ago?” demanded Pardaloe, gazing at the black front of the building.
“I can spot every foot of the place, up-stairs and down, in the dark,” declared Lefever, peering through the inky night at the ruinous pile.
Instead of meeting de Spain, as appointed, Lefever had come in from the Thief River stage with Scott three hours late only to learn of the fight at the Inn and de Spain’s disappearance. Jeffries had already sent a party, of whom Pardaloe, a man of Farrell Kennedy’s from Medicine Bend, had been picked up as one, down from Sleepy Cat, to look for the missing man, and for hours the search had gone forward.
“Suppose you go back to the barn,” suggested Pardaloe, “and wait there while I go in and have a little talk with the landlord.”
“Why, yes, Pardaloe. That’s an idea,” assented Lefever feebly. Then he laid the first two fingers of his fat right hand on the lapel of his companion’s coat: “Where should you like your body sent?” he asked in feigned confidence. “Concerning these little details, it’s just as well to know your wishes now.”
“You don’t suppose this boob will try to fight, do you, when he knows Jeffries will burn the 139 shack over his head if another railroad man is attacked in it?” demanded Pardaloe.
“The most ruinous habit I have had in life––and first and last I have contracted many––has been, trusting other people,” observed Lefever. “A man shouldn’t trust anybody––not even himself. We can burn the boob’s shack down––of course: but if you go in there alone the ensuing blaze would be of no particular interest to you.”
“All right. We go in together.”