The Schoolmaster's eye on his, halted his tongue.
"No. I don't mean to," he said slowly. He knocked the ash from his pipe. "By the way, Conal, who fixed the brands on that red bull? You know the beast I mean—small, square, blazed-face, sold in Port Southern last sales."
"I did."
Fighting Conal threw himself into a chair.
"Badly done," the Schoolmaster murmured, gazing before him. "He, Young Davey, twigged it. He's been holding his tongue—for what reason I don't know—but he told me because he wanted this job. I gave it to him. Thad's got his knife into him."
"Then why on earth did you want to take him on and get Thad on our tracks?"
"Don't take orders from Thad yet, do you, Conal?"
Conal fidgeted under that glint in Dan's eye.
"No," he growled, "you know I don't, but there's no good I can see in running against him. What does this kid want anyhow? Why, there's more than a dozen of Cameron's cows in the mob I'm after now."
The log that had been smouldering all day on the open hearth broke and fell with a shattering of embers.