And folding the paper, he put into it Johnny Watson’s map. Then he went back along the lakeside and to the cliffs below the cabin, to wait for James Dalton.
He thought that it must be about ten o’clock when at last Dalton came, walking swiftly from the cabin. Farley got to his feet and waited. Neither man spoke until Dalton came within a dozen paces of him and stopped. Then Farley said quietly—
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The man’s face showed no emotion, there was none in his steady voice.
“Your revolver is of a smaller caliber than mine,” Farley went on in a slow, matter-of-fact tone. “You can have one of my forty-fives, if you want it.”
Dalton looked at him curiously.
“Thanks. I don’t want it.” And then after a short silence in which the two men eyed each other steadily: “There is no other way?”
“No. There can be no other way. I kill you or—you kill me.”
“Then,” Dalton answered, as if he had expected this, “if I don’t come through it you will find a couple of letters in my pocket. Give them to Virginia.”