"Forty miles! Look here, Irish—what are you talking about? I thought your bottle had been empty for a week."
"Impty ut is—which me head ain't. Listen: S'posin'—just s'posin', moind yez Oi'm sayin'—a man wid a bum leg was camped in th' shack av Melton's No. 8, an' th' harses in th' shtable. An' s'posin' some one shnaked in in th' noight an' stole th' harses on um an' druv 'em to Hilarity, an' waited f'r th' boss to sind f'r 'em. An' s'posin' a wake wint by befoor th' boss c'd sind a man down to look up th' team he'd sint f'r a cook, wid orders to hurry back. An' s'posin' he found th' bum-legged driver froze shtiff on th' tote-road phwere he'd made out to hobble a few moiles on his crutch—phwat thin? Why, th' man was a greener, an', not knowin' how to handle th' team, they'd got away from um."
Bill followed the Irishman closely, and knew that he spoke with a purpose. His eyes narrowed, and his lips bent into that cold smile which the men of the camp had come to know was no smile at all, but a battle alarm, the more ominous for its silence.
"Do you mean that it is a frame-up? That Moncrossen——" Fallon silenced him with a motion.
"Whist!" he whispered and glanced sharply about him, then leaned over and dug a stiffened forefinger into the other's ribs. "Oi don't mane nothin'. But 'tis about toime they begun bankin' their bird's-eye.
"Creed et dinner in camp, but he never et supper. Him an' th' boss made medicine in th' office afther th' boss talked to ye. Put two an' two togither an' Oi've towld ye nothin' at all; but av ye fergit ut Oi'll see that phwat th' wolves lave av th' bum-legged teamster is buried proper an' buried deep, an' Oi'll blow in tin dollars f'r a mass f'r his sowl.
"Av ye don't fergit ut, ye moight fetch back a gallon jug av Hod Burrage's embalmin' flooid, f'r me inwards is that petrified be th' grub we've been havin' av late, they moight mishtake ut f'r rale liquor. Good-by, an' good luck—'tis toime to roll in."
CHAPTER XX
A FIRE IN THE NIGHT