CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ABNER TRIMBLE’S PLOT.
Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which appears the name of the proprietor:
“Abner Trimble.”
Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to others.
“Glad to see you, Floyd,” said Trimble.
“That means a glass of whisky, doesn’t it?” returned Floyd.
“Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see my wife.”
“About the old matter?”
“Yes; she isn’t quite satisfied about the kid’s death, and she won’t make a will in my favor till she is. She wants to ask you a few questions.”