“It ain’t so certain. They’d guess what I was doin’ there. It’s surer here. He’s got to come down the trail, an’ when I spot him by the Juniper clump”—he jerked an arm towards a spot almost a mile farther up the valley—“I kin scoot up the underbrush a bit and git him—plumb. I could do it from here, sure, but I don’t want no mistake. Once only, jest one shot, that’s all I want, Sinnet.”
He bit off a small piece of tobacco from a black plug Sinnet offered him, and chewed it with nervous fierceness, his eyebrows working, as he looked at the other eagerly. Deadly as his purpose was, and grim and unvarying as his vigil had been, the loneliness had told on him, and he had grown hungry for a human face and human companionship. Why Sinnet had come he had not thought to inquire. Why Sinnet should be going north instead of south had not occurred to him. He only realised that Sinnet was not the man he was waiting for with murder in his heart; and all that mattered to him in life was the coming of his victim down the trail. He had welcomed Sinnet with a sullen eagerness, and had told him in short, detached sentences the dark story of a wrong and a waiting revenge, which brought a slight flush to Sinnet’s pale face and awakened a curious light in his eyes.
“Is that your shack—that where you shake down?” Sinnet said, pointing towards a lean-to in the fir trees to the right.
“That’s it. I sleep there. It’s straight on to the Juniper clump, the front door is.” He laughed viciously, grimly. “Outside or inside, I’m on to the Juniper clump. Walk into the parlour?” he added, and drew open a rough-made door, so covered with green cedar boughs that it seemed of a piece with the surrounding underbrush and trees. Indeed, the little but was so constructed that it could not be distinguished from the woods even a short distance away.
“Can’t have a fire, I suppose?” Sinnet asked.
“Not daytimes. Smoke ‘d give me away if he suspicioned me,” answered the mountaineer. “I don’t take no chances. Never can tell.”
“Water?” asked Sinnet, as though interested in the surroundings, while all the time he was eyeing the mountaineer furtively—as it were, prying to the inner man, or measuring the strength of the outer man. He lighted a fresh pipe and seated himself on a rough bench beside the table in the middle of the room, and leaned on his elbows, watching.
The mountaineer laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. “Listen,” he said. “You bin a long time out West. You bin in the mountains a good while. Listen.”
There was silence. Sinnet listened intently. He heard the faint drip, drip, drip of water, and looked steadily at the back wall of the room.
“There—rock?” he said, and jerked his head towards the sound.