"Morley," he said quietly, "yu're not a talker, I know, but—anyways! . . . I ask ye now . . . ye'll oblige me by shpakin' av this tu no man—yet awhiles. . . . I have me raysons—onnershtand?"
The eyes of the two men met, and question and answer were silently exchanged in that one significant look.
MacDavid nodded brief acquiescence to the others request. "Aye!" he replied reflectively, "I think I do—now. . . ."
The sergeant turned to his men. "Come on, bhoy!" he said. "Let's beat ut home. I'm gettin' hungry."
They bid the trader adieu, and trudged away in the direction of the detachment. They had covered some quarter of a mile in silence when Slavin, who was in the lead, suddenly halted and whirled on his subordinates with a mirthless laugh.
"Windy Moran, begod!" he burst out, "mind fwhat he said that day 'bout Gully an' that dep'ty sheriff bizness? . . . not so——'Windy' afther all, I'm thinkin', eh?"
For some few seconds they stared at him, aghast. They had forgotten
Moran.
"Say, Burke, though?" ejaculated Yorke incredulously. "Good God! somehow the thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . . the other—Gully!—a J.P.—a man of his class and standing! . . . Why! whatever motive—"
"He may have two guns," broke in Redmond.
"Eyah," agreed Slavin, grimly, "he may. . . . A Luger's a mighty diff'runt kind av a gun tu other authomatics . . . an' th' man that shot Larry Blake ain't likely tu be fule enough tu risk packin' ut around—for a chance tu thrip um up some day."