"Yes, that's just it. And as you've acted on the square, so far, I don't mind telling that he is the same one who has hunted this young fellow from pillar to post, ever since he was a little shaver," said Sprowl, confidentially.
"I'd rather have his friendship than his hatred, then," laughed Polk. "When's he coming back, do you know?"
"Not yet awhile. It'd spoil the whole thing, you see, if 'John Dement' should come to life again before Poynter was nailed."
"But it seems to me that you'll be in a bad box, my friend, if it is found out that you swore to a lie."
"Oh, that's easy patched up. Besides, the men will be so cut up and ashamed at being greened so, that they'll be glad enough to let the matter drop, and as for the law, I'd die of old age before that could or would do anything here," sneered Sprowl.
"Well, that's your look-out, not mine. But we'd better be moving. Catch my horse for me, won't you?—this cursed ankle is sore yet."
In a few moments the mongrel was mounted, and paused to add:
"Now mind you play your part. And not before eleven, anyhow, as if the glow should be seen too soon, the men will turn back, thinking it some of theirs."
"All right. But you send around for me; it'll look better. I'll go home now and begin shaking," and with a loud laugh the two precious scoundrels separated, each man going his own way.
Scarcely had they disappeared when Clay Poynter emerged from his ambush, and stood for a moment, trembling with anger. His face pale and stern-set, his eyes glittering with bluish sheen of polished steel; his breath came hot and heavy from betwixt his tightly-clenched teeth.