“Name him and you may have him. But not till you do,” replied Little Hickory, defiantly.
“I reckon names don’t matter when we run down sich covies.”
“They do in this case. This ain’t the man you are after, Whalen!”
“W’at d’ye know erbout it, Little Hickory?”
“All there is to be known, Whalen. Can’t ye see this is a hayseed from the country? Your man is a thorough-bred. Oh, I know who you are after.”
“I reckon a man’s a man,” muttered the officer, who appeared as if he had seen that he had made a mistake, but disliked to own up to it.
“Half an hour ago your man was steering toward the point, Whalen. ’Pears to me, with sich a reward at stake, I wouldn’t lose any more time with sich an old duffer as this covey, who won’t be worth a cent to ye after all yer trouble.”
Whalen could see the truth of this statement, and he cleared his way to get out by asking:
“You ain’t giving me misleader, Little Hickory?”
“No, Whalen. I advise ye to get on to the trail while the scent is fresh.”