“You stole my wife. I’ve got your daughter. Now, damn you, crawl and beg!”
“Look here, cook,” called Straight, sharply, “there’s bad business mixed up with Lane. Don’t ask me no questions.” He flapped the open letter into the astonished face of the man to check his words. “We’ve got to speak to Lane, and speak mighty quick.”
“He was in a sog when I put him to bed,” said the cook. “Didn’t know what, who, or where. They say lunatics want to be woke up careful. You let me go.” He took a doughnut from the plate and started for the lean-to, grinning back over his shoulder. “He may be ready to set up, take notice, and brace himself with a doughnut.”
The two men waited, eager, silent, hoping, fearing—each framing such appeal as might touch the heart of this revengeful maniac.
They heard the cook utter a snort of surprise; then they saw the flame of a match shielded by his palm. A moment later he came out and stood looking at them with a singularly sheepish expression.
“Gents,” he blurted, “I’ll be cussed if the joke ain’t on me this time! I went in there to give the horsepittle patient a fresh-laid doughnut to revive his droopin’ heart, and—”
“Is that man gone?” bawled Christopher, reaching for his snow-shoes.
“Yes,” said the cook, grimly; “but you can’t chase him on snow—not where he’s gone. He’s deader’n the door-knob on a hearse-house door.”