“It started on Misery”—Lane began, in the same tone that had characterized his former reports.
But at his first word Barrett jerked his head around, stared wildly, stood up, and then sat down astride the wooden bench. With his eyes still on the man at the door, he fumbled for the pannikin of whiskey and gulped it down. Lane went on talking.
“And if they can get enough men ahead of it perhaps they can stop it in Pogey Notch,” Lane concluded.
The hands that clutched the gun trembled, but his eyes were steady, with a red sparkle in them. The lumber king endured that stare for a few moments, like one writhing under the torture of a focussed sun-glass. He glanced to right and left, as though seeking a chance for flight. The only exit was the door, and the tall, grim man stood there with his rifle across his arm.
“Say it, Lane! Say it!” hoarsely cried Barrett, at last, unable to endure the silence and the doubt.
“I have nothing to say—not now,” said Lane. “I’ll wait here until you eat your supper. My lantern is hanging on the nail there, cook. Will you fill it and light it?”
There was a subtle, strange menace in his bearing that the cook and Withee, staring, their mouths gaping, could not understand. But it was plain that the man at the table understood all too well.
“Why didn’t you take it when I sent you the offer?” asked Barrett, his voice beginning to tremble. “I wanted to settle. It was up to me to settle. It was a bad business, Lane, but I—”
“It’s a private matter you’re opening up here before listeners, Mr. Barrett,” broke in Lane. “It’s my business with you, and you haven’t got the right to do it. Just now you go ahead and eat your supper. You’ll need it, for you’re going to take a walk with me.”