“Feeling his way,” said Conacher.
“It will be amusing to hear what excuse he gives for coming back here,” said Loseis.
Conacher raised his gun. “Loseis,” he said soberly, “the quickest way to end this matter would be for me to shoot him off his horse as he sits there.”
Loseis ran to his side. “No, Paul, no!” she cried agitatedly.
“It would be the best way,” he insisted. “He means to kill us if he can. Suppose he gets one of us and the other is left. I’m a pretty good shot. I could get him easily now. It would end it. These other men have nothing against us.”
“No! No! No!” she cried. “Not until he attacks us! I couldn’t bear it!”
Conacher allowed the butt of his gun to thump on the floor again. “Very well,” he said a little sullenly. “Still, I think it would be the best way.”
Receiving no answer at the door of the men’s house, Moale faced about, and came towards them. Conacher and Loseis watched him with heads close together. Moale’s comely olive face was, as always, perfectly expressionless.
“What sort of man is this?” asked Conacher grimly.
“Who can tell?” said Loseis. “He is neither white nor red.”